Harry declared that I must tend to his mates, and I slipped away to the park.
Gwen, why are you dawdling? The lads will be here in half an hour and we havent even got a horse in the stable. Hurry up. Fry the potatoes with onions the way they like, fetch the pickled cucumbers the ones Mum used to hand down. Slice the bacon thin, but make it look nice, not the ragged pieces from last time.
Victor lingered in the kitchen doorway, already in his loose joggers and a stretchedout tee, glancing at the clock with a sour expression. Gwen had just trudged in with two heavy grocery bags, setting them down with a dull thud on the tiles. Her shoulders ached, her boots burned from the shop run the preholiday rush had turned the aisles into a battlefield, everyone snatching goods as if the world were ending.
Victor, which lads? she whispered, unzipping her padded coat. Her fingers froze in the cold as she waited for the bus. Friday evening. Im barely hanging on. I thought wed just have dinner and a film.
Harry rolled his eyes, sighing theatrically. Barely hanging on, tired. Everyone works, Gwen. Im not lounging by a fire either. Sam called, he and Tom and Vic were passing by, thought theyd drop in. Its been ages. Should I turn away friends at the doorstep? That would be, what, disrespect?
Could you have warned me? A call in the daylight?
It just popped up! Why make a mountain out of a molehill? All I need is a snack. Theyre not coming to eat, just to chat. We have a bottle in the bar. Just set the table quickly. A simple saladmaybe an Olive or crab, you know the drill. And something hot. The guys are starving after work.
Gwen felt a hot balloon of resentment swell in her solar plexus. As usual. She realised she would have to sprint to the stove, juggle the sink and the pan, chop salad, lay out plates, then spend the night ferrying clean dishes, clearing the mess, keeping the men supplied with bread, and listening to their greasy jokes and raucous laughter. By midnight, shed be left with a mountain of dishes, a smoky kitchen, and a sticky floor.
Victor, I wont cook, she said firmly, meeting his gaze. Im exhausted. I want a shower and sleep. If your friends are hungry, order a pizza. Or make a pot of dumplings yourself.
Victors brows shot up. Whats that, Gwen? Pizza? The lads want homecooked. I already promised that my housewife would set the table. Sam still talks about your pasties. Dont embarrass me in front of the others. What will they think? That I cant provide for my wife?
Provide? Gwen echoed, a chill creeping down her spine. Am I a recruit on parade? A servant?
Dont twist it! Victor snapped, his voice hardening. Youre the lady of the house. Its your duty to welcome guests. I earn the money, I bring home the goodsdo I not have the right to sit with my friends once a month? To have my wife tend, serve, create a cosy atmosphere? Or am I asking too much? Stop making things up. Here are the bags, unpack them. Throw the chicken in the oven while you peel the potatoes; itll cook itself. And stash the vodka in the freezer so it sweats.
He turned toward the living room, tossing a comment over his shoulder: And tidy up, you look like a garden scarecrow. Victor, dont let that new lady make you look pale beside her.
The bedroom door stayed ajar, the television blaring from within. Victor sank onto the couch, assuming the conversation was over. In his mind, his wife had received orders and would now, like a loyal comrade, charge into the culinary front.
Gwen lingered in the hallway, listening to a newsreaders drone. She slipped off her hat. Her hair, wild and electric, fell over her face. Garden scarecrow. Harrys words rang in her ears. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years striving to be the perfect housewife, the caring spouse, the understanding friend. She had endured his garage gatherings, his mothers endless advice, his scattered socks, his perpetual complaints about underseasoned soup. She believed that was family lifecompromise, patience, smoothing the edges.
She glanced at the grocery bags: a chicken meant for tomorrows lunch, vegetables for a salad, milk, bread all heavy, all pulling at her arms.
She bent down, not to unpack, but to zip her coat again, pull her hat down, tuck her scarf tightly.
She peeked into the bedroom for a moment.
Victor?
He, eyes glued to the screen, waved a hand: Anything else? Cant find the salt? Its in the top drawer.
Im leaving.
Where to? he finally turned, genuine bewilderment on his face. To the shop? Forgot something? Got bread, have mayo?
No. Im going for a walk. To the park.
To which park? Victor even rose from the sofa. Are you mad? Its seven oclock, dark, cold. The guests will be here in twenty minutes! Who will set the table?
You will, Gwen replied calmly. You invited them, you set the table. The potatoes are under the sink. The chicken is in the bag. The knife is in the block. Youll find the recipe online.
Gwen, stop! Victor shouted, leaping up. What are you doing? Which park? Come back! Strip off and go to the kitchen! I told you!
But Gwen was already out the flat, the heavy metal front door slamming behind her like a gunshot. She fled down the stairs, skipping the lift for fear that Harry would burst out and drag her back. The landing was empty; he seemed so stunned by her departure that he stood frozen, mouth open.
Outside, fine spiky snow fell. The wind slipped under her collar, unnoticed. Inside her, adrenaline burned with a longforgotten sense of fierce freedom. She moved fast, almost running, away from the illuminated windows of the house where Harry was probably frantically devising excuses for his mates.
The park was two blocks away, an old city park with wide alleys and tall lime trees now bare and swaying. Few people lingered: a couple of workers hurrying home, a pair of teenagers glued to their phones.
Gwen turned onto a side lane where lanterns flickered intermittently, casting strange shadows on the snow. She slowed, breath shallow, heart pounding in her throat.
What have I done? a panic whispered through her mind.
She had always feared conflict. From childhood shed been taught to be agreeable: Patience wins love, Silence is golden, A husband is the head, a wife the neck. Her mother used to say, Gwen, dont argue, be wiser. Feed and praise your man and the house will be calm. And she fed, she praised, even when Harry perched on her neck like a grimace.
Her phone buzzed. A photo of Harry with the caption Harry appeared. She swiped it away. He called again, and again. She pressed the power button, slipped the dark screen back into her pocket. Silence, only the wind and the crunch of snow under boots.
She reached the pond. The water was black, unfrozen at its centre, ducks bobbing. A thin rim of ice clung to the shore. She braced her hands on the cold railing, looking down.
She remembered the previous visit of the friends. Tom had gotten drunk and smashed her favourite vase, a gift from her sister. Harry had laughed, Oh, luck! Well buy a new one. They never bought one. And Sam, that night while she was clearing plates, had slapped her thigh and winked, Lucky for you, Harry, youve got a tireless wife to feed and pamper. Harry pretended not to see, perhaps.
She had wanted to vanish then, but smiled tightly and went back to the sink. Dont embarrass me, she had whispered.
I wont, she murmured to the dark, Never again.
She walked further down the lane, the frost biting her cheeks, oddly comforting. Her stomach rumbledshe hadnt eaten since lunch.
In the centre of the park glowed a tiny kiosk selling coffee and pastries. Gwen approached the window.
Good evening, the barista, a girl in a knitted hat, chirped. What can I get you? Something warm?
A large cappuccino, please. And that cinnamonspiced snail. She pointed to a display. And a chicken sandwich.
Excellent choice. Ill heat it up.
She cradled the steaming cup, her frozen hands warming as the heat spread through her fingers. She sat on a nearby bench under a lamp.
The sandwich arrived, cheese pulling, chicken juicy. It was the best meal shed had in years, not because it was gourmet, but because she ate it alone, in quiet, serving no one and answering no one. Snow fell gently, the world seemed oddly alive.
An elderly couple shuffled by, hand in hand. The man whispered something, the woman laughed sweetly, adjusting his scarf.
Dont overexpose yourself, dear, she chided, youll catch a cold.
Yes, love, Im burning up, he replied with a grin.
Gwen watched them, wondering whether she and Harry would ever stroll arminarm in old age. The thought was scary. She imagined Harry leading, grumbling about her slow pace, while she hauled grocery bags, muttering about his back pain.
Her watch beeped. She had hit ten thousand stepsa cruel irony, the fitness goal shed set herself. Shed left home just to meet it.
Two hours passed. She had circled the park three times, her legs humming not from fatigue but from the long walk. Coffee gone, pastry eaten, the cold seeping through her coat. She needed to return, not to spend the night on a bench.
The nearer she got to home, the slower her steps became. Her block, her thirdfloor flat, lights glowing in every room.
She took the lift, fumbled for the keys, hands trembling. She inhaled deep, like before a jump, and opened the door.
A thick smell of burnt oil, tobacco smoke, and cheap aftershave hit her noseshed asked a hundred times not to smoke in the flat. Foreign shoes lined the hallway. The guests had indeed arrived. A mountain of jackets draped over a coat rack.
From the kitchen erupted voices and laughter.
I tell her, dont mix the rivers! Sam shouted. A woman should know her place! And Harry, youre a champ, you didnt lose your cool!
Gwen slipped off her boots, hung her coat, and entered the kitchen.
The scene was both pathetic and comical. Open tins of sprats and herring lay on the table, slices of sausage perched on a newspaper, a pan with blackened potatoes in the centre, empty bottles of lager surrounding a halffinished vodka bottle.
Seated were Harry, Sam, and Tom. Vic was missing, perhaps turned away by the atmosphere.
Harry sat back to the door, brandishing a fork with a pickled cucumber stuck in it.
She just ran to the shop, he pretended, he slurred, for delicacies. Shell be back, set the table like a queen. My Gwenpure gold, shy but shining.
Gwen coughed.
The men turned, eyes widening.
Ah! Shes actually here! Sam crowed, his grin oily. Our housewife! Weve been waiting! Harry, you ran off for brandy?
Harry swayed, face flushed, eyes clouded. Seeing his wife, he first flinched, then remembered his owner role and scowled.
Where have you been?! he barked, trying to stand, wobbling back onto his chair. The lads are waiting! No food! The potatoes are burnt! You set me up, Gwen!
Gwen stared at the mess, the spilled beer puddles, the ash in her favourite coffee cup turned into an ashtray.
Good evening, gentlemen, she said icy. The banquet is over.
What do you mean? Tom stammered. We just started. Gwen, were fine. Make an omelette or something, yeah? Those potatoes are a death sentence.
I saideverythings gone, Gwen raised her voice. Its ten oclock. I have work tomorrow. Harry, send the guests away.
You you cant tell me what to do! Harry slammed his fist on the table. The fork jumped and clattered. This is my house! My friends! Who are you to throw them out? Get back to the kitchen and cook! Or else
Or else what? Gwen stepped forward. Hit me? Fine. Ill call the police, file a report, start divorce proceedings tomorrow. Happy?
A ringing silence fell. Even drunken Sams grin faded. Theyd never seen Gwen like this. Usually docile, smiling, now she stood in the centre of the kitchen, a taut string, eyes cold and fierce, radiating a power that made them uneasy.
Harry, Tom muttered, rising. Maybe its time. Its late. The wives are worried too.
Sit! Harry roared. No ones leaving! Gwen will fix it. Ill count to three. One
Count to a million, Gwen said, flinging open the kitchen window. Icy air surged in, smelling of a barn. Air it out. It stinks like a stable.
Youve lost your mind? Harry tried to stand, toppling a chair. I fed you, dressed you, and you
Fed? Gwen sneered. I work two jobs, Harry, so we can pay the car loan. Remember? The coat I bought three years ago with my bonus? You never gave me a penny for it.
Sam and Tom, sensing the drama heating, slipped toward the hallway.
Alright, were out. See you later, Gwen. Sorry about everything.
They fled, slamming the front door.
Harry and Gwen were left alone. He leaned on the table, breathing heavily, his bravado gone with the departing crowd.
What did you achieve? he asked, voice tinged with hurt. Humiliated yourself in front of the lads. Now theyll call you a henpecked wife.
Youre the henpecked one, Harry. Not me, but your ego and your friends opinions. You care more about what Sam thinks than that your wife is exhausted.
I thought you loved me cared for me
I loved you, cared for you. Care is a twoway street. Ive spent twenty years playing oneway traffic.
She looked at the heap of dirty dishes, the ash in the mug, the stains on the tablecloth.
Clean it, she said.
What? Harrys eyes widened.
Clean all of it. The floor, the dishes. Air it out. I want the kitchen shining by morning.
And if I dont? he tried a threatening pose, looking pitiful.
Then youll be sleeping on your mothers sofa tomorrow. Im not joking. This flat came from my grandmother. Youre on the lease, but you have no rights. Ive tolerated enough, especially after you called me a garden scarecrow and sent the potatoes to fry instead of asking how I felt.
Gwen retreated to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower, and stood under the water, rinsing away the nights grime, the smoke, the sticky guilt, pushing it back into old habits only to reject them.
When she emerged, wrapped in a bathrobe, the kitchen lights were on and the clatter of dishes continued. Harry, muttering, fumbled with a sponge, his anger softened by the suds.
Gwen went to the bedroom, spread a blanket on the bed, and tossed Harrys pillow onto the sofa in the living room.
Youll sleep there, she told him as he passed.
He offered no reply, only a sour glance.
Morning arrived in quiet. Saturday. No work. She stretched, feeling her body finally relax. Usually shed be at the stove making pancakes or cheese scones, but today she took her time, applied a face mask, brewed fresh coffee.
The kitchen was relatively clean. The floor still bore faint rings, the stovetop held a few grease spots, but the dishes were washed and stacked. Harry slept on the sofa, his head buried in a pillow.
Gwen sat at the table with her coffee, watching the snowcovered garden outside, the same park where yesterday she had chosen herself.
Harry entered, hair messy, face swollen, the scent of last nights drink clinging.
Gwen breakfast? he asked, voice hoarse. A little something? Maybe a soup?
She smiled, set down her cup, replied calmly that she would make her own breakfast and step out into the crisp morning, finally feeling the weight lift from her shoulders.
