Well then, Ill go back to Mum! he declared.
Then youll sit here alone!
Ethel was left with nothing but a cracked bucket: no lover, no job, no prospects. And how would she spend NewYears Eve
Your nerves are cursed! her mother exclaimed upon hearing the scandalous news. Its all his fault, you wretched whelp; hes led you astray! Do you think anyone else could have driven you to this?
What now? Martin grinned. Start making peace Im waiting!
Ethel Whitbys life had two misfortunes: not the lack of a husband or a road, though the first was once in doubt. The true woes were her husband and her beloved boss, as often happens to ordinary folk.
They never cheated on each other; rather, each poisoned Ethels world in turn.
Her husband was clever, witty, a brilliant conversationalist, and saturated with romance all empty words. When it came to work, he was suddenly ill, unready, exhausted, always too busy, and forever preoccupied with good food.
Thus the tale unfolded like a familiar English folktale:
Bubble, go eat your porridge! Wheres my big spoon?
Before marriage, when meetings were brief, everyone was content with a simple pizza dinner, a cosy chat peppered with sparkling jokes, and the occasional flirtation the perfect prelude to a wedding.
Ethel, head over heels, failed to notice that her fiancé was forever hunting for himself and for work:
Ill find something Ill tell you first, love! he quipped.
Both laughed, thinking the banter terribly amusing.
Martins wit was praised far and wide; he began calling her Elf and Elflet, and she returned the nickname with Martgirl.
It wasnt a monkey at all the letter K concealed something petty, like a rhyme about fish. Fishy felt far better.
Everyone knows what a monkey implies, but Martgirl sounded weightier, more respectable, and certainly didnt offend dear Ethel.
The wedding bells rang and Martin moved in with Ethel; the thirtyyearold husband had no flat of his own.
Jokes wont earn you a fortune! Ethels mother concluded, disliking her soninlaw.
Who could stop him? He wasnt a famous comic, after all.
The first misunderstanding arose over rent. With no money, Ethel did what sensible wives do: she asked her husband for help.
It turned out Martin was always at home, searching for himself and a job, preferably from the couch where thoughts flow easiest a typical blokes tactic.
If the army calls tomorrow, shall I be too tired?
Pay from your own pocket! Martin suggested, eyes twinkling.
My own moneys gone I spent the last on groceries! Ethel replied, stunned; she had imagined a different married life.
Then use the gift money; Ill replace it later.
When? she asked.
Later, when the soups ready with the cat! Martin chuckled.
At their wedding they were given about two hundred thousand pounds a tidy sum, their Nest Egg. Their parents stopped supporting them after the marriage, insisting the husband should now feed his wife.
The husband, still dependent on his parents, was also chastised: Youve moved out? Good luck!
Ethels salary ran dry. She dipped into the NestEgg, then deeper still. It was no surprise that the reserves earmarked for a rainy day melted away like a snowball.
When she reached once more for the cherished box, it was empty, though she had calculated that something should remain.
The boxs void was explained: Martin had taken the leftovers for new headphones.
He didnt understand why that was wrong; Old ones dont work any more! he joked.
What will you be, Ryken? Ethel snapped.
Come up with something youre my clever one!
She invented a retort, then fell silent; the reply had crossed the line of propriety. By the next day shed borrowed from her mother until payday.
Did that halt the husband? No he didnt rush off to find work. He merely teased, I cant stand being ignored, especially by Ethel! and then begged for peace: Enough sulking, Elflet! I miss you
They reconciled, both missing the warmth of youth, though a sour aftertaste lingered.
Borrowing from Mum became Ethels habit, adding to her uneasy mood.
One day her motherinlaw finally snapped:
Well, Martin, have you earned any gold yet, or are you still living off Ethels income?
Martin fell silent; the clever man found no reply, for the truth was plain. Better to pretend not to hear the scorn.
Ethels second misery was her boss, known to the staff as Marta Browning, an economistanalyst who ruled like a tyrant. Marta was a peculiar, selfabsorbed old spinster, bitter toward anyone who dared exist without her command.
She despised both men and women, having endured three failed marriages where every husband cheated. By her fifties she presided over a department, childless, with two cats and a twiceweekly tango class.
Dismissals flew left and right. When junior clerk Pete Rashford cracked a joke about her dancing, suggesting she lead a folk circle instead of gyrating on the floor, Martas reaction was swift:
Youre no longer employed here!
There was no pleading; the joke had become a punishment.
Ethel, fearing Marta, froze like many before her, though she still held on to a sliver of hope.
Soon another quarrel with Martin erupted, this time over a trivial matter that ignited a pile of accumulated grievances. For the first time Martin mentioned divorce.
The next morning Ethel went to work with one aim: to send her husband a proper text. She decided to call him not Martgirl but Martmonkey, a sharper barb.
She drafted:
Dont think Im frightened by your words, you little monkey! Ill leave on my own youll be left biting your elbows! Stop the show, or Ill hand you over to the zoo, where theyll be waiting for you!
She signed not as Elflet but as Whitby, making clear she meant business.
A small smile crossed her face; the message was witty, as Martin liked, and expressed everything she felt without outright cruelty.
New Years Eve loomed, and as the saying goes, how you greet it determines how youll spend it. Would they truly split after barely a year together?
Just then her boss burst in, shouting: Whitby, the annual report is a mess! Fix it and tell me when youll have the corrected version, or youll be out soon!
Marta, thrilled by the adrenaline, left the office feeling triumphant.
Ethel, stunned, stood rooted it was customary to rise when the boss lady entered, but the darkness seemed to widen.
She quickly scanned the report, spotted the error, and fired off a text to Marta, preferring not to face her in person, promising a noon correction, and simultaneously sent a message to Martin.
Three minutes later Marta called her in:
Who, pray tell, among us is a monkey? she asked, a cold smile on her lips, eyes fixed on the phone. Are you sending me to the zoo, Miss Whitby? Hah!
Ethels heart sank; she had mixed up the messages.
Marta, the very embodiment of a monkey, was not amused.
The scene felt like a comedy film turned sour; both women were far from laughing.
Ethel stared at the floor, speechless; explaining seemed pointless, the absurdity was palpable: Dont think Im scared of your words, Ill leave on my own, Ill hand you to the zoo God, is this really happening?
Marta thought the staff had grown bold enough to answer her orders with such cheek. So you wanted to quit yourself? Your wish is granted: youre no longer employed! she declared, briefly considering dumping the offending employee into a toilet.
Your final pay will be processed today; no need to work any longer. Perhaps youll find time for the zoo.
She added, after a pause: Your own have probably been waiting!
Thus the boss triumphantly won.
Ethel left the office, taking an hour and a half to gather herself, then headed home with the money she had finally received, her cactus in tow instead of flowers.
Come on, make peace, her husband said as he appeared in the hallway. Its the right moment; you promised to sort things by lunch!
Martin, having received the misdirected text meant for his boss, realised Ethel had come to reconcile, and he was overjoyed.
Why did you bring a cactus instead of roses? he laughed. A man doesnt need roses, after all! Im waiting!
Your proper is where I keep my nerves! Ethel shouted, her nerves finally snapped. Do you see where Ill stick this cactus? You got me fired!
In truth, the misunderstanding had been avoided if they hadnt argued the day before; there would have been no need for the errant text, and no chaos to follow.
Whats my fault? Martin asked, genuinely bewildered. Did I slip up again?
Not your business! Ethel snapped.
What? I dont understand! Martin replied, ignoring her claim of dismissal: Little things will pass. So, you wont make up?
Fine, Ill go to Mums, he declared. You sit here alone!
Ethel was once more left beside a broken bucket: no lover, no job, no future. And how would she spend NewYears Eve
Your nerves are cursed! her mother said, hearing the dramatic news. Hes to blame, your rotten lad: hes led you astray! Do you think anyone else could have made you so angry?
What have you clung to him for? she asked, Hes like a soap bubble glitters outward, but inside theres only a puff of air!
Choose your suitors more carefully, dear, and be wary of who you bring home!
Dont weep; no one has died. Rest from work for now; your father and I can easily feed you.
Her mother invited Ethel to spend NewYears Eve at her home; a friend promised to bring her handsome, single son.
Grandmother joined, adding: A loss here or there let another spoon clatter elsewhere!
She echoed her mother: Be more selective, dear!
Ethel and Martin eventually separated; they had stopped understanding each other, becoming bitter, cruel, and nothing more.
Old jokes about sharp wit proved true: perhaps everything should have been done with greater care.
Remember this, Ethel, and especially mind your texts you see what can happen when a careless message leads to a tangled mess.
