How to Be a Good Wife Read online

  I check my watch: five minutes to one. In the hallway, Hector’s mahogany walking stick is propped against the wall. A recent addition, since his knee operation, a reminder that he is getting old. The doctor said it was only temporary, but I have a feeling Hector likes it, that it makes him feel distinguished.

  I pick up the bundle of letters lying on the doormat and dust the front of them. On one of the envelopes there is a faint brown smudge, which I ignore.

  The names on the letters do not seem familiar.

  Mrs Marta Bjornstad. Mr and Mrs Hector Bjornstad. Mr and Mrs H. C. Bjornstad.

  Before I leave the house, I put all the letters, even the ones with just my name, into a pile on the hall table for Hector. Let your husband take care of the correspondence and finances of the household. Make it your job to be pretty and gay.

  When my watch reads one o’clock, I pull on my red tartan coat and navy headscarf and leave the house.

  2

  I drive into town. The greens rush past the car window: it has been a verdant autumn with plenty of rain. Verdant. I wonder where I picked up that word.

  The sun is at its brightest: it is the middle of the day. The road runs along our edge of the valley, and from the slight height I can see for miles. The sky spreads above the curve below, which is marked with patches of denser green where the mossy forest lies. I can see the traces of the roads, white crisscrossed lines in the sunlight, running around the houses and cutting through the fields. The distant mountains rise higher and darker, surrounding us: shadowed blue-green masses capped with white snow.

  I make out the beginnings of the fjord, spreading across the bottom of the valley. Whenever I round the bend and see it hanging there, I am reminded of an early tour Hector gave me, just after the wedding. We were on bicycles, though I don’t recall where mine came from or when it appeared in the house. I remember I didn’t have a helmet and Hector had to lend me his: the silver hairs around his temples standing out in the sunlight. He seemed so old to me even then, though he was forty-one when we married, younger than I am now.

  As I drive the same road we cycled, I tell myself again what he has always said about that day. About how happy we were. All the way, I could feel him behind me: I listened to the sound of his bicycle chain engaging as he cycled close and then fell back a little. The sun was behind us, and Hector’s long shadow fell over mine as we rode along. I looked at our shadows intertwined on the tarmac. That is my husband’s shadow, I told myself. I am his wife. I remember thinking that having Hector there made me safe.

  Continuing through the valley, wooden houses pepper the roadside and spread sparsely across the land. Like Kylan’s old toy houses: reds, blues and yellows, painted garishly to counter the perpetual winter darkness. Further up, on the steep sides of the hills, the houses cling precariously. I imagine the black water of the fjord rising, washing them all away, sending splintered wood travelling through the rocky precipices towards the sea.

  Soon, the sky will begin to darken again as the winter looms. Too little to notice at first, until the world is dim and we are wandering around with our eyes half closed.

  I drive slowly along the edge of the water as I approach the village. The mirror of water doubles the size of the sky. Something flashes in the corner of my eye, and turning my head I see a child running away from me along the path by the fjord, her blonde hair catching the sun. She moves fast, her arms and legs wild. I look to see if she’s playing a game, if there is anyone chasing her, but she’s alone at the lakeside. Although she must be fifty metres away, I can hear her breaths, in and out, in and out, louder and louder until they fill the car.

  A loud noise outside makes me jump. I have come to a halt in the middle of the road, and behind me, a farm vehicle is glaring, its horn willing me to drive on. As I do, I look again, but the girl is gone.

  I park near the white wooden church, standing neatly at the water’s edge, surrounded by the flagged cemetery. Sitting in the car, I watch the gravestones standing in the shadow of the trees, grouped together. The annoyance of Hector in the house when he is not supposed to be has followed me across the bright valley. He fills the white walls, shrinking the space until it feels too small. I know it is not my place to ask questions: Hector will have a good reason. Never question his authority, for he always does what is best for the family, and has your interests at heart.

  Getting out of the car, I look back just once to check it is still there. The grey spire of the church stands black and clear against the sky, sharp enough to cause a rupture.

  I pass the old town hall with its white wooden-slatted exterior, freshly painted every year. On the front of the building, there’s a clock: the gold roman numerals glimmer in the sunlight. One twenty-five. The large yellow doors have been pushed open and the dim lobby gapes, the dusty light shifting into darkness.

  The blue post office on the opposite side of the road is a smaller building, less imposing. It is almost like a house with its wooden veranda and white benches where elderly people sit in the summertime. I try to imagine Hector and me sitting there, hand in hand, but I can’t.

  Kylan’s old school is beyond the main stretch, an old barn-like gymnasium to the rear. Beyond that are the two hotels: the grand old one right on the water, and the less imposing inn-like one that acts as the village pub. I never go beyond the hotels: I haven’t in the whole time I’ve lived here. These are my limits: the hotels on this side of the fjord, and the doctor’s surgery on the other.

  I walk along the narrow road to the market, catching glimpses of the water through the scattered buildings.

  Many of the stalls have blue tarpaulin canopies to keep out the rain, casting the people in a strange light. Some of them smile at me, but even after all these years, I am still an outsider. Not like Hector, who has always lived here.

  There is a group of women standing by one of the vegetable stalls, chatting with a man who is a farmer and one of the town councillors. He wears the uniform of the men in the valley: a battered all-weather jacket, Wellingtons and brown work trousers. His tough, lined face shifts as he smiles and raises his hand. The women whisper, pretending not to see me. They wear bright practical coats and hiking boots, their hair protruding from woollen hats. Robust women, who help run the farms and bring up hardy families. They saw me, in the early days, a thin girl from the city in her new clothes, and that is how they still see me, though I have lived here now for most of my life.

  I reach the pub, where most of the village congregates in the evenings: catching up on the farming gossip and news of children who have grown up and moved away. Hector had been a regular before me, and I remember we went down together one evening. Standing here now, by the doors, I feel strangely nervous, as if it is that night again. I repeat what Hector has always told me: what a lovely evening we had, how nice it was to be one of two, a couple, at last. But the jangling of nerves is familiar and seems to bring things into focus: the sudden image of picking at the sleeve of the new jumper Hector had bought me, a new haircut feeling all wrong. I was worried about all the people, and about how it was best to behave. I knew he wasn’t sure if I was ready, if I was quite well enough yet.

  The pub was warm and smelt of frying fish. Hector entered ahead of me, greeted warmly by a group near the entrance. He stood up straighter then, his shoulders less slouched. There were people everywhere, pushing up against the walls, crowding in at the bar. They turned to look when we entered, and I saw them start to talk. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking so I shoved them into my pockets, looking down at my bony legs, the clothes that were too big. Every time I moved my head, I saw the dark edges of my new haircut.

  An older man, around Hector’s age, sidled over to us and put his arm around Hector’s back.

  ‘So, this is your new woman?’ he asked, grinning at me. I tried to smile.

  ‘This is Marta,’ Hector said.

  I held my hand out.

  ‘Got some manners, this young one,’ he said.

>   Hector smiled. ‘She’s well trained.’ They both laughed.

  ‘I suppose Hector’s told you about me,’ he said. ‘I’m the village doctor. Where are you from, Marta?’ he asked.

  I looked at Hector. ‘I’m from the city,’ I said.

  ‘A city girl?’ the man said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You must think we’re very backward around here.’

  I smiled and shook my head. The man was waiting.

  ‘She doesn’t say much,’ he said to Hector. ‘But I suppose that’s how we like them.’ He leaned in close and I told myself not to flinch at his beery breath. ‘I wish my wife was more like you.’

  A woman appeared behind him. Child-bearing hips, that’s what I thought when I saw her. I could see the angry red veins through the transparent skin of her cheeks. Her eyes shone, and her hair was glossy brown with a few spindly grey hairs. She looked me up and down, then leaned in and gave the man a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ the man said, grinning at me.

  ‘What’s he been saying?’ she said, putting her hand on her hip. Her fingernails were short and neat, and her wedding ring looked as if it had always been on her finger.

  ‘Only how wonderful you are, my darling,’ he said. ‘So wonderful, in fact, that I’d like to get you a drink.’

  The woman waved her glass at him, ice cubes tinkling. ‘I have a drink, darling,’ she said.

  He winked. ‘You can always have another.’ He turned to Hector. ‘She’s much nicer to me when she’s had a few. Want a drink?’

  Hector asked for a beer. ‘And for you?’ the man said to me.

  ‘Water, please,’ I answered.

  He sidled away towards the bar.

  The woman turned back to us.

  ‘We haven’t seen you around here for a while, Hector,’ she said. ‘Did you get the renovations finished?’

  ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Thanks again, by the way. Everyone was so helpful.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, putting her hand on Hector’s arm.

  There was a silence, surrounded by the restless noise of the pub.

  ‘Well, I’ve never known Hector to bring a girl to the pub before,’ she said. ‘We’d begun to give up hope. Must be love.’

  Hector blushed then, and I felt my cheeks redden too. ‘Good on you,’ the woman said, laughing. She put her arm around me: it was warm and heavy. ‘About time too.’

  The other man was calling to Hector across the room: he wanted help carrying the drinks from the bar. When Hector left to join him, the woman turned to me.

  ‘So how did you two meet?’ she asked.

  I looked at the woman’s bony red ear, inches away from my mouth. I could feel Hector’s eyes on me from where he was standing with the other men. His face was serious. I didn’t want to do the wrong thing, to cause a scene and embarrass him when he had been so kind to me. When I tried to think back to meeting Hector, there was nothing there, like trying to see past a thick curtain. I remembered the words he had told me.

  ‘We met on holiday by the sea,’ I said. ‘I was swimming, and Hector saved me from drowning.’

  As I said it, I could see the water spreading heavily towards the horizon, and feel the weight of it around my nose, in my ears and throat.

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, how romantic,’ she said. ‘Makes our story sound pretty boring. We met right here, in this pub.’

  I felt Hector’s hand on the base of my spine.

  ‘Time to go home,’ he said.

  Even now, the light is beginning to dim behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the road. Standing still, I try to slow my breathing. I check my watch. I couldn’t say where I have been for the last few minutes.

  The village women have gone now, and I stare at the spot where they were standing, watching the shoes of people passing. Comfortable, practical walking shoes, with good grip; trousers tucked into socks. Hiking boots for the more serious rambler. The plimsolls of tourists, wet-edged with dew. Fur-lined snow boots, though it isn’t cold enough for them yet. Eventually, the market comes back into focus, and I begin to walk.

  Noticing the traces of frost in the fishmonger’s window, I pull my scarf closer around my neck and slip into the shop. There is a big wooden fish on the wall with a yellow eye that watches me. The fishmonger is serving a young mother with a pushchair. The child inside looks up at me as he sucks his fist, his eyelashes like insect legs brushing against his cheeks.

  The fishmonger removes some glass-bodied halibut from the display. He turns to the white counter to prepare it. As I watch him slice down the edge of the fish, I long to make a halibut stew for Kylan: his favourite.

  There is a blonde girl in her late teens behind the counter, helping the fishmonger, her hair glistening in the electric light. She fetches the boning and disembowelling tools for him, waits as he works, then wraps the fish in waxed paper and hands it to the lady with the toddler. Her fingernails are bitten down, red and sore: I can’t take my eyes off her hands. As she glances up and half smiles at the lady, I see her black eyeliner. Something cold shifts in my stomach, passing over my skin and making the hairs rise. I keep my eyes on the traces of fishy wetness that shine on the ground.

  I hear the man behind me tapping his foot on the linoleum. I look back and he stares straight through me, his mouth hidden under his beard. The shop feels too warm and too small. I turn quickly towards the door, shoving past the lady with the pushchair. She tuts, but I keep moving, back along the stretch of market stalls, feeling the cold air against my cheeks.

  My mind is humming. Some of the sellers rub their rough red hands together. When I ask for vegetables, they pretend not to hear me. I can see the smiles that turn up the corner of their mouths.

  As I walk back to the car empty-handed, I think about the fishmonger’s hands. I wonder if his wife and children have become used to them: to the smell of the sea as he leans past them to reach into a cupboard above their heads, or tucks them into their beds at night. I wonder if they ever flinch. Perhaps they all live inside the smell, no longer aware of its presence.

  Passing the last of the houses before the church, the road ahead continues through the valley. The water is close on the other side of the buildings, and I feel its presence there, its depth. I am alone now, moving further away from the centre of the town. Back into the open space between here and home.

  I tell myself I’m walking towards Hector in the redbrick schoolhouse on the other side of the water, though I know that he is not there. I like to think of him, dressed up in his corduroys and a blazer. Sometimes, I see myself as one of his students at the back of the class. The dull morning light is breaking through the classroom blinds and onto the blackboard. It is marked with some incomprehensible formula, which is actually the opposite: as clear and logical as Hector’s mind. He sits behind his desk, pen poised amongst the hush of working students, or stands in front of the class, arms folded, waiting for the little moments of realization to fall about the room like feathers.

  It is his place: the place where he can prove that he is right. It follows that if you take a logical argument step by step to its conclusion, there can be no grey areas. On that blackboard, in that room, there is right or wrong, black or white. If the premises of a valid argument are true, then its conclusion must also be true. It is impossible for the conclusion of a valid argument to be false if its premises are true. These are the things he teaches.

  Hector says I could never take one of his classes, that my brain doesn’t work the same way as his. I’m not logical; I can’t see things as they really are. He says a lot of women are like me: unable to see the wood for the trees. I have other strengths, he says, though he never tells me what they are.

  As I pull out onto the road, I think about him, in the house. The orange light on the dashboard reads 3:25. It is so strange, for him not to be following his usual routine. I feel my hands begin to shake on the steering wheel as I picture him: pacing in his study, messing up
the kitchen. He has tipped the delicate balance that is holding us together.

  3

  I drive the familiar stretch of road again. Edging the darkness of the jagged trees along the top of the valley, I notice the sky is beginning to dim, as if its strength is failing. The clocks went back last week and we are losing the light. It happens gradually every year, the slip into winter. Unless you are diligent, it can creep up on you, leaving you in flat darkness. A never-changing nothing that makes my teeth ache.

  The pressure of the town eases as I drive on. To my left, the dense forest begins. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of pink between the trees, but when my head turns, it is gone. I reach to switch the radio on.

  After a few songs have passed, I hear myself singing along softly. The tune isn’t one I recognize, but the words keep coming, filling the car. After a while, I put my hand to my mouth. It is closed. The voice keeps singing. I jerk the wheel, trying to get away from her, and before I know it, I have swerved onto the grass verge and my foot has slipped from the accelerator. The engine has cut out. The car is full of silence and the screen of the radio is blank.

  I look ahead at the empty grey road sloping upward, listening for the voice, but it doesn’t return. Though I tell myself it was my imagination, something in me longs to hear it. Nothing happens. I look out over the valley to my right: this is the highest point of the drive home. I can see the water spreading behind me around the hills. From here, the spire of the white church is a pinprick, and I remember how dangerous it looked when I stood directly below it, looking up at the sky.

  There is nothing left to do but continue, so I turn on the car engine, pushing my juddering foot down onto the accelerator, hearing the revs echo through the space.

  Eventually, I turn into our lane. It’s long and narrow, rounding a bend so that our house is out of sight from the main road. The house sits back, lower down, hidden behind the skeletons of the trees, its oversized roof sloping towards the ground. The white shutters look dirty and a collection of old leaves have blown onto the wide raised porch.