He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself to be weak-willed and spineless. Each day depended on the mood with which he woke. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and bright, cracking jokes all day and laughing loudly. But mostly, he spent his days in gloomy contemplation, drinking copious amounts of tea and wandering around the house with a stormy face, as was typical for people in the creative professions. Victor Dudley belonged to that sort: he worked at the village school, teaching art, woodwork, and, occasionally, music lessons when the music teacher was off sick. He had an affinity for the arts. School didn’t let him fulfil his creative ambitions, so the house became his canvas—Victor made himself a studio, taking over the largest and brightest room. Which, as it happened, Sophie had earmarked as a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered paint tubes and clay everywhere, and set to work—painting feverishly, sculpting, creating… He could stay up all night working on a strange still life, or spend the entire weekend crafting a puzzling sculpture. He never sold his “masterpieces.” They filled the house, the walls thick with paintings that—truth be told—Sophie didn’t like; the cupboards and shelves buckled under the weight of his clay figurines. If the things had been truly beautiful, it might have been different—but they weren’t. The few artist and sculptor friends from Victor’s college days who visited would fall silent, avert their eyes, and sigh quietly as they looked at his creations. Not one ever complimented him. Only Leo Peabody—the oldest in the group—burst out, after finishing a bottle of rowanberry liqueur: “My word, what a load of meaningless daubs! What is all this? I haven’t seen a single worthwhile thing in this house—except, of course, your wonderful wife.” Dudley couldn’t stand the criticism. He shouted, stamped his feet, and told his wife to show the rude guest the door. “Get out!” he yelled. “You philistine! It’s you who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, I see it now! You’re just angry that you can’t hold a paintbrush in your shaky drunk hands! You simply envy me, so you belittle everything!” Peabody barely made it down the steps, and paused at the gate, almost tripping, when Sophie caught up and apologised for her husband’s behaviour. “Please don’t mind him. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should have warned you.” “Don’t make excuses for him, dear child,” nodded Leo. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab and head home. I do pity you, though. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings ruin everything! And those horrid figurines… they should be hidden, not shown off. But knowing Victor, I can only imagine how difficult your life must be. You see, for us artists, the things we create reflect our souls. And Victor’s soul is as empty as his canvases.” He kissed Sophie’s hand in farewell and left the unwelcoming house. Victor did not recover emotionally for a long time—he yelled, smashed some of his own “sculptures,” tore up paintings, and raged for a month before he calmed down. *** Still, Sophie never opposed her husband. She decided that, in time, children would arrive and her darling would set aside his hobbies. He’d turn the studio into a nursery, but until then, let him amuse himself with still lifes. Shortly after their wedding, Victor played the part of the model husband—bringing home fresh fruit and his wages, caring for his young wife. But he soon lost interest. He became distant, stopped sharing his pay, and Sophie had to take care of the home, her husband, the vegetable patch, the henhouse, and her mother-in-law. When Sophie became pregnant, Victor was delighted. But their joy was short-lived: a week later, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and suffered a miscarriage. When Victor heard the news, he changed immediately—becoming whiny, nervous, and shouting at Sophie before locking himself in the house. Sophie left the hospital a shadow of herself. No one met her, but the worst was yet to come: Victor wouldn’t let her in. “Open up, Victor!” “No, I won’t,” he sniffled from behind the door. “Why did you come back? You were supposed to carry my child. But you failed! And today my mother ended up in hospital with a heart attack—because of you!” You’ve brought nothing but trouble. Get off the doorstep—I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision went black and she sat down on the porch. “Oh Victor… I’m suffering too, let me in!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie waited until nightfall. Finally, the door creaked open. Victor, thin with grief, locked the door with a bolt, but couldn’t find the key—he never knew where anything was, usually asked Sophie. He mulled it over, then left for the gate, not looking at his wife. When he was gone, Sophie entered quietly. She waited for him all night. The next morning, a neighbour brought dreadful news: her mother-in-law hadn’t survived the heart attack. The loss devastated Victor. He quit his job, took to bed and told Sophie, “I never really loved you. I only married you because my mother wanted grandchildren. But you ruined everything. I’ll never forgive you for that.” Those words hurt, but Sophie resolved not to leave him. Time passed, but things did not improve. Victor became bedridden, refusing food, claiming he had an ulcer, until finally he stopped getting up at all. And then he filed for divorce; the Dudleys separated. Sophie wept bitterly. She tried to hug Victor, to kiss him, but he pushed her away, whispering that he’d throw her out as soon as he recovered—that she’d ruined his life. *** Sophie couldn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. Her own mother, delighted to have married her daughter off early, quickly moved to the seaside to live with her new husband—after hastily selling the family home. So Sophie was left trapped by circumstance. *** Eventually, the food ran out. She scraped together the last bits, boiled a final egg from the only surviving hen, and fed Victor watery porridge and mashed yolk. Life had dealt her a cruel hand—she might have been feeding a child by now (had she not been hauling water and logs on her own), but instead had to please her ex-husband, who didn’t value her at all. “I’ll pop out for a bit—the market’s in town from the next village. I’ll try to sell the hen, or trade her for food.” Victor, staring emptily at the ceiling, croaked: “Why sell her? Boil her up for broth. I’m sick of porridge, I want a proper meal.” Sophie pulled at her only dress—it was the one she’d worn for graduation, then at her wedding, and now on hot days: she had nothing else. “You know I can’t… I’ll sell or trade. I could give her to the neighbours, like the others, but I think this hen would keep coming back. She’s too attached.” “‘Penny’—” Victor sneered, “you name your hens now? For goodness’ sake… but what can one expect of you…” Sophie bit her lip and looked down. “You said you’re going to market? Take some of my paintings or figurines—maybe someone will buy them.” She tried to refuse, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two whistling clay birds and a large piggy bank—Victor’s pride—and bolted outside, hoping he wouldn’t demand she lug out the paintings as well. Statues she could rustle up the courage to offer; the paintings, never. They were just too awful. She was too ashamed to take them out in public. *** It was a hot day. Despite the light dress, Sophie was slick with sweat. Her face shone, her fringe stuck to her forehead. It was the village fête. Sophie couldn’t remember when she last went out, gazing in wonder at the bustling crowds around the stalls. There was honey of every kind, colourful silk scarves, children’s sweets, the irresistible aroma of barbecue, music, laughter. She stopped by the last stall, holding her hen close. She hated to part with the old bird, but she truly loved her. Years ago, she’d nursed this hen back to health, and Penny had become a beloved pet, always limping after Sophie. Now, she tried to poke her beak out from Sophie’s bag, pecking at her hand curiously. *** An elderly stallholder eyed her. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Stainless steel, silver, even a few gold chains.” “No, thanks. I’m here to sell a live hen, an excellent layer,” Sophie replied politely. “A hen… what would I do with it…” Then a young man at the stall piped up: “Let’s have a look at your hen.” Sophie carefully handed him the bird. “She limps a bit, but she’s a fine layer.” “How much? So cheap—what’s the catch?” Sophie flushed under his steady look, feeling sweat prickle anew. “She’s just lame, nothing else.” “Alright, I’ll buy her. And those?” He gestured at her clay figures. “Oh, these… figurines. Whistles and a piggy bank.” He laughed at the pig. “Handmade, eh?” “Yes, very much so. I’ll sell them cheap—I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller rolled her eyes: “What do you need all that for, Dennis? Off to play with toys now? Your brother could use your help on the barbecue stand.” Sophie backed away, startled: “You—work on the barbecue stand? Then I can’t sell you the hen!” She tried to snatch Penny back, but Dennis dodged and laughed. “Take your money back, please! Penny isn’t for barbecue—she’s not a meat bird!” “I know. She’ll go to my mum—she keeps chickens. And of course you can visit Penny any time.” … Sophie was almost home when Dennis pulled up in a car. “Excuse me, miss—have you any more clay figurines? I’d like to buy them for gifts and such.” Squinting against the sun, Sophie smiled: “You’re in luck! There are plenty more back home.” *** Back home, Dudley lay groaning at voices in the hall. “Who’s there, Sophie? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” The visitor glanced at bedridden Victor and turned away, looking at the paintings. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Who painted this—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she walked past with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor leapt from the bed. “And I didn’t just paint! Children paint with chalk on the pavement—I *compose*!” He sat up, watching the stranger. “What do you care about my paintings?” he demanded. “I like them. I’d like to buy one. And these sculptures—yours as well?” “Of course!” Victor cried, shoving Sophie aside. “Everything here is mine!” He jumped up, limped about, showing off canvases and figurines—all the while, Dennis glanced at Sophie, noting the blush in her cheeks, her shy glance. Epilogue Sophie was surprised by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery.” As it turned out, Dudley had never been ill! As soon as someone paid attention to his “art,” he was a new man. The mysterious visitor—Dennis—came every day, buying painting after painting. When the canvases ran out, he bought up all the figurines. Victor, thrilled, shut himself in the studio to make more. He never realised that Dennis was interested not in the “art,” but in the ex-wife. Each day, Dennis left with another “masterpiece,” then waited at the gate to chat with Sophie. Something blossomed. And soon enough, Dennis walked away from that house with just what he’d wanted—Dudley’s ex-wife. And that was why he’d come at all. Back home, Dennis tossed Victor’s paintings in the fire and bagged up the clay “grotesques,” unsure what to do with them. But he remembered Sophie’s lovely face. He’d noticed her at the fair in that light dress, from the moment she appeared—and he’d known instantly she was his fate. He’d learned of her miserable life with a madcap fool who fancied himself an artist—but nowhere to go. So Dennis visited daily, snapping up “art,” just to see her. In time, Sophie understood everything. Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis vanished once Sophie left with him; Dudley heard they’d married and he was left feeling utterly bitter at being so easily deceived. After all, finding a good wife is no easy thing—and Sophie was just that. It took time for him to realise he’d lost the most precious thing in his life: a caring, loyal wife. He’d never find another one like her—Sophie had not only endured him, but pitied him, cared for him almost like a mother. And what a woman she was! And like a fool, he’d let her slip away. Dudley considered wallowing in self-pity—but then realised: there was no one left to feed him eggs, or bring him water. No one to take over the house and garden…

Coveting Another Mans Wife

Living together, Victor Dudley revealed himself to be a man of weak character and little willpower.

Every day was determined by the mood with which he woke up. Sometimes, hed rise cheerful and lively, telling jokes from breakfast to dinner and laughing loudly at the smallest things.

But for the most part, he dwelled in gloomy musings, drank endless cups of tea, and drifted around the house as sour-faced as a washed-up artistapt, since he taught at the village school: art, woodwork, and, on occasion, music, whenever the music teacher fell ill.

He fancied himself a creative soul. Yet, unable to express his artistic urges at school, he took it out on the houseVictor claimed the largest, sunniest room as his studio. It was meant, really, to be the nursery for future children, as Emma had gently suggested, but as the house belonged to Victor, Emma didnt protest.

He filled the room with easels, tripods and scattered the floors with paint tubes and lumps of clay. He would spend hours sketching, sculpting, mouldingimmersed in a world of his own creations.

He could spend all night painting a bizarre still life or devote an entire weekend to shaping a curious figure out of clay.

His masterpieces never left the home; they accumulated on the walls and shelves, much to Emmas quiet dismay. The paintings didnt appeal to her, and the shelves groaned with grotesque clay creatures.

It would have been endurable, perhaps, if the work was breathtakingbut it wasnt.

The few old school friends Victor sometimes invitedother artists and sculptorswere always silent when viewing his work, their eyes darting away, stifled sighs betraying their opinions.

Not a single word of praise was ever uttered.

Except for Leonard Petherbridge, by far the oldest among them, who (having polished off a bottle of sloe gin in the kitchen) finally exclaimed:

My word, what utter nonsense! What is all this? I havent seen a single worthwhile thing in this houseexcept, of course, the delightful lady of it.

Victor didnt take well to criticism. He shouted, stomped his feet, and demanded Emma ask the rude oaf to leave at once.

Get out, you blithering dolt! You know nothing of art! I see it nowyoure just sore you cant hold a brush in those shaking hands, ruined by drink! Youre jealoustrying to undermine talent youll never possess!

Leonard stumbled down the front steps, nearly tumbling, and lingered uncertainly by the gate. Emma caught up with him and hastily apologised for her husbands outburst.

Please, dont take his words to heart. You probably shouldnt have criticised his work, but I should have warned you.

No need to excuse him, my dear child, Leonard nodded kindly. But truly, such a lovely housespoiled by those dreadful paintings of Victors. And those hideous clay monstrositieshe should hide them away, not be parading them about. But knowing Victor, it can’t be easy for you. You see, with us artists, what we create reflects our soul. Victors soul is as empty as his canvases.

Bowing gallantly and kissing Emmas hand, he departed.

Victor took weeks to recover. He spent a month shouting, smashing his sculptures, tearing his paintings, and brooding relentlessly before settling down.

***

Yet through it all, Emma never contradicted her husband.

She told herself, in time, children would come, Victor would tire of his hobbies and convert the studio into a nursery. For now, he could amuse himself with odd still lifes.

At the very start of their marriage, Victor strove to play the dutiful husbandbringing home fresh fruit and his modest pay, taking care of his young wife.

But that faded quickly. He grew cold to Emma, stopped sharing his wages, and left all household and garden responsibilities to her. She juggled everything: keeping the home, tending the chickens, managing the vegetable patch, and looking after the mother-in-law.

When news came that Emma was expecting, Victor was elated. But his joy was short-lived; within a week, Emma fell ill, landed in hospital, and tragically lost the baby in early pregnancy.

As soon as Victor received the news, he changed overnight. He became sullen, agitated, shouted at Emma, and shut himself away.

By the time Emma was dismissed from hospital, she looked like a shadow of herself. She walked home alone.

No one met her, and worse was waiting: Victor had locked himself inside and refused to let her in.

Open the door, Vic!

I wont! came Victors tearful voice from behind the door. Why are you here? You were meant to bear my child, but you failed! Now, thanks to you, my mothers in hospital with a heart attack! I regret ever marrying youyouve brought nothing but misfortune! Stop standing therejust go! I want nothing more to do with you.

Emma felt the world go dark and sank down on the doorstep.

Vic, for heavens sake Im suffering too, cant you see? Please, open the door!

Her tears made no impression. She sat outside until darkness fell.

Eventually, the front door creaked, and Victor stepped out, gaunt with grief. He tried to lock the door, failing to find the right keyhe never remembered where anything was and always relied on Emma.

He hesitated, then left for the gate without once looking at her.

Once hed disappeared round the corner, Emma unlocked the door and let herself into the silent house, dropping onto the bed.

She waited up for him all night. In the morning, a neighbour brought grim news: Victors mother hadnt survived her heart attack.

The loss broke Victor completelyhe resigned from work, took to his bed, then told his young wife bitterly,

I never loved you. I married you only because Mother insistedshe wanted grandchildren. But you destroyed our lives. Ill never forgive you.

The words cut deep, but Emma told herself shed stick by him.

Time passed, but nothing improved. Victor refused to leave his bed, survived on only water, barely ate.

He had, truthfully, a flare-up of his ulcer. He lost his appetite, fell into apathy, kept to his bed, moaning about weakness from malnutrition and lack of vitamins.

Then, suddenly, she found out hed filed for divorce, and soon the Dudleys were no more.

Emma shed many tears.

Whenever she tried to embrace or console Victor, he brushed her off, muttering that, once he got better, hed throw her out for ruining his life.

***

Emma couldnt just leave. She literally had nowhere to go.

Her mother, whod married her off youngbarely out of schoolquickly turned her attention to her own life, moving in with a widower down in Cornwall. They married, and Mother returned only briefly to sell the family house, pocketed her small sum, then left for good.

Thats how Emma found herself trapped.

***

Eventually, every last morsel in the house was gone. Emma scraped out the cupboards, boiled the final egg taken from under the last laying hen, and started feeding Victor thin porridge and the mashed yolk.

She thought bitterlyshe might be spoon-feeding a baby by now if she hadnt hauled heavy buckets to the garden herself or stacked wood logs alonebut instead, here she was, fussing over an ungrateful ex-husband.

Im off for a bitthe weekly markets come to the next village. Ill try to sell a hen, or swap her for some food, she said.

Victor, staring blankly at the ceiling, croaked,

Why sell her? Boil her for broth. Im sick of porridge. Give me a proper soup.

Emma fiddled with the hem of her thin cotton dressthe only decent garment she owned, having worn it at her graduation, her wedding, and now, simply because she had nothing else.

You know I cantshes become my pet. Ill swap her or sell her. I could give her to the neighbours, like the others, but I know Patch will just keep coming back. Shes far too attached.

Patch? You name all your chickens? Victor sneered. What nonsenseyou really are daft. But then, what does one expect

Emma bit her lip and dropped her gaze.

Are you going to the market? Victor perked up. Take along some of my paintings and figures. Maybe someone will buy them.

Emma tried to avoid it,

But darling, youre so fond of them

I said take them, he snapped.

Emma surveyed the dress table, picked up two bird-shaped whistlesclumsily painted blue and whiteand grabbed the round piggy-bank her husband had always been bizarrely proud of.

She dashed out, fearful Victor would appear, pressing her to take the dreadful paintings as well.

If the little figures could be sold, she could bear it, but the paintings were hideous. No one would buy them. She was mortified at the very thought.

***

The day was scorching. Emma, despite her light dress, was slick with sweat, her fringe plastered to her forehead.

It was fair day in the village.

She couldnt recall the last time she went out for a stroll. Now, she marvelled at the chatting and laughing crowd, the rows of stalls: honey in every variety, silk scarves, sweets for children, the scent of roasting meats, music in the air.

She stopped at one of the last stalls, clutching her fabric bag close, stroking the hen inside.

Truthfully, she hated parting with Patch, her favourite hen.

Shed raised her from a scraggly chick. One day, Patch injured her leg, and Emma nursed her back to health. Patch had followed her everywhere, always cheerful, curious.

Patch had become a pet. Whenever Emma entered the chicken coop, Patch limped towards her, eager for attention.

Even now, the hen peered out inquisitively at her, pecking Emmas hand affectionately through the fabric.

***

The elderly woman at the stall eyed Emma.

Fancy a new necklace, love? Ive got stainless steel, lovely silver, gold-plated chains.

No, thank you. Im hoping to sell a live hena good layer. She gives lovely large eggs, Emma explained politely.

A hen? And whatever would I do with it

A young man at the neighbouring stall suddenly piped up.

Lets see this hen then.

Emma carefully handed Patch over. She didnt know the man.

How much do you want? That little? Whats wrong with her?

Emma felt his keen gaze and flushed, uneasy.

Shes a little lame, but otherwise strong and healthy.

Ill buy her. And those, what are they?

He nodded at the clay figures in her arms.

Oh, these? Little sculptures. Whistles and a piggy-bank.

He looked at the pig, then smiled crookedly.

Homemade, are they?

All hand made. Ill let them go cheapI really do need the money, Emma admitted.

Ill have the lot. Ive a fondness for the unusual.

The jeweller at the stall smirked.

What on earth for, Dennis? Havent you outgrown toys? Your brother needs you at the barbecue stall.

Emma, suddenly anxious, said,

You do sell barbecued meats? Then I cant sell you Patch!

She tried to fetch the hen back, but Dennis quickly dodged away from her.

Take your money! she pleaded. You mustnt put Patch on a spit! Shes not for eating!

Dont worryIve no plans for that. Ill give her to my mumshe keeps hens herself.

Really?

Truly, Dennis smiled. You can come visit Patch anytime. I never knew hens had names.

***

Emma was nearly home when Denniss car pulled up beside her, the window rolled down.

Excuse me, he called, do you have any more of those clay figures? Id buy a few. Good for gifts, arent they?

Emma squinted against the sun and managed a small smile.

Thats brilliant! Weve loads more at homeyoure welcome to come see.

***

Victor, hearing voices, groaned from his bed.

Whos that, Em? Bring me a drink, Im parched.

Dennis glanced at the ailing Victor, then looked at the paintings crowding the walls.

Incredible, he whispered, turning to Emma as she walked past with a glass. Who did thesewas it you?

Me! Victor scrambled upright. I dont drawkids draw with chalk on pavements, I paint! Paint, I tell you!

He sat up, watching Dennis warily.

So, whats so fascinating about my art, eh? Victor pouted.

I rather like them. Id buy a few. And these statueswho made them?

I did! Victor snapped, batting Emmas hand away as she offered him water. Everything heres mine!

He yanked aside the covers, got up and hobbled over, legs stiff.

Your studies are interesting, Dennis said, flicking a glance at Emma.

And as Victor launched into a monologue about form and composition, Dennis eyes kept straying to Emmas blushing cheeks and her restrained nervousness.

Epilogue
Emma was astonished by her former husbands miraculous recovery.

It soon became clear that Victor had never been unwell at all! The moment someone showed an interest in his work, he perked right up.

The mysterious customerDennisvisited daily, buying a painting here, a figure there.

When Victor ran out of paintings, Dennis bought the figures.

With his art suddenly in demand, Victor retreated to his studio in a frenzy of creative activity.

He never twigged, the poor fool, that Dennis was only coming round for Emma.

And gradually, as Dennis stood at the gate each time, he and Emma began to linger, talk, and soon, something gently blossomed.

Soon enough, Dennis took from Victor the thing he wantedhis former wife.

Indeed, that had always been the real reason for his visits.

Returning from village trips, Dennis would chuck Victor’s paintings on the fire, while the clay monsters piled up in a sack, still unsure what to do with them.

He remembered Emmas sweet, calm face. He’d set his heart on her the moment he saw her at the market, dressed simply, bag slung over her shoulder.

Hed learned about her home lifehow she suffered under a deluded, selfish man pretending to be an artist, and how she had nowhere to go.

So, Dennis kept coming, buying those ridiculous trinkets for the chance to see her. In the end, Emma understood.

***

Victor never imagined things would turn out this way.

Dennis, whod bought up all his art, stopped showing up after taking Emma away.

Victor later heard theyd married, and felt bitter, realising hed been so easily duped.

Its truegood wives are hard to find, and Emma had been a gem.

It took time for him to understand what hed losta woman so kind, patient, and loving; capable of great tenderness and care. She had been, in her quiet way, wonderful.

And he, like a fool, let that treasure slip away.

Victor nearly succumbed to despair, but then thought better of itafter all, there was no one left to feed him mashed eggs, no one to bring him a glass of water, and no one to shoulder the burdens of the home.