We met at the GP surgery, waiting in line to see the doctor. I was there because my blood pressure kept spiking; he was waiting for his test results. We got talking. Charles turned out to be a calm, unhurried man.
It had been eight years since my divorce. My son had been living on his own for ages. My friends all had their own lives now – grandchildren, allotments, endless hospital appointments. And then here, suddenly, was a real man. No drinking, no arguing, never raised a hand.
I told myself then: this is it, a gift from fate.
Funny how low we let the bar sink sometimes. Not violent – that counts as good.
Charles worked in a warehouse. The pay wasn’t great, but as he liked to say, it was “steady.” That word was his favourite.
He was steadily tired.
Steadily moaning about his back.
Steadily unable to help around the house.
And steadily expecting dinner on the table by seven o’clock sharp.
When he moved in with me, he brought two holdalls, an old laptop, and his mother on the phone.
She rang every day.
At first I found it rather endearing.
Just a mother worrying about her son.
Then I realised her constant refrain:
“Have you eaten?”
“You haven’t caught a cold, have you?”
“Emma probably opens the windows – that’s why he’s coughing…”
It sounded as though I was starving her boy and keeping him in a draught.
The first year felt manageable enough.
I cooked – he ate.
I washed – he wore.
I did the shopping – he lamented:
“Everything’s gone up so much.”
And he said it as if I’d personally negotiated the new prices with the supermarkets.
Once a month he handed me money.
Five hundred pounds.
Sometimes seven hundred.
And he did it with an expression like he’d just paid off the mortgage on the whole street.
“There – for the housekeeping. Just don’t go overboard.”
But I was the one paying the utilities, buying the food, the cleaning supplies, his back pain tablets, his socks, the discount meat.
And the worst part is, I actually felt grateful for that money.
That’s what frightens me most now.
After dinner Charles liked to heave a heavy sigh.
“The rice is a bit dry. Mum’s comes out fluffy and tender at the same time.”
I still don’t understand how that’s possible.
There must be some special magic that only mothers of grown sons possess.
Or:
“Needs more salt.”
“So put some on.”
“I’m already sitting down.”
He was settled at the table.
Therefore the entire world had to adjust.
I got up.
Brought the salt.
Then the bread.
Then the tea.
Then the remote control, which was literally half a metre away from him.
“Emma, you’re closer.”
Everything was closer to me.
The kitchen.
The bathroom.
The work.
Probably the afterlife would have been closer to me too.
Gradually I started to feel worn out.
Not just physically, though that too.
I’d come home from work, kick off my shoes, and dream of five minutes’ peace.
Just five.
But from the living room would come:
“You’re so late. I’m hungry.”
Not:
“Tough day?”
Not:
“Let me put the kettle on.”
Just:
“I’m hungry.”
I always washed the dishes.
Charles had a special kind of allergy – to the sink.
The moment he saw dirty plates, his bad back would mysteriously flare up.
“I’d help, but you know…”
Yes, I knew everything.
Which pills he took in the morning.
Which sausages he preferred.
That his mother couldn’t eat onions.
That Charles couldn’t do heavy lifting, early mornings, late nights, cleaning the bathroom, or taking out the bin without being reminded.
But what I liked – nobody ever asked.
One day I suggested we split the bills fifty-fifty.
He looked taken aback.
“What do you mean, fifty-fifty? I earn less.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you putting pressure on me?”
There it was.
I wasn’t asking for diamonds or expensive gifts.
Just to share the cost of food and utilities.
And suddenly I was the woman who pressures.
That evening he phoned his mother.
Deliberately put her on speaker.
After hearing him out, Margaret said coldly:
“Emma, are you trying to turn my son into a lodger?”
I was standing at the hob stirring pasta.
I badly wanted to say:
“Lodgers at least pay their way.”
But I kept quiet.
For now.
Later Charles found a new job.
The pay was better.
But it came with daily shirts.
White.
Blue.
Striped.
And they all needed ironing.
For the first few weeks I did them after work.
After dinner.
After cleaning.
I stood at the ironing board while the telly blared in the other room and Charles lay on the sofa.
“You’ve done a poor job on that sleeve.”
“Charles, I’ve been at this for an hour.”
“Well, I’m not asking for myself. I need it for work.”
The next day Margaret turned up unannounced.
She brought her son some homemade cheese scones and set them on the table as if to say:
“This is what proper food looks like.”
And I was in the middle of chopping a salad.
Then came that Thursday.
The hardest one yet.
I got home nearly nine o’clock.
In my bag were apples and yoghurt – for myself.
I opened the door and found Margaret in my kitchen.
Wearing my dressing gown.
That soft blue one with the pocket where I always kept my glasses.
Next to her lay five crumpled shirts and the iron.
Charles came out of the living room.
“We need to talk about something.”
I was taking off my boots slowly.
Because if you do it too fast, one of them might end up flying at someone’s head.
But I’m a well-brought-up woman.
Sometimes that seriously gets in the way.
“I have to be in the office by eight tomorrow,” Charles announced. “I don’t have time to iron.”
“Then iron now.”
“I’m tired.”
I looked at the sofa.
At the plate with crumbs.
At his mother in my dressing gown.
At the iron.
And then he said, perfectly calmly:
“If you can’t manage in the evening, get up at five and iron my shirts. That’s a woman’s duty.”
And suddenly I saw the whole picture from outside.
A fifty-four-year-old woman standing in her own flat after a long day at work.
In front of her, a man who lives there virtually rent-free and eats off her money.
And next to him, his mother, wrapped in her dressing gown, explaining what a proper woman should do.
I walked silently into the bedroom.
I took out those two holdalls from the wardrobe – the ones he’d arrived with four years ago.
I set them in the hallway.
And I said, calmly:
“Pack your things.”
He was sure I’d cry.
That I’d be scared.
To be honest, I thought so too.
Over four years a person takes root in your life.
Even if he’s more like a weed, pulling him out still hurts.
But I stood there silent.
Afterwards was hard.
My hand kept reaching for a second plate.
At the shop I’d automatically pick up his favourite cheese, then put it back on the shelf.
The hardest part wasn’t missing him – it was stopping myself from feeling guilty.
Who would want me, with my jars of preserves on the balcony, my habit of watching box sets under a blanket, and my age over fifty?
But one evening I came home, switched on the light, and suddenly realised:
I want myself.
Cliché?
Probably.
But that was the moment it hit me.
Not as a housekeeper.
Not as a servant.
Not as an appendage to a man.
Just as Emma.
A month later Charles came back.
With three slightly wilted roses.
They looked about as tired as we both were.
I opened the door but left the chain on.
“Emma, I’m miserable without you.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I said quietly.
“At all?”
“At all.”
He stood on the landing for a moment.
Then he turned and left without a word.
