The Immaculate Hob
Audrey. Come in here.
No please. No when youve finished. Just come here, as if you were calling a dog.
She leaned the mop against the wall and stepped into the kitchen. Richard sat at the table, staring at his mobile. Over by the window, in her usual seat, sat Mrs. Ethel Smithher mother-in-lawsipping tea from her thin porcelain cup. The room smelt of boiled cabbage and those peculiar medicines Ethel swallowed by the handful each day.
Mum says you havent cleaned the hob properly again, Richard muttered, eyes glued to his phone.
I cleaned it yesterday.
Not well enough.
Ethel carefully placed her cup back on its saucer with a faint clink.
Ive never put up with dirt in my home, she intoned, in the manner of stating the blindingly obvious. For twenty years I ran this house myself, and it was always spotless.
Audrey was fifty-three, standing there in the kitchen with rubber gloves on and hands wet, listening yet again to the same old refrain.
Show me where the dirt is, she said quietly. Ill clean it.
Thats precisely it, show her, Richard chipped in. Cant you see it for yourself, or do we need to get down on our knees to point it out?
He said it softly, almost gently. He always spoke that way: low, no shouting, yet his words struck precisely where he wanted.
Audrey looked at the hob. It gleamed. Shed scrubbed it just last night after dinner, spent half an hour tackling the grease. It was clean.
And then something simply gave way.
No outburst. No tears. She just looked at that spotless hob, then at Richard with his phone, then at Ethel and her tea, and inside her it went all quietstrangely still, the way it feels right before something finally breaks.
She peeled off her gloves. Set them carefully on the table.
Ive been listening to this for twenty-eight years, she said. Thats enough now.
Richard lifted his eyes. Ethel froze, cup in hand.
What did you say? Richard asked.
I said: enough.
She left the kitchen. Walked into the bedroom, took a large Sainsburys bag out of the wardrobe, and began folding things into it. Not much. Documents. A pair of jumpers. Some spare underwear. Her phone charger. Her hands didnt tremble, which surprised her. She was utterly calm, like someone finally enacting a decision that had been brewing for years.
Voices from the kitchen floated inlow at first, growing louder.
Richard, are you listening? Stop her!
Go yourself, if youre so bothered.
Audrey zipped up her coat, picked up the carrier bag, and stepped into the hallway. She put on her shoes and opened the front door.
Audrey! Ethels voice rang out from the kitchen. Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Where will you go? Youre nothing without him! Nothing!
Audrey pulled the door shut quietly, with barely a click.
On the staircase, it smelled oddly of stale cat litter from the neighbours upstairs and new paint from downstairs. She walked out onto the street. It was October, cold and wet; the leaves lay plastered on the pavement in a soggy layer. Audrey paused outside the block and pulled out her phone.
Jane answered after the second ring.
Jane, Audrey said. Ive left.
A pause.
Left where?
Left Richard. For good. Ive nowhere to go.
The silence stretched for three seconds. Then Jane said,
Remember my address? Twenty minutesIll be home. Wait by the door, Ill tell you the entry code.
***
Jane lived in a little one-bed flat on Station Road. Small, but entirely her ownbought seven years ago after scrimping, saving, working as a hotel receptionist. The place was crammed with shelves and indoor plants, fridge covered in magnets from various English towns. It smelt of fresh coffee and something sweetcinnamon, perhaps.
Audrey sat curled on the settee, hands cupped around steaming tea, while Jane settled opposite, legs tucked, silent and watchful.
Tell me, Jane said.
Theres nothing to tell, Audrey said. Its always the same. The hobs dirty. The stews bland. The floors arent scrubbed properly. And that lookthey look at me as if Im a malfunctioning appliance.
Aud, its always been like that. Why today?
Audrey thought.
Today I looked at the shining hob and realised: if I dont leave now, I never will. Ill die there. Collapse one day, and theyll say it was my own fault.
Jane nodded, said nothing, just poured more tea.
That night Audrey lay on Janes settee, wrapped in a thick throw, and listened to the utter quiet. Real quiet. No telly blaring. No Ethels coughing beyond the wall. No sense of being poised to leap up and do something, anything.
She couldnt sleep till three. Not from worry, just unfamiliarityhow odd it was to lie there, answerable to no one.
Eventually, she drifted off.
***
Her mobile was silent for two days. On the third, Richard messaged: When are you coming back? Not sorry. Not we need to talk. Just when are you coming back, as if she were on a business trip.
Audrey read it, put her phone away.
Good, Jane said, spying over her shoulder. Dont answer. Let him stew.
He wont stew, Audrey replied. Hell just assume Ill come crawling back, like always.
Will you?
Audrey looked out the window: the car park was grey, October rain streaming, trees bald as parsnips.
I wont, she said. I just dont know where Im going yet.
The first weeks were odd. For years, Audrey had risen at seven to cook breakfast, do laundry, fetch medicines for Ethel, nip to the shop, cook again, clean againthe whole lot, all day long. Yet it was never enough nor right.
Now she woke up and the day stretched blank. There was nothing she absolutely had to do. It was almost unbearable.
Jane, she said one morning, as Jane grabbed her keys for work. I have to do something, or Ill go mad.
Get a job.
Doing what? Ive been at home for twenty-eight years.
Youre an artist.
Audrey laughed dryly.
Was once. I did two years in a publishers after college. Then married Richardhe said it was unnecessary, hed earn enough. His mother said real women look after the home, not run about offices.
And you agreed.
I did. I was twenty-five. I thought thats what love meant. Someone providing for you.
Jane paused mid-coat.
Aud, Ive got a set of watercolours in my cupboard. My niece left them. Theres paper as well, I think. Take them. Just try.
What for?
Because youll remember, once you start. Your hands will remember.
***
Audrey found the paints at the back of the wardrobe, rolled in yesterdays newspapercheap, plastic, picture of a squirrel on the lid. The paperthick, meant for real paintingwas there too, partly used. She carried it to the little kitchen table and stared at the blank page.
At first, nothing worked: paint wouldnt sit right, hands shook, the perspective was off. She tore up three sheets. Then steadied, just began spreading paint without plan or purpose. Simply colour and shape.
An hour later, she laid down a small watercolour: the autumn car park outside Janes window. Wet trees, a streak of grey sky, one patch of pink at the horizon.
She looked at it and thought: this. I made this.
Not a stew or a wiped hob. This.
Jane returned that evening, saw the painting on the table, and stopped.
Aud, did you do this?
I did.
Its lovely. Honestly.
Not really, its all a bit wobbly.
But its alive, Jane said. Ive seen a hundred car parks, but this one feels real. I recognise it.
Audrey said nothing, but she didnt throw the painting away.
***
Meanwhile, back at Richards flat, something unexpected was happening.
For three days, he waited for Audrey to return. It seemed inevitable: where would she go? She could do nothing. No money, no job, nowhere to stay. Shed come back. She always did.
She didnt.
On the fourth day, he realised the fridge was barren. Quite literally sojust a solitary bottle of semi-skimmed. He closed the fridge and went to work hungry.
That night, Ethel sat in the kitchen with the air of one who has known but spared to commenttill now.
Eaten?
No.
Nor I. You didnt bring anything from the shop?
No, I didnt have time.
So: you havent eaten, and you didnt bring food, Ethel said. Wonderful. Im seventy-eight, and never did I imagine Id live to see a home without bread in it.
Mum, you go to the shop, then.
The pause that followed was glacial.
Richard, I am seventy-eight. My knees. My blood pressure. I walk with a stick. And youre telling me to go myself?
Mum, I was busyat work.
And Audrey? She worked all day, harder than you ever did, and you drove her out.
Richards head snapped up.
I drove her? She left!
Because you made it unbearable! Ethels voice had risen. I told you: be gentler with people. But you always know best.
You nagged her too. Hobs filthy, stews bland, floors sloppily cleaned!
A few remarks! Im entitled in my own house!
My flat, Mum. This is my flat!
They stared at each other for the first time in years. There was no Audrey between themnot cushioning the blows, not absorbing the force. Direct hit at last.
Richard stood, grabbed his coat, and walked out, slamming the door.
Ethel was left alone. She switched on the light, peered in the fridge, saw the single bottle, shut it.
Sat back down.
It was quietquieter, in fact, than when Audrey had lived there.
***
November brought the cold and the first dusting of snow. Audrey had lived with Jane for three weeks, gradually coming to herself like a woman released from a windowless room. First the glare. Then, gradually, you get used to it.
She painted every day now. Bought proper paints. Jane found an advert online: a little artists studio for rent on River Lane, near the park. A small, north-facing room with wooden floors, a big window. Cheapno refurbishment, the paint peeling.
Audrey went to see it and immediately knew: this was it.
Interested? The landlady, an elderly woman in a knitted hat, asked.
Yes.
She barely had any money. Sold her gold wedding earringsher parents giftcringing at the memory, but then thought: what memory? Of what, precisely?
The studio became her place. She opened the window in the mornings; the cold air, the tang of snow and river water and linseed oil drifted in. She laid out her jars, spread the sheet of paper, or set up a canvas. Then she simply worked for hours, sometimes forgetting to eat.
She painted everythinghousefronts, chilly car parks, fruit in a chipped mug, old shoes. The more she worked, the better things became. Truly, hands rememberthey just need time to thaw, after twenty-eight silent years.
One December afternoon, Jane called the studio.
Aud, the hotels putting on a local art show in the lobby. I told them about you. Will you bring some pictures?
Jane, Im not an artist. Ive barely started again.
You are, Ive seen your paintings.
Its just amateur stuff.
Audrey, youve spent thirty years saying just and only. Enough. Are you bringing them?
Audrey hesitated.
Alright, she said. Ill bring some.
***
It was there she met William Blackwood.
He wasnt at the opening for the arthed only just checked in and wandered into the lobby at the right time. Tall, checked shirt, greying temples, steady grey gaze. He stood quietly before one of Audreys paintings: a winter park, an empty bench, footprints in the snow coming to and away from it.
Audrey approached, intending to straighten the frame, and heard him murmuring softly to himself:
Thats the way it goes. Came, sat, left again.
About the footprints? she asked.
He turned, unruffled at being caught talking to art.
Yeah. I look and think: two people came, sat, went their separate ways. Maybe happy, maybe cross, hard to say.
I always thought it was one person, Audrey replied. Came, sat, went home again.
One person wouldnt wander like that, he said with total seriousness. See, the track curves. Two people, definitely.
She looked at it anew.
Maybe youre right.
They talked another twenty minutes. It turned out hed come from the next town over, helping his brother renovate a place. William himself was a handymanjoinery, electrics, plumbing, all sorts. Widower. Two grown-up children. He didnt say all that much, but he listened, truly listened, Audrey noticed. No interruptions. No glancing at his phone. He watched her as she spoke.
It was startlingshe hardly knew what to make of it.
Leaving, he asked,
Have you got a card?
No, she stammered. Ive never had one.
A number, then?
She gave it. Later, she wondered whymaybe hed want to buy a picture.
Three days on, he wrote: Evening. Its William, the footprints on snow one. Id like to buy it, if you havent sold it yet.
She hadnt. He came, wrapped it carefully in a bag hed brought, and asked if he could see any more paintings.
They went to her studio. He stood, silent, took them in. Bought two small landscapes.
You paint beautifully, he said.
I havent painted in years, Audrey replied.
Why not?
She shrugged, unwilling to explain. Not yet.
Life just worked out that way.
He nodded. Took it as it was.
***
Richard phoned in January. Audrey had been living between Janes flat and the studio for months, still officially marriedshe hadnt filed yet.
He phoned as she finished a large winter still life: pine branches in a glass vase, some fir cones, a candle stub.
Audrey, he said.
Yes.
How are things?
Fine.
Silence.
Mums ill, he said quietly.
Sorry to hear that.
Could you come by? Once a week, just to help with the house.
Audrey set down her brush.
Richard, she said evenly. Ive left. I live elsewhere now. I wont be coming to clean the flat.
Youre still my wife.
Waiting on paper, yes. But only for now.
Audrey, dont be like this. Come home. Well talk.
Richard, we never talked. Not in almost thirty years. You and your mother talked; I listened and did as I was told.
You exaggerate.
Maybe so, she answered, calm. Even so, Im not coming back.
She hung up. Her hands were steady. She was surprised at herself.
Reflecting, it all sounded simple from the outside: wife leaves her husband. Thats ordinary. But on the inside it was more like learning to walk again. Every single day.
***
Audreys finances recovered slowly. Her paintings sold occasionally, for little. Sometimes there were greeting card commissions, sometimes small landscapes. Jane helped her set up a website; bit by bit, a few people found her, followed, sent messages.
She scraped by. Studio rent, food, cheap clothes. No luxury, but enough.
She hadnt expected it to feel like riches. Yet it did.
William came by every fortnight or so, when in town. Theyd grab coffee at the little place by the park, or wander the icy streets. He told her about work, about his sonsone of whom was now expecting a child. She spoke of her pictures, of wanting to try oils as well as watercolours.
He never pressed her; never hurried. One day, she realised she missed him between visitsthat, when he was away, the studio seemed ever so slightly quieter.
Jane, she confessed, William I dont really know how to take it.
What?
Hes so good. It frightens me.
Why should good be frightening?
I suppose Im used to something bad lurking behind good things. That when things are kind, it means troubles coming.
Jane gazed at her a moment.
Maybe with some people, theres nothing hiding.
Audrey pondered this for days.
Then, for once, she texted first: Would you come on Saturday? Ive started a big new painting. Would love to show you.
He came, saw the work. Said it was excellent. Afterwards, they went for coffee again, and he asked,
Audrey, would you join me next weekend for a drive? Theres an old abbey about an hour away. Lovely in the winter, Im told.
She said yes.
***
What was happening at the flat on Kings Crescent, where Richard and Ethel lived, Audrey picked up in scattered pieces. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson from flat four calledAudrey had often chatted with her on the stairs once.
Aud, how are things? Mrs. Hudson would ask. Listen, its chaos next door. You can hear them rowing through the wallEthel berates Richard all day for losing you, and he shouts right back. Yesterday they were so loud I was about to ring the council.
Audrey listened and felt, not satisfaction or glee, but a distant sadness. Not schadenfreude. Just: so this is how it is.
They werent unhappy because they missed Audrey. They were unhappy because there was no one to take the blows. All their lives they fired volleys in one direction, and now that wall had vanishedthey struck each other.
In February, Mrs Hudson reported Ethel was taken to hospitalher heart, high blood pressure. Richard sat there alone, grim as ever.
Audrey boiled the kettle, considered calling. Twenty-eight years, after all. A person, even so.
She considered a bit longer. Then decided: no. She always did what ought to be done. Not this time. Let him manage.
***
March brought the thaw, the tang of melting snow. Audrey was at the Saturday market, tote bag in hand, hunting something for breakfast. She paused at a stall selling early cucumbers, reached for tomatoes, thinking, I should paint this spring marketthe colours, the bustle.
And then she saw Richard.
He trudged along, clutching a carrier, glancing at his phone, not spotting her. He looked older, she thought. Or perhaps shed never really watched him, truly, from the outside before. Shoulders hunched. Crumpled jacket. Face grey.
She stood, waiting for feelingfear? Anger? The urge to run?
She felt none of those.
Richard looked up, saw her. Stopped dead.
They regarded each other across three market tables.
Audrey, he said.
The voice, soft as always, but with something newuncertainty.
Richard, Audrey replied.
He came closer. The market stallholder turned away, deeply absorbed by her own apples.
How are you? he asked.
Im fine.
Youve lost weight.
Possibly.
Mums in hospital. Heart problems.
I heard. Sorry.
He shifted his bag from one hand to the other.
So you really arent coming back?
Audrey looked at himcalm, not angry or sad, just clear.
No, Richard. Im not.
But how are we supposed to live?
Youve got to find that out. I already am.
He had nothing further. Audrey paid for her tomatoes and walked on.
Her pulse was steady. That, she realised, was the victorynot leaving, not refusing to return, but standing before him, unafraid. Not cowering, not repeating, be polite, Dont be unkind, Maybe hes right, maybe I overdo things. Just talking to a strangera nearly total stranger.
She bought some salad leaves from another stall, fresh bread, and made her way homemeaning the studio. Home, in every sense.
***
She filed for divorce in April. Did the paperwork herself at the county office. Richard did not contest it. They met once at the solicitor, signed what was needed, and parted.
She had no flat of her ownRichard stayed in theirs. She didnt bother fighting for a share; too long, too much hassle. Jane said she should have; that shed forfeit her rights. Audrey just shook her head.
I dont want that flat, Jane. I want a life.
The money would help.
Therell be money, Audrey replied. But from my own hands.
By summer, she and William saw each other every weeksometimes shed travel to his town, sometimes he came to her. He owned a little house on a quiet street, with a wild gooseberry bush and an ancient apple tree in the back. The first time Audrey visited, she stood in the orchard, gazing at the blossom.
Beautiful, she murmured.
My wife planted it, he said simply. No pain in his voice, just truth. Shes been gone eight years. The tree still flowers.
They stood together and looked at the blossoms.
William, Audrey asked, arent you scared? To be
Close to someone again?
Yes. That.
He considered.
Yes, I am, he admitted. But I like you, and I think fear isnt a good enough reason not to live.
She laughed, unexpectedly.
Thats wise.
Not wise. I just like to drive my nails in straight, no fuss.
***
Autumn came, and with it a year since the day Audrey picked up her shopping bag and stepped out of the flat on Kings Crescent. She and William sat in his kitchen late one evening. He was mending a stubborn drawer; she sipped coffee, sketchbook in lap.
It was warm, quiet, the faint scent of wood and ground coffee beans in the air.
Aud, William said, not looking up, Will you move in?
She glanced up.
Where?
Here. With me.
She paused. So did he.
My studio is over there
I know. But theres a spare room here. Faces east. You get the sun in the morning. Ever said that?
You did.
So?
Audrey looked at her sketchbook: the kitchen drawn in charcoal, a man with a screwdriver, a woman with a mug, a window, and the garden beyond.
I need to think, she replied.
Think, then.
You wont press me?
No.
Why?
He finished the drawer with a click.
Ive got plenty of time, he told her. No sense in rushing grown-ups.
Audrey glanced down at her sketch.
Alright, she said.
Alright think, or alright move in?
Alright, Ill move in.
He nodded, settled beside her, picked up his tea. They sat in the good silence.
***
Another six months slipped by.
Audrey now lived at Williams, but kept up the River Lane studio, working there three times a week. The spare room at Williams, with its vast east-facing window, became her second placeshe did morning sketches there, while he left for work.
Her pictures sold a bit more frequently. Not famous!no, but now and then people came looking for her art specifically, commissioning her, buying her watercolours. Not grand or large-scalejust hers.
Now and then, she heard news of Richard. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would ring. Ethel rarely left her bed after that last hospital stay; Richard hired a carer. He still worked, came home at night, lived as he lived.
Audrey would listen and reflect: this was the man who once filled her entire sky. His mood was her weather. His words, her law. A womans good family could be a tiny cella cage without a lock, where the door is closed from within.
Her sky was different, at last.
One Tuesday in December, Audrey reached her studio earlywell before light. She switched on the kettle. Fat, silent snowflakes were falling outside, blanketing the little car park.
Her mobile buzzed. Jane.
Aud, morning, how are you?
Good. At work.
Listen, a bit of news: an acquaintance runs a gallery in the city centretheyre seeking artists for the spring show. Shes seen your work online, wants a chat. Heres her number.
Audrey scribbled it down.
Jane, theyll want someone important. I havent got a name, no awards
Aud, five years ago you werent even painting. Now youve over a hundred pictures behind you. Thats something.
Well
Just ring her. Ring her and talk.
Alright.
Audrey hung up, peered at the number again. Then looked out at the white, untouched morning. She poured herself tea, took up her brush, and turned to painting. Shed call later. First, she needed to capture this snow, while it lasted.
***
In the evening William came by, knocking and stepping in to see her at work.
Ready?
Just five more minutes.
He sat nearby, not rushing her. Watching, quietlythe way people gaze at what matters most.
Five minutes later, she packed up the brushes.
Done, she said.
Looks great, he nodded.
Im not sure. Snows hard to paint. It looks white, but its blue, grey, pinkanything but white, really.
Is that so? William said, genuinely interested. Id never have thought.
It seems obvious, but people dont really look, you know?
They stepped outside. The night was cold and clear, fresh after snow.
William the gallery. They called. In town centre.
And?
Im wondering: should I go?
Well, do you want to?
She hesitated.
I do. Im just scared.
Scared of what?
Being told Im not good. Not a real artist. That its all a bit silly.
William walked alongside, hands in pockets, eyes ahead.
Aud, you know theres nothing to be scared of?
What do you mean?
I meanthe worst is over. You lived so long with people saying youre nothing. Every single day. And you left it all behind, with nothing but a bag of things. That was the hard bit. A galleryso what, if they say no?
She stopped.
You have a way of cutting straight to the point, you know.
I do my best.
She chuckled, and he gave her a soft half-smile in the yellow streetlight.
Come on, its freezing, he said.
They walked ontheir steps squeaked on icy snow. Lamplight shimmered in the puddles along the path. Up ahead, warm windows gleamed.
William, Audrey said.
Yeah?
Thank you.
For what?
For never telling me what I ought or must do.
He thought for a moment.
Grown women know what they must do, he replied. I just remind you sometimes. Nothing more.
They climbed the steps. William opened the door, waited for her to go first. The hallway smelt of pine boards and a hint of stored apples from the autumn.
Audrey stepped into the kitchen, kicked off her shoes.
It looked familiar: the wooden table, two chairs, garden outside the window. Her sketchbook, with its inky pages, right there where shed left it that morning.
She opened to yesterdays sketch: kitchen, man with screwdriver, woman with a mug, window, trees beyond.
It was time to draw in the snow.
She picked up her pencil.
