Weekend Husband
The pork chop sat perfectly in the middle of the plate. I stared at it, feeling my stomach grumble treacherously.
Rose, can I make myself a sandwich? Im hungry.
Mark, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. The roast will get cold.
Ill be quick, just a small bite.
Cant you wait twenty minutes? Ive timed everything out. Potatoes are done at seven fifteen, the chickens ready at seven twenty. If you spoil your appetite now, youll barely eat later.
I sighed and sat at the table. Rose hovered at the fridge, rearranging the groceries wed just picked up. Everything had its place. Milk on the middle shelf to the right, cheese in the dairy drawer, yogurts lined up by date, the soonest-to-expire nearest the front.
Can I at least have some tea?
Have some. Just one sugar though.
Rose, I am a grown man.
Youre barely a heartbeat away from diabetes. Your father was diabetic, and your grandfather, too. One spoon.
I reached for the kettle, but Rose was there first, pouring the tea, counting out exactly one spoonful of sugar, and setting the mug before me.
There you go. Drink.
I looked down at the mug. Then at her back, as she turned to the fridge, and finally took a sip. The tea was bland and almost sugarless. I didnt say a word.
It was already getting dark outside. October in London brings an early dusk, and in our quiet bit of Highgate, with the houses packed tight as matchboxes, it seemed to arrive even faster. The streetlights glowed in perfect rows; the usual cars filled the usual spaces. Everything was unchanged.
We were fifty-seven and fifty-five. Thirty years married. The house was spotless, as clean as a theatre set, as quiet as a church.
***
Saturdays here start at 8am. Not because we have to, but because at eight, the list begins. Rose writes it out every Friday evening, her neat handwriting filling a small notebook.
Eight oclock: Breakfast.
Half past eight: Cleaning.
Ten oclock: ShopsWaitrose for food, Boots for cleaning stuff.
Noon: Lunch.
One oclock: A rest, one hour.
Two oclock: Visit Aunt Mabel.
Five oclock: Home again.
Half past five: Supper.
Half past six: Reading or telly.
Ten oclock: Bed.
I knew the list off by heart. Not because I ever read itjust that it never changed, not for fifteen years at least. Only the timing of family visits and the food shop would vary.
Id mop the hallway, pushing the cloth from wall to wall, thinking about fishing. It came to me, out of nowhere. How long since Id been? Eight years, maybe. Last time was with Phil from work, up at the Lake District. We caught three small perch and a bream. We sat on the bank until dark, boiling a stew over a makeshift fire, Phil telling daft jokes and us laughing so loud the ducks scattered.
Id come back late, long after midnight. Rose would be up.
Do you know what time it is?
I know, Rose. Lost track a bit.
Lost track! I called you eight times. Your dinners in the fridge. Its not the same cold.
Sorry.
You know how worried I was?
Sorry, Rose.
After that, I never went again. Not because she forbade it. Somehow, it just stoppedthe weekends filled with jobs and plans, and eventually I stopped asking. Simpler that way.
Mark, are you rinsing the mop properly? Dont wring it too dry or therell be streaks.
I did it exactly as she said, not that I noticed any difference. The floors shone. Rose prided herself on her house; I heard her once tell her friend on the phone, You could eat off my floors. I thought, as I listened through the door, that I never wanted to eat off any floor, even a perfect one.
The shop went to plan. Lunch went to plan. Aunt Mabel dished up potato pies, bottoms burnt black, and Rose, oh so kindly but loud enough for all, said, Mabel, I think your oven must be heating unevenly. I ate three pies and thought they tasted best because they were burnt.
We got home by five twenty. Ten minutes early.
Rose set down the bags, put the kettle on, and fetched a homemade cheesecake shed prepared since morning. She cut it into six perfectly equal pieces.
I sat there, staring at the cake, and panicsmall, quietrose up in me. Not because of the cheesecake. Just everything. Because I knew what tomorrow would be. And next week. And the year after.
I finished my tea and cake and went to watch TV.
***
The hoover packed up on Wednesday evening. Just quit, no warning. I took it apart on the kitchen table and saw the problem straight away: clogged filter and the brush heads mounting bracket had broken. Nothing tricky. Ive been an engineer at the Electronics Works for twenty-two years. Sorting out the hoover shouldve taken twenty minutes.
Rose stepped into the kitchen and paused at the door.
What are you doing?
Fixing it. The filters blocked and the brackets cracked.
Call a repairman, Mark. Dont fiddle with it.
Rose, Ive got this. Its nothing major.
You remember that iron you fixed twice? First it wouldnt turn on at all, then you rewired it and it only heated on one side.
That was different. This, I can see whats wrong.
Mark.
Im an engineer, Rose.
Youre an engineer at the factory, not an appliance repair man. Dont make a mess of it. Itll cost twice as much to put right.
Something in me shifted. Quiet, dull, like a stone finally rolling after years in the same spot. I looked from the half-stripped hoover to my hands, then to her, so sure and steady.
Ill fix it, Rose.
Mark
I. Will. Fix. It.
She blinked, surprised, a little annoyed, and then quietly left.
It took an hour, not twenty minutes. The hoover worked better than ever; cleaned the filter, reattached the bracket, packed away my tools, and switched it on just to hear it hum away, smooth and steady.
Rose walked past, glanced in, nodded, and said nothing.
I realised Id been waiting for a Well done.
***
I spotted the ad at the bus stop: Repairsretro gear, appliances, easels, and more. Enquire within. There was an address and a number.
My ancient record player, a Linton bought back in my twentiesDad helped chip inhadnt worked in years. Rose had wanted it binned for ages. Id told her, Later, putting it right back on the shelf.
That Linton had seen me through youthlistening to Dylan and Joni Mitchell vinyls in my poky shared flat. When Rose moved in, she stashed my records in a box and put the box in the loft. They just collect dust, shed said. Sometimes, Id pop up there and check they were still safe.
The phone just rang out. So I went to the address: a Georgian house down a Camden backstreet, its flaky paint and chunky, battered doors giving it a certain faded grandeur.
I found the right flat. Knocked. There was a clatter inside, and then the door opened.
A woman about my age stood there in an apron covered in blue and yellow paint flecks. Her hair was a mad mess, streaks escaping everywhere, and there was a green spot of paint on her cheek.
Hullo. Youre here about the ad?
Yes. I heard you could fix
Come in, come in! Im Kate. Careful with the easel in the hallway.
I stepped inside and just stopped.
Id not seen anything like it since my college days. Canvases everywhere. Some blank, some half-finished, some painted over a dozen times. Jars of brushes sat on the windowsill; an old tabby watched me from the sofa, regal as a king.
The flat smelt of oil paint, coffee, and something elselife, I think.
Excuse the mess, Kate said, Ive been painting all day.
Its fine, I replied, surprised by how much I meant it.
What needs fixing?
My ‘Linton’ record player. Not turning. I tried looking but the motor seems gone.
Oh, Linton! I know them. Sometimes its the remote contacts rustingdid you check the batteries?
Yeah. Pretty sure its deeper.
Kate nodded thoughtfully.
Did you bring it?
No, just wanted to check first. Couldnt reach you by phone.
Ah, dont mind my phone. I misplace it about three times a day. Bring your player and Ill take a look. While youre here, thoughcould you lend a hand? Ill do yours with a discount, fair?
***
The easel stood under the window, sturdy but old, a leg worn loose and the canvas always slipping.
See here? Kate pointed. Lost the bolt ages ago. Tried a screw, but it wobbles.
I squatted down, inspected it. Asked for a screwdriver; Kate came back with threeall different, unsure which Id need. I stripped out the wobbly screw, asked for some tape, wrapped it tight, and fixed it back in place.
Itll hold for now, I said. But you want a proper M6 boltwith a nut. Hardware shop will have them.
M6 with a nut, right? She repeated and fetched a brush, dipping it in black paint, and wrote on the newspaper on the floor: M6 bolt + nut!
I burst out laughing, surprising even myself.
Youll chuck that paper and forget.
Nope, straight on the fridge, she said. Come have a teayouve saved me. Theres leftover pasties with cabbage.
I meant to say I had to go. That I had things to do. That Rose
Id love to.
***
We sat in the kitchennarrow, sunny, with pots of mysterious green things on the sill. The pasties, a day old and sweating a bit, smelled incrediblefilled with cabbage and egg and onion, like Mums.
These are delicious, I said.
Are they? Ive never been much of a baker. My daughter taught me before she went off to uni. Twenty-two now, studying art history up in Manchester. Grown up and serious, not daft like me.
How long have you lived here?
About twenty-five years. Used to be me and my husband. Got divorced last year. Now its just me and the catJack.
At the sound of his name, Jack lifted his head, glanced at us, then settled.
Were you upset?
About the divorce? At first, sure. Then I realisedwell, have you ever worn shoes that pinch, and only when you take them off do you sense how much theyve hurt you? It was like that.
I stared out at the big, bare tree outside. A few yellow leaves still clung on.
Youre an engineer? Kate asked.
At the Electronics Works.
Do you like it?
Its a job. But I used to love tinkering with things. Just for me. Used to do a lot of fishing too.
Fishing? Tell me about that.
Normally when I mention fishing its met with a yawn. Rose would always say, Whats to tell, you just sit and wait. But Kate watched, genuinely interested.
I used to go every summer with my dad. Off before light, dawn just breaking as we reached the river. I remember how the river smells at dawn quiet enough to hear the fish splashing among the reeds.
She rested her chin on her hand, taking it all in.
Later, Id go with a friend. We once caught a massive tench and thought for ages wed hooked a log.
I talked on and on. Only when I glanced at the clock did I realise it was half past eight. Already two and a half hours gone.
Crikey, I stood smacking my knees. I should be off.
Of course. Thanks for the helpand the fish tales.
She smiled. You made me see the river.
Walking to the tube, I wondered: when was the last time anyone had just listened?
***
Rose was at the kitchen table when I came in. Cold dinner set out, covered with a plate. She had the face she always wore when about to start a long conversation.
Where have you been?
I went to see about the record player. There was a ladya painterneeded help with her easel. I stayed longer than I meant.
You didnt let me know.
I didnt think Id be so late.
I expected you at seven. I made pork chops. Had to heat them twice over. Theyve gone dry.
I looked from the plate to her.
Sorry about the chops.
Its not about the chops! Its about respect. If youre going out, you let me know. Its common courtesy.
I get that. I just didnt plan it.
You never plan anything. Thats exactly it. You dont think about the household, about me. Last Tuesday you bought the wrong cottage cheese. I wrote half-fat, you got full-fat. Had to be binned.
I hung up my coat. Hands calm, heart tight, like a twisted spring.
I ate some pasties there. At hers.
Pasties.
Yes.
So you go for the ancient Linton and come home after nine, with pasties. You realise how silly that sounds?
I helped a woman with her easel, had tea. She lives alone, a painter. No husband. Just asked for a hand.
Whats her name?
Kate. Fifty-four. Teaches art. Got divorced last year.
So you know all about her?
We chatted, Rose. Had some tea. Thats all.
Rose stood, scraped up the pork chops, put them in the fridgeevery motion precise and sharp.
Reheat it yourself if you want it. Im off to bed.
She went. I stayed at the quiet table. Outside, the rain came downno regard for anyones routine.
***
It happened more after that. I took the record player to Kate; she found a mate who fixed it. We had tea againas a sort of thank-you I brought a cherry tart.
Once, I turned up just to ask about that M6 bolt. Shed bought an M4 by mistake. We both found it hilarious. Id brought spares, just in case.
I didnt share all these visits with Rose. Well, Id mention going to the studio, but never the details. Maybe she didnt want to know. Maybe it was enough for her to expect me home for supper.
One night, I came back very late. Kate and I had looked over a book of Cezannes paintings; she explained how he handled light, and somehow the time vanished. Id never thought about art in that way and found it fascinating.
Rose was waiting.
Pork chops
Rose, can we talk?
She looked anxious this timenot frustrated, but anxious, truly anxious.
Mark, whats going on?
Nothing, really. I go chat to a friend, help with this or that. I find it interesting, thats all.
Do you hear yourself?
I do. Theres nothingnot like that. We just talk.
Just talk.
Yes.
Mark, weve been married thirty years. Thirty years Ive run this house, kept us both ticking along. I work as lead accountant at Bains & Cartwright. I manage it all. I care about us, about our future.
I know, Rose.
Then why would you go spend time with some artist instead of being here with me?
I didnt have an answer. Or I did, but I couldnt make it sound kind.
***
On Friday evening, I left. Packed a baga couple of shirts, my razor, a book Id been meaning to reread. Rose stood in the doorway, arms folded, dressing gown immaculate as ever, looking not angry, not cold, but utterly lost, like someone whose tools had all failed her.
Where are you going?
I need some time. To think.
This is daft.
Maybe. But Im going.
To her?
Im off to think.
Mark!
I zipped the old bag, turned to her. She was upright as ever, her posture perfect, her step unflappable.
Ill call, I said.
And I left.
***
Kate didnt ask awkward questions. When I rang and asked if I could stay for a bit, she said, Of course. Sofas free. Come over. And that was that.
I slept in the lounge among the canvases. Jack the cat curled up at my feet. Mornings, Kate made us stove-top coffee with cardamom. Wed breakfast together, mostly chatting about the weather or Jacks latest conquest among the potted plants.
Rose rang a lot early onevery hour, then gradually less. Sometimes Id answer. Shed ask, voice steady:
Are you taking your tablets? Youve got them, right?
Yes, Rose.
You packed your warm coat? Its going to freeze this week.
I have it.
And youve got your doctors appointment on Tuesday at four, dont forget. I made it six months ago.
I know.
Mark, cant you just come home? What else do you possibly need?
Thered be a pause.
Ill call, Rose.
Then a text would come from her friend, Moira: Mark, youve lost your mind! Rose is beside herself! Even my boss rangDavid from the factoryshe mustve called him. Mark, all right? Rose tells me youve vanished. Even her cousin Ben texted. We were only Christmas-card close.
Rose had deployed everyone she knew, as she always did: in a crisis she coordinated, rallied, briefed. This time, I was the crisis.
Howre you doing? Kate asked one evening.
Weird, I answeredhonest for once. Bit scared. Feels strange.
That makes sense.
FunnyI got up this morning and just grabbed a shirt I liked. Not grey, not white. Navy blue. First time Id picked my own in years.
She chose for you?
She always laid them out each night. Said otherwise Id dress for the wrong weather, wrong colours. I just got used to it.
Kate didnt say anything.
She loves me, you know. I believe that. As best she can.
I believe you.
But somewhere down the road, I disappeared. I just became an item on her to-do list.
***
On Sunday, Rose turned up. She found Kates through the phone billsI always said she was formidable. I answered the door. For a second, neither of us spoke.
May I come in? she said.
I stood aside.
She took in the hallway: Kates paint-splattered boots, her ratty scarf, the edge of a canvas visible through the kitchen door.
Kate came out of the kitchen. They regarded each other.
Hello, Rose greeted.
Hello, Kate replied, quietly.
Rose turned to me.
You all right? she asked.
Im fine.
Youre taking your medicines?
Rose
Just asking.
Id just chopped a salad: cucumber in haphazard lumps, every which way. Roses face tightened at the sightthey should be neat rounds.
Rose, I said, you didnt need to come.
Ive devoted my whole life to you, her voice breaking, taking care of you for thirty years. Doesnt that mean anything?
It does.
Then why?
At the door, Kate finally spoke, gentle but firm:
Rose, may I say something, not as a rival, just as another person? Caring for someone means letting them breathe. Means they feel good and at ease. If someone cant breathe around you, its not really caring anymoreyou dont let him breathe, Rose.
After a long silence, Rose said, You dont know our life.
No, Kate answered, I dont.
I took Roses hand. She didnt pull away.
Rose, Im filing for divorce. Ive made up my mind. Not because I dont love you or never did, but I cant do this anymore.
She stared at our hands. Then quietly let go, turned, picked up her bag, her back straight as ever.
Dont forget your tablets, she said at the door. Theyre in the blue box, top drawer.
And she left.
***
The divorce took six months. I let her keep the house, didnt argue. I rented a room nearby, in another Camden terrace. It was awkward, funny even, but it worked.
Life settled slowly, like an old house being restoredone wall at a time.
In the beginning, I did odd things: bought whatever bread I fancied, ate at the fridge, sometimes standing. Stayed up late for a film, like a kid getting away with something. Bit by bit, I stopped living to a list and started living, well, somehow.
With Kate, we took it slow; both of us wary, I think. But come spring, we went fishing.
I rented rods, we drove Kates tiny red Focus, spluttering up the hills, out to a lake near Oxford. Kate had never fishedand told me so.
We sat by the bank. The morning was cold and wet. Id forgotten the thermos.
Forgot the flask. Damn.
Doesnt matter, Kate said. Look at that mist on the water.
I looked. It was soft, white, hovering just above the surfacea breath of mist. The sunlight was pink and low.
Isnt it beautiful? Kate whispered.
It is. Really.
I caught a small perch, lively but tiny. Kate squealed and laughed when I held it up.
Let it go! Hes only a baby!
I tossed it back.
We came home without a single fish, both of us spattered in mud after I slipped in and dragged her down as well; we laughed until we scared off the birds.
My coat was ruined.
Never mind, Kate said, what a morning though!
I looked at her muddy sleeve, the wild hair, the grin. This was lifenot lists. A ruined coat and a misty lake.
***
We married in the autumn, a year and a half after I left. Small dosome friends, Phil from the factory, Kates mate Liz snapping photos, and Jack the cat observing as if it were all beneath him.
Life with Kate was lively and a good bit mad. Shed splurge on art supplies and forget bread. Id take everything to bits for five minutes and clog the place with old radios. She lost her keys twice a week; Id forget to turn off taps.
We bickered sometimes. About money. About her habit of leaving brushes out to dry hard as rocks. About my tools forever temporarily in the freezer or under the stairs. Once she found my wrench in the fridgeno idea how.
But when we argued, no one kept score. No lists. Afterward, one of us would put the kettle on; that meant the truce. Without a word, wed both drift to the kitchen and have a cuppa.
***
Rose heard about the wedding from Moira, who knew everything and insisted on sharing.
For a while Rose lived by habitpristine flat, dinner always on time, her job at Bains & Cartwright ticked along.
But in the evenings, the place felt too empty, too quiet. Shed find shed laid out two mugs for tea and quietly put one away. It stung, more than shed have believed.
One evening, her boss, Judith, a sharp, kindly woman in her fifties, kept her after a meeting.
Whats wrong, Rose?
Nothing.
For two months now, its clearly something. Family?
My husbands left.
Judith nodded.
Listendont start with reordering the house. Start with your feelings instead. Trying talking to someone. Not a friend, a counsellor.
Rose almost snapped back, but bit it back.
***
She found the therapist herselfa woman in her forties, small office in Kentish Town. For three sessions, Rose said little, baring her soul felt like being asked to undress in public.
At the fourth session, the therapist asked:
Rose, when were you really frightened, for yourself?
Rose thought a long time.
When he packed his bag. When I realised I couldnt stop him leaving. That Id lost all control.
Why was that control so important?
She stared at the falling city snow outside.
Because if I let go, everything would fall apart. Mum hammered that inRose, keep hold of everything, or men scatter. Just as she had. Her husband, my dad, left all the same, though.
The room was very quiet.
So you always feared if you let go, youd lose everything?
Yes.
And what did you find out?
That if you hold on too tight, you lose everything anyway.
It hurt to say, but she felt something like relief.
***
She went to the community art centre on Moiras advice. Theres a watercolour show, well worth seeingnice crowd. With nowhere else to go that Sunday, Rose went.
And it was lovely. Rose had never cared for painting much, but the watercolours drew her intheir transparency, simplicity, the way the white paper shone through.
She stood looking at a quiet river scene when a man a little older than her sidled up, soft eyes, warm face.
Funny, isnt it? he murmured, more to himself than her. The painter left this corner unpainted. Just the bare white. Makes the picture, really.
She hadnt noticed. They both looked closer.
Im Andrew.
Im Rose.
He fumbled with his coat as they leftit stuck shut, zip jammed.
Let me help.
She sorted the zip, fixed the teeth, did it up. He looked grateful.
Thanks, Ive struggled with that for weeks.
You need a new coat.
Probably, but I hate shopping.
They stood unsure a minute. He taught guitar at the centre; came to the exhibitions every week.
Ill be here next Sunday if you fancy popping by?
She made no promises. Next Sunday, she came.
***
Andrew was odd in some wayswidowed, his wife three years gone, lived alone, drank buckets of tea, strummed his guitar evenings, always lost track of the day, could spend an hour discussing why the lime trees grew that way in the old mews.
Rose found herself trying to organise himadvising a diary, tidying his fridge, one time rearranging his cupboard jars.
He gently took her hand.
Rose, I like things as they are.
She looked at the cupboard, then at his hand. There was nothing but calm in his face, nothing like Marks vague irritation by the end.
Sorry. Silly habit.
Not silly. Just my kitchen.
Your kitchen, she agreed.
And left the jars alone.
It was minor, but she remembered it. Then noticed herself, time and again, hands itching to tidy, to fix. Slowly, she caught herself and did less. Not always. But more and more.
The therapist said: Rose, you cant control other peopleonly yourself. And thats much more interesting, in fact.
She mused on that for ages.
She started baking. It amused hershed always been strict exactly to the recipe, but Moira had given her an apple pie recipe that said, Add cinnamon to taste. To taste! How much was that?
She dumped in rather a lot. The pie was sharp, not quite right, but the smell! She ate half of it standing at the stove, scalding her tongue.
Getting the hang of baking? Moira grinned.
Im learningnot perfect. But its fun.
Moira looked at her.
Youve changed, Rose. In a good way.
Rose only smiled. Later, walking down her road, she realised she was smiling for no reason at all.
***
We met two years later by chance, in Hampstead Heath. I was walking with Kate towards the ponds; Rose sat on a bench, reading, waiting for Andrew, whod gone to buy coffee.
She saw me first. I was in that same navy shirt, Kate in her long wool coat, laughing as we strolled.
Rose shut her book. I saw her, stopped, and we both hesitated, then I walked over.
Rose. Hello.
Hello, Mark.
Kate hung back a little, giving us room.
You look well, I said. I meant it. She seemed softer, somehow.
You too.
We stood a moment amid golden leaves.
How are you?
Well. Were off next monthdriving south at random, no bookings, just going.
Where to exactly?
Dont know yet, I grinned. Thats the point.
She nodded, glanced at Kate.
And you? I asked.
Im learning to bake. Silly, I know.
Not at all.
It doesnt always worklast week, too much baking powder, the cake split right up the middle. We ate it anyway.
Thats great.
Ive met Andrewa friend. He teaches music. Hes forgetfulIm practising not fixing everything.
I smiled.
That cant be easy for you.
It isnt. But its interesting.
Andrew reappeared with coffees and a bakery bag under his arm, shouting, Rose, I got you both poppy seed and cinnamon rollsI couldnt remember which you like, so both!
She laughed, properly.
I watched her.
Youre laughing, I said.
I am, she replied, and it amazed her.
Kate came up.
Well get going, she said, gentle as ever.
Its fine, Rose smiled. Really.
We said goodbyeno blame, nothing unspoken. I nodded, she smiled. Kate waved; there was warmth, no anger.
Rose watched us walk away; I said something, Kate laughed and took my arm.
Andrew handed Rose the buns: Go on, you choose.
She took cinnamon, bit in. It was warm, flakey.
The autumn park rustled. Distant children shrieked. Clouds slid slowly overhead.
Rose sat, eating her bun, thinking: I might never have known what its like to love, not command, if hed never left me.
Andrew sat beside her, rooting through the bag, finding hed taken the poppy onehe didnt like poppy seed.
Swap? he offered, sheepish.
She took his bun.
Gladly.
I learned this: sometimes freedom is a gift best given, and happiness means letting goof plans, of certainty, of someones hand. Only then do you learn to live.
