Spotless Stove

A Clean Cooker

Jane. Come here.

No please. No when youre finished. Just come herelike calling a dog.

She leant her mop against the wall and stepped into the kitchen. Martin was at the table, scrolling his phone. Next to him, in her usual spot by the window, sat Margaret. She was sipping tea, the smell of boiled cabbage and that odd medicine scent drifting throughMargaret took pills by the handful from morning till night.

Mum says you havent cleaned the cooker properly again, Martin said, eyes still on his phone.

I cleaned it yesterday.

Not well enough.

Margaret set her cup down on the saucer with a soft clink.

I never had dirty cookers in my house, she said, using the tone of someone talking about the most obvious thing. I kept this place spotless for twenty years on my own. Never had such a mess in my day.

Jane was fifty-three. She stood in the kitchen with rubber gloves on, hands still wet, listening to thisagain.

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

Yes, do show her, Martin piped up. Cant you see for yourself? Or do we have to get on our knees to point it out?

He said it quietly. Almost calmly. He always spoke that way: no shouting, never angry, but always with just the right edge to cut through.

Jane looked at the cooker. It shone. Shed scrubbed it the evening before, half an hour elbow-greasing the hobs after dinner. It was spotless.

And there, something snapped.

No shouting, no tears. She just looked at the spotless cooker, then at Martin hunched over his screen, then at Margaret with her dainty cupand everything inside went perfectly still, like the hush before something finally breaks.

She peeled off her gloves. Put them on the table.

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

Martin finally looked up. Margaret froze, her cup in midair.

What did you say? Martin asked.

I said: enough.

She walked out of the kitchen. Into the bedroom, pulled a large carrier bag from the back of the wardrobe and began tossing in her thingsnot much. Passport, a jumper or two, some underwear, mobile charger. Her hands were steady, which surprised her. She was completely calm, like someone whod at last made a decision thatd been brewing for years.

Voices floated through from the kitchen. At first low, then getting louder.

Martin, are you hearing this? Go after her, stop her!

If you want her stopped, you do it.

Jane zipped up her coat, grabbed the bag, walked down the corridor, put her shoes on. Opened the door.

Jane! Margaret shouted from the kitchen. Do you even know what youre doing? Where are you going to go? Youre nothing without him! Nothing!

Jane closed the door after her. Softly, no drama.

On the stairs, she caught the lingering whiff of cat litter wafting down from the folks on the third floor, and a trace of fresh paint from the ground floor. She walked outside. It was October, cold and damp, the leaves lying in sodden patches. Jane stopped by the front door and took out her phone.

Sophie picked up on the second ring.

Soph? Ive left.

A pause.

Left where?

Martins. For good. Ive nowhere to go.

Sophie was quiet for about three seconds. Then she said:

Remember my address? Twenty minutes and Im home. Wait by the door, Ill send you the code for the entry.

***

Sophie lived in a one-bed flat on Park Road. Small, but all hers; shed managed to buy it herself seven years ago when working as a hotel receptionist, saving every penny. The flat was filled with shelves overflowing with books, plants everywhere, magnets from all over the country stuck on the fridge. It smelt of coffee and something sweetmaybe cinnamon.

Jane sat on the sofa, hands curling around a mug of hot tea. Sophie curled up opposite her, legs tucked under, watching quietly, the way only a true friend can.

Tell me, Sophie said gently.

Theres not much to say, Jane told her. Same old story. Cookers filthy. The stews bland. Floors not washed right. And the way they look at meas if Im an appliance that doesnt work properly.

Janey, its always been this way. Why now?

Jane thought for a moment.

Today I just looked at that clean cooker and realised if I didnt leave now, I never would. Id die there. One day Id just go to bed and not get up, and theyd say I never took care of myself.

Sophie nodded, quiet. Poured her some more tea.

That night Jane lay on Sophies sofa, wrapped in a warm blanket, and listened to silence. Real silence. No TV blaring from the next room. No Margarets cough coming through the walls. No feeling that you had to leap up and do something.

She stayed awake till three. Not because she was anxious, just she didnt remember what it was to lie still and owe nothing to anyone.

Eventually, she drifted off.

***

Her phone was silent for two days. On the third day, Martin sent a text: When are you coming back? Not sorry. Not lets talk. Just when are you coming back, like she was on a business trip.

Jane read it, put her phone in her pocket.

Right thing to do, Sophie said, seeing. Dont reply. Let him stew.

He wont stew, said Jane. He thinks Ill see sense and come crawling back. Hes always thought that. That Ill never have anywhere else to go.

Will you?

Jane looked out the window. Rainy, grey October, the trees outside bare and black.

I will, she said. Havent figured out where yet, but I will.

Those first weeks were odd. Jane didnt know what to do with herself. All her life, shed been up at seven: making breakfast, cleaning, washing, fetching Margarets medication, nipping to the shops, more cooking, more cleaning. All day and all night. Somehow it was never enough or done properly.

Now she woke up and the day yawned out in frontempty. Nothing needed doing. It was almost unbearable.

Sophie, she said one morning, as her friend pulled on her coat for work. I need to do something. Otherwise, Ill lose the plot.

Get a job.

At what? Ive been at home twenty-eight years.

Youre an artist.

Jane laughed, short and dry.

*Was* an artist. Ages ago. I did a couple of years in a publishing house after uni, then married Martin, and he said there was no pointId be provided for. His mum added that proper women run a home, not a desk job.

And you agreed.

I did. I was twenty-five. I thought that was love. Thought it was being looked after.

Sophie paused, pulling on her scarf.

Ive got some watercolours my niece left in the cupboard. And paper, somewhere. Take them, give it a go.

What for?

Because you still know how. Your hands do, anyway.

***

Jane found the paints in the bottom drawer, wrapped in an old Echo. Childs set, cheap plastic, a picture of a squirrel on the lid. Watercolour pad there, too, with thick pages. Jane took everything into the kitchen, sat at the table, and stared at a blank page for ages.

Then picked up a brush.

First, nothing came out right. The paint wouldnt lie how she wanted, her hand shook, the shapes were all wrong. She ripped out three sheets. But then she let herself just play, painting for the colours, the shapes. No plan.

After an hour, she had in front of her a small watercolour: the autumn street outside Sophies windowwet trees, dull sky, a pink scrap on the horizon.

She looked at it, thinking: this. I made this.

Not the stew. Not a spotless cooker. *This.*

Sophie came home, saw the painting on the table, stopped.

Janey, did you do that?

Yeah.

Its good. Really.

Its wonky.

But its alive, Sophie told her. Ive seen a hundred scenes like that, but this one *feels* real. You can sense it.

Jane didnt reply, but she didnt throw the painting away either.

***

Meanwhile, back in Martins flat, things werent quite going as hed expected.

He spent the first three days certain Jane would return. Where would she go? She had no skills, no job, no money, nowhere to live. Shed come backshe always did.

She didnt.

On the fourth morning, he clocked the fridge was completely empty. Just one sad pint of milk sitting inside. He slammed it shut, went to work hungry.

That evening, his mother sat at the table with a long-suffering look.

Had supper?

No.

I havent, either. Did you pick anything up at the shop?

No, I didnt have time.

No supper, no shopping, Margaret muttered. Im seventy-eight, and Ive never lived like this, not even with the war onno bread in the house.

Mum, go to the shop yourself.

A long pause.

I am seventy-eight, Margaret said, slow and deliberate. Bad knees. High blood pressure. I walk with a stick. And you tell me to go to the shop.

Mum, I was busy all day.

And Jane wasnt working? Jane worked for you dawn till dusk, you chased her out.

Martin looked up.

Chased her? She *left*!

Because you drove her away! Margarets voice rose shrill. I told you to be more gentle. But you know better than anyone, dont you?

You nagged her to death, every day! Cookers dirty, stews bad, floors not right!

I made my comments! My right, in my own house!

My house, Mum! Its my flat!

They glared at each other. For the first time in years, no one standing between them, soaking up all the blowsthe buffer between their barbs was gone.

Martin put on his coat and left, slamming the door.

Margaret stayed in the silent kitchen. It was dark outside. She flicked on the light, opened the fridge, looked at the milk, shut it again.

Sat back down.

It had never been so quietnot while Jane was there.

***

By November, the cold had settled in with the first flurries of snow. Jane had been living with Sophie for three weeks, gradually finding her feet againlike someone let out into daylight after years in a box. It blinds you at first. Then, you get used to it.

She painted every day now. Bought herself some proper paints, not childrens watercolours. Sophie found a listing online: a tiny studio to let just off Riverside Drive, near the park. Twenty square metres, big northern window, wooden floors. Cheap, because it was a bit shabby, paint peeling on the walls.

Jane went to look and knew at once: this was the spot.

You taking it? the woman showing her round asked, in a knitted hat.

Yes. Ill take it.

Her savings were almost gone. Jane sold a pair of gold earrings her parents had given her on her wedding day. It hurt, she wont lie. But then, what was she really hanging onto? A memoryof what?

The studio became her haven. Every morning, shed unlock the door, crack open the window, and the sharp, fresh smell of frost and river drifted in. Shed spread her supplies out, unfurl her paper or canvas, and just lose herself for hours. Sometimes shed forget to eat.

She painted all sortslocal landscapes, city streets, cups and apples and old shoes. Bit by bit, her hands remembered what to do, loosened up after twenty-eight years in silence.

One day in December, Sophie rang.

Janey, the hotels doing a little exhibition of local artists in the lobby. I put your name down. Can you bring some of your paintings?

Sophie, Im not an artist. I only just started again.

You *are* an artist. Ive seen your things.

Its just dabbling.

Jane, Sophie said, like to a stubborn child, youve spent thirty years saying its just this, only that. Enough. Are you bringing your work, or what?

Jane paused.

All right. I will.

***

Thats where she met Richard Clark.

Hed come to the opening, not for the art, just to check into the hotel. He was a tall man, greying at the temples, calm grey eyes, checked shirt. He found himself standing, spellbound, by one of Janes paintings: a wintry park, empty bench, footprints in the snow leading to and from it.

Jane hovered nearby, wanting to straighten the frame, and overheard him mutter, almost to himself:

Well, isnt that just lifecome, sit a while, and go

Is that about the footprints? Jane asked.

He turned, not a trace of embarrassment at being caught talking to himself.

Yes. I look at it and wonder: two people, maybe. Sat down together, left in different directions. Did they have a nice time, or fall outwho knows?

I imagined just one person, Jane said. Comes, sits for a while, and heads home again.

No one walks home in such zigzags, he said, considering. See there? Thats a two-person muddle.

She took in the painting with new eyes.

Perhaps youre right, she said, smiling.

They carried on chatting for about twenty minutes. Hed come from the next town over, helping his brother with some DIY. Richard was a widower, grown-up children, worked all sortscarpentry, electrics, plumbing. He didnt say much, but when he listened, Jane noticed he *really* listened. No interruptions. No checking his phone. Eyes on her if she was talking.

She was so unused to that, she didnt really know how to react.

As he was leaving, he asked:

You got a card?

NoIve never had them printed.

Then can I have your number?

She gave it, surprised at herself. Maybe he just wanted the painting.

Three days later he texted: Evening, Jane. Its Richardwe chatted about snow tracks. Id love to buy that piece if its still for sale.

She hadnt sold it. He came by, paid for the painting, wrapped it up neatly in a carrier, and asked if she had more to show him.

They went to her studio. He looked over everything, bought two small landscapes. Said she had real talent.

I didnt paint for years, Jane admitted.

Why not?

She shrugged. Not ready to uncoil the story for him. Not yet.

Just the way life went.

He nodded, accepted that, asked nothing more.

***

Martin rang in January. Jane had been living between Sophies and her studio for a few months. Officially, they were still marriedshe hadnt filed any paperwork yet.

He called one evening while she was finishing a big painting: pine branches in a vase, pinecones and a candle.

Jane, he said.

Yes.

How are you?

Fine.

Silence.

Mums not well, he said.

Im sorry to hear that.

Would you come round? Even just once a week. Help out with her.

Jane put her brush down.

Martin, Ive left. I live on my own now. I wont be coming to help around the house.

Youre still my wife.

For now. But thats temporary.

Dont be like this. Just come home, lets talk.

We never talked, Martin. Twenty-eight years, and you and your mum talked at me, and I listened and obeyed.

Youre exaggerating.

Maybe. But Im not coming back.

She ended the call. Her hands didnt shake. That surprised her.

She reckoned, someone else would see the scenewife leaves husband, big deal. But from inside, it was like learning to walk all over again. Day by day.

***

Janes relationship with money took time to rebuild. Her paintings began to sell, though not for much, not often. Some postcard commissions cropped up, a couple of small landscapes given as gifts. Sophie set her up a page online, and gradually some regular followers appearedpeople who really looked out for her updates.

She scraped by. The studio, food, a few bits of clothingbarely enough, but it felt like riches.

Richard popped in every few weeksif he was nearby helping his brother, hed pop round. Theyd have coffee in a café by the park or wander snowy streets, sharing stories. He talked about work, about his sons (one got married and was expecting a baby); she told him about her paintings, her dream to try oils next, not just watercolours.

He never pressured her, never made demands. One day, she realised she found herself waiting for his visits. When he wasnt there, the studio seemed that fraction quieter.

Sophie, Jane confided one day. Richard I dont know.

Dont know what?

Hes so lovely. It scares me.

Why should something good scare you?

Because Im used to good things having a catch. Like theres always something bad round the corner.

Sophie looked at her for a long moment.

Maybe not everyone hides a catch, Janey.

Jane mulled that one over for days.

Eventually, she texted Richard first: Would you like to come by on Saturday? Ive started a new big piece and would love to show you.

He came. Admired her work. Told her it was great. They sat in the café once more, and then Richard asked:

Jane, any chance youd like to pop out somewhere at the weekend? Theres an old abbey about an hours drive from herestunning in the snow, so Ive heard.

She said shed love to.

***

About life at the old flat, Jane heard things in dribs and drabs. Sometimes the neighbour, Mrs Douglas from upstairs, rang her. She and Jane had often chatted on the stairs.

Jane, how are you? Listen, things in their flat are grim. You can hear them shout all the way through the wall. Margaret gives Martin what for every day, says its his fault youre gone. He bites back. Yesterday, it was so bad I thought of calling the council.

Jane listened. Felt nothing but a remote, detached sadness. No satisfaction, no triumph. Just, So, this is how it goes.

Without her, things werent bad because they missed her. It was just there was no one left to take the flak. Theyd thrown stones one way all their lives, and now that person had stepped out and all the rocks landed on each other instead.

In February, Mrs Douglas reported Margaret was whisked off by ambulanceblood pressure, heart trouble. Martin sat, alone and dark, all day in the hospital.

Jane stood by the kettle, debating whether to call. After twenty-eight yearsshouldnt she?

She thought a little longer.

No, she decided. For once, she wouldnt do what she should. Shed spent her life doing what she should. Let him figure it out for himself now.

***

March brought a thaw and the scent of old snow melting away. Jane was at the market one Saturday, tote bag in hand, choosing something for breakfast. She stopped at a stall of tomatoes, thinking shed paint a spring-market scene next: all that colour, noise, life.

Then she saw Martin.

He was shuffling along, staring at his phone, clutching a shopping bag. He looked older, she thought. Or maybe she just never viewed him from afar before. Shoulders hunched, coat crumpled, grey-faced.

Jane waited to see what shed feel. Fear? Anger? A desire to slip away unseen?

None of it.

Martin looked up, saw her, stopped dead.

They stood, three stalls apart, just staring.

Jane, he said.

His voice was its usual low pitch, but there was something unsteady in it now. He looked lost.

Martin, she returned.

He moved closer. The tomato stallholder made herself very busy rearranging apples.

How are you? he asked.

Im well, thank you.

Youre thinner.

Maybe.

Mums in hospital. Heart.

I heard. Im sorry.

He shifted his bag from hand to hand.

You really arent coming back?

Jane looked him in the eye: calm, neither angry nor pitiful. Just looked.

No, Martin. Im not.

But we have to live, dont we?

You need to. I already am.

He had no answer. Jane picked up her tomatoes, paid, and walked on.

Her heart beat calmly. That was her real victory: not in leaving, not in not returning, but in standing before him without fear, without shrinking, without worrying about being polite or thinking maybe Im at fault. Just talking to a stranger. Almost a stranger.

She bought some herbs from the next stall, bread from another, and went home. Home being her studioshed long since started calling it that.

***

In April, she applied for divorce. Did it all herself, filled in the forms. Martin didnt object. They saw each other once, at the solicitors, signed what needed signing, went their ways.

She had no flat. Martin kept his. Sophie said she should have claimed a fair share, but Jane shook her head.

I dont need that flat, Soph. I need my life moving forward.

Money wouldnt hurt, though.

Money will come, Jane would smile. Different money. My own.

By summer, she and Richard saw each other every week. Sometimes she went to his town, sometimes he came to hers. His house was small, set in a quiet road, garden full of currants and an old apple tree. The first time she visited, Jane stood under the blossom for ages, breathing it in.

Its beautiful, she told him.

My wife planted it, he said, simply. No pain, just peace. Shes been gone eight years. But the tree still blooms.

They stood together, watching the branches.

Richard, Jane asked quietly, arent you scared? Letting someone close again?

Sure, it scares me, he admitted. But I like you, Jane. And I figure fear isnt a reason not to live.

She laughed, surprising herself.

Wise words.

Im just good at knocking in nails; never saw the point in messing about.

***

That autumn, a year after shed walked out with a carrier bag on a rainy day, Jane was at Richards late one evening. He was fixing a drawer that stuck. She sat with a coffee, sketchbook in hand.

It was cosy and warm. Deep quiet, the smell of timber and coffee.

Jane, Richard said, without looking up, would you move in here?

She looked up.

Move where?

Here. With me.

She considered. He kept fiddling with the screwdriver, unhurried.

Ive got my studio, she said.

I know. Theres a spare room here as well, with a big window facing east. Sunlight in the mornings. Told you about it?

You did.

So?

She glanced down at her sketchbook. A drawingkitchen, man with a screwdriver, woman with a mug. Window. Garden outside.

I need to think, she said.

Take your time.

You wont rush me?

No.

Why not?

He shut the drawer, which now slid smoothly.

Because weve got all the time, Jane. Rushing a grown womand be daft.

Jane looked at her sketch again.

All right, she said.

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

All right, Ill move in.

He nodded, sat with his tea. They sat in the quiet, and it was a good sort of quiet.

***

Another half-year passed.

Jane lived at Richards, but kept her Riverside studio. She was there three days a week. The spare room with the big morning window at Richards became a second nest; shed sketch there in the early light, after hed left for work.

Her paintings started selling more often. Not that she was famous, nobut regular faces would come, seek her out, order her work. It was quiet, calm, wholly her own.

She sometimes heard about Martin, thanks to Mrs Douglas. Margaret was frail since the hospital stay, barely left her room. Martin had a cleaner come twice a week. He worked, came home, carried on.

Jane listened, and thought how, once, that man seemed to own her whole sky. His moods were her weather, his words her law. From the outside, it looked like a good familyon the inside, just a gilded cage without a lock, the worst kind, because its you keeping the door shut yourself.

Now, the sky was different.

One December Tuesday, Jane got to the studio before sunrise. She turned on the light, put the kettle on. Snow was fallingthick, soft.

Her phone rang. Sophie.

Janey, how are you?

Im good. Working.

Listen, Ive got news. A friend says theres a gallery in town looking for artists for a spring showa real gallery, not just a pop-up. She saw your paintings online. Wants a chat. Ive got the number.

Jane wrote it down.

Soph, theyre probably looking for someone proper. I dont have a nameno accolades.

Jane, you didnt paint for five years. Now youve got over a hundred finished works. Is that not proper?

Well

Just call. Talk to them.

I will.

She hung up. Looked at the number. Then looked outside: snow, thick as cotton, streets washed blank and new.

Jane poured herself tea, picked up her brush, and began to work. Shed phone later. First, she wanted to catch the snow.

***

That evening, Richard picked her up from the studio. He knocked, came in, saw her at the easel.

Ready?

Five minutes.

He perched on a stool, just watched her work in companionable silence. She often caught him gazing at herquietly, gently. The look people give things they cherish.

Five minutes later, she packed up her brushes.

All done.

Looks good, he nodded at the canvas.

Im never sure. Snows tricky. It looks white, but really its blue, grey, pinkanything but white.

Is it? He genuinely pondered this. Id never have thought.

Yeah. You look and think white, but really, you dont *see* it.

They stepped out. It was almost silent outside; the air crisp and cool, the snow stopped.

Richard, Jane began as they crunched along the pavement, I got a call about that gallery in the centre.

And?

Im debatingwhether to go for it.

Do you want to?

She paused.

I do. But Im scared.

Scared of what?

That theyll say its all wrongsay Im not a real artist. That I dont belong.

They walked. Richards hands were in his pockets, gaze forward.

Jane, he said quietly, theres nothing to be scared of anymore.

What do you mean?

I mean the scariest bits been and gone. You lived every day for twenty-eight years with people treating you like you were nothing. And then you left, with just one bag of stuff. That was scary. This? A gallery? If they say noso what?

She stopped.

You do have a way about you, she said. Straight as a dart.

I try.

She laughedand he smiled, faintly, the lamplight catching on his face.

Come on, he said. Its freezing.

They walked on. The snow crunched, streetlights shimmering on the little pools of frozen water. Ahead, the house lights glowed.

Richard, Jane said.

Yes?

Thank you.

For what?

For never telling me what I should do.

He paused.

Grown-ups know for themselves what they should do, Jane. All I might do is remind you now and then, but never more.

They climbed the steps. He opened the door, stood aside for her. The hall smelt of wood and a sweet hint of appleshed stored the autumn crop in the cellar.

Jane went straight to the kitchen, flicked on the light.

Everything as usual: pine table, two chairs, window overlooking the garden. Her sketchbook lay on the windowsill, where shed left it that morning.

She opened it: yesterdays drawingkitchen, man with a screwdriver, woman with a mug, window, garden outside.

Time to add the snow.

She picked up her pencil.