Maggie stood by her upbringing. She acted on the teachings of her parents as though they were far-seeing prophets, and not the district postman and office secretary they had been. Maggie's parents considered discretion the better part of valour, cleanliness next to godliness and politeness the flower of humanity. Maggie grew up straight and quiet. Wherever she came across ignorance and rudeness she bore it with acceptance and candour. Only with her own children, long flown from the terraced family nest, did she try to coax out anything like the social graces that had been instilled in her. She failed. The zeitgeist, the angry spectre of punk, had conspired against her.
Maggie was married to Derek. Derek was a nice guy, all told, but old age really didn't suit him. He became lethargic, morose, blindly accepting his daily timetable from the television schedulers. Maggie was only three years younger than Derek, but she felt that the gap was getting wider as time progressed, as Derek showed fewer and fewer signs of activity in the course of each passing month. There was one thing that Maggie despised most of all, and that was Derek's wandering attention, his vacancy. Just as Peter, the eldest, was starting secondary school, and Derek was in his mid-forties, he began the habit of losing his point in the middle of a sentence, leaving Maggie hanging, expectantly. A lesser person would have interrupted, but not Maggie. She stood by her upbringing. Never interrupt. Let the person finish their sentence. Do not anticipate.
But this meant that Derek could flatten entire conversations, like this.
"Margaret, I think, after this weekend, I'm going to need to go-"
At which point Derek's attention would waver and divert itself inside the maze of his mind, leaving Maggie standing in the doorway with a tea towel, frustrated, patient.
Twenty four years.
Twenty four years of hesitation, pausing, losing the thread, and jamming wide open gaps into perfectly good conversation, and never once did Maggie start again, nor jump into Derek's speech, nor complain. Her parents did a really good job on Maggie.
Now for a month when she was 67, Maggie started to get worried. She slipped herself an aspirin or two when she woke up in the mornings because she was troubled. She was getting headaches. At breakfast, which since Derek's retirement they always took together, Maggie started to feel odd.
"Anything in the paper, darling?" Maggie asked across the table.
"Not really." A full sentence! "Just Thatcher. They're congratulating her for becoming Prime Minister and generally..." he trailed off.
There it was, like the tension and ache of a frown, but inside her head instead of in the muscles of the brow. Maggie waited patiently and bit her toast. After two minutes Derek reached around the paper and picked up his tea. After sipping it and placing it back in the saucer, he turned the page. The ache at the front of Maggie's head got sharper.
"Oh, there's something here about pensions, love, if you want to..."
Maggie had to grip the edge of the table, the frowning pain in her mind was so tight and sharp. She gasped, and Derek dropped the peak of the newspaper and peered over it at her.
"Are you all right, dearheart? Do you want me to get you some..."
Maggie blinked.
...aspirin? She looks a bit pale. I hope she's not going to have a heart attack. I can't remember how to do the bloody chest thing. Oh god, now she's looking at me funny. Maybe I ought to put down the newspaper. I'll lose my place in this article. She really looks funny. Odd old girl. Quiet. ...was quoted as saying "We are thrilled with Mrs. Thatcher's appointment and wish her every luck with her
"I'm fine, thank you," said Maggie, still gripping the table.
"Oh, good, darling, good, but if you're feeling peaky you should make an..."
...appointment with the Doctor.
The newspaper jerked up again and Maggie let her mouth fall open.
Lord knows I could do with an appointment for my knee, but I can't get a specialist for love nor money, and this is the country they built with forty years of my taxes, is it? Is it? Woman in charge. Bloody stupid if you ask me. ...ministers liaising with the European commission on agri-
"Nobody did," muttered Maggie.
"What darling, did you, er...?"
say something? She's in a queer sort of mood this morning. Maybe I ought to book her an appointment, surprise her with it rather than making her sit through the suspense of the waiting list. That's a good idea. Hmm. I might make myself another slice of toast, but my knee hurts. Maybe I'll just sit. My word, you can say what you like about the ravages of time, but she's still a good looking woman.
"I'll get it!" said Maggie, standing up and stepping over to the bread bin and toaster.
"Get what?"
"Another slice of toast. For you."
"Oh, darling, thank you! I was just, er, thinking..."
about that. Yes, right enough, you're a lucky man, Derek Hodges. A lucky man. ...commission on agriculture met this week in Brussels to discuss new trade agreements within the
Twenty four years, it was. Twenty four years, iron-willed parents and the patience of a rock, and after that, after all that, Maggie Hodges stood next to the bread bin, waiting for toast, listening to the rambling internal monologue of her husband reading the newspaper, and she was never more in love with him than at that moment.
