Bitter Holiday: The Drama of Eleanor
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, counting her money for the umpteenth time. Her purse was nearly empty, and payday was still a week away.
“Not much,” she sighed. “But what can you do? That’s just how the wages are…”
She needed to pay the utilities, buy groceries, but with what? Eleanor wandered through the supermarket in the heart of the little town of Woodbridge, wincing at the price tags that seemed to grow before her eyes. In the end, all she could afford was milk, a loaf of bread, and a packet of pasta. There wasn’t enough for butter, but margarine would have to do. Coffee, tea, biscuits, her favourite cheese—all of it stayed on the shelves.
With no other choice, Eleanor headed to her ex-mother-in-law’s for vegetables. And there, the inevitable awaited:
“I told you so!” Margaret would say, not for the first time.
Her mother-in-law was a stern but wise woman. Nearing her seventy-sixth year, she was always right. If Eleanor had listened to her years ago, maybe she wouldn’t be scraping pennies together now, tears pricking her eyes. Maybe she’d be living like a normal person. Or better! But what was done was done.
Two years ago, her husband, Paul, had left. And not just left—he’d done it on her birthday. Eleanor had spent the day bustling in the kitchen, laying out a lavish spread. Paul sat down, ate heartily, and then dropped the bomb:
“That’s it, Eleanor. Enough. I’m leaving.”
She froze, unable to believe her ears. He barely hid his irritation as he went on:
“How old are you today? Forty-one, right? I’m forty-five. At our age, we should have grandkids by now! Where are they? Nowhere. Because we’ve got no children. You never bothered!”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Eleanor gasped, choking on her hurt. “Is that really what this is about? Poor thing, tired, are you? You can’t even look after the cat—he wanders around starving all day! I tiptoe around the flat, and you shout at me for making noise! And you want children? Maybe I deliberately didn’t want them with you!”
Where had that boldness come from? And why? Paul, as if he’d been waiting for it, shot up, kicked his chair aside, and threw out one last remark:
“I’ll stay somewhere else for now. You’ve got time to find a place. The flat’s mine!”
The door slammed, leaving a tomb-like silence behind. Eleanor sat there, numb, an emptiness swelling in her chest.
Later, she heard the gossip: Paul had “sort of married” a young shop assistant from the shoe store where he’d once gone to buy boots. People relished the details—how her ex had run to her with flowers. And not just any flowers: lilies from their garden, the ones Eleanor had nurtured for years—soft pink, lemon yellow, tiger-striped, fiery red. He’d ripped them out by the roots, snapped their stems without a care.
Eleanor pitied the girl. Thought she’d landed a catch, did she? Paul had spared the cost of a bouquet—he’d spare the cost of everything else too. Though, looking at his new choice—tall, sturdy, confident—it was clear she wouldn’t need pity. Paul had clearly picked someone who’d “pop out a whole nursery.” Well, let him try.
Did Margaret know about her son’s affair? In Eleanor’s presence, she scolded Paul, but Eleanor got it too:
“What did I tell you twenty years ago? Always dressed like a ragamuffin! How many proper clothes have I given you? Where are they? Now you’ve got no one!”
Eleanor remembered those “outfits”—enormous, knee-length bloomers in ridiculous floral prints, lined for winter. Paul would’ve bolted even sooner if he’d seen her in those.
The division of assets began. Paul insisted: “Everything’s mine!” But the court split it down the middle. Eleanor got the cottage, Paul the flat. Then Margaret stepped in—she’d been living at the cottage for years, renting out her own place for a tidy sum:
“Right then, children, not going to ask me? Eleanor turns up here, starts bringing men over—where do I go?”
“Back to your own place, Mum,” Paul snapped.
“Think you’re clever, do you? And how’s your little shop girl getting to work every day? While you and her lounge about in the flat?”
In the end, they settled: Margaret stayed at the cottage, gave her flat to Paul, and Eleanor kept their marital home. But just as she breathed a sigh of relief, another blow landed—the court split not just the assets, but the debts. Now Eleanor was paying half of Paul’s loan. Beautiful living had its price.
That’s why she was trudging to the bus stop. Buses in Woodbridge ran rarely, once a week. Everyone had cars; only the old ladies rode public transport—women who’d known each other forever. They gossiped, grumbled about pensions, prices, latest scandals. Eleanor stayed quiet, staring out the window. Begging for vegetables from her own cottage was humiliating.
She’d tended every vegetable bed, loosened the soil, delighted in green shoots pushing through. The house was drowning in flowers, the trees neatly whitewashed. Inside—bright, cheerful curtains, a bed under a vivid throw, an elegant table set with a white cloth. No clutter—no sagging sofas, battered armchairs, piles of rags. Just space, air, beauty.
No wonder Margaret had asked to move in five years ago. Canny—she wouldn’t make her own life worse. Divorce was one thing, but potatoes needed planting. Eleanor worked herself to the bone. You couldn’t store a harvest in a flat; the cellar was safer. So she went every week—at least it was something to add to her meagre wages.
Margaret hovered, lectured, but still put the kettle on, fed her, tucked her in without pausing for breath:
“I told you, Eleanor! Can’t go on like this! Look, Paul and that—God forgive me—already have a little boy, soon they’ll dump the kid on me and start on the next! And there you are, back and forth, understanding nothing. Changed jobs? Still at that school? What sort of pension do you expect?”
Eleanor seethed, but she knew Margaret was right. A teacher’s salary was no life for a divorced woman alone. Where could she go? No office would hire her in her forties. A shop? She wouldn’t last. It all made her want to howl.
The bus reached its final stop with just one passenger—Eleanor. She took in the lake surrounding the village, the red-roofed cottages of the well-off, the field with grazing goats. There was space here; it was easy to breathe. With those thoughts, she stepped off and walked toward the house—hers, or maybe not hers anymore.
From a distance, she spotted the commotion in the yard. Workers bustled, building something.
“Did Margaret really splurge on a well?” Eleanor wondered. “Where’d she get the money? Did Paul give it to her?”
She opened the gate, said hello. Margaret, flushed, almost youthful again, stood by a van, barking orders like a lady of the manor.
“Come in, no time for dawdling! Still have to feed these men!” she tossed out.
“Is this a well, then?” Eleanor asked.
“Yours!” Margaret drawled. “Yours! Be grateful. Sick of hauling water from the pump! Didn’t save for nothing!” She glanced at the workers to make sure they didn’t hear.
Eleanor ended up staying the weekend. She wanted to argue that the men didn’t need feeding, but arguing with Margaret was like arguing with the wind. The workers were decent, not pushy. They’d eat, thank her, and head back out.
The foreman, William, solid with kind eyes, kept glancing at Eleanor. She blushed, feeling like a schoolgirl.
“What’s wrong with you?” Margaret hissed. “Good man! I’d take him myself. Go on, make use of him! He’s divorced, asked about you. I told him you were my daughter. Well? Can’t my daughter be a bit scatty?”
“Shame on you!” Eleanor protested—but she thought: Margaret always had a scheme, yet she wasn’t wrong. She liked William—steady, quiet, warm.
“Why all this?” Eleanor asked her.
“Needs doing! Place is lovely—build something good here. Paul’s off building with his new one, you build with this… And then, when you both come to the cottage and row! William’ll sort your Paul out quick, and his girl—she’ll sort you! I’ll invite the neighbours, fry up some nuts. That’s why!”
Eleanor just shook her head. What could you do? And William kept looking, shameless. She grabbed a towel and ran to the lake.
Eleanor floated on her back, the cool water soothing her worries, while William watched from the shore, a quiet promise of something new beginning.
