2November
Im still trying to make sense of what happened this week, and I cant help but write it down to calm the storm in my head. Peter Hughes, my husband, works as a longhaul lorry driver, crisscrossing the motorways for weeks at a time. Yesterday he rolled into our modest terraced house on Oak Street, Manchester, with a woman he said would now be living with us. Shell be staying with us, he announced. My heart sank; I could feel the tears welling up as if Id just been told the world was about to end.
The newcomerEllen Whitaker, a middleaged woman with a tired face and a harsh tonestormed into the kitchen as if the house were her own. She slipped into the bath, emerged in a bathrobe that belonged to me, and tossed my favourite handtowel over her head. Dont just stand there! she barked, Im starving, and your husband will be back any minute. I wanted to scream, to fling her out the front door, but I stayed silent. The flat is legally Petersan asset he bought before we marriedso technically I have no right to evict her.
Until now, life had been relatively smooth. I didnt work; the money came in from Peters steady wages, and I lived on the comfortable cushion of his earnings. Ive always been a bit temperamental, and friends often joke that Peter became a lorry driver just to spend less time with me. Still, Ive always believed he loved me deeply, and I loved him back. All that certainty shattered the moment Ellen arrived.
Peter met Ellen somewhere on the M6, and now shes here, a woman who looks at least fifty, unkempt and blunt, while Im only thirtyfour, still young and, by the looks of it, pretty. Could my handsome husband really be drawn to someone like her? Ive heard of older men liking mature women, but not like this.
Are you going to stand there forever? Im hungry! Ellen shouted from the kitchen. I set about boiling dumplings, but she ignored me, raising an eyebrow and snapping, What, youre feeding the man with readymade meals? And youre dumping them on me? I muttered a bitter reply, and she flung the dumplings out the open window.
Are you kidding me? I cried. The cat will eat them! she replied, You, dear, go make some soup or fry some potatoes. Got it? Then she sauntered off to the telly.
When Peter got home, I dragged him into the kitchen and vented, Kick her out! Why did you bring her here? Who is she? Shes thrown away the food! Before I could finish, Ellen appeared. Peter, why are you putting up with her? Youve got a decent job, a house, moneyshe cant even cook a proper meal. Shes a spoiled daughter who whines all the time, she sneered. I snapped back, I live here too, and Im the one who runs this house! She shrugged, Fine, then. Together, Peter and Ellen left for the local shop.
Ellen cooked dinner that night. I had no appetite, but the next day I ate her beet soup and a plate of spaghetti bolognese. Ive never been a good cook, never liked it, but after watching a few recipes online I started to get the hang of it. Slowly the resentment Id felt toward Peter eased. I feared Ellen would stay and I would eventually leave, yet I kept my thoughts to myself, confiding only in my best friend, Lucy.
Lucy was all fury: Get rid of her, you imposter! I cant imagine if my Peter brought someone home like that. I sobbed, You dont understandour flat is shared, Peter barely earns anything, Im the one keeping everything together! Everythings Peters! She replied, Well, thanks for the support, love. Just go back to your Peter and his Ellen! I felt crushed.
Things didnt change much on the surface. Peter still adored me, and I kept probing why hed dragged Ellen into our lives, how long shed stay. Peter refused to discuss it. Ellen found a job at the corner shop, and one night a strange thought struck me: what if I could outmaneuver this impostor by having a child? Id never wanted kids; Id told Peter I didnt plan to become a mother, fearing the toll on my figure and my lack of maternal instinct.
Now, however, the idea seemed like a viable escape. Friends remarked on the transformation in mecooking more, tempering my outbursts, becoming the perfect wife. I announced to Peter that I was pregnant. He was overjoyed. Ellen, with a sigh, said, Its about time. Just raise the child well, or youll end up like mekicked out when my own husbands son died. Tears welled in her eyes as she recounted how shed been cast out after caring for her late husbands children.
For the first time I felt a pang of guilt toward Ellen, and I asked, What happened after that?
She told me, I started drinking, didnt want to live. One night a young driver nearly hit me as I crossed the road. He stopped, we talked, he gave me a chance to stay. I began to believe there are decent people out there. Youre lucky, Molly, to have Peter. We shared a quiet dinner together, three of us, and I didnt feel the urge to chase Ellen away. Ellen seemed content, as if shed finally reeducated a troublesome wife.
The next day Peters uncle, a farmer from the countryside, visited. He ogled Ellen, and after a week he left with her, saying, At our age we must seize the moment. Thanks for the hospitality. I found myself missing her already.
Life has shifted dramatically. I gave birth to a daughter, and I asked Ellen to be her godmother. Now were inseparable. This summer Ill take Ellen and the baby to my sisters farm in the Cotswolds for fresh air, and Peter cant stop marveling at how unrecognizable his wife has become. He credits Ellen for the change, and I cant help but smile at how tangled our fates have become, each of us indispensable to the others.
