The Unfinished Book

The Unfinished Book

“Right then, Jane, Im off! No need to see me out. Ill be back late! Dont forget to get my blue shirt and trousers ready for tomorrowand pick them up from the dry cleaners, will you? Richard shouted from the hallway, hurriedly throwing on his trench coat, pausing to inspect himself in the mirror with the concentration of a man convinced all of lifes battles are fought in the wardrobe. He snatched his hat and slammed the door so hard the window panes quivered.

Draught Jane thought, turning off the tap, rubbing her hands dry on her apron. She peered out from the kitchen. Everything, as usualgolden corridors soaked in morning light, family pictures on the walls, cheerful candy-striped wallpapertwo thick, two thin, all in baby blue. Janes coat on the hook. And

Jane frowned.

A package! Her husband had left his package! And in itthe pasties! Jane had been up before dawn pinching and rolling pastry, filling it with egg and spring onion just how Rich likes them. Made especially for today; Richard was off to a work site and would be out all day with nothing but sandwich van farewhat better than a little homemade goodness!

She tugged off her apron, fixed her hair, andstill in her comfy dress with little puffed sleeves and a suspicious coffee staingrabbed the warm parcel, clutching it like a newborn, and dashed from the flatthank goodness shed remembered her keys or shed have spent the day perched outside her own door! She clattered down the stairs, gripping the bannisterfourth floor, third, secondthe rail as polished and slippery as an eel.

Jane couldve simply leaned out the window and hollered after her husband like the other wives do, but that felt terribly unrefined. Shed deliver the package herselfsay her farewells properly, offer her cheek for a dry peck, and see him off as wives did in the golden age, before everyone got so shouty.

She was panting by the time she barreled out the front door, nearly taking it off its hinges, and all this at forty-ninenot, as her knees reminded her, twenty.

She scanned the yard for the unmistakable figure: Richard in his storm-grey trench, pale hat perched on his head. He liked a sweeping coatuntiedso the wind could whip it about his legs, and hatshe had a collection for every mood and weather. Janes job was to keep them spotless, brush them, buy new ones when required. She looked after her man.

A hats proper, Richard would insist whenever their son, Mike (named for Janes father), poked fun at his fathers fixation. You lot just dont get itdrowned in synthetics and fake leather. No style.

Where was heah, there he was, already slipping out the gate and into the bustling sunlit street. If she didnt hurry, hed be on the bus and gone.

Jane sprinted across the tarmac, nodding left and right to the old ladies taking the air on the benches. They tracked her with knowing eyes, nodding approvingly as if Jane were the hero of some domestic rom-com and they her ever-cheerful Greek chorus.

Whats the fuss? called out Maureen, her knitting needles flashing.

Lunch! Rich forgot itand I made his favourite pasties! Jane cried over her shoulder.

Maureen grinned, nodding: pasties were good, and lovea properly-seasoned marriagewas even better.

Jane burst through the gates, ready to call, then froze. She stared at her husband, her shoulders slumping, as if someone had shut off the sun. The world went dim, her breath caught. Jane clung to the drainpipe for support.

There was Richard, waiting at the bus stop, arm linked with a busty young woman. She giggled, leaned in, tossing her hair; Richard towered over her, laughing too. Then she suddenly turned on him, gave him a withering look, shoved his hand away. Richard, panic rising, reached for her arm, tried to kiss her hand. The woman snatched it away, possibly even slapped him. He straightened up, rigid, fumingbut then sagged, placating, patting her back, offering her a sweet from his pocket. The woman laughed, opened her mouthgo on then, feed me.

Jane felt sick. Good grief. Her husband: respected, grown, nearly elderlyand look at him grovelling before some girl! No shame at all.

The girl wore a lovely summer dressblue with tiny white polka dots; the sort of pattern guaranteed to give anyone motion sickness. Matching ribbon in her hair, neat updo, strappy sandals.

Janes gaze flitted over her, and she realised she had no idea what to do with the pasty packageor with Richardor with life.

The bus arrived, a small crowd jostled aboard. Richard steadied his spotty companion, ushered her onto the bus. The doors shut.

As the bus pulled away, Jane was sure her husband looked right at herat Jane. Suddenly, she felt deeply self-conscious, standing there in her faded house dress, worn slippers, pasty bag clutched pathetically to her chest.

Jane spun on her heel, marched back across the squarethrough the garden, past baring-arms neighbours, nearly colliding with Maureen by the flowerbed.

No luck with those lunchboxes then, Jane? Maureen queried, sucking on her cigarette and nodding at the parcel Jane clung to. Mind you, I always said you fuss over that man too much.

Didnt make it, Jane shrugged absently.

Shame. Perfectly good food going to waste. Ill send Arthur round; youre in, arent you?

Jane hesitated, vaguely shook her head.

Lovely. Hell eat itloves a pasty, does Arthur, and I cant stand mucking about with pastry. Wait for him.

With that, Maureen suddenly leapt to chase a tractor that had rumbled into the drive. Oi! Careful! If you drown my petunias again Ill set the vicar on you, see if I dont!

Jane trailed back inside, disappeared into the cool stairwell. Her footsteps echoed on the marble steps, a single sob mingling with the creak of the front door before everything fell silent in the flat.

That was it. That was the end of everythinghome, warmth, the steadfast security of a long-worn pair of slippers; the end of trust; the end of believing in people. Orlets be honestbelieving in your husband, that most steadfast of species. A husband: the one man to whom Jane was once solemnly entrusted, the one she was supposed to nurture. And this?

Jane slumped gracelessly onto the hallway stool, upending the pasties. Their cat, Alfie, sauntered over, winding around her legs and purring in hopeful anticipation. Jane didnt notice. She was still at the drainpipe, staring at the woman in blue polka dotsand at Richard. And the tears kept rolling, hot, heavy, satisfying in a way; lovely, really, to not have to sit up straight and pretend youre the eternally contented wifefor once, just to mope deliciously, wallowing in all her everyday womanly despair.

Who knows how long she sat, but eventually the door nudged open; Alfie bolted, as soft-hearted as ever.

Arthurs head peered inthe husband of Maureen. With his bulbous nose, pockmarked cheeks, fleshy lips, shiny curls, and robust red neck, the poor man looked all wrong for their rather dignified block of flats. Still, he was one of us: a retired gallery director, a bit eccentric, as Richard always saidartists being a breed apart.

Afternoon, Jane, Arthur wheezed, eyes bright blue and curiously churchly. If he hadnt been an artist, she mused, he could have run the local parish.

Mr. Arthur? Is that you? she asked, a little lost.

Who else looks like this? he replied, taking in his appearance. Maureen said youre drowning in spare pasties, and ours is a bombsiteshes pulling the kitchen apart. I havent had a decent meal in days!

To demonstrate, he padded in, completely occupying the patch of honeyed sunlight on the floor. Hang on, let me just kick off my shoesstepped in a puddle. Best whip off my socks, too Jane dutifully lowered her gazenoting the big feet and, well, an unfortunate hole in the sock. It was always the big toe, wasnt it?

Almost without thinking, Jane collected his shoes for the balcony, determined to get them dry.

Oi, put those back! Arthur barked; Jane froze, halfway.

Youll catch your deathyoull be ill! she muttered.

My feet, my business! Leave em! he insisted, but with a twinkle.

Jane left them to dry anywayguests shouldnt have to suffer damp feet. Shed hardly sat down when Arthur was already in the kitchen, rattling about.

Janey! Kettle on, will you? Proper builders, dark as Guinness. Lemon, if you have it. Oh, Im knackered He stretched his enormous feet right into the walkway.

Right away! Ill just she murmured, clicking on the kettle, brain foggy and miles away.

Richard How dare he! Barely out the door and hes off galavanting with some girl. How far had these liaisons gone, anyway?

No, no, its nothing, she told herself sternly. Just a work colleague, chance meeting. When he comes home, show nothing but warmthhell forget the rest!

In the kitchen, Arthur frowned suspiciously. Youre not making me that old muck from this morning, are you? Fresh pot, Janey, come on! Out with the old, in with the new! He popped the lid off her dainty teapot, winced. No, seriouslydown the drain with that. Only the best for your favourite guest!

Oh, but its just made! Try it Jane protested, then sighed, giving in.

She could make a new pot. That was easy. But Richardwhat was she supposed to do about him?

The kettle whistled; the scent of fresh Indian with an elephant tealeaves filled the room.

Thats more like it! Oh, and bring out the good cupsthe cobalt ones with the gold lattice. Yes, those! Ive always loved them. And bring the pastiesRichs loss is my gain! And while Im eating, be a darling and darn these socks. Maureen wontshes knee-deep in flatpack furniture, and my poor toes freezing!

Jane, a respected, if retired, schoolteacherhad long ago set her career aside to tend home and hearth. She regarded the offered socks with the sort of revulsion normally reserved for cold soup, but her hands took them anyway.

Arthur saw her hesitation and banged the table with a meaty fistmaking himself appear, in all his eighties glory, twice as large and ten times as absurd.

Honestly, Jane! Whats come over you? Letting the likes of me boss you aroundyou, of all people! I remember you sweeping into school, kids scattering, even sparrows pausing in awe. What happened? Now youre chasing after Rich with pasties and clean shirts like his dear old mum, not his wife. Rich, your hat! Your lunch! Dont fetch the spudsIll manage!

At first Jane was wounded. Then, despite herself, she smiled. Yes, Arthur was good at mimicry.

Im a proper mother hen, arent I? Dont answer! But I like fussing over people. I just do she trailed off.

And I think youve fussed the life out of your Rich! Arthur guffawed. We blokes are hunters, conquerors! We want fire, not just warm socks and lovingly diced carrots! But not too much fuss, Janemind you! Mikes grown up and gone, and you transferred all that mothering to your husband. Meanwhile, someone else out there lets him think hes young and dashing again

Jane simply didntor wouldntunderstand. Shed given everything for her family, and for what? Just to lose herself?

Ten years ago, shed left teaching. It was easierno long marking nights, no council meetingsthe flat became spotless, meals on time. But then, even private students became too much when Richard was convalescing: Too much noise, too many germs! So she stopped seeing them, closed the piano lid, packed away the paints and canvas (Richard hated the linseed oil). Brushes in the drawer, easel into the loft, oil down the loo.

“And then what?” she faced herself in the glass cabinet. “Youve turned into an old biddy.”

Manicures? Who had time when there were suppers and shepherds pie to make?

New dresses? Why botherthey never went anywhere.

Posh shoes? What’re you tottering about in those heels for, Jane? Your veins are sticking out like worms! Richard would sneer, so up the attic they went.

Friends drifted away, son Mike surfaced monthly, took leftovers and vanished.

That was it. The end.

Dont lie down and die just yet, Jane! Arthur rapped the table again, more cheer than admonishment in his voice. Youre still a looker, still got plenty of rose in the cheeks! Stand tall! Unless you fancy Richard swanning off on more bus rides with young women? By the waythose pasties are marvellous. If I were eighteen again, Jane He winked.

And off he went. Leaving Jane alone, butperhapsa little less so.

Richard returned late and rather the worse for wearsmelling of perfume and cheap wine.

Conference went late! he barked at the door, shoving his briefcase at Jane, clutching his back. Make us a brew and stick some spuds on, eh? Something with a bit of kick. Jane, are you listening?

But this time, Jane didnt take the briefcase. She directed him to step aside; she needed to fetch her small suitcase.

You going somewhere? Whats all this, then? Richard gaped, rendered idiotic by Janeher hair swept up, earrings twinkling, in a sandy-coloured dress and strappy sandals.

Im off on a business trip. Youll manage. With or without chips, with or without me. Mind yourself.

And my shirt for tomorrow? Whos going to iron it? Richard spluttered.

Jane seemed to hesitateold habits die hardthen shook her head in decisive dismissal.

Im sure youll sort it. Or let your lady friend pop roundI wont mind. Goodbye, Rich. Its about time.

She fluttered out the door, suitcase in tow, only pausing as the handle cut into her hand. Down the stairs, heels clattering, her summery dress briefly visible before she slipped into a waiting cab.

Richard stumbled to the stairwell, meaning to shout after heronly to double over in pain, the room spinning.

Ja-a-ane was all he could croak.

Where was she, Jane? Shed know how to help his back, rub on ointment, wrap him up snug, curl up beside him and listen to his groans

Fiona? Is that you? he whimpered down the phone. Yes, its Rich I know Im not supposed to call, but my backs gone, Fi! I need helpsomeone to mend meor at least a spot of supper You cant? FionawaitFiona? The line cut abruptly. Fiona would not be coming round to offer comfort or starch his shirts. Too proud, too independent, not a Jane. Not by a long shot.

He tottered to the kitchen, beheld the cold pasties, and groaned. Now, thisthis was catastrophe.

The following afternoon, Jane returned with the doctor in tow and a bouquetshed bought the roses herself; why rely on anyone else? The flat smelt of perfume and, faintly, cigarettes. Yes, Jane smokedsometimes, when nerves demanded.

Hang on, Doctor, not just yet! Jane stopped his jab midair.

Richard groaned on the sofa.

What? the doctor inquired.

One moment. Rich, what did you promise her? Women like her dont stick around without good reason, and youre hardly a young stallion anymore, Jane murmured, bending over his clammy face.

Im not old! Im in my prime

Pension-wise, the doctor finished. Sowhat did you promise? Out with it, or Im going.

A title. A position. But I swear, JaneI was wrong! Its only you! Only you I need! Richard blurted. I was a fool!

Shell get what shes owed. Youre a man; do your duty. Shell get the post, and the title, so she wont feel humiliated. As for you, Rich, youll leave your precious office job. Youll find something else. Oh, and I start work next week. Irons on the shelf, shirts in the wash. If youre not happy, get a divorce. Is that clear?

Richard huffed, rolled his eyes to the heavens, mopped his brow with the sleeve of his dressing gown and nodded, overwhelmed with pain and humiliation. Arthur loomed in the door, Maureen threatening to appear as wellsurely, the embarrassment would never end!

Yes. Yes, I understand. Get on with the injection, then, you sadists he groaned.

Jane nodded approvingly, and the doctor got down to business.

Fiona, meanwhile, was delighted. Her slapped-together dissertation had passed muster; shed got her title and a nice new office. All thanks to that silly old man, Richard.

Now, she ignored himwouldnt even return his greetings. Why bother? Jane had made it perfectly clear she could just as easily have those achievements revoked. So Fiona would find her kicks elsewhere.

Richard quit his job. Everyone was shocked, such a cushy little number. But he just said hed given his wordnever explained why or to whom.

For their farewell party, he arrived with Jane on his armshe dazzling in her jewelsand danced a passionate tango, looking at her as he never looked at anyone, least of all Fiona. Why? What was Janes secret?

Because Jane was everything. The very air Richard breathed, unnoticed until he found himself short of it. That was it, not just the bad back or the warm side of the bed. Jane was, and always would be, the unfinished novelmysterious, intoxicating, as sweet and deep as strawberries in July, the ones he once fed her by the sea. And he could never reach the final page. Thank goodness for that.

As for Fionaperhaps she never learned to read between the lines. Or maybe her story wasnt meant to be read by someone like him. Time would tellThe flats settled into their evening hush, the risen moon touching every windowpane with silver. Jane didnt rush to take off her earrings that night, nor did she worry over tomorrows ironing. Instead, she sprawled in her armchair, a battered novel perched on her lapone shed never finished, always distracted by lifes little urgencies. Alfie leapt into her lap, purring like a kettle ready to boil.

In the kitchen, Richard gingerly rinsed dishes, struggling at the sink but determined. He glanced over his shoulder at Jane, wanting to say something clever or contrite or grateful. Instead, amid the scents of pastry and roses, a quiet truce formeda promise humming under their shared breath: not for things to go back, but forward somehow.

Outside, Maureen and Arthur lingered under the lamp post, arms linked, counting the flats glowing windows.

Did you see her tonight? Maureen whispered, smiling.

Arthur nodded, blowing out his cheeks. Oh, yes. She looked quite finished to meand yet, oddly, just beginning.

The clock chimed midnight. In Janes lap, the book fell open to a new chapter. For her, perhaps, there would always be some yearningpages left to write in her own script, fresh adventures waiting beyond the flats, pasty crumbs, bus stops and blue polka dots.

Sometimes, she decided, it wasnt about finishing the story; it was about daring to turn the next page. And sometimes, that was all the ending anyone ever needed.