No, Dave, whats she going to do? My wifes as wooden as a garden bench, she couldnt care less. Dont worry, Ive already lined up a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand. The keys were still jangling on the lock I hadnt even managed to shut the front door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a promotional pack of buckwheat, and three yoghurts for Kyleonly the plain, sugarfree ones. I was already wondering whether Id have time to defrost the meat or whether Id end up hurling a frozen slab onto the pan and get a steaming mess instead of a proper roast.
Dave stood with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in his muga instant coffee with three spoonfuls of sugar. He never washed his own dishes.
She wont notice a thing, he murmured, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for a transfer, you sign. She trusts me. Wooden. No feelings, no character. Free housekeeper.
He laughed. I recognized that laugh the one hed let out in the garage with his mates while I was washing up after their gettogether. The same chuckle when little Kyle fell off his bike and I ran in with a bottle of green ink, while Dave just stood there and said, What are you, a hen? Let him get up on his own.
My ears rang like before a storm. My fingers dug into the bag handles; the cling film bit my palms into white stripes. I set the groceries down slowly, fished my phone out and hit record.
From the kitchen came a low mutter Dave was already chatting with Steve about fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake. He always does that: first spat out the poison, then moved on to nonsense as if nothing had happened, as if I were really wooden.
I pressed the phone to the crack of the ajar door and waited until hed said goodbye to Steve and promised to wash the deal next week.
Then Dave hung up, gave a grunt and shuffled in slippers to the fridge. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed the bags and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the frame.
A cold fire pressed at the back of my throat I wanted to scream or howl like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Kyle, school, university, his loans that Id been paying off from my holidays pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, his meatballs, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt?. And now I was wooden. And the buyer was already on the line.
I sat on the bed, stared at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I looked at my wedding bandthin, worn. Hed given it to me back when we were sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I suddenly wanted to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I breathed in deep, just as Mum used to say: Blythe, if someone hurts you, count to ten first, then decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I stood, splashed my face with icy water, and opened the drawer for an old notebook. I found the number for the local Citizens Advice the one Id used to register my mothers disability.
A womans voice streamed over the line, explaining that a restriction on any registration could be set online, but it was better to come in person. I said Id be there right now.
It was about three oclock. Dave was roaring in the kitchen probably frying an egg. I slipped into the corridor, threw on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asked without turning. The pan hissed.
Buy some bread. Nothing for dinner.
Right, grab me a packet of cigarettes too.
I left. The lift jostled me, not out of fear but from the realisation that I was finally doing something on my own. For twentyfour years I hadnt acted without his signoff. We even chose wall colours together, and hed later grumble, Beige is boring, green wouldve been better. Id said nothing.
The Citizens Advice centre was empty. A clerk stared at my papers from behind a glass partition.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without you being present, nobodyeven with a power of attorneycan sell, gift or swap the flat.
Absolutely.
She tapped away at the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later I stepped out onto the street with a slip of paper, slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat where the phone with the recording was tucked.
I returned home with a loaf and a packet of his favourite cigarettes. Dave was slumped on the sofa, watching an action film. I headed to the kitchen, turned the kettle on. The pan held the charred remains of yesterdays egg. I washed it, habit doing its thing.
Around seven, the doorbell rang. Dave bolted up, yanked off his Tshirt.
Ah, thats for me. Blythe, put the kettle on, a nice guest is coming.
I nodded.
In shuffled a man about fifty, in a pricey coat and carrying a leather briefcase. Dave perked up, flashing a grin.
Meet Oliver Brooks, estate agent. About the flat.
I stepped out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and gave Dave a sideways glance at his smug face.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Steve this afternoon?
He froze. His smile slipped like badly glued wallpaper.
What? Yeah something happened, what?
You called me a wooden wife. Said youd found a buyer for my flat and that I wouldnt notice a thing.
A silence hung. The agent shifted from foot to foot. Daves face drained, his cheeks mottled with uneven colour.
What are you on about, Blythe? he began, but I raised a hand.
Stop. I heard everything. Here.
I pulled the phone out and hit play. His voice filled the room: My wifes wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me free housekeeper
The agent took a step back.
Mr. Davies, you didnt mention there were complications.
Dave stared at me as if I were a stranger.
Did you record? Were you spying on me? he hissed.
I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Kyle and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were negotiating my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. Mums.
He moved toward me, but I kept my tone even.
And another thing. I went to Citizens Advice today and put a restriction on any transaction involving the flat unless Im physically present. So your buyer I nodded at the agentcan look elsewhere. This flat isnt for sale any more.
The agent started to back away.
I think Ill be leaving then. Mr. Davies, well be in touch. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. Dave stood in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish out of water.
What have you done? Youve ruined everything! We had plans!
You had plans. I had belief. And you burnt it today, calling me wooden. Wood burns, Dave. And Ive burned right back.
He flopped onto the sofa, clutching his head.
Sorry, Blythe. It slipped. I didnt mean it. Steve pushed me
Steve, I chuckled. Always someone elses fault, isnt it? Not you, whos spent twentyfour years living off my money, drinking my tea, sleeping in my sheets and treating me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped off my ring and placed it on the coffee table.
Tomorrow Ill file for divorce. The flat stays with meits Mums inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your things within a week. Ill explain everything to Kyle; hes an adult now.
Blythe?
No, thank you. You have no idea how light I feel right now. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook. Im thinking I have a home, and I have myself.
I slipped into the bedroom, closed the door, and the phone buzzed with a message from a friend: So, how was your day?
I typed back: Fantastic. Im no longer wooden.
I woke at seven the next morning. Instead of rushing to put the kettle on for Dave, I stretched, slipped on a robe and brewed coffee for myself. Ground, with a pinch of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. Ive always loved real beans.
He shuffled out of the room, his face creased, and stared at the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
What about me?
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Dave. Wooden things sometimes sprout legs.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorching hot. My hands still trembled, and the cup clinked against my teeth. Yet it was the best coffee Id ever tasted, because Id made it for me.
The doorbell rang. I set the cup down and went to answer. Standing on the doorstep was Oliver Brooks again, no briefcase this time, looking a bit flustered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned yesterday that the flat was yours, but I wasnt aware I just wanted to offer my services as a private client. If you ever decide to buy, sell or rent, Im here. Honest, no strings attached.
I stared at him, bewildered. From the kitchen, Dave emerged, his face twisted in frustration.
What are you doing here? he barked.
Working, Oliver replied calmly. I have a new client now.
He handed me a card. I turned it over, then looked back at Dave, at his helpless rage, at the eversmiling agent.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. Today Im buying a cat. And maybe a new frying pan.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dave muttered something and slunk back into the room. I shut the door, leaned back against it and laughed softly, almost unheard. For the first time in ages I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a smile, already planning to name the cat Martha, after the old family cat whod once roamed the house until Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Martha would be mine, and nobody could argue that shedding was a problem.
