Spotless Stove

A Spotless Hob

Sarah. Come here.

No please. No when youre done. Just come here, like youd call a dog.

She set the mop against the wall and walked into the kitchen. David was sitting at the table, staring at his phone. Next to him, at her usual spot by the window, sat Margaret, his mum. She was having her tea. The air was full of the smell of boiled cabbage and the odd medicinal scent of all the tablets Margaret took, handfuls at a time.

Mum says you havent cleaned the hob properly again, David said, still not looking up from his phone.

I cleaned it yesterday, Sarah replied.

Clearly not well enough, love.

Margaret set her cup down on its saucer with a faint clatter.

I cant have a dirty home, she announced, matter-of-fact. I always kept this house impeccable. Ran it on my own for twenty years, and there was never this sort of shambles before.

Sarah was fifty-three. She stood there in the kitchen, rubber gloves on, hands still damp, listening. Listening, once again.

Show me where its dirty, she said. Ill clean it now.

Exactly! David chimed in. Cant you see for yourself or do you want us to point it out to you on our hands and knees?

He said it quietly. Almost calmly. He always spoke that way: calm, no shouting, but with an edge cutting sharp as a knife.

Sarah looked at the hob. It gleamed. Shed scrubbed it last night after dinner, half an hour scouring the grease off the burners. It was spotless.

And right then, something in her shifted.

She didnt explode. She didnt cry. She just looked at that shining, clean hob, then at David with his phone, then at Margaret with her tea, and found inside herself a silence as deep as the hush before something finally cracks for good.

She peeled off the gloves and put them on the table.

Ive heard this for twenty-eight years, she said. Thats enough.

David raised his eyes from his phone. Margaret froze, cup halfway to her lips.

What did you say? David asked.

I said: thats enough.

Sarah left the kitchen. She went to the bedroom, grabbed a big Sainsburys carrier from the cupboard and began stuffing in her things. Not much. Papers, a couple of jumpers, spare underwear, phone charger. Her hands didnt shake, which surprised her. She was utterly peaceful, like someone whos finally reached a decision years in the making.

Voices carried from the kitchen, first low, then louder.

David, didnt you hear her? Go after her!

You go, if you want.

Sarah zipped up her coat, picked up her bag, and stepped into the hallway. She put on her shoes, opened the door.

Sarah! Margaret called from the kitchen. Do you understand what youre doing? Where are you going to go? Youre no one without him! No one!

Sarah shut the door quietly, without a bang.

On the staircase, she could smell cat litter from the neighbours on the third floor and fresh paint from downstairs. She walked out into the chilly, damp October air, leaves soggy against the tarmac. Stopping outside the building, she took out her phone.

Emma picked up after the second ring.

Em? Ive left.

A pause.

Left where?

Davids. For good. Ive got nowhere to go.

Silence for about three seconds. Then Emma said,

You remember my address, right? Ill be home in twenty minutes. Wait outside, Ill text you the entry code.

***

Emma lived in a little one-bed on Garden Street. Tiny, but hersshed bought it seven years back, after saving every penny from working the night desk at a hotel. The place was decked with shelves and houseplants, fridge covered in magnets from all over, scent of coffee and something sweet, cinnamon maybe.

Sarah sat curled on the sofa, hot tea in hand, while Emma, legs tucked under her, gazed at her without a word.

Go on, tell me, Emma finally said.

Theres nothing much to say, Sarah replied. Same old thing. The hobs dirty. Soups bland. Floors need doing. And they look at me as if Im… well, like Im a faulty appliance.

Its always been like this, Sarah. So… why tonight?

Sarah thought for a moment.

Tonight I looked at the spotless hob and realised, if I dont leave now, I never will. Ill die there. One day Ill just not get up, and theyll say I didnt look after myself properly.

Emma nodded. She didnt say anything more, just poured another cup of tea.

That night Sarah lay under a warm blanket on Emmas sofa, listening to the kind of silence thats truly silent. No background TV from the next room. No Margarets cough through the wall. No sense she should be jumping up to sort something.

She was awake until three, not from worry, but because she simply hadnt known it was possibleto lie there and not be responsible for anything.

Eventually, she drifted off.

***

Her phone was quiet for two days. On the third, David sent a text: When are you coming back? Not Im sorry. Not even we need to talk. Just when are you coming back, like shed gone away on business.

Sarah read the message and put her phone back in her pocket.

Good, said Emma, having seen it flash up next to her. Dont answer. Let him wonder.

He wont wonder, Sarah shrugged. Hell just assume Ill snap out of it and come home. Hes always thought that. That I wont leave.

And will you?

Sarah glanced out of the window. The courtyard was grey with October, wet cars, bare trees.

I will. Just… no idea where yet.

Those first weeks were odd, truth be told. Sarah was at a loss for how to fill her time. All her life, shed woken at seven: cook breakfast, clean, laundry, dash to the chemist for Margarets pills, get the shopping, cook again, tidy again. Morning til night. And still: not enough, not good enough.

Now, shed wake up to an empty day. Nothing needed doing. It was almost unbearable.

Em, she said one morning, as Emma was heading out to work, I need to do something. Ill go mad otherwise.

Get a job.

Doing what? Ive not worked in twenty-eight years.

But youre an artist.

Sarah let out a short, joyless laugh.

I was an artist. Once. Worked in publishing for a couple of years after uni, then got married, and David said there was no need, he earns plenty. His mum said women ought to run homes, not chase careers.

And you agreed.

I did. I was twenty-five. Thought thats what love meant. Someone taking care of you.

Emma zipped up her coat thoughtfully.

Sarah, Ive got some watercolours in the wardrobemy niece left them. And some good paper, I think. Take them. See what happens.

Why?

Because your hands remember. Even if your heads forgotten.

***

Sarah found the paints in the bottom drawer, wrapped in last weeks Guardian. Childrens paints, cheap, in a little plastic box with a picture of a squirrel. Watercolour pad was there too, mostly unused. Sarah set everything out on Emmas kitchen table and stared at the blank sheet.

Then she picked up a brush.

At first, nothing worked. The paint wouldnt sit right, her hand shook, everything was wonky. She tore up three sheets. Then she just let it gosmudging paint for colour alone, no plan, no purpose. Just colour. Just shape.

An hour later sat a small watercolour: the autumn courtyard outside Emmas window. Wet trees, grey sky, one pink blush on the horizon.

She gazed at it and thought: there. I made this.

Not soup. Not a spotless hob. This.

That night Emma came home, spotted the painting on the table and paused.

Did you paint that?

Yeah.

Its really good.

Not really. Bit messy.

Yeah, but its alive, Emma insisted. Ive seen a hundred courtyards like that, but this one feels real. You feel it.

Sarah didnt reply. But she didnt throw the painting away.

***

Back at Davids flat on Highfield Avenue, things were going as he never expected.

First three days, he thought Sarah would be back. Where would she go? She didnt know how to do anything. No job, no money, nowhere else to live. Shed be back, obviously.

But she didnt come.

On the fourth day, he opened the fridge and found it empty. Completely. One lonely pint of milk. He went to work hungry.

That evening, his mother sat in the kitchen regarding him with the knowing look of someone who foresaw this outcome.

Have you eaten? she said.

No.

Nor have I. Did you bring anything from the shops?

I didnt have time.

So, you havent eaten and brought nothing home, Margaret mused. Wonderful. Im seventy-eight years old and its come to this, not a slice of bread in the house.

Mum, go to the shops yourself.

The pause was long.

I, Margaret finally said, am seventy-eight. Bad knees, high blood pressure, I use a stick. And you tell me to go myself.

Mum, I was working.

And what about Sarah, eh? Sarah worked herself to the bone for you, and you drove her away.

Davids head shot up.

I drove her away? She left, of her own accord!

Because you pushed her too far! Margarets voice rose. I told you: be nicer to people. But you always know best.

And you were on at her every day! The hobs dirty, soups wrong, floors not clean…

I was giving constructive criticism! This is my home!

My home, Mum! Its my flat!

They stared at each other, possibly for the first time in years. Without Sarah between them, there was no one left to absorb all the blows, no one to keep them from clashing directly.

David grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door.

Margaret stayed at the table. Outside, it was dark. She got up, flicked the light, opened the fridge, looked at the milk. Closed it.

Sat down again.

The silence was deeper than it had ever been while Sarah was there.

***

November brought a chill and the seasons first snow. By now, Sarah had been at Emmas three weeks and was gradually coming alive again like someone whod been cooped up for too long and finally let outside. First it dazzles. Then you get used to it.

She painted every day now and had bought herself proper paints. Emma found a listing online: a little studio to hire on Riverside Road, not far from the park. About 20 square metres, big north-facing window, old wooden floor. Cheap, because it needed work and the walls were peeling.

Sarah viewed it and knew instantly: this was it.

Will you take it? The landlady, an older lady in a knitted hat, asked.

I will.

She had hardly any money. She sold her gold earringsher parents wedding gift. It hurt. But then she thought: what memory? Of what?

The studio became her place. Shed come in mornings, crack the window, let in the frosty air, river-scented. The room smelt of paint, turps, wood. Shed arrange her jars, spread paper or canvas, and just work. For hours. Sometimes she forgot to eat.

She painted whatever she saw: landscapes, townhouses, a bowl on the table, an apple, an old boot. Her skill improved steadily. Her hands really did remember; they just needed time after twenty-eight years of silence.

One day in December, Emma rang her at the studio.

Sarah, the hotels planning a show of local artists in the lobby. I told them about you. Will you bring a few paintings?

Em, Im not an artist. Ive only just started again.

You are an artist. Ive seen your work.

Its a hobby.

Sarah, Emma said, patient as ever, youve been telling yourself youre just this and only that for thirty years. Enough. Youll bring paintings?

Sarah paused.

All right, she said. I will.

***

Thats where she met Alan Spencer.

He was at the opening entirely by accidenthad booked a room for the night, wandered into the lobby at the right moment. Tall, in a tatty checked shirt, greying at the temples, calm grey eyes. He stood before one of Sarahs snowy park paintings: a bench, footsteps in the snow leading to it and away.

Sarah came over to straighten the frame, and heard him mutter to himself:

Funny, that. Came, sat, and then walked off again.

Is that about the footprints? Sarah asked.

He turned. Wasnt embarrassed about being caught talking to a painting.

Yeah. Looks like two people. Sat. Left in opposite directions. Maybe they had a nice chat. Or rowed. Whos to say?

I always thought it was just one person, said Sarah. Sat for a bit, then went home.

No one walks home in zigzags, he replied, deadly serious. See, the prints meander. Thats two.

She looked at her painting with new eyes.

Maybe it is two, she agreed.

They chatted for twenty minutes. Turned out he was in town from Birmingham, helping his brother fix up a house. Alan was a handymanjoinery, electrics, plumbing, you name it. A widower, with two grown-up children. He didnt talk much, but listenedproperly listened. Didnt interrupt. Never glanced at his phone. Looked right at her when she spoke.

She found that astonishing, honestlyshe wasnt sure how to respond.

When he left, he asked,

Got a card?

No, Sarah admitted. I havent made any.

A phone number then? If thats all right?

She gave it. She worried afterwardswhy? Maybe he wanted to buy a painting.

Three days later he texted, Evening, its Alan, the footprints chap. Is the snow park painting still available? Would like to buy it if I may.

She hadnt sold it. He came round, packed it up carefully, even brought his own bag, and asked if she had any others he could have a look at.

They went to the studio. He looked for ages, quietly. Bought two small landscapes.

You paint beautifully, he remarked.

I hadnt for years, she said.

Why not?

She shrugged. Couldnt explain. Not yet.

Life.

He nodded, accepted it, didnt press further.

***

David rang in January. It had been months since Sarah had left, dividing her life between Emmas sofa and the studio. Legally they were still marriedshe hadnt sorted the papers yet.

He called one eveningSarah was finishing up a winter still life: pine sprigs, a glass jar, pine cones, a candle.

Sarah, he began.

Yes.

Well… how are you?

Im OK.

Silence.

Mums not well.

Im sorry to hear that.

Could you come by? Just once a week, help out round the flat?

Sarah set her brush down.

David, she said. Ive left. I live separately. I wont be coming over to clean.

Youre still my wife.

For now, yes. But not for long.

Come on, Sarah. Lets talk.

We never really talked, David. Not in twenty-eight years. You talked. Your mum talked. I listened and did as I was told.

You make things out to be worse than they were.

Maybe, she replied, evenly. But Im not coming back.

She hung up. Her hands were steady. She was surprised at herself.

She mused that to an outsider, this must seem so simple: a wife leaving her husband. Happens all the time. But from inside, it was anything but. More like learning to walk after being bedridden.

***

Sarahs relationship with money grew slowly. Paintings sold only now and again, and not for much. Sometimes someone ordered a hand-painted card, or a small townscape as a gift. With Emmas help, she started a page online. Bit by bit, followers appeared.

There was just enough to get byrent for the studio, for food and basics. No frills, but enough.

She hadnt expected this to feel like such riches. But it did.

Alan now visited every few weeks, never in a rush, never imposing. Theyd have coffee at the tiny café by the park, or just wander snowy streets, chatting. He told her about his work, his sonsone married, expecting a baby. She told him about her art, how she wanted to try oils.

He never hurried. Never made demands. One day, she realised she looked forward to his visits. When he wasnt around, the studio felt a bit quieter.

Em, Sarah said one day, Alan… I dont know.

Dont know what?

Hes actually… nice. It scares me.

Why would something good be frightening?

Because Im used to good things hiding something bad behind them.

Emma looked at her, long.

Maybe not all people are hiding things, Sarah.

Sarah pondered that for days.

Finally she messaged Alan first: Would you want to pop round this Saturday? Ive started a new big piecewanted to show you.

He came by on Saturday. Praised the painting. They had coffee again, and he said,

Sarah, would you fancy a drive this weekend? Theres a really pretty old abbey about an hour away, looks stunning in the winter.

She said yes.

***

As for the flat on Highfield Avenue, where David and Margaret still lived, Sarah heard news in bits. Sometimes Mrs Stephens from upstairs phoned hera retired woman she used to have long chats with in the stairwell.

How are you, Sarah? Listen, their place is a disaster. You can hear them bickering right through the wall. Margarets at David every day for not keeping you. He shouts back. Yesterday, honestly, I thought about calling the council.

Sarah listened, and felt, oddly, nothing but a sort of distant melancholy. No smugness, no satisfaction. Just: thats how it goes sometimes.

It wasnt Sarah they missed, not reallythey just missed having someone to absorb the blows. All their lives, theyd fired shots in one direction. With Sarah gone, they hit each other instead.

In February, Mrs Stephens let her know Margaret had been taken to hospital. Her heart. David was there alone, glum as a rainy Monday.

Sarah made tea and thought: perhaps I should ring. After all, twenty-eight years. After all, shes still a person.

But then she thought againand decided, no. Not doing things just because she should. Shed done should all her life. Now, let them sort it.

***

March brought the thaw and the scent of damp earth. Sarah was at the Saturday market, with her canvas bag, picking up bits for breakfast. She stopped at the stall with early greenhouse tomatoes, thinking how shed like to paint thesemarket colours, the noise, the people.

And then she saw David.

He was striding through the market with his shopping bag, staring at his phone, oblivious. He looked older, she thought. Or perhaps she just never saw him clearly before. Shoulders hunched, creased jacket, pallid face.

She stood, waiting, wondering what she would feel. Fear? Anger? The urge to slip away unnoticed?

None of that.

David raised his eyes and saw her. Stopped.

They looked at each other across three stalls.

Sarah, he said.

His voice was as quiet as ever, but something new in ita sort of defeat, maybe.

David, she replied.

He came closer. The stallholder pretended to be engrossed in her apples.

How are you? he asked.

Im well.

Youve lost weight.

Maybe.

Mums in hospital. Her heart.

I heard. Sorry.

He shifted his bag from one hand to the other.

Youre really not coming back?

Sarah looked at him, calm. No hate, no pity. Just looking.

No, David. Im not.

Weve got to live somehow…

You have to. Im already living.

He was lost for words. She picked up her tomatoes, paid, and walked away.

Her heart beat steadily. That was her real victorythat steady heart. Not simply that shed left, or hadnt returned. But that she could stand in front of him, unafraid. Not shrinking, not telling herself be polite, dont be rude, maybe hes right, maybe Im being difficult. Just talking to a stranger. Almost a stranger.

She picked up some fresh greens at the next stall, bought a loaf of bread, and went home. Home now meant the studioshed started saying it that way long ago.

***

The divorce paperwork went through in April. She sorted it herself, no solicitor, went to the office, filled out the forms. David didnt object. They met once at the notary, signed what had to be signed, and parted.

She never tried to claim the flat. David stayed there. Emma told her she should have fought for her share. Sarah just shook her head.

I dont want that house, Em. I want to live my life.

You could use the money.

Ill make more, Sarah replied. My own money. One way or another.

By summer, she and Alan were seeing each other every week. Sometimes she went to his place, sometimes he came here. He had a little house in a quiet part of town, a garden with currants and an ancient apple tree. Sarah came for the first time in May, stood for ages under the blossom.

Its lovely, she said.

My wife planted it, he answered simply. Not sad, just factual. Shes been gone eight years now. But the tree still flowers.

They stood together, looking at the tree.

Alan… arent you scared? Sarah asked.

Of whatgetting close to someone again?

Yeah, something like that.

He thought about it.

I am. But I like you. And being scared isnt a reason not to live.

She laughed, surprising herself.

Wise words.

I was a joiner for thirty yearsI dont faff about with nails either.

***

When a full year had passed since Sarah packed her bag and left, she and Alan were sitting in his kitchen late one evening. He was tinkering with a drawer that wouldnt close, she was sketching at the table with her tea.

It was warm. Peaceful. Smelt of wood and coffee.

Sarah, Alan said, still messing with the drawer, Will you move in?

Sarah looked up.

Where to?

Here. With me.

She was silent. He worked on, not pushing.

Ive got my studio, she reminded him.

I know. Theres a room here you can usebig window facing east. Gets the morning light. Did I tell you?

You did.

Well?

Sarah glanced down at her sketch: the kitchen, a man with a screwdriver, a woman with a cup. The window. Beyond, the garden.

Ill need to think.

Take your time.

Youre not going to rush me?

No.

Why not?

He finished with the screwdriver, checked the drawer. It slid shut smooth as anything.

Because Ive got enough time, he replied. And its daft to hurry a grown woman.

She looked again at her drawing.

All right, she said.

All right, youll think, or all right, youll move in?

All right, Ill move in.

He nodded, sat beside her, picked up his own tea. They sat in companionable silence, and the quiet was sweet.

***

Another six months went by.

Sarah lived with Alan now, but kept her studio on Riverside Road. She went there three times a week, worked. The east-facing room at Alans became her morning sketch spot before he left for work.

Her paintings started selling more regularlynot that she became a famous artist or anything, but now there were people who sought her out, ordered her work. It was steady and real, and it belonged to her.

Every so often, Mrs Stephens rang with news of David. Margaret hardly left her room after her stint in hospital. David hired a carer, slogged off to work, came home, carried on.

Sarah listened quietly, marvelling at how this man once dominated her whole sky. His moods set her weather, his words her rules. What looked, from the outside, like a good marriage had been a tiny prisonworst kind, the one you lock yourself into.

Now, the sky was clear.

One Tuesday in December, Sarah arrived at her studio before dawn. Switched on the lights, put the kettle on. Outside, the snow was falling, gentle and slow.

Her phone rang. Emma.

Morning Sarah, how are you?

Im good, working.

Right, I may have something. A friend says theres a gallery in town looking for local artists for their spring show. Small, but proper. Shes seen your work online and wants to call you. Heres her number.

Sarah jotted it down.

Em, Im sure they want someone established. Ive got no name, no credentials.

Sarah, you didnt paint for five years. Started again. Now youve got over a hundred and fifty pieces. Thats pretty serious.

Well

Just call them, yeah? Just call.

All right.

She hung up. Looked at the number. Then out the windowthe snow still falling, the yard outside pure and white as a blank page.

She poured her tea, picked up a brush, and started to work. Shed call later. First, she needed to catch this snow, while it lasted.

***

That evening Alan picked her up at the studio. Knocked, stepped inside, found her still at her easel.

Ready? he asked.

Just give me five minutes.

He sat on a stool, waiting, never rushing. Just watched her workinghis steady gaze always full of quiet attention, as if he was looking at something precious.

Five minutes later, she packed up.

Done.

He nodded, glancing at her canvas.

Its great, he said.

Im not sure. Snows hard to paint. Youd think its white, but its notits blue, grey, pink, everything but white.

Thats interesting, he said, seriously. Never wouldve guessed.

You see but you dont really see, sometimes.

They left the studio. Outside, it was cold and still, the air sharp, snow stopped but the ground sparkling.

Alan, Sarah said as they walked, I got a call about a gallery show. Town centre.

And?

Im trying to decide if Ill go.

Do you want to?

She paused.

I do. But Im scared.

What of?

That theyll say its rubbish or Im not a real artist, that it isnt proper.

Alan walked with his hands in his pockets, eyes ahead.

Sarah, you know theres really nothing to be scared of?

How dyou mean?

I mean, the scariest parts behind you. You lived with folk who told you every day you were nothing, for twenty-eight years. You walked out with just a bag. That was the frightening bit. Gallery? Even if they say noso what?

She stopped.

You always know how to get straight to it, dont you?

I try.

She laughed. He smiled tooa small smile, just showed up in the lamplight.

Come on, its freezing, he said.

They walked on. Snow crunched underfoot. Streetlamps shimmered in frozen puddles. Ahead, the windows of home glowed.

Alan she said.

Yeah?

Thank you.

For what?

For never telling me what I ought to do. Or should do.

He paused.

Grown-ups know what they need, Sarah, he said. Im only here to remind you now and then. Thats all.

At home, he held the door for her, and the hallway smelt of wood and faintly, of appleshe kept them in the cellar.

Sarah walked in, kicked her shoes off, switched on the kitchen light.

Everything as it should be: wooden table, two chairs, the window to the garden. On the windowsill sat her sketchpad, left there that morning.

She opened it and looked at yesterdays sketch: the kitchen, a man with a screwdriver, a woman with her mug. Window. Garden beyond.

Now, all that was left was adding the snow.

She picked up her pencil.