Emma Chapman: How to Be a Good Wife

I reach the pub, where most of the village congregates in the evenings: catching up on the farming gossip and news of children who have grown up and moved away. Hector had been a regular before me, and I remember we went down together one evening. Standing here now, by the doors, I feel strangely nervous, as if it is that night again. I repeat what Hector has always told me: what a lovely evening we had, how nice it was to be one of two, a couple, at last. But the jangling of nerves is familiar and seems to bring things into focus: the sudden image of picking at the sleeve of the new jumper Hector had bought me, a new haircut feeling all wrong. I was worried about all the people, and about how it was best to behave. I knew he wasn’t sure if I was ready, if I was quite well enough yet.

The pub was warm and smelt of frying fish. Hector entered ahead of me, greeted warmly by a group near the entrance. He stood up straighter then, his shoulders less slouched. There were people everywhere, pushing up against the walls, crowding in at the bar. They turned to look when we entered, and I saw them start to talk. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking so I shoved them into my pockets, looking down at my bony legs, the clothes that were too big. Every time I moved my head, I saw the dark edges of my new haircut.

An older man, around Hector’s age, sidled over to us and put his arm around Hector’s back.

‘So, this is your new woman?’ he asked, grinning at me. I tried to smile.

‘This is Marta,’ Hector said.

I held my hand out.

‘Got some manners, this young one,’ he said.

Hector smiled. ‘She’s well trained.’ They both laughed.

‘I suppose Hector’s told you about me,’ he said. ‘I’m the village doctor. Where are you from, Marta?’ he asked.

I looked at Hector. ‘I’m from the city,’ I said.

‘A city girl?’ the man said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You must think we’re very backward around here.’

I smiled and shook my head. The man was waiting.

‘She doesn’t say much,’ he said to Hector. ‘But I suppose that’s how we like them.’ He leaned in close and I told myself not to flinch at his beery breath. ‘I wish my wife was more like you.’

A woman appeared behind him. Child-bearing hips, that’s what I thought when I saw her. I could see the angry red veins through the transparent skin of her cheeks. Her eyes shone, and her hair was glossy brown with a few spindly grey hairs. She looked me up and down, then leaned in and gave the man a kiss on the cheek.

‘Speak of the devil,’ the man said, grinning at me.

‘What’s he been saying?’ she said, putting her hand on her hip. Her fingernails were short and neat, and her wedding ring looked as if it had always been on her finger.

‘Only how wonderful you are, my darling,’ he said. ‘So wonderful, in fact, that I’d like to get you a drink.’

The woman waved her glass at him, ice cubes tinkling. ‘I have a drink, darling ,’ she said.

He winked. ‘You can always have another.’ He turned to Hector. ‘She’s much nicer to me when she’s had a few. Want a drink?’

Hector asked for a beer. ‘And for you?’ the man said to me.

‘Water, please,’ I answered.

He sidled away towards the bar.

The woman turned back to us.

‘We haven’t seen you around here for a while, Hector,’ she said. ‘Did you get the renovations finished?’

‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Thanks again, by the way. Everyone was so helpful.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, putting her hand on Hector’s arm.

There was a silence, surrounded by the restless noise of the pub.

‘Well, I’ve never known Hector to bring a girl to the pub before,’ she said. ‘We’d begun to give up hope. Must be love.’

Hector blushed then, and I felt my cheeks redden too. ‘Good on you,’ the woman said, laughing. She put her arm around me: it was warm and heavy. ‘About time too.’

The other man was calling to Hector across the room: he wanted help carrying the drinks from the bar. When Hector left to join him, the woman turned to me.

‘So how did you two meet?’ she asked.

I looked at the woman’s bony red ear, inches away from my mouth. I could feel Hector’s eyes on me from where he was standing with the other men. His face was serious. I didn’t want to do the wrong thing, to cause a scene and embarrass him when he had been so kind to me. When I tried to think back to meeting Hector, there was nothing there, like trying to see past a thick curtain. I remembered the words he had told me.

‘We met on holiday by the sea,’ I said. ‘I was swimming, and Hector saved me from drowning.’

As I said it, I could see the water spreading heavily towards the horizon, and feel the weight of it around my nose, in my ears and throat.

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, how romantic,’ she said. ‘Makes our story sound pretty boring. We met right here, in this pub.’

I felt Hector’s hand on the base of my spine.

‘Time to go home,’ he said.

Even now, the light is beginning to dim behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the road. Standing still, I try to slow my breathing. I check my watch. I couldn’t say where I have been for the last few minutes.

The village women have gone now, and I stare at the spot where they were standing, watching the shoes of people passing. Comfortable, practical walking shoes, with good grip; trousers tucked into socks. Hiking boots for the more serious rambler. The plimsolls of tourists, wet-edged with dew. Fur-lined snow boots, though it isn’t cold enough for them yet. Eventually, the market comes back into focus, and I begin to walk.

Noticing the traces of frost in the fishmonger’s window, I pull my scarf closer around my neck and slip into the shop. There is a big wooden fish on the wall with a yellow eye that watches me. The fishmonger is serving a young mother with a pushchair. The child inside looks up at me as he sucks his fist, his eyelashes like insect legs brushing against his cheeks.

The fishmonger removes some glass-bodied halibut from the display. He turns to the white counter to prepare it. As I watch him slice down the edge of the fish, I long to make a halibut stew for Kylan: his favourite.

There is a blonde girl in her late teens behind the counter, helping the fishmonger, her hair glistening in the electric light. She fetches the boning and disembowelling tools for him, waits as he works, then wraps the fish in waxed paper and hands it to the lady with the toddler. Her fingernails are bitten down, red and sore: I can’t take my eyes off her hands. As she glances up and half smiles at the lady, I see her black eyeliner. Something cold shifts in my stomach, passing over my skin and making the hairs rise. I keep my eyes on the traces of fishy wetness that shine on the ground.

I hear the man behind me tapping his foot on the linoleum. I look back and he stares straight through me, his mouth hidden under his beard. The shop feels too warm and too small. I turn quickly towards the door, shoving past the lady with the pushchair. She tuts, but I keep moving, back along the stretch of market stalls, feeling the cold air against my cheeks.

My mind is humming. Some of the sellers rub their rough red hands together. When I ask for vegetables, they pretend not to hear me. I can see the smiles that turn up the corner of their mouths.

As I walk back to the car empty-handed, I think about the fishmonger’s hands. I wonder if his wife and children have become used to them: to the smell of the sea as he leans past them to reach into a cupboard above their heads, or tucks them into their beds at night. I wonder if they ever flinch. Perhaps they all live inside the smell, no longer aware of its presence.