Tea is my typewriter

Jess closed the front door behind her, and listened for sounds of her husband. She found Ian sitting silently in the living room with the television on. She took a minute to survey the room, then took herself to the kitchen and made a cup of tea.

Jess leaned on the kitchen unit as she drank the tea. It had been quite a long week, she reflected. And now, to round it off, she’d come home to this.

On Monday, she’d gone to the GP for a checkup, to make sure the estrogen was being absorbed adequately and her heart was okay. The doctor asked about what she was eating, how much alcohol she was drinking, whether she was exercising. In the last year, Jess had started to look after herself, the way the doctors had asked her. When she realised how much better she felt without the nightly half bottle of wine, it was a no-brainer. Hot flushes abated and her head cleared.

“Good girl”, said the doctor. “Gold star for you. If only all my patients did what I asked. Will you keep that up till I see you again?”

Jess said yes.

And while part of her had thought he was a patronising bastard, she’d noticed that another part of her was delighted. She’d felt a flutter of excitement at his approval. She remembered how she loved getting gold stars at school, the licky-sticky symbols of best behaviour, good attendance, excellent work, of making the teacher happy and jumping through any hoop offered.

Then she’d felt unsettled.

On Tuesday, Jess had met Sarah for one of their lunches. Sarah began by moaning that Jess had deserted her by giving up the wine, and spent the rest of the meal complaining about her ungrateful teenage children, her sleeplessness, and the arsehole line manager who wouldn’t let her work from home when she crippled by brain fog.  

Sarah had always been a woman who made waiters nervous. She argued and fought with whoever was around, as if it was her hobby. At school she’d refused to wear uniform. At election time, she’d be the one walking up to the politicians for an argument. Jess had watched Sarah grow into the role of cantankerous harpie, ready to fight, argue and agitate with anyone who came near. 

Sarah had asked Jess how she was bearing up since her Dad’s funeral. Jess had smiled and said she was fine.

“You know you don’t have to say you’re fine when you’re not, right?”, Sarah had asked. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

Jess smiled and nodded. 

Sarah sighed and rubbed Jess’s arm. “Well, let me know if you need to talk.”

Jess knew she wouldn’t. 

Jess had wondered if she really liked Sarah all that much. Sarah kept inviting her to lunch, and Jess didn’t like to say no. She’d long had the notion that she was helping Sarah, giving her a sounding board for her problems, but Sarah’s problems never seemed to improve. 

To change the subject, Jess told Sarah what the doctor had said. Sarah drained her glass of wine. “You are such a people-pleaser, Jess. Obedient, pleasing, thin and beautiful. Everything the patriarchy wants us to be. You just want to keep people sweet, don’t you?”

Jess said yes.

Then she’d felt like a curtain being pulled aside in her mind. 

After lunch, Jess had found her manager waiting for her. “I need you to take over the Stanley account, Jess. There’s been a bit of a personality clash and Steve can’t do it any more. Let’s call it a locking of antlers. I know you can deal with it, Jess, you’re a safe pair of hands and you’re so good with Mr Stanley. Can I leave it with you?”

Jess had spent the last year being nice to Mr Stanley. It was her instinct to be useful, and she knew nobody else in the office would want to take on the Stanley account.

Jess said yes.

Then she’d felt her skin crawl, just a little bit.

On Thursday, Jess stopped for a coffee after work.  Eddie the barista had smiled, made her drink and one for himself, taken off his apron and asked if he could join her. Jess said yes. They always talked about books, and Eddie always remembered what Jess was reading and asked her for recommendations. He asked her about work, and what she was doing at the weekend. 

Jess thought that Eddie the barista looked at her the way a labrador looks at its owner when they’ve been reunited. Why on earth would he do that?, she wondered. He barely knew her. She knew that Sarah would say she should get right in there, but the idea was ridiculous. She hadn’t shown him how good she was. She’d done nothing to earn his interest. He was clearly just bored and foolish. 

Of course, Jess would not mention the coffee with Eddie the barista to Ian when she got home. Ian told her that she didn’t understand men, and he was probably right. He’d pointed out that Jess wasn’t much good at reading people’s intentions, and that she just didn’t have any gift for banter. So when Ian suggested that he’d be better going to the pub on his own, Jess said yes. 

Jess had been 17 when Ian had asked her out. She told her dad she was studying with a pal, rolled up a dress in her bag and changed in the loo at Central Station. She’d been thrilled that anyone as charming and handsome as Ian would be interested in her, and that he was still single at his eligible age of 22. So Jess did nothing that might have made the magic end. 

Jess said yes every time he asked her to dance, yes every time he offered her a drink, yes when he took her for a walk that made her much later than her curfew. She said yes when he asked for anything. 

When he said he’d like to see her again, Jess felt like she’d won him. She was sore and drunk and exhausted but that was her part of the deal. She was worthy. She was accomplished. She had earned Ian’s interest.

When Ian had said he liked her better in jeans, Jess wore jeans. When he had said he liked women with short hair, she got her hair cut. And when they got married a year later, Jess knew Ian’s gold star was hers. The registry office hadn’t been her choice, but Ian was right, they didn’t need a fuss. And the honeymoon in Girvan wasn’t her dream come true either, but Ian had pointed out they wouldn’t be going outside much anyway, so wasn’t paying for sunny weather a waste of money?

And thirty years had passed. In her happier moments, Jess was proud of herself for making her marriage last. She’d kept him happy, and he had stayed with her. Wasn’t that what being married was all about?

But then there were moments, more and more in the last year, where Jess’s patience with Ian ran low. Ian sensed this, and said “you’re just in a bad mood ’cause of your hormones, aren’t you pet?”. Some days Jess would sigh and say he was probably right. But with growing frequency there would be a voice inside her shouting that it wasn’t her hormones, it was because Ian was jealous, manipulative and aggressive, and that he’d spent 30 years perfecting his techniques for controlling her every action.

Today was the first time Jess had thought of herself as obedient and pleasing. This didn’t make her feel proud. She felt all wrong. 

On Thursday, Jess had taken flowers to her Dad’s grave. She told him about the Stanley account, and about what the doctor had said, because she knew her dad had always wanted her to be a good girl. 

And although she hadn’t thought about it for a long time, that was when Jess remembered being eight years old. It was the night Jess’s dad had locked her and her mum in the bedroom. Jess had watched her mum climb out the window. She’d begged her not to. She’d begged her mum to stay and they could be good together. But Jess’s mum said no.

Jess had spent years watching her dad get angry at her mum’s stubborn and disagreeable nature. Sometimes Jess’s mum seemed to go out of her way to argue with Jess’s dad. She’d buy shoes when he told her not to, she’d serve him baked beans for dinner even though he’d told her he hated them. Why couldn’t her mum just have been a good girl? Jess had wondered. Then the fights would have stopped and the hitting would have stopped. 

On that night, when Jess’s dad had come back to find Jess alone and the window open, he had told Jess that her mum had been a very, very bad girl, and now she wasn’t allowed back in their house. He asked Jess to promise that she would never do anything as bad as her mum. He’d asked her if she promised to be a good girl.

Jess had said yes.

And she’d never stopped.

Jess leaned on the kitchen counter and sipped the tea. She reflected that time was a funny thing. Sometimes it passed really quickly. It felt like hardly any time since her dad asked her to be a good girl, since she learned that keeping a man happy was the best way to stay safe.

Sometimes it passed really slowly, like the time that had passed since she’d come home to the flat and seen Ian on the sofa. What was that, five minutes ago? Half an hour?  Two hours? Time was a funny thing.

The last year had passed slowly. It had been a year of shrinking hormonal highs and lows, of fewer changes in her mood, and of more mental clarity. She felt like a different woman now. Well, she reflected, they don’t call it The Change for nothing.

Jess finished her tea. She washed the mug, slowly and methodically, although her hands were trembling. She took her time, drying the mug carefully and putting it back in the cupboard. She went back to the living room.

Ian was exactly where he’d been when she’d got home, but now the room was darker and there was a foul smell where Ian had soiled himself. His face looked grey and heavy, like warm plasticine, as he half-sat, half-lay on his spot on the sofa, slumped to the side as if asleep. But his eyes were open and he was staring at her. 

Ian looked frightened.

“Oh Ian”, said Jess, “what have you done to yourself? Did you not take your blood pressure tablets? This is what the doctors said would happen if you didn’t look after yourself. I was at the doctors this week, and he said I’m doing really well. I take my medicines, I’ve quit the wine. At our age, it’s really important. But then, I always do what I’m asked, don’t I, Ian? I’ve started to realise that I’m a real people-pleaser.”

Jess moved around the room, closing the blinds and the curtains, putting on the lamps. “You know Ian, I’m really good at doing what I’m told. I always have been. Just like you’ve always wanted. I’ve been no bother at all. You ask for anything and I say, by all means, crack on, Ian. You’ve had your own way all these years, Ian. I realise now that’s why I’ve never challenged you about your drinking, or your smoking, or your not taking your pills. I’m not one to rock your boat.”

Jess crouched down in front of Ian and looked into his face. His eyes followed her, and although it was hard to tell, she thought he was looking quite angry. A look she’d spent years trying to stave off. And it was strange, Jess reflected, that now, it didn’t bother her one bit.

“Oh Ian, I think you probably need an ambulance. I think maybe you’ve had a stroke. What do you think?” 

Jess waited in silence. 

“I’m probably wrong, aren’t I? I usually am. It’ll just be my hormones, making me worry when I don’t need to. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? She’s over-reacting because of her hormones.” Jess smiled.

“It’s like when I say I’m sad that we never go out together any more, and you remind me that it’s better for me to stay in because I just don’t have the banter. You’re always right. You always know what’s best, pet, don’t you?” 

“So, I’m probably wrong. You’re probably going to be just fine. So, I’m just going to leave you here. I’m sure you’ll come through to bed when you’re ready.”

Ian said nothing.

Jess brushed her teeth, changed into her pyjamas and threw out the last tampons from the bathroom cupboard. 

Jess filled her hot water bottle, curled up in bed, read for a while, and turned out the light.