June 14th
Today will burn itself into my mind forever, the day I discovered that my husband, Michael, has been having an affair with our next-door neighbour at the allotment. All Id wanted was to borrow some salt for pickling my cucumbers, as Id run out unexpectedly. I knocked timidly at Julias shed door, expecting her bright smile and endless gardening advice.
The door creaked open and there, framed in the weak sunlight, stood Michael. My Michael. In his threadbare old boxers and faded vest, looking as startled as a rabbit caught in torchlight.
Mike? I stuttered, voice barely above a whisper.
He went white, then flushed, then paled once more.
Emma I can explain, love…
Behind him, Julia appeared, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, hair mussed, face pink. I noticed she was clearly wearing little, if anything, underneath.
Whos there, Mike? she called out, and then saw me. Her expression faltered. Oh…
The three of us stood there, frozen, staring. Then, without meaning to, I spun on my heel and made for the gate, walking quickly, almost running. Michael came jogging after me, heedless of how ridiculous he looked, half-clothed in broad daylight.
Emma! Wait! he cried, panting.
Along the allotment lane, heads began to pop upeveryone wanted in on the drama. Twelve plots, and nothing escapes attention. There was John, from the next plot over, leaning on his spade, muttering, Better than the telly, this. Circus has come to town.
I locked myself in our little house, still shaking. Michael thumped on the door.
Emma, please let me in! I need to explain!
How long? I shouted.
A pause. Sorry?
How many years, Michael? How long have you been seeing her?
Silence. Then, softly: Eighteen.
I slid to the floor, mind reeling. Eighteen years. Our younger son, Oliver, had just turned eighteen.
Just then, the gate creaked, and in walked Julianow decent, hair combed. Cool as you like.
Emma, come on out. We should talk.
Get lost, you snake.
Oh honestly. Were adults, arent we? No need for theatrics.
Pulling myself together, I stepped out onto the porch. Julia sat beside me with Michael hovering awkwardly.
Eighteen years, I said, voice quiet. How did that happen?
Julia kept her gaze steady. Remember your back operation? You were in hospital for ages, flat on your back. Mike here, well, he made a bit of a messthe beans dried out, tomatoes rotted. I started helping, cooking him meals, that sort of thing. Before we knew it
It just happened, Michael muttered.
Youve both made a fool of me for eighteen years, I spat.
Never thought you a fool, Julia replied, folding her arms. You got on with your life; we got on with ours.
Our life, you mean. He was my husband! Father to my children!
And what? He ever stop being your husband? Or father? The plots still looked after, the boys grew up well-fed, didnt they?
I almost smacked her, but Michael caught my arm. Emma, leave it.
Dont touch me.
I fled indoors. Outside, by now, the whole allotment lane had gathered, whispering and gawping. Gossip travels fast in these places.
Go on, clear off! Michael bellowed at them. Shows over!
Of course, no one budged. I heard Linda from plot three announce, I knew it! Always saw them together!
Rubbish, her husband replied. You couldnt see a barn door, Linda.
Shows what you know! I see plenty!
That evening, I sat on the porch, numb. Michael paced like a caged animal.
Emma, say something.
What am I meant to say, Mike? Divorce?
Dont be daft. Were both sixty, for goodness sake.
And? You think sixty-year-olds never split up?
Dont act like a child. Weve spent forty years together!
And youve spent eighteen of them with Julia.
Ive always lived with you! Just… sometimes I spent time with her too.
Sometimes?
Well… twice a week.
Twice a week, for eighteen years, isnt sometimes, Michael. Its a habit.
He dropped into the chair opposite.
I love you, Emma, really. But Julia… shes different.
Better?
No, just different. With you, its house, kids, jobs. With her, it feels like a breaklike a holiday from all that.
Well, Id like a holiday too, but instead Im up to my elbows in cucumbers!
Thats it, you see! Youre always busy! Cucumbers, jam, bake sales! Sometimes I just want to sit, have a drink, talk.
Oh, so Im no good to talk to?
With you, we talk about kids, grandkids, weather, allotment. With her, its different. Books, poetry, life.
She reads? I asked, genuinely surprised; Julia always seemed so down-to-earth.
Yes. Likes the classics. Keats, Hardy.
I nearly burst out laughing. Michael and poetry.
What happens now, then?
He shrugged helplessly. Up to you, I suppose.
And you?
Im sixty-two, Em. Its not like Ive got heaps of choices left. I just want some peace.
With whom? Me or her?
He hesitated, then quietly, Cant I have both?
I threw the nearest thing at himthe jar of pickles Id been working on. Missed. It shattered against the wall.
Get out!
He left, muttering, heading straight to Julias, of course.
That night, I didnt sleep. Forty years sharedchildren, grandchildren, our little allotment plot and shed we built together.
Eighteen years of lies. But maybe they weren’t lies, exactly. He never once swore lifelong loyalty. He just lived. With me, and with her. I kept asking myself if that counted as betrayal.
The next morning, Sarah from plot five popped round with a plate of Victoria sponge.
Emma, Im so sorry. Anything you need, just ask.
Thanks, Sarah.
My Tim will go knock some sense into Michael if you want.
No need. Were not children.
So what are you going to do?
Nothing, just yet.
Id have kicked him out. Traitor!
I eyed her. Sarah, does Tim never pop across to chat with Linda on plot three?
She flushed scarlet. Whatever do you mean?
I saw them in the raspberry patch.
They… they were just discussing compost!
With their arms round each other?
Sarah huffed off in a strop.
By lunchtime, John from next door turned up.
Emma, anything needs doing? Bit of digging? Michael said hed collect his things later.
His pants, you mean?
Er… yes. He said, stick to the message.
I forced a smile. Message received. Thank you.
That evening, Michael returned, head hung. Just getting my things.
I followed him in.
Why Julia, Mike? Whats so special about her?
He stopped, looking lost.
With her, life feels simple. She asks me what to do. Makes me feel wanted.
Oh, and I never do?
You do, but you always know besthow to pickle the cucumbers, when to plant potatoes, how much to give the grandkids. With Julia, Im usefulneeded.
I sat on our crumpled old bed.
Mike, theres plenty I dont know. Like how to keep living when your husbands been meeting the woman next door for eighteen years.
He tried to comfort me.
I dont know how to face our sons. Or explain to the grandkids why Grandads now living with Auntie Julia.
Dont bother, he said. Just say we had a row.
He perched nervously beside me. Emma, cant we just pretend none of this ever happened?
And Julia next door, waving at you every day? Shall we both play dumb?
He had no answer. I stood up, staring out. Sure enough, Julia was watering her cucumbers, dressing gown and all.
Live where you want, but you can explain to the grandchildren yourself.
Emma!
And you can do your own pickling this year. Im not your skivvy.
I dont know how!
Julias so clever, she can help you. Im sure she’ll figure it out.
He left with his bundle of things as the neighbours gawked behind twitching curtains.
That night there was another commotion. Up I got, out into the dark, to see Michael lurking by the greenhouse.
What are you doing?
Checking the tomatoes. Theres a heatwave comingneed to open the windows.
You dont live here.
He looked sheepish. Theyre my tomatoes! I grew them.
So?
So I cant let them die!
He finished, disappeared over the fence.
The next morning, our eldest, Simon, arrived with his wife and toddler.
Mum, wheres Dad?
With Julia.
Visiting?
Living there.
He stared, dumbfounded.
Wait. Does that mean when Oliver was born, theyd already started?
Yes, love.
Simon trudged over to Julias, voices were raised, gate slammed, then he stormed back.
Dad says he loves you both.
Lucky us.
Mum, come on. Maybe he does.
Could you, Simon? Love two women at once?
Not a clue. Im not Dad. Hes… a character.
My grandson ran up. Gran, whys Grandad at Julias?
Because hes helping her with the garden, darling.
Simon burst out laughing.
That night, another noise had me outside again. Michael was back watering the carrots.
You mad?
Drought! The lot will die.
Go water Julias. Youve a new family.
Shes got her own patchdoesnt mean I dont care about this one.
Here. Ill help. Otherwise, youll be here till lunchtime.
We watered in silence, then sat on the bench, gazing at the constellations.
Mike, honestly, who do you love more?
He looked uncomfortable.
Both, Emma. In different ways.
How?
Youre like my right arm. Steady, reliable, cant manage without you. But Julias like a holidayrare, but a relief.
And if I was gone?
Dont say things like that.
But if. Would you marry Julia?
Probably not. Shed become the right arm, and the holiday would be over.
So, you need us both.
He sighed. Seems that way.
We sat for a long time, staring at the sky.
Mike, maybe I should start my own holiday. John offered to help…
He flared up. What?! John?!
What would you do? Youre living with Julia.
Thats different!
How, exactly?
Youre not like that!
How would you know? Maybe Ill read poetry too.
He snorted. You never read poetry.
I can start.
He stood, then, serious for a moment. Emma. What do you want, really?
I didnt know. Go back to before? But there is no going back.
I want a bit of peace. To pickle my cucumbers, fuss over my grandchildren.
And?
And thats it. Live where you like. Just dont lie anymore.
And if John comes calling?
He wont. He fancies Natalie from plot nine.
Michael looked shocked. How do you know?
I see plenty, Mike. Just kept quiet. Like everyone else.
Next morning, Michael returned with his bag.
Emma, can I stay? Really?
The camp beds in the shed. Inflate it yourself. Theres room, just.
He shuffled off to the shed.
The neighbours gaped from their windows. Julia kept tending her cucumbers as though nothing odd had happened.
Simon stood by the door. Mum, is Dad back?
Hes blowing up the airbed in the shed.
Are you a saint, forgiving him?
No, just a fool. Too late to change now.
A week on, Michael was back in the house, as though nothing had happened. After a month, I no longer noticed his regular visits to Julia on Wednesdays and Saturdays. After a year, the gossip was all about Linda running off with Pete from plot five, and Sarah moving in with Lindas husband.
There were always new stories.
I carried on pickling; Michael built a new greenhouse. Julia sat behind the fence reading her classics, like nothing was amiss.
In the end, what is love? Forty years living together, raising children, building a house, planting an orchard. And learning that nothing, not even love, is ever perfect.
Especially love.
