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It was a small kitchen, in a small apartment, but it was cozy and it was theirs.
They didn’t need anything bigger, not since the boys had moved out. Those kids led such busy lives these days. Success wasn’t easy. He understood that as well as anyone. It took commitment to make it to the top in any field. Sacrifice. Long hours away from home. And the boys had their own families now to worry about. Still, he knew that Ruby would have preferred more contact with them. More phone calls. More regular visits. But the pied piper of opportunity had lured them so far away.
Grandkids. He chuckled. Who would have thought that he’d live long enough to see his own grandkids? Not his wife, that’s for sure. She’d taken good care of him over the years, tried to keep him on a healthy diet, get him out in the sunshine and fresh air as often as she could. But she’d still worried about his long hours at work, his relentless drive to achieve, to be someone. How many times had she told him that he was chasing a heart attack?
He took a mouthful of spicy Shiraz as he removed the skillet from the stove. Tangled Tree, in its eco-friendly plastic bottle. She claimed it was the only wine that didn’t give her hangovers. He had to admit, it wasn’t half-bad. He was normally a beer drinker, with the odd scotch whenever circumstances conspired to reward him with a glass. But he’d decided to try one of the bottles he’d tracked down and bought specially for the occasion. It had taken a few visits, being referred from one store to the next, but she was worth it. Now if only he could learn to sip slowly and savour it the way she did, instead of gulping it like beer, some of her sophistication might finally rub off on him after all these years. That would make her laugh.
Forty years. That’s how long they’d been together. Not married, mind you. That had come later. Hardly the most romantic proposal on record, he often reflected, but that had been a trend of his post-war generation. Doing what society expected, keeping up appearances. Providing a proper family setting for children to be born into, even if the little ones had taken them by surprise.
Now what was he supposed to do with the spitting hot mushrooms and onions while he sliced and cooked the meat? The recipe hadn’t said anything about that. He’d been more worried about burning something than where he was going to put everything. He reached above the sink for a plate. Not her favourite ones, not yet. That could wait till the meal was ready.
He didn’t regret any of it. He sometimes wondered whether she did, though. She had never said anything. She never would. That’s the kind of woman she was. But from time to time he’d catch her with that look in her eyes, reminiscing on what might have been, if she hadn’t had to cut her career short to raise the boys.
His career had taken off around that time. Despite the sleepless nights, taking his turn with nappy changes and bottle duties, he had started to push himself at work, going in early, leaving late, usually taking files home to work on after the kids had been put to bed. With great responsibility comes huge overtime.
Even after a draining day of looking after twin toddlers, she would often sit with him and help, missing the world of finance and determined not to lose her edge. Night after night she would spot something he hadn’t, little things here and there, tax savings, unnecessary costs, ways to streamline the company’s reporting systems. He grudgingly admitted that she was sharper than him. Always had been. Not out loud, obviously. But it was an unspoken understanding, something they both acknowledged.
Then the third boy had sabotaged her plans of going back to work. Their baby, five years younger than the twins, joining them just as his brothers were being shipped off to school. She had shrugged it off, delaying her career yet again, even though by that time they could have afforded someone to look after the child.
There, the sirloin had been reduced to pink strips that looked about the right size. Now where did he put that beef broth? Ah, there it was, on top of the recipe he had torn from one of her magazines. She had joked that he never cooked meals like that for her. Which was true. He wasn’t comfortable in the kitchen. He’d never taken the time to learn how to cook anything that came close to her definition of real food. If it wasn’t for her, he would have lived quite happily on takeaways and microwaved trays. But he’d wanted to surprise her, repay her for all those healthy dinners, and the breakfasts in bed. So he’d waited till she had finished with the magazine, then quietly retrieved it from the recycling bag and filed away the information he needed. It didn’t look too complicated. As long as he didn’t burn anything.
She had spent the last four decades looking after him and the kids, and she deserved better than burned food. Sometimes he thought she just deserved better, in general. She was a bubbly extrovert, sustaining their social life, organizing parties, dinners, drinks evenings. She loved people, being around them, making them happy. He wouldn’t have had any kind of social life without her. He’d been too caught up in the serious business of making money to pay for the house, the car, the schools, clothes, family holidays. She had always remembered the birthdays, the anniversaries, buying presents, inviting the appropriate guests, keeping the wheels turning.
But she hadn’t remembered this date. Not once in all their time together had they celebrated the night they had first met. He had, in his head. Year after year. He would never forget the tiny restaurant where they had met on a blind date, set up by mutual friends from work. The giant burger they had shared, bacon, egg and blue cheese. He hadn’t tasted a thing. She had been so nervous that she had insisted on him having more beers than he normally would, to take the edge off. A selection of locally brewed ales, presented in a wooden box.
It had changed his life. Her, not the beers. And the way she had kissed him when he walked her home. Time had stopped. Reset itself. He hadn’t looked at another woman since.
Now he was sixty-five. Semi-retired. They could survive on what he received for going in to the office once a week, plus the money he had worked so hard to put away over the years. This new arrangement gave him time to reflect on all the things he had missed over a busy lifetime. He would have missed out on so much more if she hadn’t kept him grounded, kept dragging him back to the real world of sports days and bridge evenings and family picnics. He didn’t know how - or whether - he would have survived without her. She was always there, steady, dependable, loving, even when, occasionally, he didn’t deserve her. He found himself looking forward to spending more time with her in their twilight years, delighting in one another’s company the way they had when they first met. She had never really understood how much she meant to him. He knew that he hadn’t told her often enough. But a little relaxation time, away from the insane pace of working life, had put things in perspective.
The mushrooms, onions and garlic slid back into the skillet, as per the instructions. The sour cream went in next, and his first home-cooked meal would be ready. Should be just a few minutes left before she returned from visiting a sick friend. Enough time to check on the rice. And so far, nothing had been burned.
Friends. While pouring another glass of Shiraz, he tried to count how many friends he had left, that he hadn’t met through her. His brows furrowed as he placed the bottle on top of the fridge. There must be one or two, at least? Or had they all succumbed to the final inevitability? More inevitable than taxes, he chuckled, certainly if he’d been involved in submitting the returns.
He snapped his fingers as he realized what was missing. She would have been delighted to find him gulping away at her favourite wine, with nothing poured for her. Plenty of time to remedy that. One glass from the rack above his head, a spinning dance step back to the fridge, quick tip of the bottle, and all was back on track. She could relax in her armchair, unwinding while he served her dinner. On a tray. Did they have trays? They did. He remembered her bringing him meals on one. Where would she keep them?
The jangling of the landline in the lounge interrupted his search. Now who could that be? Would be a great time for the kids to phone. He never knew what to say to them. Still couldn’t quite relate to them as adults, after missing so many of the milestones that had marked their gradual development from childhood. She’d always been the one keeping him up to date with what was happening in their lives, sharing the scraps of gossip and information that keep families glued together.
He glanced out the front window as he reached for the receiver. Chuckled at the photos arranged across the sideboard. Weddings. First cars. School trophies. There was no sign of her yet. But maybe she would still make it home in time to catch the end of the call. That would brighten her day even more.
The thought made him smile as he raised the phone to his ear.
It wasn’t the kids.
It was her sick friend. Sobbing. Hysterical. Something about wet roads. A traffic light that wasn’t working. Hit and run, she said. The paramedics were there now, had been for the last ten minutes. But the car had been going so fast, and they hadn’t got there soon enough.
An ambulance was on its way now, she said, to pick him up. She was so sorry. It didn’t seem real, she said.
He missed whatever came after that. He was sure he could smell burning rice, and she would be home any minute now. He walked back towards the kitchen, the phone receiver in his hand stretching its umbilical cord tight in his wake.