Mrs Smith

Mrs Smith hobbled to her front window and pushed the lace curtains to the side. She had put them up when she first moved into the cottage as a newly-wed. The material was good quality, and in the early years of her married life she had taken them down regularly and washed them in the bathtub, hanging them out to bleach in the hot Melbourne sunshine. As a widow she had gradually lost interest in such things, assisted by the deterioration of her eyesight, which had hidden many signs of accumulating grime.

Now her wrinkled fingers worked the greyish lace between their tips, unconsciously slipping through holes ripped at the hems. Mr Smith would have been disappointed at the damage she was exacerbating, and would have spoken firmly to her about how she should value the items in the house.

Their home was filled with furniture inherited from Mr Smith’s family. Almost all of it was made from dark, heavy wood, which no amount of elbow grease and beeswax polish could entice to glow. Each room had at least one piece, which invariably dominated the whole space, hulking and somehow menacing.

Under the window Mrs Smith was looking through was a low sideboard. It didn’t quite fit the space, being not quite wide enough, while at the same time too deep. But it left a gap exactly the width of Mrs Smith’s hips, and for years she had squeezed into it in order to peer out at the rest of the world.

Even now, at her advanced years, she was reluctant to rest her elbow on the top of the sideboard. Mr Smith had not approved of leaning on furniture, and any such indiscretion would result in a tapping of his fingers on the misused item, the hollow knocking sound chiding Mrs Smith for her inappropriate action.

 In the front yard was a leggy camellia bush. Covered in dark, glossy leaves, the ground around it was littered with the bruised white petals of its overblown flowers. She scolded herself for not having raked them up yet, before remembering she no longer had to leap to such a chore. It was an ostentatious plant, too large for the small square of garden, and it crowded the narrow pathway leading to the gate. It had been a wedding present from Mrs Smith’s in-laws, and was aptly named Snow Flurry, which was also a good description of the enthusiasm with which she had been welcomed into their family.

Her in-laws had been dead for many years. Mr Smith had died almost two years ago. And yet Mrs Smith had been stuck there in the house, ageing poorly, along with her unwanted possessions bequeathed by the Smiths. If only she hadn’t said yes to him. If only she had paused a moment, listened to the tiny voice deep inside of her, warning her that something wasn’t quite right.

But for a young Mrs Smith, before she was Mrs Smith, back when she was simply laughing, dancing Susie, it all seemed so romantic. Mr Smith was simply dashing, older than her, with a debonair moustache and a strong, solid manner, the perfect foil to her light-heartedness and flippancy. Her parents had been dubious about the match, but were not the sort to speak up. Making a fuss was a far worse sin in their household than almost anything else. Far better to quietly die in an armchair of a massive heart attack after Sunday dinner, than to cause the ambulance to be called.

Susie had been convinced that all Mr Smith needed was a bit of fun in his life. From the first moment she met him, when he came up to her counter at the bank and solemnly handed her his passbook, she felt compelled to cajole him to smile. Week after week she twinkled her eyes, and pursed her lips, speaking to him respectfully but with a tone in her voice that gradually wore him down.

She felt such glee the day his eyes ventured across her pert bosom and read her name badge. From then on, he greeted her each week by name, although he never invited her to use his Christian name. Not even when he finally asked her out to dinner.

It was a short courtship. Susie was sure that under that stiff upper lip exterior beat a heart filled with passion, just bursting to be freed. So when Mr Smith proposed, just a few days shy of a month after that first dinner, she accepted enthusiastically. She felt a small hint of disturbance when he informed her that he had already asked her father’s permission. She hadn’t realised he was quite so old-fashioned. But she brushed it aside, putting it down to a degree of chivalry rarely seen in beaus of her own age.

The next flicker of something not quite right was when they arrived at the registry office on their wedding day. Susie had saved for a length of sumptuous off-white broderie anglaise, sitting up late and to sew it into a simple, elegant, sleeveless gown. She felt so beautiful as she glided along the worn carpet to stand by Mr Smith’s side. The look on his face was not what she had anticipated. Far from a dumbfounded expression of luck, he looked at her exposed shoulders with raised eyebrows, which slowly drew together in a slight frown. Her soon to be mother-in-law quickly passed her a fluffy, itchy mauve shawl and encouraged her to wrap it securely around herself.

Throughout the ceremony, she felt her spine holding her as straight as possible. She felt worried that perhaps she might be about to make a mistake, but the unembellished ceremony passed so quickly that any opportunity to call a halt, or at least a pause, never eventuated. Turning her head to receive her first kiss as a married woman, Susie felt Mr Smith’s dry lips brush against her soft cheek.

Taking her by the elbow, and angling her towards their small audience, he announced her as ‘Mrs Smith’, and from that moment on, Susie disappeared forever.

Mrs Smith no longer worked at the bank. She was expected to be at home, awaiting the arrival of babies. When it became clear that sadly there were to be none, Mr Smith was perfectly content for her to stay home keeping the house tidy and clean, with a hot dinner ready to be served to him the moment he came back from work.

Mrs Smith missed fun, frivolous Susie terribly. She became smaller, quieter, less opinionated, as her world shrank around her and she was hemmed in by the fence around her house. The only regular visitors that Mr Smith encouraged were his parents. After every visit, Mr Smith would calmly explain what Mrs Smith had done wrong, exactly how she had disappointed Mother and Father Smith. Mother Smith in particular was a tough judge, and never failed to notice a speck of dust, or a bruise on a slice of peach, or a piece of pastry that was falsely presented as short.

Mr Smith was never unkind to Mrs Smith. He never hit her, he never even raised his voice. But he had a way of biting off his words, and of barely noticeably avoiding direct eye contact. He also expelled air through his nostrils with frustration, a soft, crushing sound which preceded every explanation of her shortcomings. These are all small things, seemingly innocent, totally understandable throughout a marriage, however the cumulative effect of them left Mrs Smith deeply unsettled.

Every time she expressed an opinion, or presented Mr Smith with a new meal that had not been included in the recipe book gifted her by Mother Smith, or bought a new cushion without consulting with him first, there would be the tell-tale huff of air. Mrs Smith would feel her shoulders curling inwards, and her head bowing down, as she waited to hear exactly where she had gone wrong. Each meal involved a gently spoken lecture in her errors, until she hardly dared to say or do anything without permission.

At moments Mrs Smith would wonder what Susie would have done in her place. She couldn’t recognise any semblance of her in the face she saw each morning in the mirror. Who was this washed out, hollow eyed woman, with a gaze that skittered from side to side? Where was laughing, joyous Susie? What would Susie have said to Mr Smith, when hearing how disappointed he was that she had sliced the carrots diagonally rather than horizontally?

Late at night Mrs Smith would lie in her chilly bed, listening to the regular exhalations of a satisfied Mr Smith, enjoying the sleep of a man whose life was ordered exactly to his liking. She would try to keep her breathing slow in order to calm the racings of her mind, seeking escape like a frantic bird trapped in curtains. She would remind herself that Mr Smith was many years her senior, and would have to die one day soon, surely.

When that day finally came, Mrs Smith did not shed a single tear. She felt as dried up as a bowl of last year’s Christmas potpourri. She followed Mr Smith’s instructions to the letter, waiting for the freedom that must come, any day now.

But she never felt that longed-for rush of ecstasy. She traced her steps throughout her life endlessly in the empty house, trying to find her way back to Susie, to joy, but it was a labyrinth which led her relentlessly back to tired, colourless Mrs Smith.

Even the front garden, beyond the dingy lace curtains, was tainted by Mr Smith’s presence. His last wish had been to have his ashes spread under the camellia bush, there to join his parents’, where the three of them could rest in everlasting judgement on Mrs Smith.

Not even the white petals could cleanse the yard of their presence and their lingering disapproval. But she had found some strength somewhere, some last vestige of self-belief, and had drawn on it to place a phone call. And now, on the fence just beyond the camellia, was a board. Although Mrs Smith could only see the blank back, she knew there was a SOLD sticker emblazoned across the front.

She pulled her fingers out of the hole in the curtains, dimly registering the greasiness left behind on her skin. She looked around the room, and bent creakily down to pick up her two suitcases. She’d sold the house with all of its contents intact, and was taking only the clothing she had purchased for herself.

She couldn’t bring herself to leave through the front door and edge her way past the camellia. Mrs Smith slipped out through the back instead, letting the screen door squeak itself shut behind her, trapping disappointment inside the house. Outside, she looked up, squinting, into the clear air. She didn’t know whether she’d be able to find Susie, she had no idea where to even begin looking. But she stepped bravely forward.