No Longer a Wife
Graham? Graham. Have you checked your blood pressure today? Taken your pill? Margaret poked her head around the living room door, wiping her hands on her apron.
Oh, for heavens sake, Margaret, give it a rest with the blood pressure! he grumbled, eyes glued to his phone. Ive got a meeting in an hour. Wheres my blue cotton shirtthe one you ironed? Is it ready?
I ironed you three shirts yesterday, you said that one needed to go to the dry cleaners, it had a stain
You always get muddled! Honestly, cant trust you with anything. Fine, just fetch any one. And make the tea strong, will you? None of your herbal stuff, Im sick of it.
Margarets shoulders tensed, but she held her tongue and went to the kitchen.
Outside, November pressed in, wet and grey. The block of flats opposite stretched away in a row of dark windows, only a couple showing light. Margaret Jane Foster, fifty-six, stood at the hob, watching the ancient kettle boil, its enamel chipped and whistling gently. Shed meant to replace it in spring. She hadnt. There had been too much else to do.
She scooped black tea into his mugstrong, just as he liked, no chamomile, no mint this time. Took the plate of sandwiches shed made at six that morningbread and butter with cheese, two slices, crusts off for his dodgy stomachsliced a tomato, though the November ones tasted like cardboard, but, well, vitamins. She set everything on a tray and carried it through.
Graham Peter Foster, fifty-eight, sat in his armchair, staring at his phone. Head of department for three months nowbefore that, just an ordinary engineer, same for the last twenty years. Then Brian up and retired, and Graham, the oldest in the office, got the job. The new role had come with a raisean extra three hundred quid a month, his own office, and, apparently, a new view of himself and the world.
Put it there, he nodded at the coffee table, not glancing up.
Margaret set down the tray. Stood a moment.
Graham, really, take your tablet. You said your head was aching yesterday.
I said it was aching yesterday. Not today. Now off you go, Ive got calls to make.
She left, stood by the coat rack in the hall, Grahams overcoat next to her puffy jacket and an umbrella with a bent rib. She stared at nothing, then grabbed a cloth and started wiping the kitchen windowsill, not knowing what else to do with herself.
It had been like this for about three weeks now. Ever since Grahams promotion and that team-building seminar outside Oxford, from which he returned altered: sharper, new haircut, a fresh look in his eyes. Shed been pleased at first. Thought hed got his spark back. Then she started to notice other things.
He began complaining about food. Before, hed eat what he was given without comment. Now, apparently, the stew was too salty, the fishcakes too dry, baked beans student food, not for a manager. Shed looked at him, baffled.
Margaret, you should cook something proper now. Baked fish, decent salads, not your same old potato salad at Christmas.
So she tried baked fish. Tried the salads. He ate, silently. She thought things were back to normal. But next day, he came home grumpy, saying that Ian from the seminar has a wife who doesnt work, runs the house, and actually looks like a person.
Margaret said nothing. There was plenty she could saythat she hadnt worked since redundancies took the accounts office four years ago; that she got up at six, while he slept; that she managed the house, picked up his prescriptions, queued at the chemist for his tablets, made sure he took them, took his winter tyres to the garage and collected them because he was busy. She could have said all of that, but shed learned to be quiet.
Two days ago something happened that made staying silent impossible.
He came home about eight. Margaret was just lifting a chicken soup off the hob, low-fat, double-boiled on account of his cholesterol. The kitchen smelled of parsley and carrots.
Whats taken so long? she called, peeking out.
Ran late, he muttered, kicking off his shoes in the doorway, not on the rack.
Soups ready. Come have some dinner.
He came, looked in the pot, grimaced.
Chicken again?
Graham, your cholesterol, the doctor said
I know what my cholesterol is. Im not a child. Just fed up of hospital food at home.
She ladled out the soup, sliced the bread. He ate, stood, left his bowl on the table, and went to the living room. She did the washing up, wiped the hob, dusted crumbs from the table. Went to the living room to say there was pudding if he fancied it.
He was in his armchair, scrolling. She caught a glimpse of something pink on his phone before he tipped the screen away.
Graham, do you want pudding?
He looked up, studied her long and hard, as if weighing something.
No, he said. Then, after a pause, Margaret, just look at yourself.
She didnt get it.
What?
I said, look at yourself. When did you last go to the hairdressers? Your hairs just hanging down. That checkered dressing gown of yours. You look like an old granny.
The tap dripped in the kitchen. The neighbours telly gibbered through the wall.
Graham, she murmured.
What? Im only telling the truth. I have to go to work events now, meetings. People come roundyour wife should look the part, and you… Well, look at you.
People come round? she echoed. What people? Youve not invited a soul here in three months.
Thats because its embarrassing! He raised his voice, that wordembarrassinglanding heavy as a brick. Ians wife, shes a pleasure to look at. Well-kept woman, stylish. And you… put on weight, wandering about in an old dressing gown, hair uncoloured…
Graham Peter, she used his full namerare. Youre sixty soon. Im fifty-six. Were not young.
Exactly! He jumped up like it was the clincher. Thats why people our age should look after themselves more! Ive joined a gymyou just sit at home all day and
Sit at home all day, she repeated, her voice even and strangely calmshe surprised herself. All right, Graham. I get it.
She left, pulled the door to. In the kitchen, she put away the bread, turned off the light. Quiet, automatic, inside something shiftednot snapped, not collapsed, just shifted, like moving furniture: unfamiliar at first, then you realise it should have been done long ago.
She lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, Graham snoring away as usual. She listened to him breathe and thought about the last decade: her life had become one long list of tasks for his comfort. Rising early, cooking, cleaning, picking up prescriptions, booking his doctors appointments, shuttling him aboutno car now, theyd sold it three years ago since he had trouble driving. So, taxisshe paid with her card. Chased up his medications: ramipril for pressure; atorvastatin for cholesterol; something for the joints, nearly thirty pounds a box. Recorded what was running low, bought it ahead just as the GP said, no breaks in his treatment.
And for all that, she was now described as someone he was ashamed to look at. That Ians wife was better.
She lay, thinking. And by one in the morning, a single, clear thought formed: enough.
Not Ill go, not Ill divorce him, not a row. Enough of doing what he neither noticed nor valued. Enough of being a resource used like a tap: turn it on, take what you need, shut it off. Let him do it now.
Next morning, she got up at her usual time, made herself her favourite chamomile teawhich he hatedsat at the table with her phone. Booked into the expensive salon at the retail park near the Tubeitd always been too dear, forty-five pounds for a cut, but never mind. Signed herself up for a free walking group in the local park, meeting mornings Tuesdays and Thursdays. Entered it all in her phone.
When Graham came into the kitchen at seven, there was only his own mug waiting for him. Bread was in the bin, butter in the fridge. He could help himself.
What about breakfast? he asked, looking about.
Theres bread, butter, cheese in the fridge, said Margaret, not glancing up from her phone.
He hesitated, then poured his own tea, cut his bread, ate standing by the fridge. Left for work in silence.
She watched the door click shut and felt almost relieved.
That Wednesday, she went to the salon. The stylist, a young lass with a shaved side and a dozen earrings, inspected Margarets hair.
Not coloured in ages, have you? she remarked.
Three years, Margaret admitted. There wasnt time.
Grown out nicely. Lets do highlights, something natural. And Ill tidy up the shape.
Margaret sat there for two and a half hours, watching herself in the mirror as her hair transformed. She came out not younglets not be sillybut alive. More herself, the self shed nearly forgotten.
She spent a hundred pounds. On the way home, bought herself a decent face cream, not the cheap chemist stuff, a proper one for mature skin, twenty pounds. Stood by the shelf, hesitating at the pricethen remembered Ians wife and put it in her basket.
Graham noticed that evening. Looked at her hair. Said nothing.
She hadnt expected him to.
The following week, he ran out of blood pressure pills. Margaret used to keep upthe last three, shed be off to the pharmacy. Now, she just left the empty box on his bedside table. He walked straight past it, didnt check. She said nothing.
Next day, he hunted for his pills and found the box empty.
Margaret! he called from the bedroom. Im out of tablets!
I know, she answered from the kitchen.
So why havent you fetched more?
Youre a grown man, Graham. You can get them yourself.
A long silence.
Im busy at work.
Ive got things on too.
What things she didnt specify. She really did have thingsTuesdays and Thursdays at the park, walking with two women about her age, Brenda and Ruth. Brenda was a deputy head, laughed so loud the crows scattered. Ruth, quiet, retired, with grandchildren. They walked, talked, breathed, and it was lovelysomething Margaret hadnt realised shed enjoy until now.
Graham did buy his own pills in the end, came back from the pharmacy looking as though hed achieved a feat. Put them down. Nothing said on either side.
About this time, she phoned her old friend Elizabetha mate from her days in accounts.
Liz, you free Saturday?
Whats up?
Lets go out. Film or a coffee.
Marg, are you all right? Elizabeth sounded surprisedthey hadnt gone for a coffee in years.
Better than usual, said Margaret.
They met at the Tube station, Liz gawked at Margarets hair.
Marg, what have you done! Its lovely!
Salon, Margaret grinned.
At last! I kept wondering…
Well, nows now, Margaret replied, and off they went to the café.
Two lattes and slices of cake by the window, watching the first proper snow melt on the street.
So, spill, said Liz.
Margaret talkedabout his promotion, the seminar, his new airs, the stew too salty, Ian’s stylish wife. About look at you and embarrassing. She recounted it all, calmly, no tears, as if recounting someone elses story.
Liz listened, stirring her coffee, nodding, then finally asked, What did you decide?
I didnt decide anything special, Margaret replied. I just stopped doing what he takes for granted. Not out of spite. Justwhy bother?
Why bother, repeated Liz, slowly. Yeah. I get it. Youre doing the right thing.
I dont know if it is right. But I cant do it any other way now.
Liz nodded, ate her cake.
Dyou reckon hes noticed?
That I dont chase his pills? Yes. That I dont iron his shirts every day? Yes. Yesterday he wore a crumpled one, didnt complain, just got on with it.
No rows?
No. Margaret shrugged. He doesnt seem to know what to say. Hes used to me being silent. Now Im silent, but its different.
Liz studied her.
Soyou thinking of divorce?
Crossed my mind. Not yet, though. I need to figure out who I am, without all his tablets, his stews, his shirts. I dont remember the last time I saw myself.
They had a second coffee, walked back out into the dark street, hugged at the station.
Keep in touch, andsame again next Saturday?
Yes, lets, Margaret smiled.
Riding home, she realised it was six or more years since shed last met Liz for a chatalways something more important: Grahams needs, Grahams health, Graham’s dinner.
Home: he was in front of the telly. In the kitchen lay a dirty mug and a plate from the eggs hed evidently cooked. Margaret looked at it. Once, shed have washed it at once. Not now.
Whereve you been? he called, not turning round.
Out with Liz.
That was ages.
Yes.
She went to the bathroom, washed off her make-up, dabbed on her new cream, watched her reflection. Fifty-six, not young, but alive. Wrinkles around the eyes, lines round her mouth. Her new highlighted hair suited her. She was an older womanand that was all right.
December arrived with real cold. Margaret bought smart leather bootsproper ones, not cheap Wellingtons shed worn for three winters. Spent a hundred pounds, not once regretting it.
Something imperceptible changed at home. She cooked, but not just diet food for himproper stew, with rich meat, roast chicken and, sometimes, shop pies, just because she felt like it. No more special steamed mince. He could eat what was therethe doctor had told him, after all.
His shirts went in with the rest of the laundry, no separate settings, no special care. She used to do them all carefully, now no more.
He noticed, said nothing. Sometimes, a sharp comment:
Pies again?
Yes, she replied, calm.
Dont you cook anymore?
I made soup yesterday. And a roast on Sunday.
He retreated, frustrated, but found nothing to say. He couldnt very well demand she fuss round him any more. Even he knew how thatd sound.
Meanwhile, Margaret kept up her walks in the park. She got closer to Brenda, who recommended a good gynaecologistMargaret had long meant to get checked and finally made an appointment. She also signed up for free watercolour classes at the local library on Wednesdays. Not because it was a lifelong dream, justwhy not? Two hours without hurrying, just brushes and paper.
Mid-December, Graham started coming home late. Once, that wouldve worried her, had her calling, keeping dinner hot. Now, she just ate when she was hungry, went to bed as she liked. Sometimes he appeared at nine or ten, once past eleven. She never asked, and he never explained.
It wasnt from checking his phone that she realised he had someone else. It was the perfumesomething sickly sweet clung to his coat, nothing like the air of an office or pub. She smelled it in the hallway and understood.
Oddly, it didnt hurt. Shed braced for pain, surprised to feel well, relief. If he left, itd be his choice; it would be his lossnot hers.
She said nothing. Slept soundly.
This went on for three weeks. He came and went, sometimes answering calls in the bathroomonce she overheard, …yes, Elaine, on Saturday… Elaine. All right, then.
In those weeks, Margaret pondered her life. Thirty-two years together, one son, Michael, now living in Sheffield with his wife and two kids. When did Graham change from the cheerful, joking young man to this critical stranger? She couldnt saythe change was gradual, like water seeping in unseen, then suddenly flooding the cellar.
She wondered about herself, too. Shed spent so much energy on him, shed lost herself, inside and out. She didnt know what she liked anymoremusic, books, traveldrowned out by years of stews and pills.
Watercolour lessons became unexpectedly important. In the silent library room, the teacher, Mrs Norris, fifty-two, showed them washes and blending. Margaret painted apples and thought the last time shed held a paintbrush was at school, in year seven, and how relaxing it was to get colours to flow.
After one session in January, Mrs Norris said: Margaret, youve got a lovely sense of colour. Really. Said matter-of-factly, but it mattereda rare compliment, since Graham hadnt said anything like it in years.
In January, the Elaine saga seemed to end. Margaret pieced it together not from Grahamit was simply the change in his routine. He was home by seven, watching the news, no more bathroom calls. He looked tired, started coughing.
She made soup; he ate it, silent. One evening, as she drank her tea, he sat down beside her.
Cold out there tonight.
Yes. Supposed to hit minus twelve tomorrow.
Hmm.
And that was it.
She later found out the story through a mutual friend who called about an allotment, tossing in, Heard Graham had some girl on the go? She ditched him pretty quick, from what I hear. Margaret said, Something like that, and the chat moved on.
Margaret guessed the rest. The girl probably wanted a successful manager, restaurants and excitement, but got a fifty-eight-year-old man with blood pressure, who liked his tea just so, moaned about ailments, and wanted his shirts ironed. No wonder it didnt last.
She didnt pity him. Its like toothache easingyou dont feel joy, just the blessed absence of pain.
By February, his health worsened. Years of meticulous pill-taking thrown awayhe would forget, take two at once. Margaret noticed the pill boxes all jumbled, sometimes skipped. She saw him down two pills to make up for a missed one. She said nothingthe doctor had explained all this himself, more than once.
His blood pressure climbed, his colour faded, sometimes he complained of buzzing in his head. Hed wake at night.
One feels dizzy, he said one morning.
See the GP, she replied.
Will you book me in?
Ring reception yourself. The numbers on your NHS card.
He looked at hershe calmly drank her tea.
I dont remember how.
Graham, youre a grown man, a manager. Youll manage.
He did, eventually. Saw the GP, brought home a list of new medicines to add to the old ones.
Here you are, he waved the paper.
All right, she answered.
Youll get them?
Im passing the shops tomorrow, can do. Pass me the cash.
He looked surprisedshed always just handled the money side, but now it was a transaction.
He handed over the money. She bought the pills and left them by his bed, no colour-coded schedule, no listsjust the boxes.
Marchs thaw arrivedsnow melted to muddy puddles, dripped from rooftops, kids poked at pools in the courtyard with sticks. Margaret often headed out just to walk about, bought herself a spring jacket, fitted, beige, with a waist-tienot the usual shapeless sort. In the shops fitting room, she realised she hadnt bought anything new simply because she fancied it in years.
That March, Michael came to visit with his wife, Sarah. Michael, tall at forty, resembled Graham in his youth, but kinder. Sarah was gentle, steady. They brought honey and chocolates.
That first night, Margaret laid on a proper spreadroast potatoes, fish pie, her mothers trifle. Graham was subdued, spoke little. Michael chatted about work and the kids; Sarah asked Margaret about her art classes.
Youre painting, Mum? Michael sounded surprised.
Learning. Watercolours.
Brilliant. Can we see?
She showed them her efforts: apples, a vase of flowers, a library window scene. Michael took it in seriously; Sarah said it was beautiful.
Mum, you look younger, really.
Ive just been to the hairdressers, Margaret smiled.
She noticed Michael glancing between her and his father at dinner. Graham picked at his trifle. Michael registered something was off, but didnt pry with Sarah present.
Next day, while Sarah shopped, Michael stayed behind, came to the kitchen where Margaret was making pasties.
Mum. Everything all right?
What do you mean?
Well… Dads just… not himself. Is he ill?
His blood pressures bad. GP gave him new pills. Keeps up himselfhes a grown-up.
Michael was quiet, rolling a bit of dough.
You two not fighting, are you?
No, she said, honestly. They werentthey simply lived parallel lives.
Mum, if somethings
Michael, Im fine. Really. Promise.
And she meant it.
The family left on Sunday. The flat sank to familiar quiet. Margaret did the tidying, wiped the hob; Graham sat by the telly.
Late that night, he came for water, lingered by the window.
Michaels looking well, he said.
Yes, he is.
And their kids…he trailed off.
Yes.
He finished his water and left. She sat looking into the darkness outside, where yellow-lit lamps glowed and the last few flakes of the season drifted down.
April began and Graham had a hypertensive crisisnot dramatic, not ambulances, but after standing in the hall, he had to sit, dizzy.
Margaret… I dont feel right, he called.
She came out, saw him slumped against the wall, face red and sweating.
Come to the bedroom, she said.
She helped him over, fetched the monitor: pressure was 185 over 110. Not good.
Take your emergency tablet, captopril. Its on your bedside. Lie down, stay put. Ill check you in half an hour.
Where are you going?
Ill be in the kitchen.
She put the kettle on, watched it boil. Heard him fumble for pills. In an hour his reading was better160 over 95, at least manageable.
Stay in today, she told him. Youre not moving.
Ive got work
Ring in and say youre ill. Youre not going anywhere.
He stayed in. She brought him tea and biscuitsnot because he asked, just because it was the humane thing to do. Theres a difference between not wanting to be a housekeeper and watching someone suffer.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Margaret, he said after a long silence.
Yes?
Ive probably been a right idiot, these past months.
She didnt answer right away. Sat on the beds edge.
Yes, Graham, she said mildly. You have.
Well… He looked up at the ceiling. This job, the promotion…I thought Id made it.
And so you have. Head of department.
Yeah. Pause. And youve just carried on as you always were… Well, I dont mean He faltered.
I know what you mean, she answered quietly.
She stood, took his mug, went back to the kitchen. There was no great reconciliation, no hugs or tears. He said hed been an idiot; she agreed. And that was that.
April passed into May. Margaret walked in the park and painted every week. She grew closer to Brenda, who invited her to the theatregood seats at the main playhouse, circle stalls. Margaret hadnt been in years. She sipped freshly squeezed orange juice in the interval, watching life play out on stagereal people, real stories.
She was fifty-six, and finally saw this wasnt some sad ending but just the start of something else.
Margaret and Graham continued in their parallel fashion. He no longer complained about food, or compared her to anyone elses wife. Sometimes, theyd sit together in silencehe with the TV, she reading a book Brenda had recommended. It was peaceful, almost comfortable, but with a new, better edge: she no longer felt obliged.
Once, he asked her to order his pills onlinethey were cheaper that way.
I dont know how, he said. Youre better at it than me.
Its simple. Type the name, add to cart, pick a pharmacy near us.
Youre just better at these things.
I am. But you can learn.
He did. Spent ages on his phone, called her in once for help, then managed on his own.
Margaret realised that mattered too: you shouldnt do for someone all those things they could do themselves. Shed confused helping for simply taking over. Now she knew better.
June turned hot. Margaret bought herself a light, flowery summer dress. She put it on and thought she looked normal. Not like a granny. Just a woman who had bought herself something pretty.
Every couple in middle age sorted relationships differently, she saw now. Some friends at open war, some sickly sweet, some icy. What she and Graham had was something elsenot war, not peace, not indifference. Two people with shared roof, separate lives.
She had no idea what lay ahead. Sometimes Lizs question about divorce came to mind; she didnt rule it out, but saw no rush. First, she needed to become herself again.
Summer flowed on. Margaret spent two weeks visiting Michael in Sheffieldher first trip alone in years. Graham stayed home, citing work. She packed her bag, embroidered a cushion as a gift for her granddaughter, Ella (learned it off YouTube), and went.
Those two weeks were a balm. She played with the grandkidsJack, six, and Ella, four. It wasnt exhausting care; it was the happy kind you wanted to give.
Michael, in the evenings, asked gently about home. She answered honestly: they were getting by, but it wasnt easy. He nodded, left advice unsaid. A good son, she thought.
She returned home tanned, relaxed. Graham met her at the door with a, Back then? and carried her bag. It was a small thing, but something.
August was muggy. She bought a bedroom fan, treated herself to a juicy market watermelonate half, gave him the rest. He said thank you, the first time in years hed thanked her for food.
In September, morning cold returned and the poplars out front yellowed. Then, inevitably, it happened.
On a Friday evening Graham came in at eight, face grey, his walk slow and careful. Margaret sat at the kitchen table, reading.
Margaret, he said from the door. Im not well.
What is it?
Blood pressure, I think. Dizzy. And here he pointed at his chest, its tight.
She stood up, studied him.
How longs the chest pain?
Since lunch, more or less. Thought it would pass.
Taken a pill?
Took one about three. Didnt do much.
Sit here.
He slumped at the kitchen table. She fetched the blood pressure monitor: 190 over 115. Worse than in April.
Graham, she said. This is serious. You need an ambulance.
Oh, come on, no, cant I just take another pill
No. One-ninety, pain in the chest. You cant treat that with a pill. You need a doctor.
Will you ring, then…?
She stopped. Stood with the monitor, looking at him.
She saw hima grey, frightened man, hand to his heart. She was sorry for him, genuinely so. He was an older, sick man, frightened and ill, nothing more.
But she saw something else: that for a year, he hadnt really seen her at all; that he’d spoken words you couldnt unhear; that hed stopped noticing her long before she stopped trying.
She knew what she would doand what she would not.
Graham, she said, calm. You have your phone. You know the number.
He stared at her, uncomprehending.
What?
Call an ambulance yourself. Dial 999. Give them the address, tell them your symptoms. Theyll be here.
Margaret… his voice was shaky, childlike. Wont you help me?
I have. Ive checked your blood pressure and told you whats needed. The rest is up to you.
But I
Graham. She put the monitor down. You call the ambulance. Youre an adult. A manager. You can do it.
She left the kitchen, walked to the living room and pulled the door to. No slamming, no keyjust gently closed.
From the kitchen, eventually, his voice, low, a little trembly:
Hello. Yes, ambulance. My address
She poured herself a chamomile tea, took her mug, walked quietly past him as he sat on the phone with the dispatcher. He glanced at her; she went to the window.
The courtyard was empty. A yellow lamplight shone on damp tarmac, leaves from the poplars already mostly down, black with rain. The bench out front was empty.
He finished his call. Silence.
Theyre coming, he announced.
All right, she replied.
Will you come with me? To hospital
She turned from the window. Looked at him: grey face, hand on chest, frightened eyes. She did feel sorry for himnot with triumph, just as you might for anyone in pain.
No, Graham, she said softly. I wont. The doctors will sort you out.
Margaret
The ambulance will come. Theyll take care of you. Thats their job.
She took her tea and went to the living room, door just pulled to. She sat by the window, watching the lights across the street and the bare poplar. In the kitchen, some movement; then quiet; then the lift.
The ambulance arrived in twenty minutes. She heard the door, the bustle of boots, urgent voices: blood pressure, ECG, possibly hospital. Graham answered, voice apologetic, like a scolded boy.
Then she heard:
Is your wife here?
And his voice:
Yes. But shes shes not coming.
A pause, then the paramedic, neutral:
Right. Get dressed, lets go have a look at you.
Door. Lift. Silence.
