No Longer a Wife
Tony, Tony. Did you check your blood pressure today? Have you taken your tablet? Jane called from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.
Oh, for heavens sake, Jane, leave me alone with your blood pressure! he muttered, not looking up from his phone. Ive got a meeting in an hour. Wheres my blue cotton shirt? The one from Marks. Is it ironed?
I ironed you three shirts yesterday, you said that one needed to go to the cleaners theres a stain
You always get it all mixed up! Cant trust you with anything. Alright, just give me whichever. And make the tea stronger this time, not your herbal stuff Im sick of that chamomile.
Janes shoulders tensed, but she kept quiet and went to put on the kettle.
November in London, damp and grey; the block of flats opposite just a grid of dark windows, save for a few specks of light. Jane Elizabeth Harris, 56, stood by the cooker and watched the battered old kettle begin to whistle. Shed meant to replace it back in spring. Of course, she never got round to it. Things always got in the way.
She spooned strong tea leaves into his favourite mug, no chamomile, no mint. She took the plate of sandwiches shed made at six white bread, butter, cheddar, crusts cut off as his stomach was dodgy. Cut up some tomatoes, even if November tomatoes taste like cardboard, at least there are vitamins. Arranged everything on the tray and carried it to the lounge.
Anthony James Harris, 58, was sitting in the armchair, glued to his phone. Hed been promoted to department head three months ago from regular engineer, as hed been for twenty years. Then Simmons retired, and, being the oldest hand, Tony got the job. The new post came with a raise of £120 a month, his own office, and it appeared a completely new view of himself and the world.
Put it there, he nodded at the coffee table, not glancing up.
Jane set the tray down. Waited a second.
Tony, please, just take your tablet. You said you had a headache yesterday.
I said *had* a headache. Not today. Ive got to call someone now. Off you go.
She left, stopping in the hall his raincoat, her padded jacket, the umbrella with the bent rib. Stood there looking at nothing. Then picked up a cloth and went to wipe the kitchen windowsill, because she couldnt think what else to do at that moment.
It had been like this for three weeks now, since Tonys promotion and that work seminar hed gone to in Sussex. Hed come back changed: trim, with a fresh haircut and some new, tight-lipped look. At first, shed been pleased thought he seemed livelier. And then she started to notice things.
Hed begun criticising the food. Before, hed eat what was on his plate and say nothing. Suddenly, the stew was too salty, the chop overcooked, and beans on toast was student food, not fit for a manager. Shed asked if she misheard, but he just looked at her like shed said something daft and muttered:
Jane, its about time you started cooking something proper. A bit of baked fish, nice salad, not your everlasting shepherds pie.
So she cooked him fish and salads. He ate in silence, and for a moment she hoped things would settle. The next evening, though, he came home complaining about his new colleagues wife apparently she didn’t work, looked after the house, and looked the part.
Jane bit back her reply. Shed not worked herself for four years, since redundancy from accounts. But shed get up first, go to bed last; ran the house, queued at the surgery for his prescriptions, fetched his tablets for blood pressure and cholesterol, checked he took them, took his winter tyres to be changed because he was busy. All this she could have said to him. She didnt, because she was used to keeping quiet.
Two evenings ago, though, something happened that made silence impossible.
Hed come home at eight. Jane was just lifting the chicken soup from the hob, cooked with hardly any fat for his cholesterol. The kitchen smelled of dill and carrot.
What took you so long? she called from the kitchen.
Just running late, he muttered, leaving his muddy shoes by the door.
Soups ready. Come and eat.
He came in, peered in the pot and grimaced.
Chicken again.
Doctor said
I know what the doctor said. Im not a child, Jane. Im just fed up with health food at home now too.
She dished up the soup, and he ate, then left his empty bowl on the table and vanished to the lounge. She cleared up, washed the pans, wiped down the worksurface. Then she popped her head in to check if he wanted some stewed fruit.
He was scrolling through his phone. She spotted something pink, but he tilted it away.
Want some compote?
He looked up, and for an odd amount of time just stared at her, as if weighing something up.
No, he said. Then, after a pause: Jane, take a look at yourself.
She didnt quite get it.
What?
Im saying, just look at yourself. When did you last get your hair done? It hangs like an old mop. And that checked housecoat you look exactly like a country gran.
The kitchen tap was dripping, someones telly burbled through the wall.
Tony, she said softly.
What? Im just being honest. I go to work dos, I meet people, and my wife needs to look the part, and all you Well, what sort of look is that?
You have people over? Since you got promoted, you never took anyone home, not once.
And Im embarrassed! he raised his voice. That word embarrassed fell into the hush like a lump of lead. Simmons wife is stunning. Smart, elegant. But youyouve let yourself go, always in that old housecoat, hair in a state
Anthony. She used his full name. That was rare. Youre going to be sixty soon. Ill be fifty-six. Were not kids any more.
Precisely! So we ought to take better care of ourselves! Ive joined a gym, look after myself. All you do is sit around at home
Sit around at home, she repeated, voice flat and calm, almost weirdly so. Even she noticed. Right. Got it, Tony. Loud and clear.
She left the room, closed the door behind her. In the kitchen, she put the bread away, switched off the light. All of it coolly, like a robot. But inside, something shifted not snapped or fallen, just moved, like when you push the sofa in a room, and at first its odd, but soon you wonder why you didnt do it sooner.
She didnt sleep that night. Lay on her side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He was snoring within minutes, typically. She listened to his breathing, thinking about the past ten years: always in service mode cook, clean, laundry, chemists, appointments, notes for doctors, looking after his tablets: Lisinopril for his blood pressure, statins for cholesterol, arthritis pills in spring, those new expensive ones, nearly a tenner a pack. Calendars, checklists, and the warnings: Dont forget, dont skip a dose.
Now, Tony had told her she was shameful to look at. That Simmons wife was better.
She thought and thought. And by one in the morning came to a simple, very clear conclusion: Enough.
Not Ill walk out. Not Ill get a divorce. Not Ill make a scene. Simply: enough with doing what he neither notices nor values. No more being a tap, used when needed then ignored. He could look after himself now.
She got up at 6 as usual. Made herself chamomile tea, just for herself, not the kind he hated. Sat at the table, reached for her phone. Booked an appointment at the expensive salon in the shopping centre by the tube £40 for a cut, which shed never allowed herself. Signed up for a Nordic walking group in the local park free, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Put the reminder in her phone.
When Tony came into the kitchen at 7, there was just his mug on the side. Bread in the tin, butter in the fridge he could help himself.
Wheres breakfast? he asked, looking around.
Breads there, butters in the fridge, cheese is there, said Jane, not looking up from her phone.
He hovered. Then quietly made his tea, sliced the bread, ate standing at the counter. Went to work without another word.
She watched the door close behind him. Felt something like relief.
That Wednesday, she went to the salon. The stylist, a young woman with an undercut and lots of earrings, fussed over her hair and asked:
Havent coloured it for a while?
Three years. Just never got round to it.
Your hairs in good shape. Lets go for a soft highlight, nothing too harsh. And tidy the shape.
Two and a half hours in that chair, watching herself change in the mirror. She didn’t come out looking young that would be ridiculous but alive again. Like someone she used to recognise.
It cost her £60. On the way home she bought a proper face cream, not the cheap one from Boots but the one for mature skin, £18. She hesitated thats a lot but bought it anyway. Thought of Simmons wife and bought it.
Tony noticed. Looked at her hair. Said nothing.
She hadnt expected him to.
The following week, his blood pressure pills ran out. Jane always used to check in advance and fetch them; now she just left the empty box on his bedside table. His problem now.
He got back from work, walked by the table, didnt register it. She didnt remind him.
Next day, he went for his pill and saw the empty box.
Jane! he shouted from the bedroom. Where are my tablets?
I know, she called back from the kitchen.
Well, why havent you got any?!
Youre a grown man, Tony. You can pick them up yourself.
A long pause.
Im busy at work.
Im busy too.
She didn’t specify her business but now she had some: Tuesday and Thursday she went walking in the park, got to know two women her age Susan, a school head of year with a laugh that made birds fly off, and Maureen, quiet, retired, looking after grandchildren. They walked with poles, chatted, breathed fresh air such a simple pleasant thing, Jane marvelled shed never thought to try it.
Tony did buy his own pills in the end, looking as if hed climbed Everest. Put the pack on his table in silence; Jane said nothing either.
Around then, she rang up her old friend Susan, from her accounts days.
Sue, are you free on Saturday?
Why, whats up?
Lets go out, cinema or just for a coffee.
Jane, you alright? Susan sounded worried; they hadnt gone out in years.
Better than usual, Jane replied.
They met by the Tube. Susan saw Janes hair and gasped:
Jane, what have you done! You look wonderful!
Got myself to the hairdresser, finally.
Its about time! I kept thinking, when would you
Well, its about time right now, Jane replied, and they went for coffee.
They had lattes and cake, sitting by the window while the first real snow of the year settled on the pavement, melting instantly.
So, tell me everything, Susan said.
Jane did. About Tonys promotion, the work seminar, the new way he carried himself. The over-salted stew, Simmons wife, the just take a look at yourself and the embarrassing. She spoke calmly, almost as if she were recounting someone elses life.
Susan sat, head to one side, stirring her coffee.
So, whats your plan?
No plan, Jane said. I just stopped doing the things he doesnt value. Not out of spite. Just…theres no point.
No point, Susan echoed quietly. I get it youre right.
I dont know if its right or not. I just cant do anything else now.
Susan nodded, polishing off another bit of cake.
Did he notice?
That I stopped chasing up his medicine? Yes. That I dont press his shirts every day? That too. Yesterday he pulled a crumpled one out and left, no word.
Did he kick up a fuss?
No. Jane shrugged lightly He seems at a loss. Used to me being silent about everything. Now Im quiet, but its different.
Susan looked at her earnestly.
Jane, have you thought about divorce?
I have. But not now. First, I want to find out who I actually am without all this his tablets, his soup, his shirts. Feels like I havent seen myself for years.
They lingered, had more coffee. Left for home when it was dark and snowy. Hugged at the station. Susan said:
Keep in touch. Next Saturday again?
Yes, Jane replied.
She rode home on the Tube, realising it had been maybe six, no, almost ten years since shed spent an afternoon like that with Susan no rush, no urgent chores, just to talk. Always something more important: Tonys health, Tonys soup.
At home, he was in front of the telly. The kitchen was a mess, his dirty mug and eggy plate left from what hed made for himself. Jane noticed once, shed have washed up at once, now she left them.
Whereve you been? he asked, not turning.
Met Susan.
All evening.
Yes.
She washed and did her night routine, smoothing her new cream onto her face. Looked in the mirror. Nothing to be scared of fifty-six, not young, but alive enough. Crows feet, lines at her mouth, highlighted hair that suited her. A middle-aged woman. And that, she thought, was absolutely fine.
December came in with real frost. She bought proper winter boots, leather, not the cheap rubber ones shed worn for three winters. Spent £90, didnt regret it a bit.
Something unspoken shifted in the flat. She still cooked but no special low-cholesterol menu tailored purely for him. Made what she fancied: a proper stew with beef, potatoes with chicken, sometimes supermarket dumplings just because. No more steamed fishcakes. He could eat what was made the doctor had told him, time he listened.
His shirts now went through the wash with everyone elses, no special cycles or hand pressing. Shed once done everything proper separated, gentle spin, careful to keep the shape. Now, no more.
He noticed all of this but said little. Occasionally hed mutter:
Dumplings again?
Yes, shed reply steadily.
Have you given up cooking completely?
What do you mean, made stew yesterday. Roast on Sunday.
Hed sulk out. But couldnt say directly, Why arent you running round after me any more? Even he wouldnt risk that.
Meanwhile, Jane kept up her Tuesdays and Thursdays in the park. Got to know Susan better; she recommended a good womens clinic, Jane finally booked herself in. Also joined a free watercolour class at the library every Wednesday. Not because shed always wanted to paint, just because well, why not? Two hours with nothing to worry about beyond the paper and brushes.
Mid-December, Tony began working late. Before, shed always fret, ring him, let dinner go cold. Now she ate when she liked and went to bed at her time. He rolled in at nine, then ten, once at half eleven. She didnt ask; he didnt explain.
She twigged about another woman not from his phone, but the scent. One night, he came in smelling sharply of some heavy, sweet perfume not his, not work, and nothing like a pub. She caught it in the hall and just thought: so thats that.
Strangely, it didnt hurt. Shed expected pain, was almost surprised to find none just exhausted curiosity, and another feeling that took a minute to name: relief from responsibility. If he left now, that was his business, not her failure.
She said nothing. Slept well.
This went on for three weeks. He worked late, sometimes took calls in the bathroom. Jane once heard his voice through the door: …no, I said, cant do Saturday, Elaine Elaine. Well, then.
During those weeks Jane thought a lot. Thirty-two years with this man, raised a son, Tom, who now lived in Manchester with his wife and two children. In younger days, Tony had been different funny, always ready for a joke or to take Tom fishing. She couldnt quite remember when hed changed; like water slowly seeping into a cellar at first unnoticeable, then too late to bail out.
She reflected on how many years shed spent caring for him her own wants were a distant blur. Didnt even know what music she liked, what books, where shed go if she could. It was all smothered by years of soup and pills.
The watercolours class turned out unexpectedly important. Sitting in the librarys upstairs hall, being shown how to blend green into yellow by the instructor, Mrs Norton, 52, with patience and gentleness. Jane painted an apple and realised she hadnt held a brush since Year 7 at school and that shed missed it.
One session in January, Mrs Norton said: You really have a sense for colour, Jane. So matter-of-fact, but it meant more than anything Tony had said inwell, years.
January saw Elaine come to its natural end. Jane gleaned this not by confession, but in Tonys look back to old routines, dinner at seven, telly, no more secret phone calls. He looked shrunken, coughed more, a little haunted.
She cooked, he ate. Once, he sat with her while she drank tea, and muttered:
Cold tonight.
Minus twelve forecast, she replied.
Hmm.
And left it there.
She heard what happened with Elaine from a mutual friend: He was seeing some young bird, but she dropped him quick. Jane just said, Yes, Id heard. The friend laughed and changed the subject.
Jane could imagine why: the promise of a prosperous manager, dinners out, a bit of fun but got a fifty-eight-year-old man with hypertension, who wanted his tea poured just so and shirts pressed. And probably moaned about his health. No wonder it hadnt lasted.
She didnt feel sorry for him. More like the absence of toothache after a long pain not joy, just a welcome nothing.
February and his health took a dip. Without Janes system, he missed tablets, took two at once having forgotten one. She saw the mess of boxes in the drawer. The doctor had told him about this; let him manage.
He grew paler, sometimes complained of head noise, dizzy spells, sleeplessness.
One morning:
My heads spinning.
Go see the GP, Jane replied.
Will you book me in?
Ring the surgery. The numbers on your health card.
He hesitated.
I cant remember how to do that.
Tony, youre a smart man youll figure it out.
He did. Came home with a new prescription. A fresh drug, to be taken with the rest.
Here, he set it on the table.
Fine.
Will you get it?
Ill be near Boots tomorrow, hand over the money.
That threw him. Jane always used to buy it herself from the household money. Now she waited.
He paid. She bought the medicine, set it with the others. Didnt write out a schedule, as she used to; just left it there.
March thawed the icy pavements. Jane took more solo walks, sometimes without the Nordic poles, just for herself. Bought a light beige spring jacket with a belt, soft and fitted. Looked in the shop mirror, thought how rare it was to buy something new just because.
Tom came up from Manchester with his wife Anita for a few days in March. Tom, tall, heading for forty, like his father in his youth but gentler. Anita was lovely, patient. They brought honey and a big box of biscuits.
Jane cooked a feast: baked potatoes, herring salad, and potted meat like her mother used to make. Tony ate little, hardly talked. Tom chatted about work and the kids; Anita asked Jane about her library classes.
Youre painting, Mum? Tom was surprised.
Learning, watercolours.
Brilliant. Show us?
Jane did: an apple, a vase of flowers, a library view. Tom looked intently; Anita called them beautiful.
Mum, you honestly look younger.
Just a new hairdresser at last, Jane smiled.
Tom kept glancing at his dad, sensing something was off, but didnt bring it up with Anita there.
Next day, with Anita out shopping, Tom helped in the kitchen as Jane made dumplings.
Everything alright, Mum?
What do you mean?
Dad seemsdown. Is he poorly?
Blood pressure. He saw the GP. On his own tablets now.
Tom said nothing for a while, turning a bit of pastry in his hands.
You havent fallen out?
No, Jane answered. It was true: they hadnt fought; just lived in parallel.
Mum, please just say if
Tom, honestly. Im fine.
He believed her. She meant it, strange as that still seemed.
After they left, the flat felt huge and silent. Jane cleared up, wiped down, Tony watched telly.
Late that night, he wandered in, poured himself water, stood at the window.
Toms looking good, he said.
Yes, very well, Jane nodded.
And the kids he trailed off.
Yes.
He finished his water and shuffled away. Jane stayed in the kitchen, gazing into the dark, streetlights shining coldly over the neighbours garden, rare late snow drifting in the glow.
April began and Tony had a hypertensive crisis. Not dire, no ambulance, but bad: dizzy, had to sit in the hall. Jane came out.
Jane. I feel awful.
She looked at him, slumped against the wall, face flushed and sweaty.
Come on, lets get you to bed.
She helped him up, fetched the monitor 185 over 110. Worrying.
Take your Captopril its in the drawer. Lie still. Ill recheck in half an hour.
Wherere you going?
Ill be in the kitchen.
She put the kettle on. Listened to him shuffling for his tablets. He was better in an hour: 160 over 95, more or less acceptable.
Rest today, she said. No work.
Ive got to
Phone in sick, Tony. Youre not going anywhere.
He stayed home. Jane brought him tea, with Rusks. Not because he asked, just because. Theres a difference between I dont want to care and Ill watch someone suffer.
He lay there staring at the ceiling.
Jane, he said eventually.
Yes?
I He faltered. I suppose Ive been a right fool these past months.
She didnt answer straight away. Sat on the edge of the bed.
Yes, Tony, she said quietly. You have.
Well He stared at the light fitting. That promotion. Got to my head. Thought everything should change. Thought Id achieved something.
You did. Youre a department head.
I know. Pause. But you, youve justwell I didnt mean it like
I know what you meant, she said softly.
She took his mug, left for the kitchen. It wasnt a reconciliation, no scenes, no tears, only his been foolish and her agreement. That was it.
April slipped to May, and Jane still went to the park or watercolours on Wednesdays. Got closer with Susan, who took her to the theatre, first time in a decade. Stalls seats, snacks from the bar, and the delight of watching actors perform live. She sat thinking, This is how Id forgotten life can be sitting with a friend, drinking orange juice, not rushing anywhere.
She was 56 and realising this wasnt an ending, but something else entirely.
She and Tony continued in their parallel existence. No more rows, no more references to Simmons wife. Sometimes they even shared a room hed watch TV, shed read a book Susan recommended. Peaceful, familiar, but now, she felt no sense of duty.
Once, he asked her to order his medication online, as it was cheaper from a pharmacy click-and-collect.
I dont know how, he said. Youre good with that.
Its easy, Tony. Search the name, add to basket, pick the nearest shop.
Youre always better with this.
I am, but so can you be.
He worked it out, called for help only once. Jane talked him through it. He managed on his own.
She realised that was important: not to do for people what they can do for themselves. Shed thought helping was doing everything. Now she knew, sometimes helping meant stepping back.
June brought hot days. She bought a new summer dress, airy, floral. Put it on and saw herself in the mirror not a country rattle, just a woman in a nice dress.
Shed been observing older couples for some time: some waged cold war, some cheerful companionship, some just indifference. She and Tony it was a fourth way: not war or peace, nor cold neglect, but something new separate lives under the same roof.
She didnt know the future. Sometimes she considered Susans suggestion of divorce; she didnt dismiss it, but she wasnt rushing, either. First she wanted to find out who she was.
The summer ticked on. She went to visit Tom in Manchester for two weeks, on her own first time in years. Tony stayed, claiming work. She packed a bag, embroidered a cushion for her granddaughter (learned from YouTube), and went.
Those two weeks with Tom, Anita, and her grandkids six-year-old Sam and four-year-old Molly were the best shed had in years. She walked with them, made them porridge, bathed Molly, read them stories. It was a caring, but not the exhausting, obligatory kind something freely given.
Tom, in the evenings, would gently ask how things were at home. She answered honestly: all right, though it wasnt easy. He just listened, didnt offer advice. A good son, she thought. That much, at least, was clear.
Jane came home tanned and rested. Tony met her at the door: Back, are you? Helped with her bag. That was about all.
August turned stuffy. She bought a cheap fan, a big watermelon from the market ate half herself, gave half to Tony. He ate it and, for the first time in ages, said thank you. For the food.
And come September, on a chill morning with gold leaves swirling round the estates, what shed half expected finally happened.
Tony came in late Friday: pale, careful, face grey. Jane was reading in the kitchen.
Jane, he called from the doorway Im not well.
Whats wrong?
Blood pressure, I reckon. Heads pounding. Here, too my chest.
She stood up, checked him carefully.
How long you had the pain?
Since lunch. Thought itd go away.
Take your pill?
Yes, at three. Didnt do much.
Sit down.
He slumped into a chair. She fetched the monitor: 190 over 115. Worse than in April.
Tony, she said carefully. This is serious. You need an ambulance.
Oh, come on, not that another tablet
No. One-ninety, and chest pain. Thats not another tablet job. You need a doctor.
Well, ring the ambulance, then
At that, she stopped. Standing there, monitor in hand, she looked at himgrey face, frightened eyes, his hand pressed to his chest. She saw a man in pain. She felt something: not indifference, not quite. Pity, a deep, honest pity. An elderly, sick man who was scared.
But she saw the other thing as well: the way all year hed looked through her, not at her; the words that lingered, never to be unsaid. That shed stopped, for him, a long time ago. That shed ceased to be a person in his eyes long before she stopped trying.
And she knew both what shed do, and what she wouldnt.
Tony, she said calmly. Youve got your phone. You know the number for the ambulance.
He stared at her, confused.
What?
Call them yourself. One one two, or nine nine nine. Give them the address, say high blood pressure and chest pain. Theyll come.
Jane His voice had a lost, almost childlike note. Wont you help me?
I have helped: took your pressure, told you whats needed. The rest is yours.
But
Tony. She set the monitor on the table. Youll call them yourself. Youre a grown man, a department head. You can do this.
She walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, into her room, closing the door gently not slamming it, just closing.
After a little while, his voice came faintly from the kitchen, a bit shaky:
Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance. The address is
She poured herself some tea. Chamomile, because she loves chamomile. Walked through the kitchen, past him hunched, phone to his ear, giving details to the operator. He looked up at her. She went to the window, looking out into the night.
The estate was empty. The streetlamp glowed yellow, lighting up the slick pavements. The trees were bare, leaves scattered and sodden below. The bench under the lamp was empty.
He put down the phone. Silence.
Theyre coming, he said.
Good, she replied.
Will you come with me to the hospital
She turned from the window. Looked at him his grey face, his fearful eyes, hand on chest. She did feel sorry for him truly, not maliciously. He was an old, unwell man in need of help. There was no sense of triumph, no relief.
No, Tony, she said quietly. I wont go. The ambulance crew will sort everything; its their job.
She picked up her tea and went back to her room, gently closing the door. Sat by her window, looking at the street outside, the tall poplar, the block of flats beyond. Something rustled in the kitchen. Then silence. Then the lifts distant hum.
The ambulance had arrived in twenty minutes. She listened as Tony opened the door, heard strange footsteps, fast, professional voices. Heard words: blood pressure, ECG, possibly admit. Tony answered in an almost apologetic tone, like a schoolboy.
Then she heard:
Is your wife here?
And Tonys answer:
Shes here. But sheshes not coming.
A pause. The medics neutral voice:
Right then. Come along, lets get you checked over.
The door. The lift. Silence.
