“You can stay if you cook for everyone,” her husband smirked.
“That neighbors complaining about the noise again,” grumbled Victor, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. “Says the music was on till half eleven last night.”
“And wasnt it?” asked Helen, not looking up from her magazine. “Your mates were singing at the top of their lungs till the end.”
“So what? It was Saturday. Ive got a right to relax in my own flat.”
Helen said nothing. Arguing with him after last nights drinking was pointless. His head mustve been pounding, and his temper turned unbearable.
“By the way, the lads are coming over again tonight,” Victor added, heading to the bathroom. “Watching the match.”
“How many?” Helen asked wearily.
“Five or six. Didnt count.”
Helen closed the magazine and checked their old wall clock. Half two. That meant chaos would erupt in a couple of hoursshouting, drunken chatter, cigarette smoke. And tomorrow morning, piles of dirty dishes and ashtrays brimming with stubs.
“Vic, could we skip the feast tonight?” she ventured. “Just have tea?”
He stepped out of the bathroom, drying his face with a towel.
“Are you joking? Whats a match without snacks? The ladsll be starving after work.”
“Whos going to cook?”
Victor looked at her as if shed asked something daft.
“Who always cooks? Youre the missus.”
“I was at the clinic all morning, then running errands, cleaning the flat,” Helen felt anger simmering in her chest. “Im knackered, Vic.”
“Then rest an hour and get to it. Its nothing difficultjust slice some ham, cheese, and fry up some potatoes.”
Helen rose from the sofa and walked to the kitchen. Lunch plates still cluttered the table, unwashed pots towered in the sink. And now she had to clear it all and set the table for his mates.
“Couldnt we order something?” she called from the kitchen. “Pizza or kebabs?”
“With what money?” Victor shot back. “You think it grows on trees? Cookings cheaper and better.”
Helen scrubbed the dishes, scouring each plate with force. Twenty-three years of marriage, and never once had her husband asked if she fancied a rest or an evening with friends.
When shed married Vic, hed seemed a proper manhardworking, steady, hardly touched a drink. Most of all, hed promised to cherish her, never let her down.
The first years had been just so. Victor worked construction, came home tired but content. Helen worked at the library, cooked, cleaned, did the laundry in the evenings. They lived modestly, but happily.
Everything changed when he got promoted to foreman. His wages rose, new friends appeared, and with them, new habits. First, he stayed late after work, then began bringing colleagues homefirst occasionally, then more and more often.
“Hel, wheres the whiskey?” Victor shouted from the sitting room.
“In the cabinet, top shelf.”
“Theres only one bottle. Wont be enough.”
“Then go buy more.”
“Cant be bothered. You run out, since youre cooking anyway.”
Helen placed a plate in the drying rack and sighed deeply. Again, shed have to dash to the shop, spending housekeeping money on drink for his mates.
“Couldnt we skip the drink?” she tried again. “Just get a few cans of beer?”
“Dont be daft!” Victor stormed into the kitchen. “Beer? Its the decider, the lads made time special. I cant serve them beer.”
He stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders.
“Why so glum? Just one evening. Youll rest tomorrow.”
“Every weekends just one evening,” Helen said softly. “A match, a birthday, or just because.”
“Men work hard. Need to unwind sometimes. You understand.”
“And dont I work?”
Victor dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Calling the library work? Shuffling books about? Thats not work, thats a holiday.”
A chill ran down Helens spine. He always spoke of her job like thisdismissive, as if it were nonsense.
“So my jobs a holiday?”
“Course. Sat in quiet, chatting with posh folk. Me? Stuck on site dawn till dusk with rough blokes.”
Helen stayed silent. Arguing was useless. Victor never grasped that dealing with people drained her toosolving small crises, helping readers, running childrens reading clubs.
“Fine,” she said at last. “How many are coming? Exactly.”
“Told youfive or six. Dont know for sure wholl turn up.”
“What time?”
“Match starts at six. So theyll trickle in by half-five.”
Helen checked the clock. Three in the afternoon. Barely enough time to set a proper table.
“Give me money for groceries. And list what to buy.”
Victor rummaged in his jeans and pulled out a crumpled twenty-pound note.
“Enough?”
“For six men? Hardly.”
“Then use whats in the freezer. Its packed.”
Helen took the money and went to dress. The freezer did hold meatbut it was meant for the week. Tomorrow, shed have to cook dinner again.
The shop was a ten-minute walk. Helen moved slowly, pondering her life. When had she become a servant in her own home? When had she stopped being a wife and turned into just a cook and cleaner?
At the till, the groceriesham, cheese, salad veg, crisps, nutscost more than she had.
“Put back the crisps,” she told the cashier.
The nuts went too. Twenty pounds barely covered essentials.
At home, Victor lounged on the sofa, telly blaring.
“Quick trip,” he noted approvingly. “Whatd you get?”
Helen wordlessly unpacked the bags, time slipping away.
First, she peeled potatoes for frying. Then sliced the ham and cheese, arranged them on a platter. Next, the saladchopped veg, dollop of mayo.
“Any hot food?” Victor peered into the kitchen.
“Like what?”
“Dunno. Sausages or chops. The ladsll be hungry.”
Helen checked the clock. Half four. If she started now, she might just manage.
“Fine. But help set the table.”
“Cant,” he waved her off. “Need a shower, smarten up. Cant greet the lads looking rough.”
Helen pulled mince from the freezer, began shaping patties. Her arms ached, but she hurried. Guests at half-five, and only cold cuts were ready.
Victor did shower, singing tunelessly, splashing about. Easy for himsoon his mates would arrive, laughing, drinking, watching football. Shed dart between kitchen and lounge, serving food, clearing plates.
When he emerged, the first sausages sizzled in the pan.
“On track?” he asked, pulling on a fresh shirt.
“For now. Help lay the table.”
“Just a shave first.”
But after shaving, he flopped into his armchair, telly on.
“Vic, you promised!” Helen called from the kitchen.
“Later. Just catching the news.”
And at six tomorrow, shed rise for worklibrary computer classes for pensioners. Materials to prep, tech to set up.
Flipping sausages, Helen realized this life could stretch on for years. Victor wouldnt change. He was used to her doing everything, never complaining, never asking for help.
“Hel, where are the glasses?” he shouted.
“Bottom shelf, cabinet!”
“Cant see em!”
She dried her hands and fetched them herselfexactly where shed said.
“Here,” she pointed.
“Right. Missed them.”
Back in the kitchen, the sausages were doneonly the table remained. She laid out the good linen, saved for special occasions. Though what was special? Just his mates dropping by.
At half-five, the buzzer rang.
“First arrivals!” Victor cheered. “Let em in!”
Helen pressed the button, then changed into a clean dress. Best look presentable for company.
On the threshold stood Steve and Mickregulars for football nights. Three others followed, strangers to Helen.
“Come in, lads!” Victor boomed. “Make yourselves at home!”
The men shed coats, crowded round the table. Helen brought out sausages, salad, cold cuts. Victor fetched whiskey and beer from the fridge.
“To good company!” he toasted.
Glasses clinked, the men drank, dug into the food. Helen lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching.
“Mrs. Carter, wont you join us?” asked Steve, ever the polite one.
“Thank you, but theres still kitchen work,” she replied.
“Oh, come on,” Victor waved. “Sit downyou cooked, didnt
