My husband lived in the box room while my wifes lover occupied the lounge
“Edward, dont get in a state and listen carefully. Robert is going to live with us now. Hes moving in at the weekend.”
I lowered my newspaper, barely believing what Id just heard.
“You can’t be serious. Where will he sleep? The conservatory?”
“In the lounge, obviously. The sofas a pull-out. Time you got used to it, old chap. Itll be better for everyone.”
Margaret was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the architrave as if she were telling me she’d bought a new kettle. I took off my glasses, pinched the bridge of my nosea nervous habit Id picked up over sixty years. I put them back on and looked at her again. Perhaps Id misheard. At my age, your hearing isnt what it was.
“Margaret, have I understood you right? You want your this Robert to live here, in our flat?”
“Not ‘this Robert.’ Just Robert,” she corrected me, her voice sharpening. “And yes, here. The flats big enough. You have your room. I have mine. Hell take the lounge. Why are you staring like that?”
I didnt know what to say. My mind was whirring. We’d been married thirty-five years. Thirty-five, can you imagine? Id worked at Smithsons Engineering Works, retired just three years ago. Margaret taught music at St. Judes Junior School, ran the choir. Wed lived quietly. Perhaps too quietly, as she later remarked. I read the papers, built model aeroplanes, smoked my pipe on the balcony at night. She knitted and watched detective dramas. Ordinary, contented, maybe a bit dulla proper English couple in our later years. The children had grown up and gone their own way. Our son lives in Manchester, our daughter down in London. They ring for birthdays and Christmas.
Then, half a year ago, Margaret changed. She started wearing brighter make-up, bought herself a Chanel perfume shed never afford before, and spent half the day fiddling with her mobile. I asked what was going on, she brushed me off. Then one evening, she confessed she’d met someoneRobert, a lorry driver ten years her junior. She said she was in love; that she wanted excitement while she still had time. I was stunned, tried to reason with her, but she was implacable. She suggested divorce, but I couldnt bear it. I hoped it might blow overa late mid-life crisis, just delayed. Not that at fifty-eight people usually get those.
And now this.
“Margaret, do you have any idea what youre saying? Its its a nightmare. I might have survived your affair, but him living here? With me still in the house?”
“With you, without you, what does it matter?” She shrugged. “You spend all day in your room anyway. So keep doing that. Robert and I will live like a proper couple. Hes a good man, you know. Reliable. Not what some could say.”
Under the table, I clenched my fists. I wanted to yell, throw something, but I was never like that. Id always kept my coolproper upbringing. And what good would shouting do? Shed already made up her mind.
“I wont agree,” I said firmly. “This is my home too. Im not having another man move in.”
“Another man?” Margaret scoffed. “Hes only a stranger to you. Hes family for me. The flats in both our names, so you cant stop me. Take a divorce, split the place, sell up, move somewhere else. But Ill be with Robert either way.”
I realised Id no way out. Sell the flat, find somewhere new on my engineers pension, which barely covered our groceries? Move in with the children? Theyve got enough struggles of their own, raising families. And why should I leave? Id hammered every nail, hung every shelf in this place.
“Thats settled then,” Margaret said with finality, turning away. “Hell come at the weekend with his things. Please try to act reasonable. No scenes.”
She left. I sat alone in the kitchen, staring into space. The model Concorde I’d been gluing together for three weeks lay unfinished on the windowsill. I poured myself tea from the pot and lit my pipe, despite Margarets ban on indoor smoking. I didnt care anymore. Let her be cross.
On Saturday morning, I woke to the sound of the doorbell. Answering it, I found himRobert. Tall, broad-shouldered, a rucksack and holdall in hand. Margaret said he was about forty-eight. Weather-beaten face, builders hands. Clad in jeans and a checked shirt, he grinned and extended his hand.
“Edward. Robert. You know, I expect.”
I didnt shake his hand. I stepped aside to let him in. Margaret shot out of her room, beaming.
“Come in, come in, Robert! See, Edwards welcoming us.”
Welcoming. An interesting word. I stalked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. They clattered in the hall, Robert removing his boots, hanging up a jacket. His coat beside my old mac on the standabsurd.
“Edward, make us a cuppa?” Margaret called from the corridor.
“Make it yourself,” I answered curtly.
They disappeared into the lounge. Margaret showed Robert the sofa, explained where things were. Later, they invaded the kitchen. I made to leave, but Robert addressed me.
“Edward, lets not fall out, eh? Its an odd situation, but were all grown-ups. We’ll find a way.”
He sat at my kitchen table, in my kitchen, smiling genially. Margaret was beside him, pouring his tea into my favourite mugthe one with “Worlds Best Engineer” written on it.
“Find a way about what?” I asked. “You sharing my wifes bed under my roof?”
“Edward!” Margaret snapped. “Dont be rude.”
“Its not rudeness, its just fact,” I replied, cleaning my glasses with a handkerchief. “I dont know how Im supposed to live with this.”
“Youll get used to it,” Margaret said, matter-of-factly. “People get used to all sorts.”
The first week, I barely left my roomthe old box-room, now full of my plane kits, books and a creaky bed. It used to be Lucys, but she moved out years ago, so I made it my den. From there I heard themlaughing, watching TV, chatting. In the mornings, Robert was up early, whistling in the bathroom. Then he’d go off to work at Rapid Freight, back for tea. Margaret made supper, set the table. She invited me, but I refused and ate my sandwich alone with a cup of tea.
But you cant avoid each other forever in a flat. Only one bathroom, one kitchen. One morning, I came in to boil eggs. Their frying pan was on the stove, Margaret was doing bacon. Robert was at the table reading my Times. My Times.
“Morning,” I muttered.
“Ah, Edward, youre up,” Margaret said. “Eggs for breakfast?”
“Ill sort myself.”
“Suit yourself,” she replied.
I found my little pan, cracked eggs in. She did her bacon, I did my eggs, shoulder to shoulderlike some farce. Robert turned the newspaper, unconcerned.
“Edward, wheres your pipe?” he asked out of nowhere. “I fancy a smoke.”
I stared at him.
“My pipes with me. And you wont have it.”
“Alright, keep it!” he smiled. “Thought we could be mates.”
“Were not friends,” I retorted coldly. “And never will be.”
“Oh, dont be like that,” Margaret chimed in. “Roberts being civil to you.”
I snapped then, switched off the hob, banged my pan down and stormed back to my room. My eggs half-cooked. I sat on the bed, fists clenchedutter humiliation. A ghost under my own roof.
Days later, stranger things started. Robert got comfortable, brought his tools, put up a key rack in the hallway, rearranged furniture in the lounge. My favourite lampa brass one Id bought twenty years agohe moved to the balcony. Said it didnt “fit the décor.” Margaret didnt mind; she backed him up.
“Roberts right,” she said. “The flat needs freshening up. Otherwise its like living in a museum.”
If I protested, no one listened. Once, I went into the bathroom and found Roberts shower gel and deodorant stinking up the placehis things crammed next to my modest shaving kit. I took his gel, sniffed itsickly sweet. I flung it back on the shelf.
His bedding, belongings, the scent of an outsider pervaded my flat. I retreated, but their voices and music seeped through the walls. Sometimes, I heard them kissingrustling clothes, quiet sighs. I played the radio loud to drown it out.
Neighbours soon found out. Gossip here spreads like the flu. Old Mrs Potter looked at me kindly in the stairwell.
“Edward dear, are you alright? We heard about your situation. Keep your chin up, love.”
I just nodded, not stopping. I didnt want their sympathy or their curiosity. Mrs Danvers from downstairs even stopped me,
“Edward, you should chuck that chap out! Gentlemen must be heads of their homes!”
“Thank you,” I replied, hurrying past.
But how could I? I’m sixty, suffer with my heart and get winded going up the stairs. Robert is fit as you likehed floor me without effort. And Margarets solidly on his side. My crisis had turned into a sort of English absurdity.
One evening, I drank my tea in the kitchen while they watched a film in the lounge. Margaret popped in, got a bottle of claret from the fridge.
“Edward, you dont mind, do you?”
“Does it matter?” I replied wearily. “Take what you like.”
She poured two glasses, grabbed some cheddar and crackers and left me alone. There was only their food in the fridge nowRoberts sausages, Margarets yoghurts. My tins shoved at the very back.
I gazed into the dark garden through the window. Streetlights flickered on. Somewhere in the city, families were eating together, the sort where the very idea of husband and lover cohabiting was unthinkable. But here I was, living it.
I turned back to my plane model, tried to attach the wing, but my hands shook. I cleaned my glasses, lit another pipe in my room. The smoke drifted up as I thought about when Margaret and I visited Regents Park on Sundays, how she baked apple pies, how we watched the news together. Slow, steady, unremarkablemaybe dull, as shed said. But it had been my life. Ours.
Now I lived in exile within my own four walls, waiting for it to end.
Then Robert started acting like the master of the house. I came into the kitchen one morning to find him at the stove in my battered dressing gownthe plaid one Id worn fifteen years.
“Whats this then?” I asked.
“This? Oh, Margaret said you didnt need it now.”
“Its mine!”
“Take it back if you want,” he offered, untying the belt.
“Keep it,” I waved him away.
I left, Margarets laughter ringing in the kitchenlaughing at me.
Another weekmy breaking point. I went to pick up a book in the lounge. They sat entwined on the sofa, Roberts arm around Margarets shoulders. When they saw me, they didnt move or look remotely abashed.
“Edward, you after something?” Margaret asked.
“Just getting a book.”
“Help yourself.”
I took my Dickens and left, but as I did, Robert kissed Margaretright there, in front of me. A long, soft kiss. Two metres away, holding a book, feeling invisible. I heard Margaret again,
“Edward, are you still here?”
“Going,” I muttered.
I closed myself off, unable to even read. It was the worst humiliation: not just an affair, but a deliberate, daily betrayal of everything that was once between us.
I remembered thirty-five years before, our wedding at the register office. Me in a suit, Margaret in white. How we danced at the reception, raised our children together. I brought home my pay, she taught music. We made plans, imagined our futureand this was the future.
The children never knew. Neither of us wanted to burden them. Simons now an accountant in Manchester, Helens an events manager in London. They call at Christmas. I say things are “all right.” What else could I say? That their mother brought her lover home and their father lives in purgatory?
Time dragged. Weeks slipped by. I avoided them, going out early, wandering the common, reading in the library. Evenings, Id shut myself in again. Still, wed cross paths.
One evening, I entered the kitchen for water. They were eating dinnerplates of roast and bottle of wine: a little English domestic bliss, only with the wrong man at the head of the table.
“Have a seat, Edward,” Robert waved to a spare chair.
I poured my tap water, ignored him.
“He doesnt want to join us,” Margaret sighed. “Too proud.”
“Up to him,” Robert shrugged.
Back in my box-room, hunger gnawed at me. I dug out two stale rolls and a can of condensed milk. I spread it, eating in silence. From the kitchen: laughter, the clink of glasses.
Later, Margaret popped her head round my door,
“Edward, how long will you keep this up?”
“Keep what up?”
“This sulking. Youre behaving like a child. Were both adults, cant we talk?”
I looked at her.
“You brought your lover here. How am I supposed to behave?”
“You should try to accept it,” she said, stepping closer. “People change. Ive changed. I need something new.”
“And what about me?”
“You like your models, your pipe, your papers,” she muttered. “Youve always been the same. Predictable. I’m tired of it.”
I stared out of the window.
“Why stay with me for thirty-five years, then?”
“Because I had no choice. And now I do.”
She left, quietly closing the door. I stood, heart aching, all feelingspain, resentment, impotenceknotted together. Suddenly, I realised she was right. I had been boring. Work, home, family. No wild romance or adventure. Id believed this was lovesecurity, reliability. Apparently not.
A few more days. No change. Robert worked, came home, spent evenings with Margaret. I was invisible. Sometimes I wondered if Id died and they hadnt noticeda ghost haunting his own flat.
One morning I left my room to discover a new oak shoe rack in the hallway, replacing my old shelf.
“Whats this?” I asked Margaret as she emerged from her shower.
“Robert brought it. Said your old thing was falling apart.”
“My dad made that,” I said quietly.
“So? It was ugly. This looks nice.”
Nice. That word again. I felt a tightness in my chest. I put on my coat and wandered out into the city. I found myself in Victoria Park, where we used to stroll. I sat on a bench, cold but numb to it. My life hadnt ended physically, but it was finished all the same.
I came home late. The flat was quiet, theyd gone to bed. I had tea alone by moonlight, and realised I wasnt running because there was nowhere to go. This was my burden to bear.
The next day, I came into the kitchen while they had breakfast. Robert was in my seat by the windowmy seat for thirty-five years.
“Could you move?” I asked.
He looked at me strangely.
“Why?”
“Thats my seat.”
“Edward, dont start,” Margaret interrupted. “Does it matter where you sit?”
“It does to me.”
Robert shrugged, but didnt get up.
“Sorry, Edward, but Im comfy here. Sit somewhere else.”
I stood there, fists trembling, wanting to throw him outold school. But he was younger, stronger and had Margarets support. I turned and left. Laughter followed me.
In my room, I sat and wept. I cant recall the last timemaybe when my mother died. But this time, I couldnt stop. The shame, the humiliation poured out.
After that, I gave up fighting. I just accepted it. I lived in the box room, emerging for necessities only. Margaret sometimes tried to talk, Robert, too. I barely replied. They existed on one plane, I on another. Under one roof, but in separate worlds.
I stopped shaving, wore the same clothes. My aeroplane models gathered dust, my books, unopened. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, sometimes lighting my pipe, ash falling into a dish. An old man, whose story no one wanted to hear.
One evening, Margaret appeared without knocking.
“Edward, Robert and I are engaged.”
I turned.
“Married? And what of me?”
“Well divorce, of course. Im already sorting the paperwork.”
“And the flat?”
“Well split the money. Youll get your share, buy a place or move in with the children.”
I sat down.
“When?”
“Next month. Were putting in notice.”
She left me to think about it. Divorce. After thirty-five years. The money would stretch to a tiny bedsit in some forlorn corner of the city. Or a room in a shared house. Sixty years old, poor health, a modest pension. What future awaited me?
I looked at myself in the mirrorgrey hair, lines, that tired look. Just a lonely old man. I took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes, and put them back as always.
That night, I didnt sleep. I lay awake, listening to them chatting in the loungeMargarets laughter, Roberts yarns, happiness about plans. I was merely background noise, a problem to soon be set aside.
Before dawn, I went to the kitchen, brewed myself tea and stared out at the street. Ordinary life continued beyond these walls. But not for me.
Margaret entered, still in her dressing gown and sat opposite.
“Edward, lets be civil while the sale goes through. You cant stay locked away forever.”
“Why not? At least you and Robert dont mind.”
“He says you should come out, talk. Its not healthy, being reclusive.”
I grinned wryly.
“Touching, that Robert cares about me.”
“Dont be sarcastic. Hes a decent man. You could be friends, if you tried.”
“Friends with my wifes lover? Honestly, Margaret.”
“I thought youd have made peace by now. Its been long enough.”
“Peace? I suppose so. What choice do I have?”
She reached out, put her hand gently over mine.
“Im sorry, Edward. I just cant live like we used to.”
I looked at her handonce warm, loving; now just polite.
“Margaret,” I said quietly, “I keep wondering where I went wrong. Was I too dull? Not attentive enough? But I went to work, brought home my pay, helped raise the kids. Thought that was lovesteadiness, trust, loyalty.”
“Thats not love, Edward. Thats duty. Love is passion, firewhat I feel with Robert.”
“At nearly sixty?”
“Whats age got to do with it?”
I sighed and withdrew, back to my cell. I lay down, trying and failing to remember the last time I truly felt happy. It was as if good memories had vanished, all that remained were these winter months.
The days dripped past. Robert came and went, Margaret pottered about. I became a shade in my own home.
One morning, there was another new piece of furniture. My old bookcase in the hallway had been replaced with a modern shelf.
“Robert put this up,” Margaret said when I asked. “The old one was rickety.”
“My father built that.”
“It’s ugly,” she replied. “Lets make this place nice for the buyers.”
Nice. Always ‘nice. It was more than I could bear. I wandered out, found myself in the local park; cold and aching, but for once, free from it all.
Eventually, a buyer was founda young couple expecting their first child. The place was shown around, rooms measured, prices discussed. My share of the sale meant a bedsit on the edge of town, perhaps a draughty room. Advert after adverttiny, dark, miserable. But there was no choice.
Before the move, I packed my things: books, models, clothesa life condensed into three boxes and a suitcase. Sixty yearsand everything I owned fit in a corner.
On moving day, a man with a van arrived. I loaded my life, just about managing the stairs with my weak heart. Id found a room, cheap but clean, on the outskirts. Single window facing over the yard.
Before I left, I looked round the flatremembering all the birthdays, Christmases, quiet evenings. Now, someone else would live here. Margaret emerged as I picked up the last box.
“Off then?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
We stood, two strangers. Once, I would have kissed her before leaving for work, held her hand when she was sad, held her as our children came into the world. That was another life.
“Goodbye, Margaret.”
“Goodbye, Edward.”
I left, went downstairs, and got into the van.
“Ready to go, mate?”
“Ready.”
As we drove, I looked back at the block of flatsour windows, their future. My ordeal over. The humiliation, the wounded pride, left there behind.
The new place: a tiny room in a drafty block, fifth floor, no lift, but at least it was mine. I set out my books, arranged my models on the window-sill. Margaret and Robert were goneout of my life.
Days became weeks. I made my little room a home, sorted my things. I went to the library, shopped for my own groceries, took up reading in the evenings. The neighbours were quietjust nods in the corridor.
One day, my daughter Helen called,
“Dad, are you okay? Mum said you split up.”
“Yes, love, we parted ways.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Its a long story. Another time.”
“Where are you living? Ill visit.”
“No need, Helen. Im managing perfectly well.”
She chatted a while, but my heart wasnt in it. I didnt want to trouble her; she had her own family.
After a while, solitude began to seem tolerable. Sometimes, Id walk in the park, feed the birds, even exchange words with other pensioners. I didnt seek out company, nor did I shun it.
One day in the library, I met a woman about my ageAnn. She was choosing the same novel. We chatted, nothing more at first. She, too, was lately divorced, lived alone. We began meeting for coffee, talking books. Purely platonicbut warming.
But the past lingered in my memory. Evenings, Id recall Margaret and Robert, that awful cohabitation, and the pain would still be sharpbut day by day, it faded.
Months slipped by. I bought myself a new chair with my savingscomfy for reading. Life had found its balance, insofar as possible.
It was late one autumn evening when Margaret called.
“Its me, Edward.”
“Yes?”
“Roberts left. He said I was too old for him after everything I did! Hes just gone”
She started sobbing. There was nothing I could say. My former wife broke down because the man for whom shed shattered our life had abandoned hercalling me, of all people, for sympathy. Why?
“Im sorry, Margaret. I cant help you.”
“But, Edward”
“You made your choice. Now live with it.”
I hung up. Sat in my new chair, lit my pipe. I didn’t feel triumphant, only emptymaybe a little sorry for her.
Outside, snow began to fall, soft over the garden. Children outside built snowmen, laughter rising into the night.
I smiled. Life carried onfor the children, for Ann, for myself.
Ann invited me for tea and homemade cake. We talked of novels, life, loss. No romance, nothing pledgedbut kindness, warmth.
“You know, Edward,” she said, “I thought life was over after the divorce. But its just different, thats all.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Just different.”
Walking home through the snow, I felt the cold bite my cheeks, but my step was light. I looked up at the city lights, people hurrying about their eveningseach with their private stories.
I climbed the stairs to my small bedsit, put the kettle on. My fortress. My new beginning. I sat in my new chair, book in hand, calm at last.
My life was unrecognisable, but it was mine. Id learned to live anew, even at sixty.
And sometimes, as I drifted off to sleep, Id recall that conversationthe one that started it all:
“Edward, Robert will be living with us now. Youll have to get used to it.”
And I did get used to itbut not at all as shed hoped. I got used to living without her. Without them. Without that home. And it turned out not to be the end, but a beginning.
The old life is gone, left behind in that flat, with those people. It can stay there. I need it no more.
I put my book aside, switched out the light and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow would be another day, and I would meet it. Because life goes onalways.
