“Go on, clear off!”
Jack hammered his fists against the front door while the gathered crowd tried to talk him down.
“Jack, what’s got into you? You’ll be begging forgiveness tomorrow! And aren’t you ashamed? Two kids you’ve got, Jenny’s never given you a reason to doubt her, and here you are making a fool of yourself—and her!”
Jack spun toward the gate.
“What are you lot gawping at? This some kind of show? Sod off!”
No one moved. Mrs. Wilkins, their neighbour, stepped forward.
“Jack, love, there must be a reason for all this. What’s gotten you so worked up?”
“Reason? Jenny’s the reason! I’ve given her everything, and what does she do? Smiles at everyone, locks herself indoors—who’s in there with her, eh?”
Jack staggered off the porch and slumped onto the bench. His voice was hoarse, wobbling—unnatural coming from a man his size.
Mrs. Wilkins spoke softly.
“Now, you’re being unfair. She’s a good woman, honest.”
Jack’s reply was barely a whisper.
“She don’t love me, Mrs. W. I’m just some bloke from the countryside. She’s got her eyes elsewhere.”
“You daft sod. Men like you are rare.”
But Jack didn’t hear her. He was already asleep, chin drooped to his chest. Mrs. Wilkins gave him a gentle nudge, someone tucked a cap under his head, and there he lay, sprawled on the bench.
“Right. He won’t be moving till that wears off.”
***
Fifteen years back, Jack had gone to the city to train as an excavator driver. The village was growing, houses springing up. Folks said it wouldn’t be long before they could call it a proper town. No high-rises, mind, and the bogs were still outside, but there were plenty of houses—that’s what mattered.
The village had its own construction team. They built bungalows for specialists and even dared to put up a proper community centre—not some shack like the old one, but a proper two-storey brick building with clubs and all.
They had their own excavator, plenty of equipment, but no one qualified to operate it. So they picked Jack and Steve from across the river and sent them off to the city.
Jack and Steve had never been mates. If anything, they’d butted heads—same lasses caught their eye, and they’d exchanged fists a time or two.
In the city, they were shoved into the same room. No choice but to talk. Steve wasted no time.
“Need to find myself a city girl. Stay here for good.”
Jack was baffled.
“The village paid for your training. You’d just leave?”
Steve laughed.
“Course. Everyone does it. Nothing worth sticking around for back there.”
Jack scoffed.
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
Three days later, Jack spotted Steve with a girl. And just like that, he was smitten. Jenny.
That evening, he cornered Steve.
“Who was that with you earlier?”
“Oh, Jen. City girl. Lives with her nan—place’ll be free soon enough.”
“You sweet on her?”
Steve snorted.
“Hardly. She’s built like a plank. I like curves.”
Jack punched him. Twice. Steve wiped his nose.
“Looks like someone’s got it bad. Tough luck. She’ll be my wife, and I’ll do as I please while she waits at home like a good little missus.”
Next day, Jack tailed Steve. Saw him meet Jenny, arm slung round her waist like he owned her.
Jack blurted everything to Jenny. She stared between them, bewildered, then rolled her eyes.
“Piss off, the both of you,” and walked away.
Jack and Steve brawled again. That same day, Steve sweet-talked the landlord into moving rooms. Meanwhile, Jack haunted Jenny’s every step.
She ignored him at first. Then, after two weeks, she stopped.
“How long are you planning to stalk me? Fancy the cinema?”
He took her back to the village—Jenny and her ageing nan. The old woman passed a decade later, by which time they had two sons.
Jack dug ditches, built them a house, put up a fence like no one else had. The lads had the best bikes money could buy. Jenny worked as a nurse. He treated her like porcelain.
Then, a year ago, the unthinkable happened. Steve slunk back to the village. His city wife had apparently had enough, packed his bags for him.
When Jack heard, he stormed home black as thunder. Jenny frowned.
“Jack? What’s wrong?”
He grabbed a bottle from the cupboard, poured, knocked it back. Jenny flinched. She’d never seen him like this. He barely drank—once a year, tops.
“Steve’s back.”
Jenny frowned.
“Steve? Which Steve?”
“The one you—”
Jenny laughed.
“Oh, him. Couldn’t hack the city, then?”
Then her smile faded.
“So? What’s the problem?”
“Listen good, Jen. If I find out anything—I’ll kill him.”
Jenny arched a brow.
“Find out what? You’re not making sense!”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
From that day, peace was gone. Sober, Jack would grovel.
“I’m a fool, Jen. Forgive me.”
She always did. Then, a month later, he’d be drunk again, shouting the same nonsense. Each time worse than the last. But no matter the threats, the names he called her—he never laid a finger on her.
***
Morning. Jack woke in the shed—must’ve dragged himself there to escape the midges. Memory trickled back. He groaned.
“Bloody hell. Again.”
A cautious peek—the yard was empty. Just past seven. He bolted for the house.
Jenny sat at the table. The boys huddled on the sofa, wide-eyed. A massive suitcase and two sacks stood in the middle of the room.
“Jen, what’s this?”
“Our things, Jack. Me, Mike, and Tom’s. I won’t live like this anymore. We’re leaving. The city. Fix up Nan’s old place. Live quiet, no more scenes.”
The hangover evaporated.
“Jen, don’t be daft! I had a drink, lost my head—”
“For a year straight. And what about me? The boys? Their mates laugh at them after your performances.”
“Jen, I swear—”
“Like you swore the last ten times? Tom’s thirteen. He’s ashamed in front of girls because of you.”
She stood.
“Bus is due.”
Jack lurched up.
“Jen, please—”
She didn’t turn. Hoisted the suitcase herself. The boys grabbed smaller bags. They left. He stood alone in the empty house.
Stood. Then sank to the floor and wept. Angrily swiped at tears that wouldn’t stop.
“Jack? You in?”
Mrs. Wilkins in the doorway.
“Blimey. What’s all this?”
Her eyes swept the rows of empty bottles.
Jack rubbed his face.
“What’s today?”
“Thirtieth of July, love.”
“What?”
“Exactly. What’ve you done to yourself? Near a month on the sauce. We’ll mind the animals, but the garden—Jack, your potatoes are lost in weeds.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Shut it! Think I won’t knock sense into you? Or you forgot how I brayed you with nettles as a lad?”
Course he remembered. But now he was a grown man, and Mrs. Wilkins—old as the hills.
He tugged up his shorts—he’d lost weight, clothes hanging off him—and shuffled outside. She followed. Before he knew it, she’d snatched a fat nettle and started whipping his legs, his arms.
“Ow! Mrs. W, stop!”
“Don’t you ‘ow’ me! I’ll tan your lying tongue next!”
Jack dodged, but his legs were shaky, coordination shot. Mrs. Wilkins, though old, was spry.
She only stopped when the nettle was pulp.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Fresh ones. These don’t sting proper.”
Jack scratched furiously.
“Right…”
An hour later, the itching hadn’t stopped. Time for the sauna—only thing that helped as a kid. By the time he’d hauled water, prepped the fire, evening had fallen. He emerged a new man.
Back inside, he wrinkled his nose. The stink. Bottles. Grabbed a sack, hauled them out to the compost. Scrubbed floors, polished crockery. Come dawn, another sauna to rinse off the grime. Then collapsed into bed.
“Jack? You alive in there?”
He yanked the blanket up.
“Mrs. W, I’m sober!”
She surveyed the room.Jack stood at the train station six months later, holding his newborn daughter while Jenny and the boys laughed beside him, and for the first time in years, he knew he’d finally come home.
