Thomas entered the room with his hands behind his back.
Elsie was knitting. Over her lap she had smoothed her grandmother’s crocheted blanket; she wore a plum-coloured cardigan with tiny buttons. Thomas’s heart kicked when he took in the sight of her tucked beneath layers of wool, the heater glowing by the wall next to her.
She lowered the needles and gave him a curious look. ‘What have you got there?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ he said, somewhat superfluously.
Elsie set her knitting down. From behind his back Thomas withdrew the box and set it on Elsie’s lap. It was heavy, the size of a large shoebox.
‘What is it?’ she asked, tipping the box to read the print on the side. Her eyes darted between the box and Thomas.
‘It’s the latest,’ he enthused, sitting down alongside her. ‘Open it.’
Elsie opened the flaps and withdrew a sleek electric clothes iron. The sturdy black handle was affixed to a slender, gleaming base with a smooth point. The striped electrical cord was coiled neatly.
‘Mrs Bagnoli has one and I’m told she loves it. Considers it the absolute best.’
An expression had settled upon his wife’s face that Thomas struggled to read: brows drawn together, bottom lip thrust out. Perhaps she was confused, unsure why he had purchased a new iron for her when her current iron worked well enough.
‘It’s supposed to halve your ironing time,’ he clarified. ‘I know how busy you are, and this will make your jobs a bit easier,’ he finished with a beam.
Elsie thrust the appliance back in its box. ‘Thank you,’ she said, briskly. The blanket and knitting fell to the floor as she shot to her feet, clutching the box. She kicked the blanket away.
‘What’s the matter?’ Thomas asked.
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ She strode to the kitchen where she banged his gift on the counter.
Thomas hurried after her. ‘You don’t like it?’
She fixed him with a look that made him take a small step back.
‘Is it the wrong brand, my love?’
‘Not at all, dear,’ she said. ‘Although I’m not particularly conversant with all the brands favoured by the most efficient housewives. I’m sure if Mrs Bagnoli says this is the best, the best it must be.’
Thomas was confused. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked again. ‘I thought a gift would cheer you up.’
‘A gift would cheer me up,’ she said. To Thomas’s immense horror, she broke into sobs. ‘But this isn’t a gift. This is another . . . chore.’
He hastened around the counter but she pushed him away, so he stood in the middle of the kitchen with his arms half up, half down, in quite a state of uselessness. ‘I thought you’d like it. I didn’t mean to upset you. And what do you mean “chore” – I thought you enjoyed keeping busy.’
‘I fear I’m going to disappoint you,’ she sobbed. ‘But I’m a terrible housewife.’
‘No,’ Thomas said, wanting to hold her but frightened she might reject him again. With great care, he reached out and put one tentative hand on her shoulder, relieved when she didn’t shrug him off. ‘You do a great job taking care of our home. Look around,’ he used his free hand to sweep an arc around the kitchen. But it was then that he noticed the layer of gritty dust coating the top of the fridge, the brownish tea drips down one of the cupboard doors. A handful of daisies wilted in a splash of greening water on the windowsill.
‘There, now. Don’t be silly.’ He meant to say it affectionately, but she stiffened at his words. He hastened to reiterate, ‘You’re doing a wonderful job. You’ve had a setback with . . . you know . . .’ he trailed off. ‘But I’m sure you’ll get back into the swing of things in no time.’
‘We’ve eaten savoury mince three nights in a row,’ she pointed out. ‘And it wasn’t even particularly nice.’
‘It was lovely,’ Thomas lied. ‘Very tasty.’
‘It was dry. The peas were all sucked in on themselves.’ Elsie covered her face. ‘The truth is, I’m not enjoying it,’ she admitted. ‘I’m so . . .’ she dropped her hands and looked him in the eye, ‘bored all day.’
He frowned. ‘But you have so much to do.’
‘But it’s all boring!’ she cried. ‘Scrubbing and sweeping and baking? It’s so dreary. None of the other housewives seem bored. I don’t understand – what am I doing wrong? I –’ she sighed, a long breath that seemed to deflate her entire body ‘– I miss work. Ugh. I sound like a suffragette.’
Hesitantly, Thomas stepped forward and opened his arms. To his relief, she stepped into him and he held her tightly. He didn’t know what to say. At work, all his colleagues’ wives seemingly adored their roles. His co-workers brought home-cooked cakes and biscuits and scones, their clothes were all neat and pressed to perfection. They reported happy wives, well-behaved children and perfectly run homes. Thomas had thought it was a role – the domestic scientist – that Elsie, as clever and determined as she was, would relish.
So why was she miserable?
Scrubbing and sweeping and baking, she had said. Admittedly, although those were necessary and surely noble tasks in keeping a home, they didn’t sound like particularly rousing pursuits. That gritty smear of dust on the fridge, those cupboard doors – if Thomas had to wipe them day after day, he would probably tire of it and begin to ignore it, too. Whenever Bagnoli tasked him with something mundane like dismantling packing crates, or even the mind-numbing counting of stocktake, Thomas’s own mood would always plummet. Certain daily tasks were uninspiring and often unavoidable, but everyone needed those tasks to be broken up by stimulating challenges, a little excitement. Problem was, Thomas had thought that ‘domestic science’ was a source of excitement for women – and that it would be for Elsie, too. After all, that’s what all the men said.
Maybe some blokes were not being entirely liberal with the truth. Behind closed doors, who knows how those wives really felt? Because sure as hell, even if Thomas were a lady, he couldn’t imagine himself revelling in their position.
His wife sniffled in his arms, and he wanted to help. But how? It was because she had married him that she’d had to resign from her secretarial work. And it was supposed to be his job to provide for her.
And then Elsie said something that stopped his train of thought altogether. She said, ‘I lost our first baby before it had even begun.’
Thomas felt his throat thicken. ‘Never mind,’ he said, croakily.
‘Never mind?’ She drew back and looked at him with horror. ‘How can you say that?’
‘I mean, you needn’t worry on it so. Keep your chin up and look to the future. A little bad luck, my love, but you’re doing fine.’ On one level he knew it was sensible, solid advice but even to his ears it sounded futile.
At the look on her face, Thomas’s groin clenched unpleasantly. She stared at him with what looked like fear, as though he might slap or shake her. He didn’t know what else to say, nothing helpful came into his head. He felt utterly redundant; she may as well have spoken to him in a foreign language. So Thomas held her, helplessly, there in the kitchen, with the new iron in its box sitting on the counter as though to burn right through the laminate.