At the crack of dawn at 4 a.m a small ray of sunshine comes through my glassless window which is stuffed with multiple oil-filled cloths to keep the temperature steady. I rest in bed for a moment, enjoying the slight cool wind that traveled through the cloths to hit my face. Oh how I wish to be able to stay in bed forever; however, I know I cannot be labeled as a slugabed so I must get up. I reach for a match and light the tallow candles on either side of my bed. I complete my morning prayers by 4:15 a.m. I cannot do anything for myself until my husband is taken care of. Afterall, it's not like women can obtain a job, vote, or own land anyways. What else are we supposed to do? Still in my ankle-length, plain, white nightgown, I set out my husband's work clothes. I then enter the kitchen where I begin to prepare the standard English breakfast - bread, eggs, sausage, bacon, and beans. By the time I finish, it is 5 a.m, I quietly and considerately wake my husband while offering him his breakfast, clothes, and comb. I can smell a mild odor on his body, it is still acceptable for another day though. As long as he cleanses his body tomorrow with a sponge and cold water, the pores will not open and contract an illness.
Once my husband leaves for work, my real work of being a wife begins. The first thing I do is brew the ale and bake the bread my husband will eat and drink when he returns home at 10 a.m for dinner. I dress myself quickly while the bread is baking and start the skillful, tedious task of making butter and cheese through vigorous churning. As long as the product is creamy and textured, they should receive a fairly high selling price at the market. I then go outside to feed the pigs and the poultry. I can’t believe it is already 8:30 a.m and I have not even done the daily gardening yet. I was hoping to go see Shakespeare’s amazing play at The Globe; however, that will not be possible unless I complete all my routine tasks. Immediately before I begin my journey to the market through downtown London I must dab on some strong jasmine scented perfume as I cannot have people on the street thinking I have an illness. I grab a basket and place the eggs, butter, and cheese in it and I begin walking to the market.
As I am walking on the small, populous, dirty streets of downtown, I see the city fall victim to yet another fire. As always, there are loud grunts and shouts coming from the men fighting in the tavern. The one thing I do not want to see today is a public execution. I put my head down and continue walking. Just to make my day harder, it rained last night, meaning the unpaved, muddy roads have become muddy bogs. When I arrive at the market my feet are soaked but I know that my efforts will prove useful.
It is now 9:30 a.m. and I have just arrived home from the market. This is perfect timing as I have 30 minutes to garden before my husband will be expecting dinner. I warm his plate before I head outside so it would be ready for him when he gets home. It is not like I can leave him waiting, what kind of wife would I be if I kept him waiting? The second he finishes eating, he returns to work. I collect his dishes from the table and wash them. As I am washing, I dream of the work of art I will get to experience at The Globe today. I must get back to reality if I want to have the chance to go. The next task is to tediously comb the sheep’s tangly, puffy and white hair. The day is far from over. It is Monday meaning it is laundry day. The misery of doing laundry disappears once I remember the excitement of The Globe. I quickly wash the clothes and arrange them on the windowsill to dry.
Shakespeare’s play is at 4 p.m and it is currently 1:30 p.m. I have just enough time to make a luxurious dinner for my husband before the play. It must be made before; otherwise, my husband will be hungry and mad. By the time I finish making dinner, it is already 3:15 p.m. I may be a few minutes late to The Globe which means I won’t get a good spot. I redress for The Globe and start walking. I see my husband when I arrive; I should have known he was going to come as Hamlet is his favourite. He pays his two penny fee to watch from the calm, comfortable, cushioned gallery while I stay standing at ground level (the pit). Although there are no props or scenery, the play is still a masterpiece. It truly allows me to fully engage my imagination and exist in an alternate reality… one where I am not a slave to my husband. Unfortunately, I have to leave a few minutes early so that I can prepare the table for supper.
When my husband arrives home, everything is ready for him, and we sit down together. We hold hands and pray together before eating. After dinner, my husband goes out to the bar, while I stay home and scrub the dishes. My wrinkled, prune hands are tired and my worn out legs are numb. As I fall asleep before my husband comes home, I think about how tomorrow, the next day and the day after, I will do the exact same menial, unacknowledged tasks. I fight against the weight pulling my eyelids down to ensure the candle on my husband's side of the bed is lit.
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