Emma Chapman: How to Be a Good Wife

‘I came for a swim,’ I said eventually.

I could feel him looking down at my naked body, my frail limbs, and I pulled them up to my chest under the towel.

He took hold of my narrow wrist, his hand tight. ‘Marta, you need to be honest with me. I know you weren’t swimming.’

I looked down at his hand, tightening around my skin.

‘I thought you were starting to feel better,’ he said. ‘That staying with me was helping.’

He looked so hurt, and I wanted to make it better. ‘It was,’ I said. ‘I just wanted a swim.’

‘I thought I could make you happy.’

I tried to smile. ‘I am happy.’

‘I don’t know what else I can do,’ he said. ‘You’ve started taking your pills again. You’re putting on weight. You’re much calmer than you were.’

‘I’m fine, Hector, honestly.’

He looked out across the sea. ‘Am I doing something wrong?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I’ve done everything I can.’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve been so good to me.’

‘It’s because I love you, Marta,’ he said. ‘I just want to take care of you.’

‘Sometimes I just feel alone,’ I said.

‘But you’re not,’ he said. ‘I’ll always be here.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Do you still miss them?’

Slowly, I nodded my head.

He looked so sad. I tried to think what to say to make it all right again, when he turned to me.

‘If we get married, you won’t ever have to be on your own again. We can start a new family together. Perhaps it will help you forget.’

I looked down at his hand around my wrist. Red blotches had started to rise around his fingers.

‘Would you like that?’ he said.

I couldn’t answer. He saw me looking at my wrist and removed his hand. When he saw the red marks, he traced them with his finger.

‘You’re so delicate,’ he said.

I rested my head on his shoulder, breaking eye contact. ‘I’m so tired all the time,’ I said.

‘We don’t have to have a big thing: I know you’re not up to that. Just a small ceremony. I’ll get Mother to organize it when we get back.’

I was still shivering.

‘Let’s go in,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a bath. And next time you feel like swimming, I can come with you. You shouldn’t have gone out alone.’ I let him rub my arms with the towel. ‘Marta,’ he said, the name sounding strange to me. ‘Look at me.’ I lifted my eyes slowly over the dark stubble on his chin; across his cheeks, tanned from the summer sun, to his waiting eyes. ‘I’ve only just found you. Don’t leave me again. Promise me.’

His eyes were wide with something.

‘I promise,’ I said. I tried to stand up then, but the light was bright all around me, and I fell back, shutting my eyes. He stood up and held out his hand. I paused, then took it.

He pulled me up, putting his arm around my shoulder for a moment. It was wet and heavy; it felt wrong there.

I watched the water fall from my hair, forming circles on the wood near his hairy toes. Then we walked back towards the house.

In the kitchen, my fork clatters onto the table. I breathe in and out. I know that Hector saved me from drowning on that trip: we’ve told people the story for years. It is light, romantic, and people love to hear it. But this version is different. It’s as if I am listening to a familiar song played slightly out of tune. That heaviness I felt then, a sickness turning, is here with me now.

I have waited long enough, I think, digging my fork into the casserole and shovelling down mouthful after mouthful, barely chewing. I want to stop and wait for Hector, the guilt hot in my cheeks, but I am too hungry.

He is coming down the stairs, across the new carpet we had put in after Kylan went to the city three months ago. I make myself put down my fork and swallow.

I see the navy blue velvet of his slippers, then the bottom half of his corduroyed legs. He is slow, holding on to the handrail to protect his knee. My stomach dips. He comes in, half smiles, and sits in his place. He looks at the food, at my half-eaten plateful. I keep my eyes on the table. He picks up his knife and fork. I pick up mine. He begins to eat. I do too. We eat in silence. I concentrate on my lamb. It’s perfectly cooked.

Let him talk first. Remember that his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

He always breaks the silence if I leave it long enough.

‘How was the market?’ he asks.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘The butcher was busy.’

‘He’s a good butcher. You can trust his meat.’

Hector says this as if he is an expert on butchering practices. Or as if he goes to the butcher himself.

‘Yes,’ I say.

We continue eating.

Remember always to be bright and cheerful: a breath of fresh air.

‘Would you like some wine?’ I ask, gesturing at the half-empty bottle on the table.

‘No, thank you,’ he says. He looks at me. ‘Make that your last one. You know you’re not supposed to drink with your pills.’

I keep my eyes on the table. Remembering the candle, I take the lighter out. The table glows.

‘Where did you get that lighter?’ Hector asks.

‘It’s the one from the kitchen drawer,’ I say.

The accusing look in his eyes falters.

‘It’s been in there for years, for lighting birthday candles and things,’ I continue.

He takes a mouthful of lamb and chews it slowly, still examining his plate.

‘Why was it in your pocket?’ he says.

‘I was going to light the candle,’ I say, looking at him calmly.

‘Oh,’ he says.

I scrape my plate clean.

I watch Hector eat, cutting his food up into small pieces before eating them, chewing slowly and methodically. This is rare for a man. Better good manners than good looks.

As I watch his mouth, I see another row of teeth moving faster and faster, shovel, swallow, shovel, swallow. No chewing. As he smiles, I see the food between them, on his tongue, imagine it travelling down his throat. I shut my eyes, thinking for a moment I am going to be sick.

‘Marta?’ Hector says. ‘Are you OK?’

I open my eyes. A piece of lamb glistens on his fork. I swallow. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just ate too quickly.’

Take small mouthfuls of food, like a baby bird, and make sure to chew daintily with your mouth closed.

I wait for him to look away.

After dinner, Hector goes to the living room, leaving me to clear up.

As I wipe the green sponge over the plates at the sink, the taste of bare china fills my mouth, cold and hard. My teeth ache deep into the gums and I clench them together, waiting for the feeling to pass. I take a swig from the wine bottle, swallowing to clear the taste in my mouth. When I pull the bottle away, it is empty.

Opening the bin to scrape in the leftover broccoli, I step backwards: it’s filled with wet hair. I think I see something move: for a moment I think it is an animal, and I am about to call to Hector. But when I look back, there is nothing there. The edge of the cigarette packet is visible, underneath a pile of envelopes. I slam the bin lid down, hard.

Reaching into the cupboard above my head, I pull out the small orange pot of pills. I hold it in my hands, touching the peeling edge of the label. Marta Bjornstad. Take three daily with food. No, I think. I won’t.

The pills go back into their place. Opening a new bottle of wine, I pour myself a glass and go through to the living room.

The clock above the mantelpiece reads 8:15. Hector has turned on the lamps and the room glows warmly. The thick cream curtains are drawn at the bay window facing the lane.

He is lying on the sofa, propped up on one of the ivory cushions, his arms bent behind his head. One slipper hangs off his foot. His face is soft: his eyes are shut, his chest moving slowly and rhythmically. The creases on his brow have disappeared and he almost looks happy. Like a boy. I look at the grey hairs around his temples, his thinning hairline. He isn’t a boy, I think; he’s getting to be an old man now. As I watch him, listening to his laboured breathing, I feel a familiar rush of pity for him. There are twenty years between us.