The Unfinished Book
Right, thats me off, Jenny! No need to see me out. Ill be late! Get my blue shirt and trousers ready for tomorrow, dont forget! And remember to pick them up from the dry cleaners! Victor shouted from the hallway, flinging on his mac, pausing for a critical check of his reflection in the mirror, grabbing his hat, and disappearing, shutting the front door with a bang that sent the window panes vibrating.
When the door slammed so hard the open window rattled, Jenny sighedmust be a draught, she thoughtand flicked off the tap. She wiped her hands on her apron and peeked out of the kitchen, seeing everything just as usual. The corridor was flooded with afternoon light, stretching all the way to the hallway; family photos lined the walls above the cheerful blue-and-white striped wallpaper. Jennys coat hung on the rack. And then
She frowned.
A parcel! Victor left behind his parcel, and the pies were inside! Jenny had been up at the crack of dawn making those, with egg and onion, just how Vic liked themshed even made them specially for today since Victor was going out onsite where thered be nowhere decent to eat, and besides, nothing beats homemade.
Quickly untying her apron and smoothing her hair, Jenny, still in her simple short-sleeved dressthe one with the coffee stain at the hemsnatched up the warm parcel and hugged it like a newborn. She dashed out, glad she’d remembered her keys; otherwise, she’d have been stuck outside the flat! She hurried down the staircase, steadying herself on the polished banister, winding down past third, then second, then first floorshe lived on the fourth, after all.
She could have, like most sensible wives, just shouted from a window until her husband stepped out onto the street but that always seemed a bit uncouth to Jenny. Shed give Vic the parcel herself and say proper goodbye, let him kiss her on the cheek, quick and dry, then off hed go.
All that running left her breathless as she burst out, banging the door open with the sort of energy youd not expect from someone nearly fifty. She scanned the courtyard for Victorthere he was, in his grey mac and light-coloured hat, striding off.
Victor adored those big coatsnever buttoned, letting the wind play with the tailsand hats for every season; Jenny took pride in cleaning and buying new ones for him, making sure they were always spotless. A hat is style, Jenny, Victor would insist whenever their son, Michael (named after Vics dad), mocked him. You lot dont get it, all artificial fibres and plastic trainers!”
Where was Vic now? There, already nearly out the courtyard, disappearing into the hustle and sun-spattered street. If Jenny didn’t hurry, her husband would catch the bus and she’d have missed him
She broke into a half-jog, nodding at the elderly neighbours soaking up the rare London sun. The old dears, knitting in their faded cardis, watched Jennys dash with fond little smilesseemingly pleased for her, for the domestic happiness of it all.
Whats the panic, love? called Mrs Grant from behind.
Lunch! Vic left his pies behind! Jenny called over her shoulder.
Mrs Grant smiled, chucklingpies and affection, what could be better?
But as Jenny made it through the gate, ready to shout for Victor, she stopped dead, the sunlight fading from the world in an instant. The air seemed suddenly thick and heavy; Jenny pressed a hand to the drainpipe as the dizziness crept in.
Victor, standing at the bus stop, had his arm hooked gently around a plump, young woman, laughing with hershe playfully shrugged her exposed shoulders as he grinned down at her, both of them caught up in jokes Jenny couldnt hear. Suddenly the woman pulled away, giving Victor a disdainful look, but he leaned towards her, grabbed for her hand as though to kiss it. She snatched her manicured, rosy arm awayalmost as if giving him a slapthen started laughing when he produced a sweet from his pocket. She teased him, mouth open, feigning surprise, accepting the sweet.
Jennys stomach lurched. Good grief! Victorher respectable, middle-aged, sensible Victorfawning over some young thing, utterly shameless.
The girl was dressed in a gorgeous blue dress with tiny white polka dots; even her hair ribbon matched, shoes neatly buckled. Jennys gaze darted over her, and for the first time she didnt know what to dowith the parcel, with the pies, with her life.
The bus arrived; the crowd surged. Victor gently supported his polka dot companion as she boarded. As the doors hissed closed and the bus pulled away, Jenny could swear Vic glanced straight at her, and she was suddenly mortifiedher tired old dress, forlorn slippers, this daft bag of pies.
She turned on her heel, walked back through the courtyard, rounding the sun-dappled benches where neighbours in sleeveless frocks lounged. Near the flowerbed, she nearly bumped into Mrs Grant.
So, no luck getting your pies to him, Jenny? Mrs Grant nodded towards the parcel.
No, missed him, Jenny mumbled.
Never mind, love. Theyll go to waste if youre not careful. Ill send David roundhe loves a pie, and I cant bear all the faff with pastry. Youre in today, arent you?
Jenny gave a vague shake of the head as Mrs Grant rushed off, scolding a wayward tractor in the courtyard that was threatening her prize petunias, but Jenny barely listened, wandering back upstairs, the click of her tired shoes echoing on the stone steps, sob blending with the creak of the flats door closing behind her.
That was it. The end. Of the family, the warmth, the trust. The whole foundation seemed to crumblewhat now? Husband was supposed to be solid, the one person she was entrusted to, promised to protect her. And now?
Collapsing on the kitchen stool, the pies spilled everywhere. The cat, Felix, padded over, weaving between her legs, purring for food, but Jenny didnt notice. She was still outside, staring at polka dots and at Victor. Warm, scalding tears spilled down her cheeks, and for once, Jenny relished not sitting up straight, not having to wear the mask of the contented wife, just crumpling and drowning in her simple, painful sorrow
Who knows how long she sat there before someone nudged the door. Felix darted off, all fluffy and skittish. The door creaked open, and in poked the big, friendly face of DavidMrs Grants other half. Everything about him seemed slightly out of place in their well-kept block: wide nose, pitted cheeks, curly mop of hair, red neckfar too rough for here but still somehow one of ours; Victor always said he was a proper character.
Artist, Jenny! David would say with a flourish. And a gallery director at that! Artistic folk are all a bit mad, you know. Theyre cut from different cloth…
Jenny wiped her tears and glanced up at his big, kind blue eyes. If he wasnt an artist, she thought, hed make a fine vicar.
David? Is that you? she managed.
Of course it is! Linda said youd got spare pies? Our kitchens in bits while Lindas getting new unitsshes always changing things round! David sighed. Shes booted me out, told me to go get something at the café for daysI’ve had enough…”
He looked near tears himself, his broad frame squeezing in, filling the square of sunlight on the linoleum.
Hang on, let me take off my shoes, he fussed, slipping off soaked brogues and socks, exposing a big toe poking through a hole.
Without a thought, Jenny automatically scooped up the squelchy shoes to dry on the balcony. As she left, David called out,
No, leave them! Theyll dry just fine right where I left them! It’s my business, not yours!
But Jenny ignored himshed never let a guest sit about in soggy shoes.
She popped them outside, shooed Felix away, and by the time she returned to the kitchen, David was already rooting around, sniffing, tutting, making himself at home.
Tea, Jenny, my dear! I havent had a proper cup in ages! Put the kettle on, eh? With a slice of lemon if youve got it! And he sprawled his giant feet across the threshold, making it impossible for Jenny to pass.
Yes, yes, of course she mumbled, putting the kettle on while her mind swirled.
Victor How could he? Barely out the house and already with some other woman! And Jenny, despite herself, thought how far things might have gone.
No, no, youre being silly! she tried to calm herself with her mums reasonable voice. It was probably nothingjust a work colleague. Hell come home, nothing to it. Youll make him a nice tea and thatll be that.
As she busied about, David suddenly frowned, peering into the teapot.
Oi, youre not making me old tea, are you? Give us a fresh one, would you! I can tell when its stale, you know. Chuck this out and start again! He tossed the dainty teapot with its faded grey flowers in her direction.
But I just made that! Jenny protested, sighing but starting over anyway.
What was a fresh pot of tea, after all? But Victorhow could she face him now?
The kettle whistled, the kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of strong Indian tea.
Now thats proper! And Jenny, use the posh cups, wont you? You know, those cobalt blue ones with the gold trimyour mum always used them. Go on, dont be stingy! David eyed her slyly.
Victor brought back a new set from Brighton last yearlovely, youll see! Jenny replied, but startled when he thumped the table.
Those! I want the cobalt ones. Always have, since your mums day. And I want the pies on a nice plateand while Im eating, be a dear and darn my socks, would you? Linda wont do itshes too busy with the kitchen. The holes killing me!
Jenny, proud and once respected, hands now almost moving of their own accord, found herself reaching for those socks.
But then, with unexpected force, David slammed his fist on the table, his presence somehow even larger.
Whats going on, Jenny? Have some self-respect, will you! Here I am, bossing you around like some wet-eared schoolgirl and you just take it! You used to be something else, Jennya proper lady, everyone would stop and stare when you walked by. What happened? Now you fuss and fret and let people trample all over you. Honestly!
He waved his hands about, rattling the blue china, nearly spilling the tea and pies.
Why? Why did you even come here today then? Jenny blurted, eyes welling up. Its Viches out there with another womanI saw them. I was running with my pies, and then
And the room fell silent. Even the clock seemed to pause, the street noises faded away. David sighed.
Thats exactly why, Jenny. You coddle him! Used to be your students chased after you hoping youd forgive their marks, but you wouldntsteadfast as anything, till the headteacher said otherwise. You walked with such poise, youd have embarrassed the Queen herself! But now? Youre like his mother, not his wife fussing with his hats, his shirts No wonder hes off after someone with a bit of spark. You need to lighten up, live a little. Let him find his own shirts!
Jenny slumped, but couldnt help a smileshe really did sound just like that.
I know. I know Im such a fusser. But I like it, you know? Takes care of things.
And Im telling you, Jennythats enough. Give the man some space! He doesnt need another mother fussing about; he needs a partner, someone he can chase a bitnot just warm slippers and a nice dinner. Michaels grown, youve poured all your mothering into Victor, and its too much for him. Let go a little!
Jenny didnt want to hear itshed given up her teaching job ages ago to look after the family, stopped singing while she cleaned, stopped painting because Victor hated the smell of her brushes. Shed even ditched her old friends, only seeing Michael when he rushed in for a quick meal and some leftovers. It seemed everything that had once made her herself, shed given up for Victor.
She glanced at her reflection in the glassno makeup, no nice shoes (Why bother, Jenny? My veins! Who are you dressing up for? Victor once joked). All her nice things were gathering dust in the loft.
That was it. The end.
But youre still young, Jenny, still in your prime! Pick yourself up, girl! David said, knocking the table again and wolfing down a pie. Honestly, if I were twenty years younger
And with that, he left her alone.
Victor came stumbling in later that night, half-cut, hair rumpled, reeking of perfume and wine.
Conference ran late, he muttered, handing Jenny his case with a grimace, rubbing his lower back. Stick the kettle on, and some potatoesbit of vodka. Jenny, what are you doing just standing there?
Jenny didnt take his bag, but calmly told him to move out of the way so she could put down her suitcase.
Where do you think youre going? Whats with the suitcase? Victor spluttered, staring at this Jenny with immaculate hair, a new sandy-coloured dress, dangly earrings, looking frankly wonderful.
Im off on a trip. Youll have to manage for yourself for a bit. With or without vodka, but by yourself, said Jenny, with a shrug.
But my potatoes? My shirt for tomorrow? Victor demanded.
Do it yourself. Or get her to do itif shes so wonderful. Goodbye, Victor.
She glided out the flat, pausing only to straighten the handle of her bag, before the clatter of her heels faded down the stairs and into the night. Outside, a cab spluttered into the darkness, and thenall was quiet.
Victor rushed to the stairwell, about to call out, but a sharp pain in his back left him gasping, tears prickling in his eyes.
Jenny Jenny, where are you? he choked out.
Shed have sorted him out, rubbed his back, made him tea, tucked him in
Fay? Is that you? he mumbled into the phone, groaning. I know Im not meant to call. My back, Fay! I cant get to the kitchen please?
But the line just told him to ring NHS 111 for a doctor, then hung up. Fay wasnt coming, wouldnt stroke his hair, iron his shirts, look after him the way Jenny always did. She was independent, proud. Not Jenny. Not at all. What a disaster
He limped to the kitchen, saw the cold pies, and groaned again. This wasnt a nightmarethis was a catastrophe. And hed done it all himself, every sorry bit.
Jenny came home the next day, with a doctor in tow and a bunch of roses she’d bought herself, settling them into a crystal vase. She smelled of perfumeand just a hint of cigarette smoke. Yes, Jenny smoked. Sometimes. When things got really tough.
Wait, Doctor, dont inject him just yet,” Jenny said as the doctor prepped the syringe.
Victor let out a little groan.
What is it? the doctor asked.
One second. Victor, what did you promise her? Shes far too young for youwhat did you say? Tell me now, or the doctor leaves!
Eh? No, Im in my prime
His pension, the doctor interjected, sighing. What did you offer?
A job. And a promotion. But she wont get a thingI was wrong, Jenny, I was so wrong about her. I only need you! Forgive me!
Shell get them, Victor. Youre a man, you keep your promises. And youll leave that officeyoull find something new. Im going back to work myself next week. Irons on the shelf, washings in the basket. Dont like it? Then file for divorce. Got it?
Victor rolled his eyes, wiped his brow and nodded, while the pain in his back almost made him howl. Jenny stood by, the doctor at her side, David loitering in the door, and Victor realised hed never feel quite so small ever again.
Fine, fine. Lets get it over with! he groaned, as the doctor gave him the jab.
Fay was delightedher slapdash thesis had gone through a treat, shed landed herself a cushy position. And all thanks to Victor, the silly old chap.
Now, though, Fay ignored Victor, refusing his calls and looking straight past him in the corridor. After all, his wife had made it quite clear that little titles could be taken away just as easily as given. Fay would find someone else.
Victor handed in his notice, despite the shock of his colleagues, put on a grand farewell do and brought Jennyhis radiant, glittering wifeas his guest. He danced with her, eyes never leaving her face, and not once had he ever looked at Fay the same way.
Why? What was it about Jenny? Well, she was everythingshe was the very air Vic had breathed for so long he never even noticed it. But now, in the empty space shed left, he finally understood what had slipped away. It wasnt just about the back rubs and the warm beds. Jenny was still that unfinished novel, sweet and sharp as July strawberries by the seaside, that hed never finish reading, never quite close the last page. And perhaps that was a blessing.
And as for Faywell, maybe shed grow into her own story yet. Or maybe not. Only time would tellThe flat filled that evening with the gentle rattle of cups, the soft clatter of plates, laughter that trembled at first then grew, and the scent of Jennys roses drifting through half-open windows. For once, the washing sat untouched; for once, the iron gathered dust. Victor tried to bustle and fuss, but Jenny only raised an eyebrow and pointed him toward the potatoes.
Life found a new rhythm. Some days Victor tried to take up hobbiesgardening, even the ukulele, to Jennys amusement. Felix got fat on leftover pies, and Michael visited more often, bright-eyed at the sight of his mother in lipstick and her hair set, inquiring about her new job at the library, marveling as she recited poems with a sparkle in her voice that hed thought long gone.
One Sunday, Jenny dragged out her old paint box, made the spare bedroom into a studio, and began to fill canvas after canvassketches of neighbors, a portrait of Mrs Grants petunias, even one of David with his impossible socks and roaring laugh. Victor tried to sit for her, fidgeted and grumbled, but stayed wonderfully still when she glared.
One evening as summer returned, golden light pouring through lace curtains, Jenny set a single pie on the windowsill to cool and poured herself a glass of wine. Victor appeared in the doorway, eyes bright but bashful, clutching an armful of wildflowers and a battered novel hed tried reading but never finisheda token, of sorts.
They dined together, talking into the dusk, forgiving, forgetting, laughing over old quarrels, and dreaming more quietly now but still together. The unfinished places in their marriagethe things unsaid and undoneno longer seemed like cracks, but open spaces waiting for sun to pour in. And as Jenny held her husbands hand, she realized: some stories are never meant to be finished, only lived a little more bravely with each new day.
Outside, over the rooftops, the city flickered and purred, ordinary as ever, but insidewell, nothing was quite the same again. And that, after all, was the happiest ending Jenny could have ever written.
