The cheer that once lifted MaxwellPetersons spirits vanished the moment he slipped his car into a London kerb and entered the flat block. Inside, the evening greeted him with the familiar routine: slippers waiting by the door, the tempting aroma of supper, a tidy hallway, and a vase of fresh roses.
He felt no surprise at his wifes presence. What could a woman in her later years possibly do all day but bake pies and knit socks? He exaggerated the sockknitting, of course, but the point remained.
Margaret, ever ready, met him with a smile.
Tired, love? Ive baked piescabbage, apples, just the way you like them
She fell silent under Maxwells stern gaze. Dressed in a simple housecoat, her hair tucked under a headscarf, she stood where she always stood while cooking.
She had spent a lifetime as a kitchen maid, her eyes lightly rimmed, lips glossy. Maxwell now found that habit vulgar, a flamboyant way to colour her ageing years.
Perhaps he had been too harsh, but he blurted out:
Cosmetic creams at your age are nonsense! Theyre not for you.
Margarets lips trembled; she said nothing, and she did not set the table for him. That, perhaps, was for the best. The pies lay under a cloth, tea steepedhe would manage alone.
After a quick shower and dinner, a gentler side returned to him, as did the days memories. Wrapped in his favourite terryflannel robe, he settled into the armchair that seemed made for him and pretended to read, just as the new clerk had once said:
Youre a genuinely appealing man, and rather interesting.
Maxwell was fiftysix, head of the legal department at a large firm in Manchester. Under his command were a fresh graduate, three women in their forties, and a colleague on maternity leave. That vacancy was now filled by Eleanor.
At the time of her appointment, Maxwell was away on business and had never met Eleanor in person. He invited her to his office for an introduction. The moment she entered, a subtle perfume and a breath of youthful freshness filled the room. Her oval face was framed by light curls, blue eyes looked confidently ahead, full lips, and a dimple on her cheek. Was she really only thirty? Maxwell felt he could have sworn she was twentyfive.
Divorced, mother of an eightyearold boy, she seemed an unexpected match, yet he thought, Fine enough.
Talking with the newcomer, he stumbled a little, remarking that she now had a rather old boss. Eleanor fluttered her long lashes and replied in a way that both flattered and unsettled him.
Margaret, having retreated from irritation, appeared with a steaming mug of chamomile tea. He frowned, muttering, Always illtimed.
He took the tea, though not without a hint of satisfaction. Suddenly he wondered what a young, pretty woman like Eleanor might be doing now, and a longdormant sting of jealousy pricked his heart.
***
After work, Eleanor stopped at a supermarket in Sheffield, buying cheese, a loaf, and kefir for dinner. She returned home expressionless, more mechanical than affectionate, and wrapped her son, William, in a quick embrace as he burst out the door.
Maxwell tinkered on the balcony where his workshop was set up, while Margaret prepared the evening meal. Laying out the groceries, she declared a headache and asked not to be disturbedthough the tone was melancholy.
Eleanor, still nursing the pain of a divorce years earlier, longed to be a worthy mother figure, yet found herself surrounded by couples content with easy companionship. Her last serious relationship lasted two passionate years; she even rented a flatmainly for her own conveniencebut when the scent of fried food drifted from the kitchen, Maxwell announced they must separate and that she should be dismissed.
She found a new place herself, and soon she was back with her parents and son. Her mother pitied her, while her father insisted a child should grow up with his mother, not just grandparents.
Margaret had long suspected Maxwell was in a midlife crisis. Everything seemed present, yet something vital was missing. She feared becoming the one he needed most, so she softened her approach: cooking his favourite dishes, keeping herself tidy, avoiding deep soultalk even though she craved it.
She tried to draw him to the country house, but he lingered, frowning.
Perhaps because both sought change, the romance between Maxwell and Eleanor ignited swiftly. Within two weeks of her joining the firm, he invited her to lunch and gave her a lift home. When she turned to him with a flushed cheek, he whispered hoarsely,
I dont want to part. Come to my cottage?
She nodded, and their car sped away.
On Fridays Maxwell left work an hour early, yet at nine oclock his wife sent a text: Well talk tomorrow. He had no idea how sharply his words would cut the looming conversation. Margaret knew that after thirtytwo years of marriage, the flame could not be rekindled.
Losing Maxwell felt to her like losing a part of herself. He might grumble, sulk, or act like a stubborn old man, but he still sank into his beloved armchair, dined, and breathed beside her.
In the quiet of the night, Margaret searched for words to halt the disintegration of her life and stayed awake until dawn. In desperation she pulled out their wedding album, recalling how beautiful she had been, how many had once dreamed of her.
She hoped that, if he glanced at those fragments of happiness, he might realise not everything could be discarded. Yet he returned only on Sundays, and she sensed the end. Before her stood a different Maxwelladrenaline coursing through him, no longer shy or ashamed of desire.
Unlike his wife, who feared change, he now welcomed it, speaking in a tone that left no room for objection. From that moment Margaret considered herself free. She would file for divorce the next day, keep the house shed inherited, and let William and his family move in, as the law dictated. The twobedroom flat that had housed Williams family legally belonged to Maxwell through inheritance.
Moving into a threebedroom flat with her mother would not worsen the young familys conditions; she would have someone to look after the child. The car, of course, stayed with Maxwell. He retained rights to the country house.
Margaret felt shabby and unattractive, tears streaming, making her words garbled. She begged to pause, to call upon memory, to think of her own health. His response was a growl, a whisper close to her ear:
Do not pull me into your old age!
It would be foolish to claim Eleanor had fallen in love with Maxwell and accepted his proposal on their first night at the cottage. The allure of a married woman, the thrill of being the lover of a man who had turned his back on her, all played their part.
She was weary of living in a house ruled by a stern fatherinlaw. She craved stability, which Maxwell could provide, she admitted.
Though in his sixties he did not look a grandpa; he was trimmed, almost youthful, a department head, sharpminded and pleasant company. In bed he showed enthusiasm, not egoism. He offered security: no rented flat, no pennilessness, no theft. The only doubt lingeredhis age.
A year later Eleanors disappointment grew. She still felt a girl, craving regular excitement, concerts, a trip to a water park, sunbathing in a daring bikini, evenings with friends. Youth and temperament allowed her to blend these desires with family life; even William did not hinder her zest.
Maxwell, however, was exhausted. The seasoned solicitor could navigate countless cases by day, yet at home he was a tired man longing for quiet and respect for his habits. Guests, theatre outings, even a beach visit were tolerated, but sparingly.
He never rejected intimacy, yet he retired to bed by nine. His weak stomach could not tolerate fried food, sausages, or readymade mealssomething Margarets steamcooked dishes once eased. Eleanor, cooking for her son, could not fathom why a pork cutlet might ache her side.
She kept no strict list of medicines, assuming an adult man could remember what to take. Consequently, much of her life passed without him.
She involved William in her plans, joined friends, and, oddly, his age seemed to urge her to live faster. They no longer worked togetherethical concerns forced her into a solicitors office. She sighed with relief at no longer being constantly watched by a man who reminded her of a father.
Respect was the feeling Eleanor held for Maxwell. Whether it was enough for happiness, only time would tell.
When Maxwells sixtieth birthday approached, she wanted a grand celebration. He, however, reserved a table at a modest, familiar pub where he had often dined. He seemed bored, yet that was natural for his age. Eleanor was untroubled.
Colleagues and their families, once mingling with Margaret, now seemed awkward to invite. The family lived far away, and he found no comfort in marrying a much younger woman.
His son, now absent, had been disowned. Yet didnt a father have the right to shape his own life? He had once thought arrangement meant something different in marriage.
The first year with Eleanor felt like a honeymoon. He loved appearing with her in public, encouraging modest spending, joining friends, and embracing fitness. He tolerated loud concerts and wild movies. In that bliss he made Eleanor and William full owners of his flat, later granting her a share of the country house.
Behind his back, Eleanor asked Margaret to cede her half of the house. She threatened to sell her share to opportunists. Maxwell bought it with his own money, transferred the cottage into her name, citing the river and woods as ideal for a child. Thus the summer months saw Eleanors parents and grandson at the cottage. It suited Maxwell, who disliked the chatter of a young husbands child; he had married for love, not for raising someone elses offspring.
The former family felt slighted. With the money, they sold their threebedroom flat and eventually dispersed. Williams family found a twobedroom flat, and Margaret moved into a studio. Maxwell paid no heed to their whereabouts.
On the day of his sixtieth, countless wellwishes poured in, yet he felt no surge of energy. Each year brought a familiar dissatisfaction.
He loved his young wife, but could not keep pace with her. He could not dominate her, nor could he restrain her; she smiled and lived on her own terms, allowing nothing extra for herself, which irritated him.
He imagined, with a sigh, how wonderful it would be if his former wifes spirit could return to fill the chair with chamomile tea, blanket him when he dozed, walk with him in the park, whisper in the kitchen evenings. Yet Eleanor could not endure his lengthy monologues, and she seemed to tire of the bed. His nerves flared, further disturbing him.
Maxwell regretted the haste of his divorce. Wise men turn lovers into celebrations, yet he had turned his lover into a wife.
Eleanor, with her lively temperament, could still be a spry horse at ten, and even after forty would feel noticeably younger. This gap would only deepen. If luck smiled, he might end his days in a single breath; if not
These nonmilestone thoughts struck his temples with a dull ache, quickening his pulse. He searched for Eleanor among the dancersher eyes glittered, beauty radiating. Joy, as always, rose at the sight of her beside him.
Seizing the moment, he left the restaurant, seeking fresh air to clear his gloom. Colleagues, still guests, approached. Uncertain how to handle the swelling unrest within, he hailed a taxi waiting at the curb, urging the driver to hurry. Later he would decide his route.
He longed for a place where only he mattered, where someone waited for him, where time spent together was valued, and where he could relax without fearing weakness or, God forbid, old age.
He called his son, almost begging for his former wifes new address. The son, irritated yet softened, repeated that the matter was a matter of life and death.
He stumbled, saying, Today is my anniversary. The son, mellowed, replied that his mother might not be aloneno husband, just a friend.
Mother said they studied together. The surname is odd Bulkovich, I think.
Bulkovich, Maxwell corrected, feeling jealousy flare. He had once been smitten with her; she had been popular, bold, and beautiful, planning to marry a Bulkovich, which he had thwarted. Though long ago, the memory felt as fresh as yesterday, more real than his present with Eleanor.
His son asked,
Why do you need this, father?
Maxwell shivered at the forgotten address and realised how terribly he missed them all. He answered honestly,
I dont know, lad.
The son dictated the new address. The driver, at Maxwells request, stopped. Maxwell exited, unwilling to speak to Margaret under witnesses. He glanced at the clocknearly nine. She was an owl, a nightingale to him.
He pressed the intercom.
A gruff male voice answered, Margaret is busy.
What about her? Is she all right? Maxwell asked, concern threading his tone.
The voice replied, Im the gentleman, by the way. And you must be MrBulkovich, Maxwell barked.
The man corrected him, insisting he was an exhusband, thus having no right to trouble Margaret. He declined to explain that a friend was taking a bath.
Does old love not rust? Maxwell asked, his jealousy sharp.
No, it turns silver, the voice retorted.
The door never opened
Thus the tale lingered, a reminder that even in Englands quiet suburbs, hearts can wander, ambitions clash, and the passage of years can turn oncebright hopes into faint, lingering shadows.