Call for Lydia, please…
From the moment she woke, Evelyn had a strange feeling that something was about to happen. Yet everything that was meant to happen already had—love, family, and now she was alone. Her husband, with whom she had spent thirty-six years, had passed two years ago. Her son had his own family, two children, all of them safe and well. Just a feeling of anticipation, she realised at last. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day.
And then she thought of him—her husband. No one to bring her daffodils or tulips now. Though, why think that? There was still Arthur, her son. He would surely stop by to wish her well.
There had once been a cottage. A tiny thing, really, on a small plot of land her parents had bought after the economic troubles of years past. While she was still teaching, she’d visited on weekends and holidays. But when Evelyn retired, she spent nearly every summer there, returning to the city only to bathe and stock up on groceries.
That particular summer had been dry and scorching. She watered the vegetable beds every day. Her husband arrived as usual after work on Friday, but she noticed straight away how pale he looked.
“Just a bit stuffy,” he waved off her concern.
“Rest a while,” she told him. “I’ll finish up. Sit on the bench in the shade.”
He did, leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the cottage, watching as she watered the garden with the hose. When she finished and went to him, she knew at once something was wrong. He seemed to be dozing, but when she touched his shoulder, he slumped to the side. He had died in his sleep, right there on the bench.
By autumn, Evelyn had sold the cottage. She couldn’t bear to go back—always imagining him sitting there on that bench. Her son had supported her.
“You should’ve let it go years ago. No sense grieving over vegetables when you can buy them fresh any time.”
He and his family had their own holidays now, always heading south to the seaside. The money from the cottage she gave to Arthur. With two children, he needed it more. Her pension was enough for one. She’d thought about returning to work, but Arthur had talked her out of it.
“You’d earn pennies and lose pounds’ worth of peace,” he’d said, echoing his father’s old words.
“Teaching nowadays? You’d need nerves of steel. If you miss lessons, help the grandchildren. You’ve got me. If you need anything, I’ll sort it.”
So she lived alone. Of course, she missed having a man’s hands about the house. But Arthur called in tradesmen when something broke or a tap started dripping.
In their last years together, she and her husband had been happy. But in their youth—oh, there had been scenes. Shouting matches that nearly ended in divorce. He had strayed—carefully. But women always know. Once, she had had enough, told him exactly what she thought, and pointed to the door. At least if he was going to stray, he wouldn’t bring trouble home.
He packed a suitcase and sat on the sofa as if waiting for something. Then Arthur came home from school—thirteen years old then. He saw the suitcase and understood. He was sharp, heard and knew too much. The rows had worn him down too.
“Will you hate me?” his father had asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said, then stormed off to his room and slammed the door.
“I can’t do this,” her husband muttered, slapping his knees. He stood and shoved the suitcase behind the sofa. “Dinner ready?” he asked, not looking at her.
She was exhausted from the fights. What did it matter if he left today or tomorrow? Maybe it was better this way. Let him go while she and Arthur were at school. Evelyn set the table and called Arthur for supper. They ate in silence, not a word spoken.
The next day, Evelyn dawdled after work. When she finally returned, she rushed to the living room and looked behind the sofa. The suitcase was gone. A sour, hollow feeling settled in her chest. She went to the hall, slowly unwinding her scarf. Then she glanced up—and there it was, tucked on the high shelf near the ceiling. She ran to the wardrobe and flung it open. His shirts and trousers still hung there. Relief washed over her.
When he came home that evening, she couldn’t resist a barbed remark: “Shame you unpacked. Might’ve needed it again.”
He said nothing, but after that, he never lingered at work without calling. The quarrels grew fewer, and in their last years, they were inseparable. If only they’d been like that from the start.
Evelyn tried to remember only the good. What was the point in dwelling on the bad? The grudges had all gone with him. Sometimes sadness crept up on her, but it never stayed long.
There were perks to solitude. She cleaned less—who was there to make a mess? She cooked simple meals. She read more, watched whatever she liked on the telly. Her husband had hated her programmes. He’d sprawl on the sofa, football or the news blaring, while she perched on a hard kitchen chair, craning her neck at the small screen balanced on the fridge. The kitchen was too cramped for a proper telly.
Now she lounged like a queen, watching what she pleased. She’d thought about getting a cat, but the fur would be everywhere. And she’d never been much for pets.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. Maybe she’d buy a cake. But who would eat it? Arthur would surely visit. Better to bake something herself. Evelyn reached for her recipe book.
Flowers, perhaps? She glanced around the room. No—they’d only make her lonelier. Flowers ought to come from a man. And what was the point? To toss them out in a few days?
She baked chocolate and orange muffins—the grandchildren adored them. Arthur could take them when he came. Tired, she settled in front of the telly. Some film she’d already seen was on. Her eyes drifted shut, and she dozed off.
A knock at the door startled her awake. Her heart fluttered like a frightened bird. No one ever visited—she’d grown unused to company. The knock came again, impatient.
Arthur? No, he had a key. He always rang first, then let himself in if she didn’t answer.
At the hall mirror, Evelyn smoothed her rumpled hair and opened the door. A stranger stood there, holding tulips. Not handsome—near her age, neatly dressed, salt-and-pepper hair, solid but not portly. Ordinary, really.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Could you fetch Lydia, please?” he smiled.
“There’s no Lydia here, never has been. You’ve got the wrong address.” She started to close the door.
“Wait!” He stopped her. “This is Chestnut Lane, number twenty, flat—”
“That’s my address. But Lydia’s never lived here,” Evelyn repeated.
His smile faded, replaced by confusion.
“That can’t be.”
“It is. I’ve lived here decades. I’d know.”
“Must’ve got it wrong,” he said, disappointed.
“Sorry.” She shut the door.
She waited, listening, but there was only silence. Back in the living room, dusk was falling. She flicked on the light, and the room brightened, soothing her. When the knock came again, she checked the peephole before opening.
“You again? What do you want? I told you, Lydia doesn’t live here,” she called through the door.
“Please, I’m not a thief or a swindler,” came the muffled reply.
“How would I know? Go away, or I’ll call the police.”
“At least take the flowers. No sense wasting them,” he said mournfully.
She opened the door. He held out the bouquet.
“I’m not lying. I must’ve mixed up the address. Lydia wrote it down, but I lost the slip.”
“Just call her.”
“The number was on the same bit of paper.” He shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s an inn not far,” she offered.
He thanked her and trudged down the stairs.
Strange business. All evening, Evelyn thought of him, watching the tulips unfurl in their vase. She’d never know about this mysterious Lydia.
The next morning, she rose late, washed, and fussed with her hair—though “hair” was generous for her thinning strands. Outside, rain mixed with sleet. The tulips had bloomed overnight.
When the knock came, she knew at once it was him. “Now I’ll get the truth,” she told herself and opened the door. Sure enough, there he stood.
“Sorry. I don’t know anyone here, checked out of the inn, my train’s tonight, and there’s nowhere to go,” he admitted awkwardly.
“Come in.”
He brightened, stepped inside, and set down a duffel bag.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t say no,” he smiled.
She bustled in the kitchen, then asked him about the elusive LydiaShe handed him a cup of tea and realized, as their fingers brushed, that perhaps some stories weren’t meant to end alone.
