Megan threw the last white school shirt into the washing machine and slammed the door, before scooping up the full basket of clean laundry and stomping upstairs. Hooray, another mountain of clericals to iron. “I’m not going to be ironing your shirts for you…“ Ha! Just another way in which her resolve had collapsed since she’d known Tom. “I’m never going to keep house for any man”, “I’m never going to give up my life to look after kids and rely on someone else to keep me”, "I'm going to make my own decisions about how to spend my life". She could just imagine what her younger self would think if they could see her now. Was it that society's deeply ingrained sexism had finally caught up with her? Was this an inevitable result of the constant subliminal messaging she'd been subjected to all her life? There was that tea towel Auntie Hannah gave her for her nineteenth birthday, A woman's place is in the house of bishops. It seemed her place was in the house of a bishop, cooking his dinner and ironing his shirts.
The ironing board filled the only space left in a sea of boxes. Early to have done this much packing, but what else did she have to do? Okay, she’d looked at a few jobs, and spent several hours wrestling unsuccessfully with her CV… she’d have to call Liza, and take her up on that offer of help. If it was worth it. It’d been hard enough getting a job before, when she was right in there with years of relevant experience and a great track record. Now? Five years out of work, looking for a change of career in a brand new city. Who’d she even ask for references?
Squeezing through to the socket to plug in the iron, she cursed the baby weight which still clung on. Like there was still a baby growing there. Like it didn’t know. Like ruining her mental health wasn’t enough that it had to mess with her body as well. She paused to kick a box, and then to hop around and squeeze her stubbed toe. Grabbed the iron and rammed it down on the shirt, still muttering swear words, straightening the fabric and running the iron over it in a way almost guaranteed to leave it worse than it had started. And then she reached to turn the shirt over, and a sharp pain grew in her hand, and she swore at the top of her voice and squeezed it and shoved the burnt finger in her mouth, doubling up for a moment as the heat coursed up her arm. A singeing smell hit her nostrils, reminding her of the abandoned iron. Shit.
Iron off, she spent ten minutes in the bathroom with her finger under cold water before returning to examine the damage. Shit. Well, that was one fewer shirt for Tom’s wardrobe. Because apparently she couldn’t even iron shirts now. And it had to be one of his better ones, too, not even one of the ones he’d redyed five times that were starting to fray around the edges. And they weren’t exactly cheap, these things.
Fighting back tears, she pushed it aside and turned the iron on again, scowling at it reproachfully. Stupid inanimate objects. Her finger smarted. She should probably dress it but couldn’t be bothered; the burn wasn’t deep, it wouldn’t have bothered her when she was working in the camp kitchens. Now, come on, Megan. Concentrate. Before Tom comes home and finds you making a fool of yourself over ironing a stack of shirts. Though she really ought to make him iron his own bloody shirts. To be honest he’d probably be better off doing them, if she was just going to burn them.
She did her best to forget that thought and just work down the pile, one after another de-creased and hung up in the wardrobe.
“Fuck.” She put the iron down quickly, careful not to burn herself again, and glared at Tom. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry?”
She grabbed the ruined shirt from behind her. “I’m so sorry. I was distracted…” She held it out to him.
He took it, studied it for a couple of seconds in something of a daze, then looked her up and down with a frown. Then he had her wounded hand in his, holding it up in front of his face to examine it before fixing her with a reproachful look. “What are you doing?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Stop this.” He ducked past her to unplug the iron, and then put a hand on her waist to steer her out of the room. She tried to pull away, but his hold was firm, and he guided her to the stairs.
“That was the first one I did. I was distracted. Sorry. Why it had to be one of your better ones…”
“I don’t care about the shirt, why did you carry on?”
She shrugged. “The rest needed doing. I ran it under cold water.”
“You know I can do my own ironing, and have no objection to doing so. Anyway, I have more in the wardrobe.” He steered her into the kitchen. “But thank you. How’s that feeling?”
She shrugged. “Not a big deal.”
“We literally have burn cream. For putting on burns.”
“I can manage fine.”
“You don’t have to.” He shot her a wicked smile, though his concern was clear underneath. “Come on, let me show off my amazing first aid skills?”
“Help…”
“I know what I’m doing, honest.”
She laughed weakly. “I’m not reassured. Go on, if you must.”
He raised her hand to examine it again, and then kissed it gently. “First step: kiss it better.”
“Don’t even try to pretend that’s what they teach you on courses.”
“Nah, it’s only for special people.” He was opening the tube of burn cream with one hand so as to keep her hand in the other. “Now, we maybe give it another rinse, and then I apply some of this. And then cling film.”
“Don’t go over the top.”
“For you? I’ll pull out all the stops.”
She laughed but smiled too. Was this what it took to make him flirt again? “Good day?”
“Passable.”
“Is that all?”
He shrugged. “Parochial Visitation. An easy one, as they go. Archivist knows how to file. And then I made a start on the report. And then I decided to come home early, since I’ve meetings this evening.”
“Oh yeah, you said.”
“…and I’m glad I did.”
“I’d have been fine doing the rest.”
“What?” He shook his head. “Okay. Just to be absolutely clear. The shirt is just a shirt, it’s fine. It’s not even any great loss, especially as I’ve ordered a stack of purple ones. I can tell you all is forgiven if that helps. My only concern is you.” He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her in. “And I’m sorry if I’ve let you forget that. If I’ve been selfish – no, not if, I know I have. I’m sorry.”
She was tense for just a moment before leaning in against him. “You don’t have to apologise.”
“But I do.” He released her and knelt down, holding her hands in his. “I love you. And I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, laughing, and started to turn away. “And I love you too. Now stop being silly.”
“I’m never silly!”
Not often enough recently, she didn’t say. “So what do you call this?”
“Deathly serious.”
“You wouldn’t know deathly serious if it rode in on a skeletal horse dressed in a hooded black robe and carrying a scythe.”
“That’s not deathly serious, that’s just death.”
“Just get up already.” She gave him a tug, and he did as he was told.
“How’s it feeling?”
“Much better, don’t fuss.”
“Good.” He released her and headed for the door, turning back at the last minute. “Don’t touch the rest of those shirts. I probably have enough to do the next week and a half, if not I’ll do them myself - as is only fair, given I'm the one who'll be wearing them. And then… they’ll only be folded up to pack anyway.”
“It’s only ironing. Not a big deal.”
“Then it won’t be a big deal for you to not do it. Have a rest, do something fun. I’m just going to make a phone call.”
And then he was gone, leaving her shaking her head at the door. I thought you were back early to take a break, she thought, or to spend time with me. And then the obvious successor to this: if I injure myself again, will that make you interact with me again?
She retreated back upstairs, to look helplessly at the abandoned ironing. She could do it if she wanted. Only three left anyway, what was she supposed to do, leave them there? Cluttering up the place, when they could be hung up neatly?
“I told you not to bother.” Tom came to find her later, while she was making dinner, his tone full of disappointment.
Megan didn’t look around from the boiling pan of soup. “But I did.”
He leant on the counter next to her. “I mean, you can do what you like…”
“Thank you.”
“Are you okay?”
“Never better.”
“And the non-sarcastic answer..?”
She stirred the soup to delay answering. “You want me to ask you that question?”
He sighed. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“What’s changed?”
“What?”
“That you’re asking now.”
“You just seem… I dunno.” He shuffled towards the door. “Sorry.”
“Where are you going?”
“I should get Mika from school.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Back soon.”
She turned the heat down and rummaged for a lid. Right. What else? Bread, butter… is there time for the butter to soften? Yes, probably, it’s warm enough, threatening to hit thirty by the end of the week - in early June! Bloody climate change. Cheese? Yes, get that out too. Mika’s day to lay the table, though it’d be easier if she just did it herself. No, don’t steal chores. Warm the bowls. Wait. Why did she spend all her life waiting for her family to come home? Waiting for them to need her? Waiting to be useful?
She picked up her phone, found Liza’s number, and sent a text.
Any chance of that CV help? Any time you’re free.
After that she couldn't stop checking, just in case she’d missed the vibration, even though Liza was almost certainly at work and wouldn’t be replying until her shift finished. And there she was, waiting on family again. No, Megan, come on, don’t just wait for other people, you can do some things yourself…
This time she heard the door open, and logged off the computer quickly. Not that she had any reason to keep this a secret, just that… what? She didn’t want to explain? Didn’t want concern and encouragement and well-meaning offers of help? Meh, just didn’t want to explain, especially when it was only ideas. Learning support assistant, experience with SEND desirable. Did Mika count as experience? They probably meant professional experience, not parenting. She should just stick to “catering operative”, or whatever they called it now. She could mass produce food and serve it to kids. Unless it involved some kind of cooking qualification… also yay, more of what she did at home. But job. Independence. Pride.
Yeah, pride. In a classic mum job, running around after more snotty children for minimum wage, while her husband carved a career as a prince of the Church. What happened to “I’m going to be the successful one, I’m going to stand on my own two feet and other people can work around me”? Fuck you, Tom. If I’d never met you…
If she’d never met him. The quiet cleric with the smile and the limp, following in Ruth’s shadow. Awkward gifts of sweets to children, that classic gesture of needing to do something even if it meant nothing. And then coming back later, without crutches and barely a shadow of the limp, slipping through quietly as Ruth made herself known, away from the hive of activity to talk to the children on the sidelines, and to her, to enquire after a child he’d met once before, a child now an orphan.
The same man who’d driven down again late at night, car laden with every gift he could find to give, no plan, no place to go, just that wordless cry, “let me help, let me do something too”. And she’d found him a place to sleep, and gone away shaking her head and smiling indulgently.
And then that terrible night, when he’d found them a place of shelter, and offered his plan, and suddenly he’d been someone else, not just a wet follower, and there was something to him after all. Not just a joker but a protector. Someone who cared, and who not only cared but acted.
She met him in the hall and smiled, and he smiled back, that shy useless sheep-smile that made her seethe inside. She wanted things to happen, and that was never going to happen while he was stuck in wet follower mode. The quiet cleric, hiding in the shadow of Mother Church. And she loved him and hated him all at the same time.
Sure, after 6 except Thurs, or Sat PM. What’s good?
She looked up and swallowed. “Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Doing anything Friday evening?”
“Don’t think so, why?”
“Great, you can stay with the kids.”
“Um, can do, why?”
“I’m going out.”
He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her. “Sure.”
This Friday? 7.30?
She smiled back awkwardly. “Mika? Table?”
“I’m doing it!”
“Sorry. How was rehearsal?”
“Miss Anderson got stressy about it being in two weeks, it’s fine though.”
“Ah yes, you’ve got our tickets?”
“Yours. Daddy can’t be there.”
“Oh yes. Well, I’m looking forward to it.”
“I’m only a munchkin, it’s not much. But Di’s good, she’s the wicked witch. Katie’s Dorothy, she still hasn’t learnt all her lines, at least she kind of has but she keeps forgetting them or not knowing when to come in. Also Bishop Luke is coming to school on Monday, are you going to come to school when you’re a bishop, daddy?”
“Probably. If I’m invited!”
“Luke always says hello to me when he comes. It’d be embarrassing if you did that, though.”
Megan shook her head. “I hope you don’t call him Luke when you meet him at school.”
“He doesn’t mind. I call him Luke everywhere else.”
“You don’t call your teachers by their first names.”
“He’s not a teacher, though.”
“How’s the table going?” Megan brushed past Tom so she could mutter in his ear. “This is all your fault…”
Mars appeared too, just as they were sitting down to eat, throwing his bag down in the hall and then sprawling triumphantly on a chair. “Two more done! I’m shattered and starving, what’s for dinner?”
“Lentil soup, there are sausages in the fridge if that’s not enough.”
Mika perked up at that. “Can I have some?”
“Soup first.”
“Mars doesn’t have to.”
“Mars is doing exams.”
“I have a spelling test tomorrow.”
“And I hope you’ve practised. Sit down. Mars, do you want them?”
“Yes please.” He went to get them himself, and warmed them up in the microwave.
“What was it today?”
“RS and History. Went round town with Matt and that after, that’s why I’m late. Figured we’d celebrate. RS was nice, dunno about History, we’ll see.”
“Any tomorrow?”
“French. Afternoon. Get a lie in.”
“And a morning to revise.”
Mika glared between them reproachfully. “Mum I’m hungry…”
“And you will be fed, just be patient! Mars, have you got everything? Okay, sit down then. Tom, pass that plate…”
Ugh. Yeah, maybe being a dinner lady was not going to be the way forward. She checked her phone while she had her back to the family, to see that Liza had replied.
Yours or mine?
She typed quickly, then stuffed the phone back into her pocket before anyone noticed.
Yours.
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