Ellen
Feminism. Don’t talk to me about feminism. That’s where it all went wrong, of course.
Equality, wanting to be as good as men. Doing men’s jobs.
Oh my. Things were just fine before those darn feminists with their hairy armpits and dungarees came along.
Everyone knew their place. Men went to work.
Women tended the home. People had their roles back then.
Traditional values. And it was easier. Like dogs.
A dog is happy when it knows the rules, who is master.
Women are the same. Oh, don’t ‘at’ me. We were all far more content before we had to start competing with one another.
Take my parents. The happiest couple you could ever meet.
Father worked at the bank, Mother looked after me and my sister, cooked all the meals, cleaned the house, tended to us when we were sick.
Father paid the bills, washed the car, cut the grass and disciplined us when we were bad.
They never argued, not once. Because they had their roles.
And if Father occasionally drank a bit too much, or went a little too heavy on the belt, well, that’s just men.
Sometimes they need to remind their family who’s in charge.
I’m a woman who knows her place. And her worth.
In the home, in the kitchen and in the community.
Home-makers aren’t valued enough in society.
When I was at school all my friends wanted careers.
Doctors, lawyers, police. How I rolled my eyes.
Then the careers officer (and did anyone ever say they wanted to be one of those when they grew up?) asked me what I planned to do, and I told her proudly: ‘I’m going to be a good housewife.
’ She may have sneered, but I didn’t care.
I certainly wasn’t going to end up like her, with her man’s haircut and shapeless grey suit.
Of course, the best-laid plans don’t always work out.
I’m no longer a wife. That part of my plan was cut tragically short.
And Magnus and I never had children, so my home-making is reserved just for me.
But I’ve never been one to mope, not when my sister died, not when Magnus had his terrible accident and not because motherhood has been denied to me.
I’m still a better wife and mother than any of those with husbands and children will ever be.
Being the best home-maker is my career, and I’m darn good at it.
There are no ready microwave meals in my house.
I don’t even own a microwave. Everything is cooked from scratch.
All fresh ingredients. I bake my own cakes and cookies, and I’ve run the Serenity Falls bake sale for five years running.
I’m on the PTA and Serenity Falls planning committee.
I organize the school fete every year, the Pumpkin Patch Party, the Halloween and Christmas parades.
I’m a dab hand with a sewing machine and I make a lot of the costumes.
In fact, I often say, if there’s a parade or event in Serenity Falls I don’t have a hand in planning, then it hasn’t been invented yet.
Of course, there will always be some people who resent that.
Women who aren’t so devoted, who just don’t try as hard.
The sort of women who drive their kids to school, even when they live just up the road.
The sort of women who order their children’s Halloween costumes from the internet instead of making them, or who bring shop-bought cakes to the bake sale.
Working moms. Like I don’t work hard? There’s not a busier body in Serenity Falls.
And yet those women have the nerve to laugh at me.
To judge me. Well, I have their numbers. Them and their pesky brats.
You see, you don’t get to where I am without learning a few things about the community.
And being home all day, well, it gives me time.
Once I’ve finished cleaning and baking, I often take a stroll around the town.
To make sure everything is as it should be.
To be a good neighbour. You’d be amazed how careless people are with their home security, or how many people don’t shred important documents before putting them in the garbage.
It would be so easy for someone with malicious intent to find a spare key under a flowerpot and let themselves into an empty home.
And once inside, well, everyone has things they’d rather keep hidden.
Like those disgusting sex outfits, or their teenager’s dope stash, or the empty vodka bottles buried in the trash.
Secrets. Lies. Hidden, dirty things that people would do anything to stop creeping out into the light. Fortunately for them, I’ve always been the model of discretion, although it never hurts to have a little leverage. A little something stored in the pantry to bring out when necessary.
Sadly, that was my mistake. I stored something a little too big. And then I served it up to the wrong person.
Of course, I swore that I would never gossip. Their secret was safe with me.
But it was too late by then. My cake was already baked, you might say.
Still, a home-maker has her tricks.
And blood is such a tricky substance to remove completely.