No, Dave, whats she going to do? My wife is like a wooden statue; she doesnt care about a thing. Dont worry, Ive already found a buyer for her flat.
I stood frozen in the hallway, two grocery bags in my hands. The keys were still jingling in the lockI hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a bag of buckwheat on promotion, and three yoghurts for Jackonly the plain, sugarfree kind. I was already calculating whether Id have time to defrost the meat or if Id have to toss it straight into the pan as a frozen slab, ending up steamed rather than fried.
Dave was leaning against the kitchen doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring a mug of instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washed his dishes.
She wont notice a thing, he said, slurping from the mug. Ill tell her its paperwork for the transfer, and shell sign. She trusts me. Shes wooden. No emotions, no character. The housekeepers free of charge.
He laughed. I recognised that laugh the one he used to crack up with his mates in the garage while I was washing up after their gettogether. The same laugh he had when Jack fell off his bike as a child and I ran in with a bottle of green ink, while Dave stood there saying, What, are you going to be a hen? Let him get up on his own.
My ears filled with a sudden rush, like the pressure before a storm. My fingers clenched the bag handles; the cling film cut white lines into my palms. I set the groceries down slowly, pulled out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen came the low mumble of Dave already bargaining with Sam about fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake. He always did that: first spout the poison, then glide into nonsense as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly a wooden wife.
I held the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and waited until he said goodbye to Sam and promised, Ill sort the deal next week.
Dave hung up, slammed the receiver, and shuffled to the fridge in his slippers. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my pocket, gathered the bags and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning against the jamb.
A cold fire gnawed at my throat I wanted either to scream or to howl like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Jack, school, university, his loans that I repaid from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was wooden. And there was already a buyer.
I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I looked at the wedding bandthin, worn. Hed given it to me when we still lived in a student hall, eating spaghetti with ketchup. I felt the urge to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I breathed deeply, recalling my mothers advice: Lucy, if someone upsets you, count to ten first, then decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I stood, splashed my face with icy water, and pulled an old notebook from the drawer. Inside was the number for the local Citizen Services Centrewhere Id once arranged my mothers disability claim.
A womans voice explained over the phone that a restriction on any registration actions could be placed through the portal, but it was better to appear in person. I told her Id be there right away.
It was about three in the afternoon. Dave was clanging on the stovetop probably frying an egg. I slipped into the hallway, threw on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asked without turning, the pan hissing.
Bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
Right, and bring me a pack of cigarettes.
I left. In the lift I felt a thump, not from fear but from the realization of what I was doing. For twentyfour years Id never taken a step without his blessing. Wed even chosen wallpaper together, only for him to later declare, Beige is drab, we should have gone green. Id stayed silent.
The Citizen Services Centre was empty except for a clerk who stared at my papers from behind a glass.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one even with a power of attorney can sell, gift, or exchange the flat.
Absolutely sure, I said.
She typed, and after fifteen minutes I walked out with a thin sheet of paper, slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat where the recording phone lay.
I returned home with a stale baguette and a pack of Daves favourite cigarettes. Dave lounged on the sofa, watching an action film. I went to the kitchen, turned on the kettle, and washed the burnton egg bits from the pan out of habit.
Around seven oclock the doorbell rang. Dave sprang up, tugging at his Tshirt.
Thats for me. Love, put the kettle on, a nice guest is coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, wearing an expensive coat and carrying a leather briefcase, stepped into the hallway. Dave greeted him with a grin.
This is Oliver Bennett, the estate agent. About the flat.
I emerged from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and glanced at Daves selfsatisfied face.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Sam this afternoon? I said.
He froze. His smile slipped off like badly stuck wallpaper.
What? Oh it was just a thing, what about it?
You called me a wooden wife. You said youd already found a buyer for my flat and that Id never find out.
A tense silence fell. Oliver shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Daves face turned pale, his cheeks mottled with uneven blotches.
What are you talking about, Love? he began, but I raised my hand.
Enough. I heard everything. Listen. I pressed play. His voice filled the room: My wife is wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me the housekeepers free
Oliver stepped back toward the door.
Mr. Davies, there are nuances you didnt mention, he murmured.
Dave stared at me as if I were a stranger.
Did you record me? Were you spying? he hissed.
I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Jack and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were bargaining away my home. My home, Dave. Not ours. My mothers.
He stepped toward me, but I continued calmly.
And today I went to the Citizen Services Centre and placed a restriction on any action concerning the flat unless Im personally present. So your buyer I nodded at Olivercan look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
Oliver retreated.
I think Ill be going. Dave, well be in touch. Sorry. He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. Dave stood in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish on the shore.
What have you done? Youve ruined everything! We had plans!
You had plans. I had faith. And you burned it today, calling me wooden. Wood burns, Dave, and I have turned to ash.
He slumped onto the sofa, clutching his head.
Lucy, Im sorry. It just fell apart. I didnt mean it. Sam pushed me
Sam, I said dryly. Always someone else to blame. Not you, who spent twentyfour years living off my salary, drinking my tea, sleeping in my sheets and treating me like a piece of décor.
I took off my wedding ring and set it on the coffee table.
Im filing for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with meits my mothers inheritance, you have no claim. Pack your things within a week. Ill explain everything to Jack; hes an adult now.
Lucy he began.
No. You have no idea how light I feel. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook for you. I realize I have a house, and I have myself.
I walked into the bedroom, closed the door, and the phone buzzeda message from a friend: How was your day?
I typed back: Great. Im no longer wooden.
The next morning I woke at seven. Instead of racing to put the kettle on for Dave, I stretched, slipped on a robe and brewed coffee for myselfground beans with a dash of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. Id always loved real coffee.
He shuffled out of the room, his face crumpled, and stared at the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
What about me? he asked.
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Dave. Wooden things sometimes learn to breathe.
I took a sip. The coffee burned hot, my hands still trembling, and the mug clanged against my teeth. Yet it was the most satisfying cup Id ever had, because Id made it for me.
The doorbell rang. I set the cup down and opened it. Oliver Bennett stood on the doorstep, coat still immaculate but his expression nervous.
Sorry to be early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but I didnt realise I just wanted to offer my services as a buyers agent, should you ever decide to sell or buy anything. Honest, no strings attached.
I stared at him, then at Dave, who peered from the kitchen, his face twisted in helpless rage, and finally at Olivers practiced smile.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. Today Im getting a cat. And maybe a new frying pan.
He nodded, handed me his card, and left. Dave muttered something and slipped back into the living room. I leaned against the closed door, laughing quietly, almost inaudibly. For the first time in many years I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a grin, deciding the cat would be called Martha, in memory of the little cat we once had as kids before Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Id have my own Martha, and no one would be able to claim that shedding is a problem.
And as the sun slipped through the window, I realised that the strongest walls are built not of timber or stone, but of the courage to speak up, to protect whats yours, and to finally listen to the voice inside you that refuses to be called wooden any longer.
