A few weeks later, Elsie was – yet again – eating her tea alone.
These days, Thomas was rarely home before dark. Summer had resigned and by late March a cool autumn was tucked across the earth. Earlier each day the sun towed the violet night over the horizon. With Thomas doing house calls now, his work regularly stretched into the evenings. He took the latest Electrolux into homes, settled himself into families and demonstrated the powerful suction and host of modern features designed to make a housewife’s life easier. He came home with tales of yawning children lined up on the couch as he convinced their parents to purchase the machine designed to suck more impressively than anything they had ever owned.
After setting the table for two, Elsie sat down and ate her lamb chops slowly, staring at the empty plate she had set for Thomas. His chops were warming in the oven, but they would be dried and chewy by the time he got home. The house ticked and creaked with a bloated quiet and although she wished Thomas were here, she was relieved for the peace of it.
Her mother and sister, Lila, had visited today.
Elsie licked grease from her thumb and pushed her plate away. Underdressed. That was the statement her mother used. It made Elsie feel as though she was slopping around in potato sacks. ‘You’ve got to give your husband something to come home to,’ Alice Rushall had said over the rim of her teacup. ‘It’s not hard to make an effort.’
Both her mother and Lila, pregnant with her fourth baby (the other three were safely ensconced at school), had been in agreement: the modern lady cared for her man. Spoiled him, catered to his every male want and made him feel loved, nurtured and invincible. Do that and he would be putty in your hands. Elsie had bitten her tongue against a retort that it wasn’t her mother’s efforts with her dresses that had softened her father – it was his elbow-grooves on the bar at the pub.
‘I don’t want putty, Mum,’ Elsie had said. ‘I only wish he could be home more. But he’s working hard and he loves his job. I’m not going to begrudge him that.’
Her mother had let out a long sigh. ‘You might not be saying so when you have four children underfoot. Some lipstick, a firm word, and he’ll come running home every night before the tea bell rings. Start now,’ she said sternly, ‘while you’ve only got one in the oven.’
Elsie would never be the strong, impressive wife her mother was. Things were different now. The wars were over and modern conveniences meant women could keep their hands clean while they cleaned.
Elsie took her plate to the sink. Across the strip of yard, Aida’s kitchen window was illuminated a bright yellow.
Elsie’s heart fluttered. The curtains were open. The rest of the house was steeped in darkness, but she could see clearly into Aida’s kitchen. A shadow flashed on the wall and then, there she was.
Aida’s face was turned down and her arms were busy with something. Was she, too, washing a single plate? Her hair was pulled back loosely and what looked like her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder. Her bare skin was honeyed in the light.
If Elsie was lonely, she couldn’t imagine how Aida must be feeling. Thomas might work long hours but he still came home every day, he still kept her feet warm at night and kissed her every morning. What would it be like to be so alone in every way? Elsie pulled the plug from the sink and watched the water swirl away. Where did Aida come from, and how had she gotten herself into this mess?
Water dripped from Elsie’s fingers onto her feet as she ran a hand over her stomach. If you were old enough to go around with boys, you were old enough to understand what that led to, she thought. True, she and Thomas hadn’t exactly abstained until their wedding night – but the point was, there had been a wedding night. From her first kiss with Thomas, Elsie had known there would be a wedding, which was why she was so confident when more kisses had led to . . . well. A wedding.
A picture came into her mind: Aida’s dark hair draped over a vinyl backseat at the drive-in, light and shadow flickering across bare skin. A faceless boy, toes pressed against fogged windows, one fateful moment of weakness.
Elsie looked up and a shiver shot down her spine.
Aida was looking right at her.
Time seemed to pause as they locked eyes through their windows. All Elsie could see was Aida’s face in the glow of yellow. Then Aida waved.
For weeks Elsie had been knocking on Aida’s door, only to be met with an embarrassing, snubbed silence. It seemed as though Aida avoided her until there was something less escapable – a dying chicken, for instance, or falling furniture. Their contact seemed moody, according to a whim Elsie couldn’t discern. Why was Aida waving to her now, like they were happy neighbours?
Silly girl. It popped into Elsie’s head and she jumped, as though someone else had leaned over her shoulder and hissed it into her ear.
Elsie wasn’t sure who the thought was directed at – Aida, or herself. So Elsie, whose irritating loneliness was always right there, reacted to a friendly wave like a reflex. She lifted her hand and waved back.