Coveting Another Mans Wife
During their time together, Hugh Mortimer proved himself to be a man lacking in spine, adrift as a feather on the wind.
Each day hinged on the mood with which he awoke. From time to time, hed rise bright-eyed and cheery, making silly jests and laughing gaily the whole day through.
But, in truth, most of his days were spent in heavy contemplation. Hed drink endless cups of tea and drift about their home as gloomy as a rain-soaked Monday, just as artists often do. And an artist he was, at least in the official senseHugh taught art, design, and occasionally music (when Mrs. Weatherby was indisposed) at the village primary school.
Art tugged at his soul, yet Hugh felt stifled at the chalky desks and cheap paints of school. So their house suffered for ithe transformed the grandest, sunniest room into his studio. This was the very room Charlotte, his wife, had earmarked as the nursery for their future children.
But the deeds were in Hughs name, so Charlotte did not object.
Hugh filled the room with tripods and easels and, in every nook, left tubes of paint and blocks of clay. There he busied himself, sketching, sculpting, dabbling deep into the small hoursa madcap still life here, an odd little figure there.
He never sold a single masterpiece; the house became the gallery, its walls plastered with paintings Charlotte quietly disliked, shelves heavy with lumpy clay ornaments and peculiar statuettes.
And if these had been truly beautiful things but alas, no.
Old friends from Hughs art college daysfrail painters and moody sculptorswould occasionally visit, fix their gaze on the floor, and give a soft sigh as they wandered amongst the paintings and figurines.
Not one offered their praise.
Only the ancient Lionel Peabody, who, after quaffing a whole bottle of sloe gin, exclaimed:
Great heavens, what empty daubings! Whats it meant to be? I cant see a single worthwhile thing in this houseexcept, of course, the lovely lady herself.
Hugh took the criticism to heart, bellowing and stamping his boots, and demanded Charlotte see the rude old man off the property.
Out! Out, villain! Its you who knows nothing of art, not I! Ah, I see it nowyoure bitter, unable to hold a brush with your tremulous drunken hands! You envy me, and so you try to drag others down with you!
Lionel tottered swiftly down the steps, nearly losing his footing, and lingered at the garden gate. Charlotte hurried after him to apologise for her husband.
Please dont mind his words, she pleaded. Perhaps criticism wasnt wise, but I should have warned you.
Dont apologise for him, dear child, Lionel replied with a brisk nod. Ill ring for a cab and be off. I only pity you. Such a lovely home, yet spoiled by those dreadful paintings and hideous clay knickknacks. He should hide them, yet instead takes pride. Knowing Hugh, life cannot be easy. As artists, our works are reflections of our very souls, and Hughs well. His is empty, as empty as these canvases.
With a parting kiss to Charlottes hand, Lionel left the inhospitable house.
Hugh fumed for weeks, smashing some sculptures, tearing up paintings, a tempest in corduroy, before finally exhausting himself.
***
Despite it all, Charlotte never contradicted her husband. She was patientone day there might be children, and then perhaps dear Hugh would set aside his peculiar passions and allow the studio to be a childs room. Until then, let him play at still lifes.
Early in their marriage, Hugh made an effort: hed bring home a basket of fruit and his wages, show a speck of tenderness.
But it soon was over. Hugh grew distant, gave her nothing from his wage, and Charlotte found herself caring for him, the house, the chickens, the kitchen garden, and his overbearing mother.
When news of a baby on the way arrived, Hughs excitement was short-lived. Within a week, Charlotte fell ill, was taken to hospital, and lost the baby.
At once, Hughs manner changed: he grew fretful, lashed out at Charlotte, and locked himself in the house.
Charlotte, little more than a shadow on discharge from the hospital, trudged home, unwelcomed.
Worst awaited: Hugh kept the doors bolted and refused Charlotte entry.
Open up, Hugh, please
Go away, Hugh whimpered from the other side. You failed me. You carried my child and let it die! And now, because of you, Mothers in hospital with her weak heart! Youve brought misfortune into this house. Go away! I cannot live with you anymore.
Charlottes sight faded. She sat, slumped, on the doorstep.
Hugh Im suffering too. Open the door.
Her sobs meant nothing; Hugh ignored her as dusk fell.
At last, the door creaked and Hugh emerged gaunt with grief, fumbling at the latch.
He never knew where anything was, anyway, always pestering Charlotte to fetch this and that. He stared into the gloom and, without a word, shuffled off towards the lane.
Once he was gone, Charlotte slipped inside and collapsed on the empty bed.
She waited up all night, but he never returned.
Come morning, a neighbour, Mrs. Thistle, hurried over with grim news: Hughs mother had not survived the heart attack.
This floored Hugh. He quit his job, took to his bed, and confessed to Charlotte:
I never loved you. Never will. Marrying you was Mothers wish, for grandchildren. But you ruined it, destroyed both our lives. Ill never forgive you.
His words bruised her deeply, but Charlotte stayed.
***
Time slogged through muddy days. Hugh refused to get up, surviving on water, barely touching food.
In truth, his ulcer had worsenedno appetite, no spirit, Hugh soon stopped rising at all. He blamed Charlotte for his weakness, yet, behind her back, had filed for divorce. Hugh and Charlotte Mortimer were legally separated.
Charlotte shed tears in solitude.
She tried comforting Hugh, a gentle kiss, a reassuring embracebut he shrugged her off and hissed that shed ruined his life.
***
And yet, Charlotte could not leave. She had nowhere to go.
Her own mother, thrilled to marry Charlotte off so young, had chased her own interests the second she was aloneshed wed an old widower by the sea, packed her things, and sold off the family home, pocketing the modest cash and moving away. There was nowhere for Charlotte to return.
Trapped, Charlotte endured her fate.
***
The day arrived when the last food vanished from their kitchen cupboards. Charlotte scraped together the dregs of barley, poached the last egg from beneath the broody hen, and made Hugh a thin gruel with a spoon of yolk mashed in.
Had fate played out differently, Charlotte might have been feeding these eggs to a childher childif only she hadnt lugged water pails and restacked the log pile one-handed.
Instead, she nursed an ungrateful ex-husband who counted her as little as the dust on his shoes.
Im off to the village fête for a bit, she told Hugh. Theres a proper market from Stanton. Ill try to sell the hen, or swap her for groceries.
Hugh, gazing blankly up at the ceiling, swallowed and asked, Why sell it? Make broth! Im sick of porridge. A hearty soup would do me good.
Charlotte picked at the hem of her thin summer dressthe same one shed worn at Sixth Form, at their wedding, and now, for there was nothing else.
You know I couldnt bear it Id rather trade her. Shes a dear little hen, you see. Shed miss me, the neighbours wont have her, shed only come back.
Henrietta, Hugh sneered. You name your chickens? Foolish woman. What else could I expect from you
Charlotte bit her lip, lowered her gaze.
You going to the fête? Hugh brightened slightly. Take some of my paintings and a couple of those sculptures with you. See if theyll sell.
Charlotte tried to make herself invisible.
Oh, Hugh you prize them so
I said take them! he snapped.
Charlotte snatched two bird-shaped whistles hed cack-handedly glazed, and the bloated piggy bank he loved to boast about, stuffed them in her bag, and hurried out the door, fearful hed chase after her with more.
After all, the sculptures might sell, but the paintingsnever. Their awkward ugliness made her flush with shame.
***
The day was close and muggy. Even in her worn cotton dress, sweat clung to Charlotte, her fringe sticking to her brow.
Village Day had come.
When had Charlotte last strolled out among people? Stalls bustled: honey of all sorts, silk scarves, sweets for the children. The sizzle of sausages and laughter filled the air. She lingered by a stall, clutching the bag to her chest, gently stroking the hen within.
In truth, her heart ached to part with Henrietta. Years back, a batch of chicks had grown into an unruly group. One little pullet injured her leg; Charlotte took her in and nursed her back. She became Charlottes favoured companion, trailing her with a little hop, always eager for attention.
Now, nestled in the bag, Henrietta pecked her hand affectionately.
An old jewellery seller eyed Charlotte.
Fancy a trinket, love? Good steel, fine silver, and gold-plated chains.
No, thank you. Im hoping to sell a laying henlovely, big brown eggs, Charlotte replied, as politely as she could.
A hen, you saywhat would I want a hen for The sentence was cut short by a young man by the stall.
Lets see this chicken, then.
Of course.
Charlotte gingerly passed the hen overshed never met this chap before.
How much? he asked, frowning with curiosity. Whats the catch, seems a fair price?
She limps a bit, but shes otherwise strong and healthy.
Alright, Ill have her. That, and what are these? he said, pointing at the clay items.
Ohthose some whistles, and a piggy bank. Handcrafted.
He gave the piggy bank a lopsided smile.
Ill take the lot. Cant resist the odd and unusual.
The jewellery seller scoffed. What do you want with that, Danny? Enough toys for you yet? Go help your brother with sausages.
Alarmed, Charlotte offered back the money. But you sell sausages? I shant sell Henrietta to you, then!
She reached to reclaim her hen, but Danny dodged her and grinned ruefully.
Dont worry, I promiseshes not for pies. My mother loves hens, breeds them out at the farm. Shell be well looked after. Come visit her anytime, if you like. I never knew hens could have names!
Relieved, Charlotte smiled and took the coins.
***
She was almost home when a battered Morris Minor rolled up. Danny, arm out the window, called:
Wait up, missI was wondering, do you have any more of those ornaments? Theyd make smashing presents.
Charlotte shielded her eyes against the low sun, smiling shyly.
Oh, heavens, yes! The house is bursting with them.
***
Hugh, sprawled in bed, grumbled when he heard voices outside.
Whos there, Charlie? Bring me a glass of water, wont you?
Danny, at the doorstep, gave a sideways look to Hugh and swiftly turned his attention to the odd array of pictures on the wall.
Amazing Who painted these? Was it you, miss? he asked as Charlotte walked past with a tumbler of water.
I did! Hugh cried, vaulting upright. And not paintedchildren do paints, but I create artart!
He glared petulantly at Danny.
What business have you with my paintings?
I rather like them. Would buy one. These little sculptures tooyours?
Mine! All mine! Hugh barked, brushing Charlotte aside. Every scrap in this house, my own!
He dropped his blanket and, limping theatrically, shuffled over to display his work.
Youve a certain touch, Danny said to Charlotte, winking as Hugh blustered.
As Hugh ranted, Danny only had eyes for Charlotte, noting the flush in her cheeks and the way she trembled in his presence.
Epilogue
Charlotte remained baffled by her ex-husbands miraculous recovery.
As soon as someone showed an interest in his craft, Hughs ailments melted away.
The mysterious buyerDannyreturned daily, buying paintings, then figurines, as Hughs stock diminished.
Hugh, emboldened by the demand, locked himself in the studio and churned out more.
But the fool hadnt realisedit was never the art that attracted Danny, but Charlotte herself. His former wife.
Every day, after buying the requisite masterpiece, Danny would linger at the garden gate, talking to Charlotte. Their shy glances soon gave way to more.
It was only a matter of time before Danny whisked Charlotte awayprecisely what hed set out to do.
Back in his own thatched cottage, Danny tossed Hughs grotesque paintings on the fire and sorted the clay monstrosities into sacks, unsure what to do with them. He thought of Charlottes gentle face.
He remembered the first time he saw her at the fête, fragile in her summer dress, bag slung over her shoulder. At once, Danny knew his search was over: she was the one.
Hed learned about her life with the oddball, the so-called artist, her loneliness, her kindness, her deep well of patience.
So he kept buying pictures for the excuse to come see her. And, in the end, Charlotte understood too.
***
Hugh never saw it coming. After Charlotte left, Danny no longer called.
Hugh heard that the two had wed, and felt the sharp sting of loss, realising how easily hed let himself be tricked.
To find a good wife is no simple matter, and Charlotte had been the very best.
It took him a long time to realise what hed truly lost. Where would he ever find another so caring? Charlotte had not only borne his temper but pitied him, fussed over him like a second mother. And how radiant she was!
But he, the fool, had let all this slip away.
Hugh thought, briefly, of sinking into despair. But there was no one left to spoon him soft eggs or fetch a glass of water. No one to keep the house or garden alive.
And so the house echoed with his regret, until even the sound of his own sighs faded into the dreamy hush of English rain.
