A Worm Turning, by John Garland

John was the sort of man, ladies said, who filled them with an urge to straighten his tie for him, or to smooth down the tuft of hair which was always sticking up at the back of his head, no matter how recently he had combed it. Margaret was always doing this for him: it was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place. She also chose what trousers and socks he should put on; or rather, she had a way of glancing pointedly at what he had chosen for himself, so that he knew she would prefer him to wear something different. “I only want you to look nice, dear!” she would explain. She was always being helpful in other ways too; taking care that he didn’t eat or drink too much, and reminding him to be careful of his weight. She asked bright questions about how he was getting on at work, and suggested ways in which he might improve his chances of promotion. Sometimes when he was speaking she corrected him on minor points of grammar or pronunciation, or suggested that his friends had probably heard one of his favourite anecdotes already. She was also always brightly helpful in suggesting ways in which he could improve his hobbies, and would draw his attention to how much better the results were when he acted on his ideas.

          She herself wasn’t always completely happy with the way things turned out. At times she found him distinctly evasive about what he had been doing when she wasn’t there. It irritated her that he wouldn’t let her know his computer password, making some feeble excuse about “security” and she was suspicious of the way he closed down the screen when he heard her approach, when all she wanted to do was help him. There might even have been a faint trace of sarcasm in the way he proposed that it might save time if she laid out his clothes for him, valet-fashion, instead of waiting for him to dress and then disapproving of his choices. On the whole she didn’t feel that it was anything much to worry about; at least, not yet. Nevertheless, someone more sensitive than Margaret might have detected the subterranean rustlings of a worm finally turning