Your times up, said the husband, pointing to the door.
That smell again! Ive asked you not to smoke in the house! Margaret flung open the sitting room windows, angrily swishing the curtains aside. Good heavens, even the sofa reeks. What will Lydia and her husband think when they come for supper?
What will they think? Arthur deliberately stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Theyll think a proper man lives here, one who enjoys a smoke now and then. Big deal.
Proper men, Arthur Whitmore, smoke in the garden or the shednot poison their family with smoke. I get headaches from it.
Here we go, Arthur rolled his eyes. Twenty-five years married to a smoker, and suddenly its a problem. Maybe its the change, Maggie?
Margaret froze, lips pressed tight. Lately, hed been bringing up her age more often, as if trying to wound herand somehow, he always hit the mark.
Whats that got to do with it? She turned to the window to hide the tears. Im just asking for basic respect. Is it so hard to step outside?
Respect? He scoffed. Wheres your respect for me? After work, I want to sit in my chair, have my tea, and enjoy a smokenot run in and out like some schoolboy. Its my house!
Our house, she corrected softly.
Oh, aye, ours, he conceded grudgingly. But its me who pays the bills. Me who paid for the new boiler. Me who bought your new winter coat.
Margaret exhaled. Shed heard this a thousand times. Yes, she hadnt worked in fifteen yearsfirst raising the children, then caring for his mother, then then just settling into the rhythm of home. And Arthur had grown used to holding it over her.
I dont want to argue, she said wearily. Just please smoke in the garden. Lydias asthmaticshell struggle to breathe.
Fine, Arthur agreed, surprisingly easy. For your precious Lydia, Ill step out. But just tonight.
He rose from his chair and headed to the bedroom, tossing over his shoulder,
And I still dont see why you invited them. Ive an early meeting tomorrowI need sleep, not to entertain your dull friends.
Theyre not just friends, Margaret countered. Edwards the head librarianhe might help me find work.
Arthur stopped in the doorway and turned slowly.
What work?
Margaret hesitated. Shed meant to tell him later, once things were settled. Now she had no choice.
I want a position at the library, she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. Three half-days a week. The children are grown, youre always at the office I need something to do.
And wholl keep the house? he cut in. Wholl cook, clean, do the washing?
Ill manage, she said, attempting a smile. Its only a few hours. The children hardly visit now, and
Aye, but your mothers here every week, he muttered. Always expecting a roast and pudding.
Mum helps, Margaret protested. Besides, she doesnt come that often.
Doesnt matter to me, Arthur waved a hand. But this work notionits daft, Maggie. Youre forty-seven. Stay home, do your needlework, read your books.
My books? A spark of indignation flared. Arthur, do you even remember Ive a degree in English? That I taught literature before the children came?
Taughttwenty years ago! He flopped back into his chair. Times have changed. Where dyou think youll go with that old qualification?
The library, she repeated stubbornly. I dont need fortunes, Arthur. I need purpose. Company. To feel Im good for more than scrubbing floors and ironing your shirts.
Charming, he sneered. So home and family arent worth your time? Not fit for a clever woman like you?
You know thats not what I meant, she said, exhausted by the old argument. Lets talk later. Weve guests coming.
She retreated to the kitchen, heart pounding. Every conversation lately turned into a battle. She didnt know when it had startedonly that one day, shed realised they no longer spoke the same language. He didnt hear her. Didnt want to.
Once, it had been different. Theyd met at universityboth studying literature, both dreaming in poetry. Arthur wrote verses; Margaret adored them. Then came marriage, first Alice, then James. Arthur climbed the ranks at the publishing house; Margaret stayed homewith nappies, with chores, with books that grew dustier by the year.
She hadnt noticed him changing. The romantic lad becoming a weary, cynical man, more interested in office politics than her thoughts. By the time she saw it, it was too late. They were strangers under one roof.
Lydia and Edward arrived precisely at seven. Edward, a stout man with a greying beard, launched into politics with Arthur. Lydia, birdlike and bright at sixty, followed Margaret to the kitchen.
Hows Arthurs mood? she asked, slicing carrots. Did you mention the job?
Hes against it, Margaret sighed.
Well, what did you expect? Lydia shrugged. Men hate changeespecially when it inconveniences them.
But nothing would change, Margaret pulled the shepherds pie from the oven. Id still manage the housejust a few hours away, three days a week.
To him, thats catastrophe, Lydia chuckled. Imaginehe comes home, and youre not there. The horror!
They laughed, and Margaret felt the tension ease. Lydia always steadied her.
Dinner began peacefully. Arthur was genial, joking, asking Edward about new releases. Margaret dared to hopeperhaps hed just been in a mood earlier.
Speaking of books, Lydia turned to Margaret. Have you told Arthur about the reading group?
What group? Arthur looked up from his plate.
Well Margaret hesitated. We discussed me leading a childrens book club. At the library.
And when was this meant to start? Arthurs tone sharpened.
Next month, Lydia answered, oblivious. Twice weekly, two-hour sessions. Barely any time.
Fascinating, Arthur set down his fork. And were you planning to consult me?
I tried today, Margaret said quietly.
Dont recall much consulting, Arthur addressed the guests. You see, Margarets lately obsessed with working. At her age, starting a career seems unwise.
Why? Edward looked puzzled. Margarets highly educatedprecisely the sort we need.
Perhaps, Arthur nodded. But shes duties to her family. To her husband.
Arthur, Margaret flushed with shame. Not in front of guests.
Why not? He scanned the table. Were all adults. Ill be plain: I wont have my wife working. Full stop.
Silence fell. Lydia glanced helplessly at Edward, who cleared his throat.
This pie is splendid, Margaret. Lydia must have the recipe.
Of course, Margaret forced out, humiliation tightening her chest.
The rest of the evening passed in stilted chatterweather, news, anything but work. When the guests left, Margaret silently cleared the table.
How long were you hiding this? Arthur loomed in the doorway.
I wasnt hiding, she stacked plates. I waited for the right moment.
And when would that be? After youd started?
Arthur, why are you so angry? She turned. Its just a jobnot an affair, not a crime.
To me, its betrayal, he snapped. We agreedyou keep the home, I provide. That was the deal.
Twenty years ago! she cried. The children are grown. Ive time now. I need to feel useful!
And home isnt useful? He stepped closer. Say ityoure tired of being a wife. Want freedom? New friends?
What friends? She stared. This is about having a purpose
I know all about purpose, he cut in. Ive seen women like you at the office. First its work, then office flings, then divorce.
Good God, Arthur. She gaped. You think Id take a lover at a library? Surrounded by dusty books and pensioners?
Im just sayingno job. Final.
Something in her snapped. This was the end. The end of talk, of hope, perhaps of them.
Then listen, she said quietly. Im taking the job. Tomorrow, Ill call Edward and accept.
Arthur stared. What did you say?
Im working, she repeated, an odd lightness filling her. Not for money or friendsbut to feel like a person again, not just a housemaid.
I see, he nodded slowly. So youve decided. Without me.
I tried deciding with you. You wouldnt listen.
Fine, he turned on his heel.
She heard him pacing, muttering. Then he returned, clutching her handbag and coat.
Your times up, he said, pointing to the door. If you make choices without me, you can live without me. Go.
What? Her voice shook. Youre throwing me out over a library job?
Im throwing you out for betrayal, he spat. For breaking our agreement. For putting yourself before family.
What agreement? Tears welled. Its a few hours workso I dont lose my mind alone here! Youre always at the office, the children are gonewhat am I to do? Bake cakes for an empty house?
Take up knitting! he roared. But a deals a deal. I work, you keep home. Simple.
He thrust the coat at her.
If Im so dull, go amuse yourself. Maybe Lydia will take you in.
Mechanically, she slipped on the coat. This couldnt be real. Theyd quarrelled beforebut never like this.
Are you serious? She searched his face. Youd really cast me out over this?
Im casting you out for disrespect, he said coldly. Now go.
She inhaled sharply, stepped toward the doorthen turned.
The saddest part? she whispered. You never asked why I need this. You just forbade it, like Im property, not your wife.
Enlighten me, then, he challenged.
Because Im afraid, she said softly. Afraid one day you wont come home. That youll leave me for that young editor you stay late withhas it been three months now? And Ill be alone, with no work, no means, no life beyond these walls. Because I gave everything to this family. To you.
Arthur recoiled. What nonsense? What editor?
Emily, she said calmly. She calls every evening. Sometimes you take it in the gardenbut the walls are thin, Arthur. And my hearings sharp.
She stepped out, shutting the door gently behind her.
The stairwell was quiet, save for faint jazz from upstairsold Mr. Thompsons nightly ritual. Outside, the night air was crisp, cleansing. She breathed deeply, and suddenlyimpossiblyfelt relief. As if a weight carried for years had lifted.
Pulling out her phone, she dialed Lydia.
Lydia? Its Margaret. Sorry for the hour Yes, we talked. May I come over? Now?
Walking toward the bus stop, she marveled at lifes strangeness. That morning, shed been certain of her futurethis house, this man, this routine. Now she walked into the night, toward the unknownand felt freer than she had in years.
Her phone buzzed. Arthurs name flashed. She hesitated, then declined the call and switched it off.
Her time was up indeed. The time of fear, of silence, of small endurance. Now began something newterrifying, uncertain, but hers. And she was ready.
