Evelyn sighed as Alfred dithered near the entrance while she paid for the groceries. By the time she started packing them into bags, he’d nicked outside for a smoke. She followed, balancing two hefty bags. “Alfie, grab these, please?” she asked, holding them out.
Alfred stared as if she’d asked him to rob the corner shop. “Why can’t you?” he demanded, eyebrow cocked.
Evelyn blinked. “Why can’t she?” What a daft question! Since when did a man watch his wife struggle with bags while he swanned along? “Alfie, they weigh a tonne!”
“And?” he retorted stubbornly, puffing. He saw her annoyance flash, but he was dug in. He strode ahead briskly, knowing she couldn’t keep up. “*Grab the bags.* Like I’m his lackey? His whipping boy? I’m the man! I decide! Let her lug it, won’t kill her,” Alfred fumed, feeling inexplicably chuffed at putting his foot down today.
“Alfie! Where are you going? Take the bags!” Evelyn yelled after him, voice wobbling. She knew he was fully aware they were heavy – he’d piled most into the trolley at the Tesco Extra near their flat in Birmingham. Only a five-minute walk normally, but with laden bags, it felt trek-like.
Tears pricked Evelyn’s eyes as she walked. She hoped he was joking and would dash back. No such luck, he got smaller down the road. She almost abandoned the bags right there but plodded on in a fog of fatigue and fury.
Reaching their building’s front bench, she collapsed. Tears threatened – crying outdoors felt dreadful – but suppressing them choked harder. He hadn’t just hurt her; he’d humiliated her. Deliberately. Remembering how attentive he’d been before the wedding twisted the knife. He *knew*. And chose this.
“Hello, Poppy love!” A familiar voice chirped. Granny Joan, their downstairs neighbour.
“Afternoon, Granny Joan,” Evelyn managed.
Joan Thompson, the unofficial building grandmother, had been Evelyn’s late Nan’s best friend. Evelyn adored her, especially after Nan passed. With Mum busy with her new family in Cardiff and Dad long gone, Granny Joan was her rock.
Evelyn impulsively decided. “Come on, Granny Joan, let’s get you home.” She heaved the bags back up. Payday was yesterday, Joan’s pension was tight, and Granny Joan deserved a treat after the milk and biscuits she often shared.
Inside Joan’s flat, Evelyn dumped the bags dramatically. “These are yours.” Seeing the Cornish pasties, Cadbury chocolates, biscuits, and tinned peaches – favourites Joan couldn’t usually afford – the older woman got so tearfully grateful Evelyn felt embarrassed she didn’t do this more often. They hugged fiercely before Evelyn trudged upstairs.
Alfred met her in the hall, munching a toastie. “Where’s the shopping?” he asked casually.
“What shopping?” Evelyn matched his tone. “The one you helped carry?”
“Oh, don’t chuck a wobbly!” he teased. “Bit narked, are we?”
“Not at all,” Evelyn replied calmly. “Just drew conclusions.”
Alfred tensed. He expected yelling, not this eerie calm. It unnerved him. “What conclusions?”
“I don’t have a husband.” She sighed softly. “Thought I got married. Turns out I married a perfectly ordinary berk.”
Alfred flushed crimson. “Hardly fair!”
“What’s unclear?” Evelyn stared him down. “I want my husband to behave like a gentleman. Apparently, you’d prefer your wife to *be* the gentleman.” She paused thoughtfully. “Sounds like you need a husband yourself.”
Alfred’s fists clenched, unseen by Evelyn, who turned and marched to their room to pack his holdall. He protested to the end, bewildered. “It was good! So you carried the bags! Bit of fuss over nothing, eh?” he grumbled as she shoved clothes in.
“Hope you can manage your own bag,” Evelyn said flatly, ignoring him, before showing him the door.
Evelyn understood perfectly. This was only the opening salvo. Swallow it now, let him ‘put you in your place’, and the demands next time would be worse. Better stop it dead. She shut the door.
