Monday, 6November
I was frying meat patties in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I wiped my hands on the teatowel and padded into the hallway.
Mum, its for me, Emily called from the doorway, stopping me halfway.
Alright, I didnt know I started.
Why are you standing there? Keep frying, she snapped, glancing back at me from the entrance.
What do you mean your patties? I bought the mince myself
Mum, shut the door, Emily rolled her eyes.
Fine, Ill say it next time, I muttered, retreating to the kitchen and pulling the door shut behind me. I turned off the gas beneath the pan, slipped off my apron and left the kitchen.
In the hallway Emily was pulling on her coat. Ian, Emilys boyfriend, was leaning against the wall, his eyes glued to her.
Hello, Ian. Where are you off to? Would you like to join us for dinner?
Good evening, he said with a smile, looking questioningly at Emily.
Were in a rush, she replied without glancing at me.
Maybe youll stay for a bite? Everythings ready, I repeated.
Ian fell silent.
No! Emily snapped. Lets go. She took Ians arm, opened the front door and turned to me. Mum, could you close it?
I walked to the door and left it ajar, just enough to hear the chatter outside.
Why are you so harsh with her? It smells wonderful, I could eat those patties all day, a neighbour called from the street.
Lets pop into a café for a snack. Im fed up with her patties, Emily muttered.
Can they really get boring? I love your mums patties; I could have them every day, Ian replied.
I couldnt make out what Emily said back to him. The voices on the stairwell faded as they drifted away.
I finally shut the door fully and slipped into the living room. Bob, my husband, was glued to the telly.
Bob, lets have dinner while its still warm.
Right, lets go. He rose from the sofa, crossed the kitchen and sat at the table.
What are we having tonight? he asked, a hint of authority in his tone.
Rice with meat patties and a salad, I answered, lifting the pan.
Youve told me a hundred times I dont eat fried patties, he grumbled.
I added a splash of water, so they turned out almost steamed, I said, holding the lid.
Fine, eat up. But this is the last time.
At our age its foolish to try losing weight, I remarked, plating the rice and patties for him.
What age? Im only fiftyseven. This is the prime of a mans life, he retorted, skewering a patty and taking a bite.
Are you all in on some conspiracy? Emily ran off, youre acting like a child. Ill stop cooking and see how you manage without me. Do you really think a café serves healthier food?
Fine, dont cook then. Youd do well to lose a few stones yourself. You wont fit through the door any more, he said, polishing off another patty.
Is that so? Do you think Im fat? Ive been caring for you, buying a leather jacket, a new pair of jeans, even shaving the top of my head to hide my baldness. Who am I doing all this for? Certainly not for you. I said, hurt cutting through my words.
Let me eat in peace, Bob muttered, twirling his fork but never quite reaching his mouth. Pass the ketchup, please.
I fetched the ketchup from the fridge, slammed the jar onto the table and left the kitchen without touching my own plate. The dinner I had prepared sat untouched.
I closed myself in Emilys bedroom, sank onto the sofa and let the tears come.
I thought, *I cook, I try, and yet they take me for granted. I do everything for them, and in return I get nothing. My husband flirts elsewhere, calls me fat. My daughter looks at me as if Im staff. If Im retired, can they still treat me like a servant? I would still work if they didnt cut my hours. Experienced hands are apparently useless; they want the young ones. What can the young possibly do?*
I remembered getting up before anyone else, even though I no longer worked, just to make breakfast. The whole day Im on my feet, never a moment to sit. I blamed myself for spoiling them, and now they sit on my neck like a weight. The tears ran down my cheeks, leaving damp tracks. I pressed my palms to my eyes, stifling the sobs.
I had always believed we were a good family. Not perfect, but not worse than anyone elses. Emily was doing well at university, my husband didnt drink or smoke, he earned a decent wage. The house was tidy, the food tasty. What else could he want?
I stood before the mirror on the wardrobe door, examined my reflection. *Yes, Ive put on a few pounds, but Im not obscene. My wrinkles are softened by the roundness of my cheeks. Ive always loved a good meal, and I still cook well. When I worked I styled hair, curled it. Now I pin it back so it doesnt get in the way. Do I really need to spend my days on heels and makeup? I should probably lose a bit of weight and maybe dye my hair.*
The next morning I lingered in bed, pretending to sleep. *Im retired; I have the right to stay under the covers a little longer. Let them make their own breakfast.*
The alarm finally buzzed. I shifted and faced the wall.
Are you ill? Bob asked, his tone devoid of concern.
Yeah, just feeling a bit off, I replied, burying my face in the duvet.
Mum, are you sick? Emily entered the room.
Yes, go on and have breakfast without me, I whispered from under the blanket.
Emily huffed in annoyance and headed for the kitchen. Soon the kettle whistled, the fridge door clanged, and muffled voices drifted from the hallway. I stayed under the covers, playing the part of the ailing mother until the day wore on.
Bob entered with the scent of an expensive cologne I had bought for him years ago. After he and Emily left, the house fell silent. I pulled the blanket aside, closed my eyes and fell into a light sleep.
An hour later I woke, stretched, and shuffled to the kitchen. Dirty mugs were piled in the sink, crumbs littered the countertop. I wanted to tidy up, but thought, *Im not a maid.* I slipped into the shower, then called an old school friend.
Ellie! Its been ages, she answered, her voice unchanged. How are you? Not tired of being a pensioner?
I told her I missed the bustle, that I hadnt visited my parents graves in a while, and asked if I could stay with her for a few days.
Of course, youre always welcome. When will you be here?
Im heading to the station now.
Great, Ill start baking the scones.
I packed a small bag, left a note on the kitchen table that Id gone to Ellies, and set off for the bus station. On the way I hesitated, wondering if I was being too reckless. *If they can manage without me, perhaps they truly dont value my work.* Yet I told myself, *If there are no tickets, Ill go home.*
The bus queue was long, but I managed to get a seat near the back. When I arrived at the depot, Ellie greets me with a hug, we share tea and warm scones, and catch up.
Youre lucky to be here, she said. Lets give you a makeover tomorrow. Violet, the salon owner, will be there. Remember when you used to get bad marks? Now shes booked solid.
That night I lay awake, replaying the days events.
At the salon Violet welcomed us, seated me, and began to style my hair, shape my eyebrows, and trim my lashes. I felt my eyes grow heavy, almost dozing. The night seemed endless. Violet insisted on full makeup; I wanted to stop, but Ellie coaxed me to see it through.
When she was done, I barely recognised the woman in the mirror younger, vibrant, striking. Violet was already arranging a manicure.
No, thats enough for tonight. I cant take any more, I pleaded.
Alright, well book you for eighta.m. tomorrow. Be on time, or everyone will be waiting, Violet said firmly.
Look at you now! Who would have guessed? Ellie gushed as we left. Now lets hit the shops.
I hesitated, Maybe another time?
No, we must go. Beauty demands sacrifice.
We walked into a department store where I emerged in loose trousers, a light cardigan, and a soft top. I felt oddly pleased despite the fatigue.
Bags full of a new dress, a coat, and a pair of shoes clutched in my hands, I felt revitalised, as if Id finally reclaimed a part of myself that had been hidden for years.
Outside the store, a tall, silverhaired gentleman with a cleanshaven face approached.
Hello, ladies, he said, admiring my look. You look absolutely stunning.
I blinked. I?
You dont recognise me? Its Peter Hughes, Lucy my friend whispered from behind.
Peter? I asked, confused.
Yes, he confirmed, smiling. Peter had been a lanky, unremarkable classmate back at school.
We should go to my place, celebrate your transformation. Ive got a bottle of wine, Lucy suggested.
We sat together, sipping wine, reminiscing about school days. A flush rose to my cheeks, partly from the wine, partly from the attention.
Hes still got a crush on you, Lucy teased when Peter left.
Yes, stop it. How many years have passed?
You look like someone you could fall for again, she assured.
I asked, Does he still live nearby?
No, hes a retired colonel, left the army two years ago after a serious injury. Hes been using a cane, but hes still around. Lucy warned.
Im married, I protested.
Later that night I decided to return home, but Lucy wasnt ready to let me go.
Youve just arrived and youre leaving? Show some backbone. Nothing will happen to you. Stay a week, enjoy yourself. By the way, Peter got tickets to the theatre. When was the last time you went?
Back at the youth theatre for the Christmas show with Sophie, I replied.
Sophie, the Christmas show well flaunt your new dress.
Three days later my phone buzzed.
Mum, where are you? Dads in hospital! Come quickly, Sophie called.
My heart pounded. I hurriedly packed, and Peter drove me to the station.
If you need anything, Im here, he said.
Thanks, Peter.
On the bus I called Sophie. She sounded shocked. You really left? I thought youd be back tomorrow.
What about Dad? I asked.
Shes been cheating, I saw him leaving the neighbours flat. He never stayed over when you were gone. Yesterday a fight broke out with his other woman. He broke a rib, but its nothing. He also had a brain bleed, but the ambulance made it. Sophie paused. Hes okay now.
I listened, stunned, feeling a strange mixture of relief and dread. I decided not to travel any further. By evening I was back home, though the hospital was now closed for night visits.
Sophie, you sound so different. I hardly recognise you, I said, feeling a strange respect in her tone.
I was scared you wouldnt return. I even thought youd found someone else.
I havent. I just wanted to teach you a lesson. You and Dad stopped seeing me as a person.
Sorry, Mum, but you let yourself go after retirement. Youve become old. Do you think Dad will forgive you? Sophie jabbed.
I looked around the quiet house, grateful for the familiar walls.
The next morning I rose early, made a pot of chicken broth and drove to the hospital. Bob, now with a grey beard, wept when he saw me, begging forgiveness. I fed him a spoonful of broth.
Two weeks later Bob was discharged. As we left the taxi, a man and woman passed us; Bob flinched, the woman averted her gaze. I realised she was my younger rival a slim, redhaired woman.
Dont you plan on leaving again? he asked at home.
No, Im not thin, I havent lost weight, I replied brightly.
I asked for forgiveness. I was foolish. Grill some patties, will you? he pleaded.
I fried the patties, prepared a hearty supper.
It smells wonderful! Sophie, now back from university, exclaimed as she entered. We all sat together at the table as we used to, with Bob finally praising my cooking.
I looked at my family, feeling a quiet joy that they were all here, alive and mostly well, and that I still mattered.
Life in old age isnt always smooth. It throws you into unfamiliar places, and the body isnt what it once was, though the spirit can stay young. Acceptance is hard, but the desire to hold onto past strength remains.
Everyone learns their own lesson, but the important thing is we face it together. You cant change the horse you ride across the river, but you can hold the reins tighter.
A good wife, a warm home what more does one need to meet old age?
