The Missing Husband

Their house was a traditional 1930s semi with an imposing black-and-white facade and it had been a little worn at the edges when they had first moved in five years earlier. Cutting off the engine, Jo did her best to ignore the shadows that obscured its newly restored splendour and concentrated instead on the warmth borrowed from the subdued streetlamps and the turning leaves.

The autumnal hues had given a false sense of security and the biting wind took her breath away as Jo scurried from the car to the front door. The stained glass window had given up its rainbow colours for the softer reflections of orange and gold but Jo was more intent on getting inside the house than marvelling at the beauty of its external features.

The central heating was already on but it wasn’t until Jo had switched on every light on her way through to the kitchen that she felt at home. It drove David mad when she left so many lights blazing, especially when the fuel bills came in, but while Jo accepted they could perhaps be more efficient, it was a luxury she was willing to pay for. A house full of light and warmth felt like a welcoming embrace and she had absolutely no doubt David would be glad of it tonight.

The kitchen had once been long and narrow but they had knocked it through to the adjoining reception room to create a space that felt open and modern. The grey and turquoise colour scheme in the newly installed kitchen had been extended into the dining area where Jo dropped her handbag before setting about unpacking her shopping. She had almost two hours to prepare dinner and get ready. Plenty of time, she told herself. And then the phone rang.

‘Hi,’ Steph chirped. ‘Are you busy?’

Jo scanned the counter where she had just lined up all the ingredients for a steak and ale pie. ‘Sort of. I’m in the middle of cooking supper,’ she said, hoping her sister would take the hint.

‘Oh, well I won’t keep you then.’

Jo couldn’t ignore the disappointment in her sister’s voice so she propped the phone under her chin and set about preparing the meal. ‘It’s all right; I can multitask. What’s up?’

‘Nothing, I was only phoning for a chat. How are you feeling? Still tired?’

Jo had been surprised how exhausting being pregnant could be. She had presumed she would only start to feel tired once her bump had grown to mammoth proportions but she had felt completely drained even before she knew she was pregnant and she had been struggling to recover her energy levels ever since.

‘I thought I was getting over that particular hurdle but today has knocked the stuffing out of me. It didn’t help that David was up at five. If I’d known I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep again then I could have avoided the argument and given him a lift.’

‘Have you two been winding each other up again?’ Steph asked. ‘There are better ways of adding spark to a relationship than arguing, you know.’

‘This was more of a quiet rumble actually.’

‘So you gave him the silent treatment,’ Steph surmised. She was three years older than Jo and had a lifetime of experience of her sister’s surliness. ‘You’re not a moody teenager any more, Jo. You’ve got some growing up to do before you’re ready to be a parent.’

‘I know,’ Jo said impatiently. She had said the same thing often enough to David.

‘I can’t believe you can troubleshoot for a living and yet be completely incapable of applying those same skills to your marriage.’

‘I know,’ Jo said again. Tears threatened, although they had more to do with the onion she was peeling than anything else. Jo was used to Steph pushing an issue to its limits; it was an annoying habit akin to picking at a scab that should be left to heal – although once in a while it proved good medicine, cathartic even. But today it felt more like picking a scab. The healing process had barely started. She tried to regain control of the conversation. ‘David’s on his way home from Leeds and I’m cooking him his favourite meal. I think we’re ready to sit down and start planning properly for the baby.’

‘At last! So you’re finally working together. Maybe you are both learning,’ Steph told her in a tone that ought to be reserved for the primary school children she taught but Jo couldn’t blame her sister for taking the moral high ground. She had been happily married for fifteen years to her first love and whilst she and Gerry had their disagreements, she never let the sun go down on an argument, unlike her sister. Jo had often said the key to Steph’s successful marriage was her ability to wear anyone into submission but in truth, she was as considerate as she was persistent.

‘So is it only my welfare you were concerned about or is there something else I can help you with?’ Jo said, eager to draw the conversation to a close. She could see her reflection in the glossy kitchen unit and her hair was sticking up at all angles. There was still so much to do.

‘No, nothing.’

‘Fair enough. You can rest assured that I’m fine and dandy. Now, could you please leave me in peace so I can get on with my cooking,’ Jo said, then casually added, ‘I expect you’ve got a lot to do too. Wicked Stepmother costumes don’t make themselves, you know.’

There was stony silence at the other end of the phone and then, ‘Bloody teenagers. So I suppose you already know what my next question will be.’

Jo tried not to let her smile reveal itself in her voice. ‘Not really. I can’t imagine what you would be asking of your little sister who’s been complaining of exhaustion.’

‘But you’ve just said you were fine and dandy!’

Jo yawned.

‘Don’t do that, you’ll get me started,’ Steph said immediately stifling a yawn. ‘You will help, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘But only if it’s not too much for you and of course I’ll do what I can to help.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Not that I can do much – you’re the creative one – but I can sew on buttons, cut things out, that kind of thing. And I’ll do all the running around …’

‘Stephany,’ Jo interjected, ‘I said I’ll do it.’

‘Thanks, Jo. And in return I’ll give David a ring to tell him he had better start fussing over his wife and the future mother of his children or he’ll have me to answer to.’

‘Erm, I don’t think so. I can manage my own affairs, thank you very much! I’ll come over at the weekend and we can start planning the costume but for now, will you please let me go?’

With the call ended, Jo tried to concentrate on the pie she was making, but a frown furrowed her brow as the conversation with her sister played over in her mind. Jo was the first to volunteer her services for most things, to the point that it was almost expected of her, and she genuinely didn’t mind. She rarely felt put upon so her refusal to drive David to the station had come as a surprise to both of them. But it wasn’t the lift that had got to her; it was the principle. Steph was right, all Jo really wanted was for David to fuss over her. Of course she couldn’t tell him that because she had been the one who had elected to become pregnant, not him, but that didn’t stop her wanting to be cosseted like any other pregnant wife.

Jo looked at the neat piles of perfectly cubed vegetables she was still in the process of preparing and then at the illuminated clock on the microwave. She worked out that if she left now there was just enough time to collect him from Lime Street Station, but before she could give into the impulse, she visualised David walking into the house where the welcoming aromas of crisp, golden pie crust would give him his first embrace, quickly followed by another from his adoring wife. The hug would be all the more appreciated after a long walk on a cold, dark and miserable night. Her mind was settled.

4 (#u8eb7d500-1860-53ed-9e77-063a6ba9f7cf)

Jo swirled the contents of her glass and watched it bubble and fizz. Not for the first time, she wished it were wine rather than the sparkling water that was meant to settle her stomach, which was also fizzing and bubbling. She glanced up at the clock above the fireplace. There were no numerals on the timepiece, just a collection of silvery shards arranged in a starburst effect, the longest and sharpest marking the quarter hours. After years of practice Jo could tell the time to the exact minute and it was now showing ten minutes past nine.

She had already gone through a mental calculation of what time she had expected David to return home. He had texted to say his train was due into Lime Street at ten past seven and she knew it would have taken less than an hour to complete the rest of the journey home. She had already checked online and there was no reported travel disruption – and even if he had missed the connection to West Allerton, he would have taken the bus or even jumped in a taxi. She couldn’t think of a single scenario where he wouldn’t have made it home by now.

She had lost count of how many times she had tried to phone him but that didn’t stop her picking up her phone and trying again. She pressed redial and, as expected, David’s mobile went straight through to voicemail. He had said his phone was almost out of charge and that he would be switching it off to conserve the last dregs of power, but while that might explain why he wasn’t answering, it didn’t explain why he wasn’t home.

‘Hi, just wondering where you are,’ she said having decided to leave a message this time. She kept her tone light but didn’t doubt that David would recognize the strain in her voice. ‘Can you give me a call and let me know what’s happening? That offer still stands if you want me to pick you up.’ She paused, unsure how to end the call. ‘I love you,’ she whispered even though her traitor fingers had cut off the call the moment she recalled his earlier omission of any such sentiment in his text.

‘Oh, FB, when will we ever grow up?’ She gave her bump a gentle rub that gave her, rather than the baby, some much-needed comfort. ‘We’re like big kids. I can’t say I love you because it’s your turn to say it next,’ she added in a childish voice. ‘But he already knows I love him, just like I know he loves me.’

She was getting tired of the games they played. What used to be playful battles over who could remember the details of their first meeting or their first date; who could find the best surprise gift; or who could prove they loved the other more; had taken on a more serious tone of late. She wished this silly spat over a stupid lift to the station had never been started and she was annoyed with herself as much as she was with him.

Jo returned her gaze to her drink while her ears strained for the sound of approaching footsteps or the jangle of keys in the lock. All she could hear was the background music that she had already turned down until the three tenors had been reduced to the faintest warble.

Draining her glass, Jo stood up and switched off the music before heading back into the kitchen. She couldn’t drink any more sparkling water, so she washed and dried her glass then returned it to the dining table where she had laid two place settings. The crystal candelabra had sparkled an hour ago but the candles had burned themselves out and the romantic ambience she had been trying to create had lost its appeal, as had the pie, which was slowly drying in the oven. She wasn’t sure she could face food now; her stomach was knotted up with nerves. Or was it anger? She wasn’t sure how to feel and wouldn’t know until David arrived home safely and explained why he couldn’t have warned her he was running late.

During her absence from the living room, the minute hand of the clock had sneaked past the hour but there was nothing Jo could do except resume her vigil. Each time she blinked, she could see the ghostly impression of the starburst burnt on to the back of her eyelids.

For the next hour and a half Jo remained in the living room. If this was David’s idea of punishing her he couldn’t have planned it better. Jo hid her insecurities well but they were there and they tormented her now. Only a single lamp glowed in her self-imposed prison, its light too weak to reach the shadows into which she had crawled and was determined to remain until her husband appeared. Other than the torturously slow progress of the hands around the clock, the only other movement in the room came from the rhythmic strum of Jo’s fingers on the armchair. Occasionally the glare of headlights swept across the window blinds, causing the strumming to halt and Jo’s heartbeat to quicken. But without fail the car would continue on its journey, taking with it the hope that a taxi was about to pull up outside and put her out of her misery.

When her gaze could be drawn away from the clock, Jo stared at the two phones she had placed in her lap: one her mobile, the other the house phone. She was using her mobile to dial David’s number at regular intervals, listening only long enough for the automated announcement to kick in advising her to leave a message. She didn’t. She hung up each and every time before waiting precisely ten minutes until she allowed herself to repeat the process.

Jo hadn’t yet decided what she would use the landline for. She wanted to phone someone but didn’t know whom. She had gone through her address book on her mobile but dismissed every one. Right now there was only one person’s voice she wanted to hear and no one else would do, not family or friends and, God forbid, not the emergency services. If there was the possibility that something awful had happened to David then, she reasoned, it wasn’t yet real and it wouldn’t be real until she told someone. She and David lived an unremarkable life; nothing bad had ever happened to them and as long as she didn’t let her imagination run wild, it wasn’t happening now. Telling someone would be like taking a pin and bursting the protective bubble she was desperately constructing around herself.

And then the phone rang.

Her mobile shone through the darkness and the warm rush coursing through her body took Jo’s breath away. She squeezed her eyes shut but it was too late. She had seen the caller ID and the spark of excitement was cruelly extinguished.