I recall it as if it were a distant echo, a tale of a marriage that had stretched over thirtyfive years before it finally cracked.
Dont you dare treat me like that! Victor Sinclair banged his fist on the kitchen table, sending the halffilled teacup skittering and spilling its dark brew across the crisp white tablecloth.
You think Ill put up with your antics forever? Mabel straightened, crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him with a contemptuous gaze.
What antics? All I want is for my wife to be home when I get back from the office, not wandering off somewhere unknown, Victor muttered, trying to blot the stain with a napkin, only smearing it further.
For you Im a maid, a nanny, a cook, but never a wife! When was the last time you asked how Im feeling? When did you ever care about my life? Mabel turned and walked toward the bedroom, loosening the clasp of her hairpin; her silverthreaded hair fell over her shoulders.
Victor froze. In all those years they had argued, but never like this. Mabel had never raised her voice; she usually kept quiet or gave in. Yet now
Mabel, whats the matter? he called after her, hurrying to keep pace. Whats happened?
Nothing, Im just tired, she replied, pulling an old suitcase from the attic the one they had taken on a holiday to Brighton twenty years before.
Where are you off to? Victor felt his heart begin to pound.
To Ivy, she said curtly, slipping clothes from the wardrobe into the suitcase.
To our daughter? In Manchester? Now? Victor could scarcely believe his ears. Mabel, are you out of your mind? And what about me? Who will cook, wash, tidy up?
Mabel only snorted and kept packing. Victor paced the room, sitting, standing, sitting again.
Enough of the games. Lets talk calmly, he said at last, when the suitcase was nearly packed.
Talk? Mabel paused, then whispered, Its too late, Victor. Ive tried to speak to you for thirtyfive years. Have you ever really listened?
Victor lowered his eyes, unsure what to answer.
Fine, Mabel closed the suitcase. Ive called Mrs. Whitaker next door. Shell come over to prepare meals. Ill leave her a few pounds for the work. The laundry can be taken to the cleaners on the corner. Heres the address, she handed him a slip of paper. They do a good job, Ive checked.
Mrs. Whitaker cooking for me? And a laundry thats gone mad? Thats absurd! Victor crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor.
Im not your servant, Mabel said evenly. Ivy has invited me to stay with her. Ive decided to go.
For how long? Victor felt a lump rise in his throat.
I dont know, she shrugged. Ill see how it goes.
She lifted the suitcase and left the room. Victor followed her into the hallway.
Mabel, dont be foolish He reached for her hand, but she stepped back.
The cab is waiting, she said, pulling on a light coat and opening the door. Goodbye, Victor.
The door slammed shut, and Victor was left alone in the empty flat. He heard the lift hum as it carried his wife down, then silence fell.
The first days without Mabel drifted like a fog. Mrs. Whitaker arrived each day, cooked and cleaned, but the food tasted bland, and the spotless house felt cold. Victor called Mabel several times; she never answered. Then he called Ivy.
Dad, Mums fine, alls well, Ivy said briskly.
Put her on the line, Victor demanded.
She doesnt want to talk.
What do you mean doesnt want to talk? Im her husband!
Dad, lets not. Mums an adult; she needs time to think.
Think about what? Whats happening? Victors anger rose. Weve lived normally for thirtyfive years, and now this!
Normally? Ivys tone edged with accusation. Do you really think you treated Mum well? That your life was normal?
What was wrong? Victor asked, genuinely bewildered.
My God, Ivy sighed. You know what, Dad? Mum is simply exhausted. She needs a break from you, from this life. Give her space.
How long? panic prickled under Victors skin.
I dont know. As long as she needs.
Ivy hung up. Victor sank onto the sofa, clutching his head. He had always prided himself on being a good husband: no drink, no late nights, a steady income, a tidy home. What else could she possibly want?
Weeks slipped by. Victor grew thinner, his posture slumped. Mrs. Whitaker watched him with pity, trying to make the meals more appetising. One afternoon she could no longer hold back.
Victor Sinclair, you ought to write to Mabel. She wont speak on the phone.
A letter? he looked up at her. What kind of letter?
The ordinary kind. Paper, pen Remember how people used to correspond? Write what you feel, that you miss her. Women like that.
That evening, alone, Victor fetched a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from his desk drawer. He sat for a long while, unsure where to begin. At last he breathed out and wrote:
Dear Mabel, I dont understand whats happened. Why did you leave? What have I done wrong? I feel lost without you. The food tastes awful, the house feels empty. Please come home. Yours, Victor.
He read it over, grimacing at the childish clumsiness of his words, sealed the envelope and mailed it to Ivys address.
A week later a reply arrived.
Victor, I didnt grasp it at first either. One morning I simply woke up and realised I was living someone elses life. All these years I was only a caretaker for you cooking, washing, cleaning Where was I as a person? Did you ever ask what I wanted? Remember I dreamed of learning to paint? You dismissed it as a foolish hobby, said it was too late at my age. I enrolled in a art class here in Manchester. The teacher says I have talent. Ive also taken up swimming. Do you recall how I begged you to join me at the local pool? You said it was nonsense, that at our age we should stay home and watch telly. Now I swim each morning and feel twenty years younger. I dont know if Ill return. Im happy here. I feel alive.
Victor read the letter over and over, feeling a thin layer of ice in his heart begin to melt.
He remembered Mabel, young and brighteyed, speaking of her wish to paint, of the postcards she collected from museum exhibitions when they were students, of the tiny sketches she kept tucked in her diary. Then work, children, mortgage, and the years slipped by, and he had taken her zeal for granted.
He took a fresh sheet and wrote:
Mabel, Im sorry. I never realised I was making you unhappy. I thought the way it was husband works, wife keeps the home was natural. I never considered your dreams. Im ashamed. Tell me what I can do.
Her reply came faster than the first.
Victor, I dont know if anything can be fixed. Too much time has been lost. If you truly wish to try, start with yourself. Ask what you want from life beyond clean shirts and a hot dinner. Find yourself, and perhaps we might find each other again.
Victor sat on the balcony, smoking, watching the sun dip behind the rooftops. Find yourself, the words echoed. Who was he without his routine, his job, his predictable life? He had always measured success by the house, the car, the respect of colleagues, yet inside there was a hollow.
On a Saturday he decided to walk in the park, something he rarely did, preferring the sofa and the newspaper. He strolled among the trees, smiled at children chasing a ball, and passed a small
