A New Perspective

A house is too quiet in this gentle short story by Brenda Joy.

Sometimes it takes a shock to the system to see what really matters ...

THERE’S no dirty cereal bowl in the sink, and the kettle is cold because nobody has switched it on yet. It’s almost nine o’clock in the morning yet the kitchen is just as I left it last night – clean, tidy and devoid of any sign of life.

I fill the kettle and switch it on, then I get a cup and bowl from the cupboard and prepare my breakfast.

John, my husband, is an early riser so breakfast is a solo affair in our house.

Well, it has been since he retired a few years ago. He has his porridge, then, mug of tea in hand, he goes out to his workshop where he spends most of the day, making and fixing things.

“What about the dripping tap and the squeaky door hinges?” I ask. “And the tiles that need regrouting?”

But my pleas fall on deaf ears. And I know the reason why these jobs are ignored. To John, these are petty little jobs which will give him no satisfaction or sense of achievement.

So I spend a lot of time on my own, even though knowing that John is just outside in his workshop is always a comfort.

But not today; not for the past three weeks.

When I go up for my shower the tidiness of the bathroom still seems unnatural, even after all these weeks. Who’d have thought I’d miss my daily chore of putting away all that messy shaving stuff?

There is one reminder of my husband in the bathroom, though, that I really appreciate every time I get out of the bath – the stainless steel towel rail he made when we moved into this house, our first and only home.

It’s used more as a handrail now, but it’s still as good as new, even though the room has been refitted a few times over the last 40 years.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, I go into my favourite room in the house. I haven’t spent much time there recently.

The south-facing room is flooded with light behind the two easels with their half-finished paintings – one a local landscape, the other a portrait of our three grandchildren.

The floor-to-ceiling shelves hold all my art books and painting materials, and the long cupboard at its base, my store of paper.

The room is empty apart from the easels and an old armchair where I sometimes sit late afternoon with a glass of wine, trying to look at my paintings with the eye of a critic. Other times I just sit and daydream.

This room was all John’s idea. He said we didn’t need two spare bedrooms now, seeing as we don’t have overnight visitors any more, apart from the occasional grandchild.

It became one of John’s projects. He cleared it of furniture, painted the walls white, laid vinyl on the floor and built the shelf unit.

Before I had this room I would paint and draw in various parts of the house, depending on who was in and what was going on. Now I have my own space, my own private sanctuary where I find peace and contentment. John did this for me.

On my way out, as I pick up my keys from the hall cupboard, I pause for a moment. The dark mahogany cupboard has been a fixture in our home for so long that I barely notice it any more.

It’s beautifully made, though a bit old-fashioned now, and to be honest I would prefer a lighter, more modern version.

But I’ll never tell him. How could I? As with every one of John’s projects, making this cupboard was a labour of love.

* * * *

As I drive to the hospital I can’t help smiling. You’d think that, being husband free for the past three weeks, I’d be producing more art than ever.

John even jokes about it at visiting time.

“You’d better get going, Sue,” he said the other day. “Those paintings won’t finish themselves.”

Little does he know I haven’t done a thing. My mind has been so full of what-ifs that I couldn’t concentrate on anything.

But he’s on the mend now, thank God.

I’ve missed him so much, even though we don’t spend as much time together as most couples.

It suits us: me in my studio and him outside in his workshop, previously known as the garage. Both doing what makes us happy.

Hopefully he’ll be coming home in a week or so, but it will be some time before he’ll be back to his old self.

He may like to sit in the armchair in my studio for an hour or so in the afternoons, while I paint.

I could set him up with a sketch pad! You never know, he might enjoy it.

Of course, this would just be a stop-gap until he’s ready to go out into his own little world again, to make something else to be proud of.

As for the dripping tap, the squeaky door hinges and the ungrouted tiles, who cares? Sometimes it takes a shock to the system to get things in perspective; to see clearly the things which really matter in life.

As it has with me.

I’ll get those jobs sorted eventually, but it’s no big deal.

After all, how hard can it be to find an odd-job man and a can of oil?

The End.