The art of husbanding

By JG Miller.

More focused on his cryptic crossword than responding to his wife, Verity’s needs, Joel Brennan rests on his laurels in his marriage and is bored at his sedentary surveillance job at MI5 in 1980s London.

After Joel stumbles home unexpectedly to find his wife in bed with another man, he is jettisoned into a world of kidnap, terroris

• Language: English
• Publisher: j miller photography
• Release date: Jun 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780648037118

Book preview

Chapter Two

P is for Panic

Two weeks passed. The IRA claimed responsibility for the attack. The bomb was relatively small and exploded in a skip next to the western side of the building. Nobody was injured and the building was shaken, yet didn’t stir.

Verity Brennan pursed her full lips in the mirror as she liberally applied her gloss. If her permed blonde locks were barely contained in her reflection, then her shoulder pads were certainly not. She flickered her cow like eyes and studied the results.

The drone of the dishwasher and the hum of Radio 4’s morning program drowned out Verity’s monologue.

There’s a new Thai restaurant opening this week around the corner. Shall I book a table? We could do with a night out.

Coupled with the crunch of his toast and his attention on the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword, the words were inaudible to Joel. He still nonchalantly completed brief eye contact, a nod and a confirmatory grunt. The words were as lost as Verity’s respect for her husband of four years.

Ground control to Major Joel. Can you hear me Major Joel? He looked up to see his wife descending on him. Furious, she snatched the newspaper from him and tore it in shreds before grabbing the keys to her Audi and shouldering her Louis Vuitton bag. Storming out of their first floor flat in Maida Vale, London, she slammed the door and shook the very foundations of its Victorian heritage.

Joel got a dustpan and brush, swept up the debris and slowly deposited the remnants of his brain-teaser in the pedal bin. Moving to the bathroom, he picked up his toothbrush before yawning and staring deeply in to his own red eyes in the mirror. Sucking in his paunch, he pathetically attempted a body builder pose before giving way to a sigh and reality.

It was true that Joel had been excited to have been approached by MI5 whilst completing his Masters in Asian Languages at Exeter University. To be fair, the recruiters had accurately described the monotonous nature of the role rather well, but it was 1977, and having just been seduced by the delights of Roger Moore in The Spy Who Loved Me, the opportunity seemed infinitely more exciting than being an interpreter in a merchant bank.

The platform at the tube station was unusually busy and Joel went to buy his second copy of the Telegraph from the kiosk. As he did so, a male voice called for his attention.

Joel Brennan?

Joel spun to see a tall city gent, festooned with a pink tie and a chalk stripe suit, gesturing towards him. The man, obviously oblivious to the Tube etiquette of silence, walked closer and beamed a smile from his strong chiselled features. An oversized hand extended itself and offered a reunion to which Joel was thus far blissfully unaware.

Darren, Darren Price said Darren Price, waking up to Joel’s confusion, We were at Exeter Uni together.

Joel’s cognisance kick-started from his morning malaise as Darren continued, captain of the fencing team.

And the bastard that stole my first true love. This sentence didn’t make it to Joel’s lips. Instead he offered, Oh yes, I remember. The answer came from a strained enthusiasm.

The conversation was thwarted by an overly loud, barely comprehensible announcement,

London Underground apologises for any inconvenience. There will be no trains until further notice.

The crowd now broke their code of silence, spurred on by their common enemy, and moans and groans filtered through the platform. Darren piped up again at the tail end of the repeated announcement,

Well, let’s go for a cuppa and catch up, shall we?

Joel smiled and accepted, thinking he would rather stick pins in his eyes.

The croissant was limp and the tiny jar of jam impossible for a mere mortal to open. The queues were getting abnormally busy due to the train disruption and the pair were lucky to score a table, albeit outside, with the spring northerly wind doing its best to chill the already tepid coffee.

So how’s life in Joel Brennan land? Is life treating you good? They were rhetorical questions because Darren had no intention of letting Joel reply. Darren took the jam jar and the lid released itself eagerly in his strong hands.

How many years has it been? Ten? What a job Maggie Thatcher is doing eh? Nailed those union bastards good and proper. Weren’t you a leftie at Uni though, a Labour supporter? Did you ever marry that young girl with the great ass, Alison? Angela?

Annabelle, interjected Joel, surprising himself by his staunch defence of his lost love.

That’s it, Annabelle. Wow, she had some moves.

A hasty patron jogged Joel’s cup and the remains of his thankfully now cold coffee saturated the light grey fabric of his suit trousers. No apology was forthcoming and none asked for. Darren dutifully handed him a serviette.

So did MI5 grab you in the end? Annalise told me that they had approached you.

"Annabelle had no right to share that information besides, no, I didn’t see the future in it. I went in to the civil service instead."

So instead of cloak and dagger you went for bowler hat and umbrella. Which department?

Foreign office, interpreter for foreign correspondence, replied Joel in his well rehearsed manner.

Well, obviously doing OK, having a house in Maida Vale, continued Darren.

Just a flat actually, and my wife works with a property developer and does rather well, stuttered Joel, aware that he was blowing his wife’s trumpet and not his own.

Oh, I see. She wears the trousers, property tycoon. Do you know it costs about eighty thousand pounds for a flat around here, ridiculous.

Joel, now irritated beyond belief, but swallowing it whole, was grateful of the change of topic.

I know, the thought of a flat costing one hundred thousand pounds seems too farcical in the extreme.

Things good at home then? I noticed you winced at my previous comment?

Tough morning, mumbled Joel.

Time of the month probably, shared Darren. My partner puts a little ‘p’ in her Filofax, so I sneak a peek and put a big P in mine the week before. ‘P’ for panic dear boy! I’m in the Lloyds Insurance game, continued Darren. Fascinating stuff actually.

Joel winced. Darren had always been full of his own importance. Actually believed the bullshit he was saying. Full of hot air for five minutes and then crumbled like an exploding zeppelin. Joel hid a wry smile at his own private joke.

I’m in the soup with my present girlfriend as it happens. As she was getting ready to go out last night she said to me, ‘I’m fat, my ass is big and my body is falling apart’ to which I replied, yes, but there’s clearly nothing wrong with your eyesight! Ooh, she was mad. No sense of humour, that filly.

Joel thought about the differences between Darren and himself. Darren was the swashbuckler, the deviant, the original bad boy, who wooed women and spat them out. Joel was loyal, faithful, a provider, a shoulder to cry on and it annoyed the crap out of him that he was always watching his back for Darren types trying to take his woman. Couldn’t women see that the fly-by-night boys had bad intentions? That they were just in it for the short haul? Did all his hard work count for nothing?

Darren broke the silence.

I see those bloody IRA twats are up to their old tricks again. That was a close one with Maggie last year in Brighton. Got a business card?

Joel handed him his false business card and Darren promised to call soon. Joel prayed like fuck that he wouldn’t.

Got to go, said Darren, checking his watch, and then he was through the crowd, without paying, before Joel could even say good riddance.

Joel took a last look at the half eaten croissant and, as he rose, he remembered that his crotch was dark stained from the coffee. He had no quick way to get to the office, so he decided to return home and change his suit and reassess.

The lock turned and Verity heard the footfalls up the creaking stairs. She tried to extricate herself from the heavy weight on top of her but her bucking just made his thrusts stronger and more determined. She whinnied, trying to find her voice to scream out, but his groans drowned her and she resigned herself to her fate.

Joel entered the flat and noticed an expensive briefcase in the kitchen, along with the Louis Vuitton bag and Verity’s keys. His knees buckled and he felt a retch deep from within his viscera. He tiptoed over to the bedroom door and slowly squeezed the doorknob. His heart was in his mouth as the door started to open. His view was largely obscured by a lamp, but he had seen enough. Succumbing to his emotions, he turned, ran down the stairs and slammed the door. Verity, so close to being rescued by the man who loved her most, bit the pillow and wept.

Chapter Three

The Art of Husbanding

Exiled from his own home, Joel found refuge in his local pub, the Warrington, which had just opened. The news blared over the television, updating every few minutes.

The interruption to the transport network was a bomb threat. It would be several hours until normality was resumed and Joel, out of character, supped on a pint of pale ale and inwardly tried to work out the facts in his head.

The who, what, why and when questions raced through his consciousness as he tried to make sense of it all. Where did he go wrong? Who was she with? How long had it been going on? He shuddered at his cowardice in not storming in to confront his wife and his foe. How dare she? And in his bed! Was the marriage over? Of course. There was no way back from this. Sirens howled around the streets and the pub started to fill with frustrated commuters taking salvation in community, topping up with alcohol and news updates. Chatter resounded around the room and helped to numb Joel Brennan from his own personal tragedy.

Had she heard the door shut? Did she know that he knew? Could he ever go home? A million thoughts and no answers. He needed help, but which way to turn? Who did he want to know this dark secret? Who would support him in his time of need? His sister Alana was his first choice, however, she’d be at work. Dad, yes, dad would not judge and he would be at home, a small flat in Kensal Green, three miles north-west of Maida Vale.

Finishing his pint, Joel started his journey, surprised to see how many people had opted to walk the streets of London. Pedestrians were hurrying in all directions, keen to continue their lives. It felt good to be in his body, even if he was running away from the carnage. The movement eased his inner stress. His heartbeat was starting to subside, despite his forced march. Maida Vale gave way to Ladbroke Grove, the arse end of Notting Hill, populated increasingly by young artists.

Kensal Green was a myriad of terraced Victorian bay fronted houses in the process of being converted to flats by developers. BMWs were starting to replace the Datsuns. Jovial West Indian gentlemen of a certain age lent on their gateposts and passed the time of day with stories of their childhoods in Trinidad. Kensal Green was famous for GK Chesterton’s famous Rolling Road poem, For there’s good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen; Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green. Paradise referred to the huge commercial cemetery which defined its boundary.

Sam Brennan’s flat was in Mortimer Road, backing onto the overground section of the Bakerloo line. A retired academic of social anthropology, he passed his time imbibing countless volumes of antiquity, which appeared to leave no room for day to day living within the cramped confines of his one-bedroom abode.

Joel’s mother, Sandra, had fifteen years hence given up on this domicile. Falling for an Australian eight years her junior she had packed her bags for Sydney and the good life. Joel had occasional Christmas cards and a single phone call on his thirtieth birthday, but bore no outward animosity towards his mother.

Joel could see that his dad was happy to live as a recluse. His tomes were his friends and confidants, yet his true passion was cricket. He had played professionally for Middlesex as a bowler in his youth and had only given up playing at amateur level at the age of 55. His manner was pleasant, but he had no time for people. They just complicated everything and got in the way of what he loved to do. Emotion was not part of his life. Thinking and reason had won that battle and that was why Joel could forgive his mother’s departure so easily. Joel had been twenty when she left and it hadn’t been a total shock because his parents seemed so distant. For his younger sister, Alana, it was a huge betrayal and she hadn’t spoken to her mother since.

Joel took a deep breath and gave his familiar knock on the glass-partitioned door. An age seemed to pass before a silhouette appeared. Sam would not leave a book mid page for anyone. The door opened to reveal a kindly, gentle, lined face, with a groomed grey side parting and ears that were oversized and still growing. For his 60 years he was trim and smartly dressed.

Hear about the bomb threat, dad? enquired Joel, passing through the tiled hallway sideways through the bookcases.

Yes, they interrupted the Archers program on the wireless especially. His voice was clipped and monotonous. Is that why you’re not at work? Cup of tea? Looks like you’ve had one already, Sam chortled, looking at Joel’s crotch.

Yes please dad, said Joel, sinking into the button armchair and the calm familiarity of his surroundings. A tear appeared in his eye and before his dad noticed, he sniffed and pulled his sleeve across his face to hide his feelings.

Did you walk up? shouted Sam as he placed his whistle kettle on the gas stove. Joel had bought him an electric one for Christmas, but it was hidden in a box somewhere. Joel waited to answer, unwilling to leave the sanctity of the chair and aware that his dad would never hear him over the noise of the kettle. Joel was reticent now. How could his father help? How could he bring it up in conversation? Just keep quiet and enjoy the tea. Speak to Alana later.

Sam entered with a silver tray. Balancing two cups and a teapot he struggled to find anywhere to put it down. The tea was complete with Digestive biscuits, which had gone soft awaiting their next visitor.

So what’s the problem? Sam enquired directly, handing Joel his cup and saucer.

Does there have to be a problem to visit my old man? Joel’s attempt to deflect was half-hearted.

Just spit it out, lad. Is it Verity?

Joel reluctantly recounted the morning’s events and Sam patiently nodded and took in the news.

That doesn’t sound like my Verity, Sam concluded. Headstrong, ambitious, single-minded maybe, but not sleeping around. Are you sure?

Joel didn’t answer and looked at the fireplace in a reflective mood.

Well, if you ask me, you need to buck your ideas up. What has been lost is the art of husbanding. Women need wooing every day. They need to feel special, be complimented, be seen, and above all, be listened to; active listening. Not just pretending to listen while you watch the football, proper full attention and presence. No interruptions. Don’t even think of your reply whilst she’s speaking. Just listen. And furthermore, as men, we love to have the final word, to complete, to make that smartarse comment that makes us right and them wrong. Don’t do it!

Joel retorted: Well if you’re such an expert, why did mum leave? Besides, husbanding isn’t even a real word.

Well, I’ve always been a theoretician more than a doer, you know that. Women want a man to be taking the bull by the horns and engage with life, not a man chuffing a pipe in his slippers like me.

This was a side to his father that Joel had never seen and it didn’t sit well with Joel’s victim mentality. Sam continued his sermon.

Verity is a good woman, and if you had treated her like she deserved, then none of this would’ve happened. You have to fill them up with happiness every day, surprise them.

Rant over, Sam dunked his biscuit in his tea and watched it fall apart.

So, it’s all my fault? Joel’s face reddened, half in shock and half mad.

Not your fault, lad. It’s just magnetism. Women are drawn to the strongest magnet. If you’re floating in the middle all wishy-washy, being a ‘new age man’ then the attraction is literally lost.

Joel’s left hemisphere was already tired of trying to work it all out.

Sam could see Joel’s energy faltering and suggested that he recline the chair to lie down for a rest, and within 10 minutes, with his earlier beer having a soporific effect, he was fast asleep.

He awoke to the sound of a passing train and an old grandfather clock proclaiming it was four o’clock. His head smarted as he realised where he was and recalled the morning events. The dark stain on his trousers had lessened but his suit was crumpled from sleeping. Joel thought he heard whispers and the front door slowly being pulled shut. He figured it must be the couple from the upstairs flat. The kettle soon began to whistle again. Relaxing back in to the armchair the tea was already poured and a Bakewell tart had appeared. Joel refused to eat.

"Have you started using a cologne dad? This place stinks.

Sam glossed over. First things first, ask yourself deep down, in your heart, do you love this woman?

Joel took a couple of minutes searching through his emotions to find an answer.

Yes, he replied and a tear descended down his cheek.

If it were me, and it’s not, I’d not mention that you know what went on. I’d try to win back her heart. Turn your magnet back on so she’s no option but to notice you.

I can’t even bear to look at her, let alone carry on as if nothing has happened.

Sam paused, I didn’t say carry on as if nothing has happened. That won’t win her back. You’ve to be back in honeymoon mode, be all over her, present and willing, a tough call. Probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life. Focus on loving her and being in a place that far exceeded what you had before. Don’t try and work it all out in your head, that’s where I went wrong. Breathe deep.

Can I use your phone please dad? I need to phone work. Without waiting for permission, Joel picked up the corded phone and dialled the direct number to his desk. Grace answered and explained that it was chaotic, yet everything was in hand in their department. They had confirmation of the identity of the men in the car park and they’d be installing cameras in his office overnight.

Joel felt sick. What if it was someone in Verity’s office that she was sleeping with? He would be covertly watching his wife all day long.

Chapter Four

Keel Over Like a Puppy Dog

Verity replayed the events of the morning in her head. Her heart was beating twenty to the dozen. Had Joel definitely heard what was going on? If he did, why didn’t he storm in? Yes, why didn’t he man up and confront the situation? Perhaps he just forgot something, grabbed it and went out again, oblivious to the events going on in the bedroom. Should she come clean and tell the truth? Telling the truth was too awful to contemplate After all, he wouldn’t listen, he never listened.

Joel left his dad, waited in the long queue at the No.52 bus stop on Kensal Rise, and began his journey down towards New Compton St, Soho, where Alana shared a tiny flat. The roads had cleared and he looked around as if he were watching a movie. How could this normality be going on whilst inside he was burning with hate and confusion? His dad’s words rang true but the whole idea terrified him. Could this really be the time to step up to the plate and claim his woman? Surely the idea was absurd. She should be on her knees, apologising and begging to be reaccepted. Had he really been such an awful husband as to deserve this?

Jumping off the back of the double-decker too early, he stumbled on the curb. Readjusting himself, with a slight limp, he made the short walk behind the string of designer boutiques to an