No Longer a Wife

No Longer a Wife

– Tom, have you taken your blood pressure today? Did you remember your tablet? Mary poked her head into the sitting room, wiping her hands on her flowery apron.

– Oh for goodness sake, Mary, give it a rest about my blood pressure, would you! he grumbled without even looking up from his phone. Ive got a meeting in an hour. Wheres my blue cotton shirt? The one from Marks. Has it been ironed?

– I ironed three shirts for you yesterday, Tom you yourself said that one had to go to the dry cleaners, its got a stain on it

– Honestly, you always get things mixed up! Cant trust you with anything. Oh well, just pass me anything. And make me a proper strong tea, none of that chamomile stuff you keep giving me!

Marys shoulders stiffened, but she didnt answer. She turned and went back to the kitchen.

Outside, November stretched, grey and damp. The block of flats across the street looked like a row of dark eyes, only a couple windows glowing softly. Mary Anne Carter, fifty-six, stood by the cooker and watched the old kettle rattle its tired spout. Shed meant to buy a new one in spring. Never got round to it. There was always something else.

She spooned strong Assam into his mug as he liked plain, no mint, no flowers. She set out the sandwiches shed prepared at six in the morning: brown bread, butter, cheese two slices, crusts off because of Toms stomach. She sliced tomato, though November tomatoes taste mostly of cardboard. Still, vitamins, she supposed. She put it all on a tray and walked quietly into the lounge.

Thomas James Carter, fifty-eight, was slouched in his armchair, eyes on his phone. Three months earlier, hed finally got his promotion head of department, after twenty years as a plain engineer. Old Mr. Simmons retired, and Tom, the senior man, was tapped to replace him. With the job came a bump up in salary £400 a month more, his own office, and apparently, a completely transformed view of life and himself.

– Just put it there, he nodded to the coffee table, without glancing up.

Mary set the tray down. Stood a moment.

– Tom, you really should take your tablet. You said your head ached yesterday.

– I said it ached yesterday. Its fine today. Alright? Now please, Ive got a call to make, so just go.

She left. She stood for a moment in the hallway by the rack his coat, her blue puffer, the umbrella with the bent rib. She stared at nothing, then reached for a cloth and set off to wipe the kitchen windowsill, for want of anything else to do.

This was how things had been for about three weeks. Ever since Toms promotion and that wretched work retreat at a hotel in the Cotswolds. Hed come home a different man trimmer, new haircut, a new way of pinching his lips. Then, shed been glad. Thought hed perked up at last. But soon she started to notice the changes.

Now hed criticise the food. Before, hed eaten what he was given in silence. Suddenly, the stew was too salty, the fishcakes too dry, and tinned beans and eggs were, apparently, student food, not for department heads. She checked shed heard him right. He gave her a look, as if shed said something ridiculous.

– Mary, its about time we ate proper food. Something decent roast fish, some proper salads, not just your potato one at Christmas.

So she cooked roast fish and salads. He ate wordlessly. She thought that meant everything was fine. The next evening, he came home moody and dropped in, You know, my mate Dave from the retreat his wife doesnt work, just looks after the house, and, I mean, she looks great!

Mary stayed quiet. She could have said: shed not worked for four years, ever since the accounts office was made redundant. She gets up at six, goes to bed after him, keeps the house, makes his GP rounds, queues at the chemist for his Simvastatin and his blood pressure pills, fetches the winter tyres from the garage (well, a taxi actually theyd sold the car years back when Toms health started to wobble). She keeps track of all his prescriptions: ramipril for the pressure, statins for the cholesterol, plus another for his joints this spring, that cost nearly £30 a box. She could have said all that. But she didnt, because it never helped.

Then, two days ago, the thing happened. The thing she couldnt ignore.

He came home at eight, as she was lifting her special chicken broth off the hob low fat, second boil, because of his cholesterol. The kitchen smelled of dill and carrot.

– Why so late? she called out.

– Held up, he grunted, dumping his shoes by the door and not bothering with the shoe rack.

– Dinners ready. Come and have some.

He peered into the pot and made a face.

– Chicken, again.

– Tom, the doctor said

– I know what the doctor said. Im not a child. But Im sick of eating hospital food at home.

She ladled him some stew. Sliced the bread. He sat, ate, got up, left his bowl behind. She washed up, wiped down surfaces, swept away crumbs. Then went to let him know there was still compote if he fancied it.

He sat in his chair, scrolling. Something pink flicked across the screen, but she couldnt see what. He tilted the phone away.

– Tom, do you want the compote?

He looked up. Studied her for a long time, weighing something.

– No, he said, finally. Then, after a pause: Mary, look at yourself.

She was startled.

– Sorry?

– I said, look at yourself. When did you last go to the hairdresser? Your hairs a mess. That dressing gown! You look like some old country granny.

In the kitchen, something dripped in the sink. Through the wall, the neighbours telly muttered.

– Tom, she said quietly.

– What, Tom? Im just saying the truth. Ive got to go to work dos, meet important people. A mans wife ought to well, just look at the state of you.

– Important people? she repeated, slowly. You havent invited anyone round once in three months.

– Because its embarrassing! he raised his voice, that word embarrassing fell like a stone in the room. Look at Steves wife shes lovely, immaculate. Stylish. And you Youve let yourself go. That robe, uncoloured hair, youve put on weight

– Thomas. She used his full name, which hardly ever happened. Youre sixty soon. Im fifty-six. Were not young anymore.

– Precisely! He sprang from his chair, as if this clinched his argument. All the more reason to take care of yourself! I go to the gym now, I do my bit. You sit about all day, cant even

– Sit about all day she echoed, voice eerily calm, even she was surprised. Fine, Tom. Understood.

She stepped out and quietly closed the door. Stood in the kitchen. Gathered up the loaf, popped it in the bread bin, switched the light off over the cooker. She did it all automatically. Inside something shifted. Not snapped, not collapsed just nudged over, like moving old furniture in your lounge. Feels strange at first, and then you wonder why you didnt do it earlier.

That night she didnt sleep. Lay on her side of the bed, looking at the flaking ceiling. He started snoring almost at once, as always. She listened to his breathing and thought.

She thought about how, for the past decade, shed been stuck in service mode. Up early, cooking, laundering, dusting, queueing at the chemist, making appointments, acting as his personal taxi well, not really, theyd sold the car when he stopped driving and so she lugged him about on buses, paying contactless. Keeping track of his pills: ramipril, atorvastatin, lately some pricey supplement for his joints, nearly £25 a box. Shed write it all in her battered orange notebook, so nothing ran out. The doctor had insisted: dont skip your meds.

And now hed called her an embarrassment. Said shed become like some country grandmother. That Steves wife was better.

Mary lay staring upwards. By 1am, one truth sat clear in her mind: enough.

Not Ill leave, not Ill get a divorce, not even Ill make a scene. Simply enough of doing things that go unnoticed and unvalued. Enough of being someones household resource, like a tap thats only noticed when the water runs out. Let him manage.

She got up at six, like always. Made her own tea for once, that chamomile blend he hated. Sat by the table with her mug and phone. Looked up hair salons the pricey place at the shopping centre, the one shed always avoided because a cut was over £35. She booked for Wednesday. Then she found a free walking club in St. Georges Park, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Jotted it in her phone.

When Tom shuffled in at seven, he found only his mug perched by the kettle. Bread in the bin, butter in the fridge hed have to get it himself.

– Wheres my breakfast? he asked, looking around.

– Breads there, butters there, cheese is in the fridge, Mary replied, not looking up from her phone.

He hesitated. Made his own tea and toast. Ate, standing at the fridge. Left for work without another word.

She watched him go, feeling almost relieved.

That Wednesday, she kept her hair appointment. The stylist a young woman with a pixie cut and half a dozen earrings examined Marys hair.

– Not coloured in a while, have you?

– Three years. Just always something else, Mary admitted.

– Good length though. Lets do a gentle highlight and shape it up, nothing drastic.

Mary sat in that chair two and a half hours, watching herself gradually change in the mirror. She didnt look young, not really. But she looked alive herself, rediscovered.

She spent £78 on her hair. On the way home she picked up a proper moisturiser for older skin £18, more than shed ever spent before, but for once, she just bought it.

Tom noticed her hair that evening. Said nothing.

She didnt need him to.

The next week, his blood pressure tablets ran out. Mary had always monitored the packs, refilled a few days ahead, so there were no gaps. This time she simply put the empty box on his bedside. Let him notice.

He walked straight past it for a day, then, finding it empty, called out,

– Mary! Im out of tablets!

– Yes, she replied from the kitchen.

– So, havent you bought any?

– Tom, youre a grown man. Go get them yourself.

A pause. A long one.

– Ive got work.

– So do I. Things to do.

She didnt specify what things. The truth was, she really was busy these days: Tuesday and Thursday she walked in the park, in a group with two women, Ivy and Carol. Ivy was a school deputy head, her booming laugh scattering pigeons. Carol was retired, quiet, and helped with her grandkids. They circled the lake, chatting, breathing cold air. Mary realised just how much shed missed things like this.

Tom did go get his tablets, returning with the manner of someone whod done an epic quest. Put the box on the table, said nothing. She said nothing too.

One weekend, Mary rang her friend Jean old fellow accountant from work.

– Jean, you doing anything Saturday?

– Not especially, why?

– Lets go out. Cinema, or just a café?

– Mary, are you alright? Jean sounded surprised, they hadnt done that for years.

– Better than usual, Mary replied.

Saturday, they met by Kingston station. Jean squealed at Marys hair.

– Mary, what have you done? You look fabulous!

– Hairdresser.

– At last! I always thought well, anyway, its wonderful.

They grabbed lattes and cake, seated by the glass, watching the first proper snow fall and melt on the high street.

– So? Jean prompted.

Mary told her. About Toms promotion, his new airs, the food, Steves wife, the look at yourself, and embarrassment. She retold it almost calmly, as though she were relaying someone elses story.

Jean sipped her coffee.

– So, what did you decide?

– I didnt decide anything, said Mary. I just stopped doing what he doesnt appreciate. Not out of spite. Just no point.

– No point, Jean echoed. I get it. She paused. Youre right.

– I dont know if Im right. I just couldnt go on otherwise.

Jean nodded, forking up some cake.

– Has he noticed at all?

– The tablets? Yes. That I dont iron his shirts every day? Noticed that too. Yesterday, he put on a crumpled one and left in a strop.

– No rows?

– None. Mary shrugged. He doesnt seem to know how to react. Hes used to me not answering back. Now Im silent, but differently.

Jean studied her.

– Divorce crossed your mind?

– Yes. But not yet. I need to know who I even am, without all of this. Its been years since Ive really seen myself.

They chatted on, ordered more coffee, left in the dark and snow, hugging by the bus stop.

– Keep in touch, yeah? Fancy next Saturday?

– Absolutely, agreed Mary.

On the way home, she realised it had been six, seven years since shed simply sat in a café with Jean. Always something more urgent, always Toms needs coming first.

Back, he was in front of the telly. A dirty mug and plate in the kitchen his frying pan, perhaps. Normally shed have washed up at once. Now, she left it.

– Where were you? he asked, eyes glued to the TV.

– Out with Jean.

– Late, arent you?

– Yes.

She went to the bathroom, pampered her face with the new cream. Met her gaze in the mirror: fifty-six, face no longer young, but awake. Crows feet by the eyes, laugh lines, and the highlighted hair that actually suited her. She was no spring chicken, and that was fine.

December set in with proper frosts. Mary bought decent leather boots, not those cheap wellies shed worn three winters running. £95, and not a bit of regret.

The mood at home shifted. She still cooked, but didnt make special diet food. She made proper stews, roast chicken, sometimes grabbed shop dumplings just because. If he wanted to watch his cholesterol, he could sort it himself.

His shirts now got washed with all the rest, on a basic cycle, no special extra spin. She used to do his clothes separately, so theyd keep their shape. No more.

He noticed. Passed cranky comments now and then:

– Dumplings again?

– Yes, shed answer, steady as ever.

– You barely cook now.

– There was soup yesterday, roast on Sunday.

Hed leave, grumpy. But never pushed the argument further.

Meanwhile, Mary let life bloom. She kept walking in the park with Ivy and Carol. Ivy tipped her off to a good gynaecologist, so Mary finally booked check-ups shed long put off. She signed up for a free watercolour class at the local library on Wednesdays. Not because shed always wanted to paint, but because why not? Two hours each week of nothing urgent, just brush and paper.

Mid-December, Tom started working late. In the past, shed fret, ring him, keep dinner hot. Now, she ate whenever she felt like it, went to bed when she liked. He came home at nine, ten, even near midnight once. She didnt ask; he didnt explain.

She didnt realise there was someone else until one night, when he came in smelling of sharp, sweet perfume that definitely wasnt office air or restaurant. Standing in the hallway, she thought, So thats how it is.

Oddly, it didnt hurt. She had expected pain, but only felt a weary curiosity and something else she recognised after a moment: relief from responsibility. If he did leave, it would be his choice, not her failure.

She said nothing. Slept soundly.

For about three weeks this continued: he went to work, stayed out, sometimes took calls in the bathroom. Once, she overheard, …yes, Lottie, Saturday Lottie. Fine.

She reflected deeply. Thirty-two years shed spent with this man, raised their son Michael, who now lived in Manchester with his wife and two kids. Tom hadnt always been this way in youth hed been lively, joking, went fishing with Michael. The decline hadnt come overnight; more a slow seepage, like water flooding a cellar.

She thought about herself. How shed poured herself into looking after him, forgetting to look after herself. Not just the outside. Inside. She hardly knew her own tastes, or what music she liked, or whether shed go anywhere if she could.

The painting classes became precious. Mary sat in the quiet library, the teacher Mrs. Hudson, fifty-two, showed them how to blend colours. Mary painted an apple on a page and thought, Its not so scary, this trying something for me.

One session, in January, Mrs. Hudson said, Youve got a good sense of colour, Mary Anne. Honestly. Just casually, but it struck her Tom hadnt said such a thing in years.

By January, Lottie seemed to quietly exit the scene. Mary knew not from any confession, but because Tom reverted to his old routines home at seven, telly, no more secretive calls. He looked a bit wilted. Started coughing.

She made stew, he ate it. Passed by, not uttering a word. One evening, he half-heartedly said, Bit cold tonight, as she brewed tea.

– Yeah, she replied. Supposed to be minus three.

– Mhm.

He left the room. That was the extent of their conversation.

She learned what had happened later, by chance. An old friend, Paul, rang about their shared timeshare and offhand mentioned, Heard your Tom was seeing someone? Didnt last, did it. Mary just said, Id heard something. Paul chuckled and moved on.

Mary guessed the rest. Lottie probably thought she was getting a dashing department head, dinner and laughter, but discovered a fifty-eight-year-old man with blood pressure, cholesterol, and a need for his shirts ironed and tea brewed precisely. Not for everyone.

She didnt pity him. It was like the feeling when a tooth has ached forever and finally stops not joy, but relief.

In February, his health took a dip. All those years shed kept his medicine regime, now left to himself, he missed doses, sometimes doubled up, sometimes ran out altogether. She saw the packs not in any order. Once she saw him take two at once, making up for the previous day. She said nothing. The doctor had told him.

His pressure spiked, he paled, sometimes complained of tinnitus. Started waking at night. One morning, he said,

– Feeling a bit dizzy today.

– Go see the GP, she replied.

– Will you book me in?

– Give the surgery a ring yourself. The numbers on your card.

He looked at her. She drank her tea.

– I forget how you do it.

– Tom, youre running an office. Youll work it out.

He did. Went, got a new prescription, an additional medication.

– Here, he put the paperwork on the table.

– Alright.

– You getting it?

– Ill be in town tomorrow, can pick it up. Give me the money first.

He wasnt expecting that. She used to buy and sort his tablets herself, out of the housekeeping. Now, plain as that.

He paid. She brought the prescription, put it with the others no notes, no scheduling, nothing. Let him sort it.

March came with thaw and dripping eaves. Children sloshed through puddles. Mary began taking walks just for the sake of it, sometimes without her walking sticks. She bought a new spring coat with a belt light beige standing in front of the mirror in H&M, realising she hadnt bought anything for herself in years.

That month, Michael and his wife Sarah came to stay a few days. Michael, tall, forty, had Toms looks but not his surliness. Sarah was warm, unflappable. They turned up with a jar of honey and a box of biscuits.

The first night, they all sat at the table: roast potatoes, herring salad, Mums famous pork pie. Tom was quiet, saying little. Michael chatted about work and the kids, Sarah quizzed Mary about her art classes.

– Youre painting, Mum? he sounded surprised.

– Im learning. Watercolours.

– Thats brilliant. Show us!

She did. Apples, a vase, the view from the library. Michael marvelled. Sarah gushed.

– Mum, you look younger every time.

– Just got my hair done, at last, she downplayed it.

She noticed Michael eyeing his dad. Tom munched pie, silent. Something was off between them, Michael could tell, but didnt ask.

Next day, while Sarah nipped to the shops, Michael lingered in the kitchen as Mary rolled pastry.

– Mum. Is Dad alright?

– Why do you ask?

– Well Hes just not himself. Is he ill?

– Struggles with his pressure. Saw the GP. He manages himself now. Grown man.

Michael was quiet. Picked up a ball of dough and kneaded it, pensive.

– You two not arguing, are you?

– No, Mary said truthfully. They werent arguing. Just drifting through the same house like shadow and light.

– Mum, if you ever need

– Michael, Im alright. Honestly.

And she was. Odd as it seemed.

They left on Sunday. The flat felt empty and calm. Mary cleaned up, Tom watched TV.

Late that evening, he filled his glass at the sink.

– Michaels looking well, he remarked.

– He is, she agreed.

– Their kids are he trailed off.

– Yes.

He drank, put the glass on the side, and left. She stayed, watching ribbons of rain slide down the pane, the street lamps glimmer on the wet tarmac.

April began with Toms blood pressure spiking badly not an ambulance job, but unpleasant; he swayed in the hallway, had to sit down suddenly.

– Mary, I dont feel good.

She found him on the floor, red-faced and sweating.

– Come on get up slowly.

She helped him to bed. Got the monitor. 185 over 110. Not good.

– Take your extra pill, the one for emergencies. Lie flat. Ill check in half an hour.

– Where you going?

– Kitchen.

She made a cup of tea, watched the kettle boil. Listened to the rustle of him searching for tablets. In an hour, hed dropped to 160 over 95. Manageable.

– Stay put today. Dont go out.

– Ive got work

– Ring in sick, youre not going anywhere.

He stayed home. She made him tea, some toast. Not for him. Just did it. Theres a difference, she realised, between not wanting to look after him and never helping at all.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling.

– Mary, he said at last.

– Yes?

– I He hesitated. Then, unexpectedly: Ive been acting like a right idiot lately.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

– Yes, Tom, you have, she answered steadily.

– Well He looked up. This promotion. I suppose it went to my head. Thought my life would, I dunno, change. That Id achieved something.

– You did. Department head.

– Yeah. Pause. And you, just well, you dont

– I know what you want to say, Tom, she replied quietly.

She got up, took his mug. Went back to the kitchen. It wasnt a reconciliation. No hugs, no tears, just an honest Ive been a fool, and agreement.

April slid into May. Mary kept up her walks and watercolours. She and Ivy got close; Ivy invited her to the theatre. Tickets to the local rep, good stalls seats. Mary hadnt been in over a decade; she sat, juice in hand, entranced by real actors and imagined lives.

She was fifty-six and finally realised this wasnt the end of anything, but something entirely new.

Life with Tom was parallel now. He no longer criticised her food, no more comparisons with Steves wife. Sometimes they had ordinary conversations. Sometimes evenings passed side by side: he watched telly, she read a book (Ivys recommendation). It was peaceful. The difference: she felt no obligation.

One day he asked her to order his tablets online, to save some money.

– I dont know how.

– Its easy. Type in what you need, pop it in your basket, choose your branch.

– But youre better at it.

– So youll learn.

He did. Fiddled a bit, called her over once, but managed.

She understood dont do for someone what they can do for themselves. Shed thought helping meant doing everything. Now she saw it only made him more helpless.

June baked in heat. Mary bought a new summer dress, covered in tiny blue flowers. Put it on, saw herself not an old crone, just a woman in a dress she liked.

She realised every couple does old age differently. Some wage cold war, some play at friendship, some exist in frosty detachment. She and Tom had something else: not war, not peace, not indifference. Just two people under one roof, each living their own story.

She didnt know what lay ahead. Sometimes she thought of Jeans question about divorce. She didnt rule it out. But first, she needed to assemble herself.

Summer drifted by. She visited Michael in Manchester for two weeks the first time alone in years. Tom stayed behind: work. She packed her bag, brought a hand-embroidered cushion for little Maisie, learned how to do it from a YouTube video. The fortnight was the best in ages time with the grandkids, making porridge, bathing Maisie, reading stories. It was caring, but not draining: love, not obligation.

Michael asked how she was; she told him the truth. He listened. He was a good son.

Mary came home tanned, revived. Tom met her at the door, took the bag: Back already then? It was something, anyway.

August was muggy. She bought a fan, an enormous watermelon (ate half herself, shredded the other for Tom). He polished his share, actually said Thank you. The first time in ages.

In September, the cool returned and the poplars rattled gold. Friday night, Tom came in at eight, grey-faced, walking gingerly. She was sat in the kitchen with her library book.

– Mary, he called. I dont feel good.

– Whats up?

– Pressure, probably. Head. And here, he gestured at his chest, Im getting a pain.

She stood up, studied him.

– When did it start?

– After lunch. Thought itd pass.

– Have you had your medication?

– Took it at three. Didnt touch it.

– Sit down.

He plopped onto the kitchen chair. She brought out the blood pressure cuff. 190 over 115. Worse than last time.

– Tom, this is serious. You need an ambulance.

– Oh come on, maybe another pill

– No, Tom. 190 and chest pain is not another-pill territory. You need help.

– Well, you ring them then

She paused. Held the blood pressure cuff in her hands, studied him: grey skin, frightened eyes, hand on chest. She saw a man who was ill. She felt real pity no malice. He was just someone unwell and afraid.

But she also remembered a year of being invisible, drowned by words that never washed away, and how shed been forgotten as a person long before shed stopped trying to please.

She knew what shed do and what she wouldnt.

– Tom, she said quietly. Youve got your own phone. You know the number for 999.

He stared at her, bewildered.

– Sorry?

– Call yourself. Dial 999, give the address, say its your pressure and chest pain. Theyll come.

– Mary His voice wobbled, almost like a childs. Arent you going to help me?

– I have helped: I measured your pressure, told you what to do. The rest is on you.

– But

– Tom. She set the monitor down. Youre a grown man. Youll cope.

She left the kitchen. Walked down the hall. Closed her door, not slamming, just gently.

After a while, from the kitchen came his quiet, nervous voice:

– Hello? Yes, ambulance, please. Address

She made herself tea chamomile, her favourite. Took her cup to the kitchen, brushing quietly by him as he sat, phone in hand, talking to the emergency operator. He glanced up. She stood by the window, staring at the pooling light outside.

The courtyard was empty, streetlamp bleeding yellow onto damp tarmac. Leaves fallen from the poplars, dark with rain, scattered below. The bench by the block was deserted.

He finished talking. Silence.

– Theyre coming, he said.

– Good, she answered.

– Will you come to hospital with me?

She looked at him. Grey, scared. She pitied him, but nothing more.

– No, Tom, she answered quietly. The paramedics will take care of you. Thats their job.

She picked up her tea and moved to the lounge, shutting the door softly. Sat gazing out at the windows of the block opposite, the poplar trees, the faraway amber lights.

After a while, she heard footsteps, then voices:

– Blood pressure ECG maybe hospital

She caught the question, Wife at home?

Toms hesitant answer, Shes here but she wont come.

A pause, then the paramedics neutral reply, Righto. Get your coat, sir, well see to you.

The door. The lift. Silence.