Margaret unlocked the door, heaved her heavy bag over the threshold, and caught her breath. At once, a voice rang out from the living room:
“Meg, finally! What’ve you brought for tea? Blimey, where’ve you been? I’m near starving to death here!”
Her mood, already sour, twisted into an ugly little knot. Of course—John had spent the day sprawled like a lord on the sofa, glued to the telly or blasting away at some video game. The floor was still filthy, and the washing? Likely still piled up. But heaven forbid *she* was late—never mind that her grown man couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger! And the money? Oh, it must just sprout like mushrooms in the cupboard, mustn’t it?
With the plodding weariness of a navvy, Margaret trudged to the kitchen, unpacked the bags, and, still in her coat, set about throwing together supper—she was famished herself! Her irritation took it out on the innocent pots and pans, clattering them with unnecessary force.
John listened from the sofa as the kitchen echoed with her wrath, but soon even the telly’s noise was drowned out. Grumbling, he hauled himself up and went to investigate.
“Meg, what’s all the racket? I can’t even hear the news!”
She slammed a plate onto the table. “Eat! And if I want to make a din, I’ll make a din! Too bad you’ve never set foot in a proper workshop, you layabout!”
John frowned but sat down and tucked into the bangers and mash. Margaret kept banging about, eating standing up. Then her question caught him off guard—he’d been miles away.
“Did you at least *think* to put the washing in while I was out?”
He threw up his hands. “Meg, come off it! Laundry’s women’s work—I’m a bloke, I’m not meant to know the first thing about it! Last time I tried, you screeched that I ruined your delicates on a boil wash!”
“A bloke? You’re about as much a man as I am the Queen of Sheba! And don’t act like you’ve never had a chance to learn how to work a ruddy washing machine!,” Margaret snapped. Now John was properly affronted.
“Meg, that’s out of order! You’re crossing a line! I know you’re sore I’m between jobs, but it’s temporary! I’m not about to break my back for tuppence hauling bricks—a man’s got to find his calling! These things take time! Meanwhile, you treat me like dirt! What for?”
His self-preservation instincts must’ve been off that evening. Otherwise, he might’ve noticed how suspiciously quiet Margaret had gone. But no alarm bells rang, so he ploughed on.
“You’re a woman, Meg! You’re meant to be tender, nurturing! Instead, you clatter about like a docker on the docks! Can’t you at least tread lightly and put things down gently?”
Margaret gave a sharp scoff, but John’s sense of danger remained fast asleep—snoring, even. He scraped his plate clean, dumped it in the sink, and paced the kitchen like Churchill in the War Rooms.
“And another thing—you ought to show me some respect! I’m your husband, for heaven’s sake—it’s only right! Take Sarah next door—she dotes on her Tom, waits on him hand and foot! Never a cross word between them. *That’s* how it should be! Why must I spell it out for you?”
He’d just rounded the counter when he finally sensed trouble. Margaret was squinting at him like a cat eyeing a mouse, her right hand resting *very* comfortably on the handle of the frying pan. Cast iron. A good five pounds of it. And Margaret was a strapping woman—she could swing it easy.
“Sarah, is it? And Tom?” she said softly, all ice.
Everyone knew Tom and Sarah. The young Pakistani couple had been gifted their flat by their families—relatives had chipped in from here to Karachi. Both had grown up in England, spoke flawless English, and kept their faith without fuss—Sarah didn’t wear a hijab, though she dressed modestly. Still, they held to certain traditions.
“Sarah,” Margaret repeated, and John froze. “You’re right, love—she *is* a good wife. But you’ve forgotten one thing. Or rather, *who*.”
John blinked.
“You see, *Johnny-boy*, Tom’s up at dawn for the building site, then off to his brother’s shop unloading crates, and weekends behind the till. Doesn’t spend his days ‘finding himself’—if he does, it’s *after* work. And Sarah? Always got some new trinket—a ring, earrings, a dress. No wonder she flutters about him—she’s got a proper man! Doesn’t fret over bills—*Tom* sorts that. She keeps the home nice, and he keeps *her* nice.”
John stared, lost. Margaret tapped the pan lightly against her palm.
“Now, let’s look at *us*. Who works two jobs, picks up weekend shifts? *Me*, Johnny-boy! Who sits at home? *You*. So if we’re comparing, *I’m* Tom. And you, my love—you’re *Sarah*.”
John’s jaw dropped. Of all the twists—this he *hadn’t* seen coming. And Margaret wasn’t done.
“So no, *you* don’t get to chide *me* about Sarah. You’re a man in bed, the loo, and the shower—but everywhere else? *Sarah*. And you’re rubbish at it! Floor’s filthy, laundry’s heaped, no tea ready—and look at you! Wrinkled shirt, saggy joggers, belly coming in! How’s *that* meant to charm me?”
John stood gobsmacked. Margaret *whacked* the pan down.
“Right—dishes washed, kitchen tidied, shower taken, and into bed presentable! Or I’ll *show* you a matriarchy! Lecturing *me* about Sarah!” With that, she marched off, leaving John scrambling for the sink. He *did* wash up—slowly, clumsily—wiped the counters, swept, even splashed on aftershave. When he crept into bed, Margaret was already asleep.
He lay rigid at the edge, nerves buzzing. When sleep *did* come, it brought nightmares:
He dreamt he was in gauzy harem trousers, belly-dancing in the lounge—joined by blokes from the pub, all wriggling about. Only Tom, dressed normally, sat gaming on *his* console. On the sofa, Margaret, Sarah, and the other wives lounged in silk robes, critiquing them like judges at a cattle show: *”This one’s got a gut,” “That one’s legs are like a Yeti’s!”*
They gyrated, fluttered their lashes—*sober*, mind—but the women just sighed. Then Margaret waved a regal hand: *”Off you pop—dishes, hoovering, darning. Tom’s staying—*he’s *the only proper man here.”*
John woke in a heap on the rug. Five AM. On wobbly legs, he crept for water—no idea where the valerian was. If he’d ever been ill, *Margaret* had dosed him.
***
Come morning, Margaret was stunned—her layabout had *bolted* before her, muttering about “errands.” She rolled her eyes and left for work.
But that was nothing. The *real* shock came home.
First—the hallway floor was *clean*. Before she could wonder what cosmic event had occurred, John’s voice called from the kitchen:
“Meg! Kettle’s gone cold. Got a cake from the shop—didn’t trust my cooking!”
He peeked out—clean shirt, proper jeans. Margaret gaped.
“John—are you *ill*?”
“Right as rain! Wanted to celebrate—got a job. Electrician. Tom put in a word with his foreman. These new builds—wiring’s a *mess*! Who runs ‘em like that?”
***
Margaret’s knitting needles clicked steadily on the park bench.
“Oi, look—your Max’s caught up to my Musa again!” Sarah chuckled, rocking the pram where her and Tom’s second son, Harun, slept. Margaret smirked, flipping her knitting.
“Well, Johnny’s a tall one—takes after his dad!”
Four-year-old Musa and three-year-old Max tore about the playground. Sarah beamed.
“True! You’ve a good man—hold onto him! Tom says Johnny’s been promoted?”
Margaret nodded primly. “Works hard, doesn’t he? Who else would they pick?”
Her phone chimed. She packed up.
“Sarah, must dash! Johnny’ll be home—need to fry up some chops and warm the stew! Max!As she hurried home, the scent of fresh bread wafting from the bakery reminded her to grab a loaf, and she smiled, thinking how Johnny’s face would light up when he saw it.
