The Perfect Husband. Only Not For Mine.
“You should see him, Felicity,” neighbor Margaret whispered, nodding toward the house across the road. “Now that’s a husband for you! Buys his wife flowers every week, washed his Landraver early this morning to give Beatrice a lift to work. Where’s yours?”
Felicity mechanically stirred the stew on the hob, fixating on the window. Across the way, Hugo Faulkner from number seven was indeed tenderly planting tomato seedlings, while a bouquet of crimson roses lay on the bench beside him.
“Oh Margaret, do stop,” Felicity sighed wearily. “Everyone’s life is different.”
“Different? Look at him closely!” Margaret retorted, settling at the kitchen table. “His garden’s like something from a magazine, worships his wife, takes the grandchildren cycling every weekend. Beatrice looks so happy! Met her near the shops yesterday, she spent half an hour telling me how Hugo gives her foot masshes each evening.”
Felicity winced. Hugo Faulkner truly was the model husband. All the neighbors talked about it; the whole street knew. He was first to clear snow, not just his own path but for the pensioners nearby. He helped mend fences, lent out tools, and never raised his voice.
“What’s that to me?” Felicity switched off the burner and turned. “My Robert’s a good man too.”
Margaret snorted. “Good! Last night at eleven he had the music blasting, woke my granddaughter Rosie who cried half the night! And his motor blocked the lane the day before yesterday, poor old Mr. Williams could barely squeeze past.”
“He had a rough day, that’s all,” Felicity defended, though she knew how hollow it sounded.
Robert genuinely wasn’t the perfect husband. He could forget birthdays, leave washing up for a week, spend half his wages on fishing lures. Yet Felicity loved him as he was. Loved his clumsy attempts to make tea when she felt poorly. Loved how he snored softly in his sleep. Loved even his habit of leaving socks strewn about the bedroom.
After Margaret left, Felicity stepped into the garden to water the runner beans. Over the fence drifted the soft murmur of Hugo Faulkner and his wife.
“Beatrice? Shall I fetch a stool? Don’t kneel there, you’ll hurt your back.”
“No need, Hugo, I’m just checking the strawberries.”
“Then I’ll put the kettle on. Lemon? Or honey?”
“Honey, darling.”
Felicity couldn’t help comparing this to her own morning with Robert.
“Robert, breakfast is on!”
“Coming!” he’d yelled from the bathroom, adding, “Any coffee?”
“Instant’s in the jar. Find it yourself.”
“Where is it now…”
Robert left for work having only drunk tea, too lazy to look, leaving Felicity berating herself all day for not setting his mug out for him.
That evening, settling granddaughter Rosie down for the night, Felicity heard the child sigh.
“What’s the matter, lovey?”
“Nana, why does Mr. Hugo from number seven buy Auntie Beatrice flowers every day? Grandad Robert never buys you any.”
Felicity sat on the edge of the bed, tucking the duvet around Rosie.
“Do you want Grandad to buy me flowers?”
“Yes! You’re kind. You read me stories and bake me cakes. Why doesn’t he ever give you anything?”
Truth from a child cut sharp. Felicity didn’t know what to say, so just kissed Rosie’s forehead and whispered, “Sleep now, my good girl.”
The next day, meeting Beatrice Faulkner at the shops, Felicity studied her. Beatrice did look happy. Well-groomed, in a pretty summer dress, hair neatly styled.
“Felicity, hello! How are you?” Beatrice smiled, selecting tomatoes.
“Alright, you?”
“Wonderful! Hugo decided to make stew tonight, said ‘give your feet a rest, love’. Can you imagine?” Beatrice laughed. “Though I’ll hover nearby – he’ll likely mistake salt for sugar.”
“You’re lucky with your husband,” Felicity said, an edge of envy in her voice.
“Lucky,” Beatrice agreed, but her expression grew thoughtful. “And Robert? Heard he found some new fishing gear?”
“He did. Off to the River Trent every weekend.”
They parted ways, Felicity walking home deep in thought about how lovely it would be if Robert offered her a rest or cooked sometimes. But home held the familiar scene: Robert sat before the telly nursing a pint, work boots kicked off on the rug, a dirty plate in the sink.
“Felicity, what’s for dinner?” Robert asked, eyes glued to the screen.
“Reheated stew from yesterday,” she answered, putting his boots away.
“Any meat?”
“Chops in the freezer.”
“Fetch some out then, I’m starving.”
As Felicity cooked, thoughts of neighbor Hugo Faulkner circled. Probably Hugo was helping Beatrice now, laying the table, asking if she was tired.
Over dinner, Robert talked about work, griped about his boss, planned his next fishing trip. Felicity half-listened, nodding automatically. Then she couldn’t bear it.
“Robert… shall we go to the pictures tomorrow? Or just walk into town?”
He looked up, surprised. “Pictures? Is there something good on?”
“Not sure, we could see. Just spend time together.”
“Sorry. Made plans with Dave for the Trent. He knows a new spot where pike are biting. Another time?”
‘Another time’ never came. Robert always had more important things than time with his wife.
One evening, Felicity sat chatting with neighbors on the bench near their houses. Margaret, as ever, admired the Faulkners.
“Did you see? Hugo bought Beatrice a new washing machine! Top-of-the-range, with a dryer. Ordered double glazing too, said ‘so my wife doesn’t feel the draught’.”
“Call it envy,” sighed Clara Jones. “My Harold just makes promises. Talked about fixing the roof six months ago, rain still drips into the bucket.”
“Recall their wedding anniversary last week?” added neighbor Irene. “Hugo booked the Oak and Pheasant, thirty guests at least. Beatrice was like a princess, new dress, hair done special at the salon. His speech? Half the room in tears.”
Felicity stayed quiet, recalling her last birthday. Robert gifted her a teakettle set. “Practical,” he’d said. “You’ll get use from it.” No romantic candlelight supper, no trip to a restaurant. Instead, football and pints with his mates while she cleaned those new kettles.
“Listen…” Margaret proposed. “Why not train our husbands properly? We’ve the example right here – Hugo Faulkner. Shows that a decent chap is possible!”
“Train them at our age?” Clara scoffed. “They’re set in their ways.”
But the idea stuck with Felicity. Why not try? Explain to Robert she craved a little attention and care?
Summoning courage at home that night, she spoke up.
“Robert? Can we talk?”
“‘Course,” he paused his mobile game. “What’s
And as they laughed together at the detective’s improbable solution on the telly, Felicity quietly slipped her hand into Robert’s, realizing contentment lay not in the grand gestures others saw, but in the unspoken warmth of their own familiar, imperfect rhythm.
