Once, long ago, in the grey drizzle of a London afternoon, Eleanor rode the bus home from work, her forehead pressed against the cold windowpane. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the world beyond into something distant and unreal. “Just like my life,” she thought. “The future feels smudged, uncertain. And that frightens me.” She shut her eyes, tears clinging to her lashes.
“Look at the youth these days,” came a sharp voice above her, dripping with disdain. “Sitting there as if no one else exists. While elderly folk stand.”
Eleanor opened her eyes to see a stout, sour-faced woman looming over her seat, eyes pinning her like a needle.
“Please, take my seat,” Eleanor said, rising.
“About time. Had to be told, of course,” the woman muttered, wedging herself in.
Squeezing past, Eleanor stood by the doors, listening to the grumbles about “ill-mannered young people” ripple through the bus. The woman had found allies.
“Perhaps her life’s harder than mine,” Eleanor thought. “That’s why she’s so bitter.”
“Excuse me, are you getting off?” A young voice spoke behind her.
Eleanor turned—and there stood Catherine, her old school friend.
“Ellie! Good heavens, it’s been an age!”
Before Eleanor could reply, the bus doors hissed open, and the crowd jostled them onto the pavement.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Catherine beamed, fresh-faced and bright. She linked arms with Eleanor. “You’re not slipping away until I’ve heard everything.”
“I’m glad too,” Eleanor said flatly. “But I can’t invite you home.”
“No matter. Come to mine—well, Mummy’s. I’m married now, live elsewhere. Just visiting her today.”
“Cat, I really can’t. Another time,” Eleanor stopped walking.
“Don’t even start. Another time’ll take another decade. Just half an hour?” Catherine pleaded.
“Fine. But no longer,” Eleanor relented.
“What, have you got seven children waiting?”
“No. A daughter and a husband.”
“Then they’ll keep.” Catherine tugged her past her own street, down a narrow lane.
“Mummy, look who I’ve brought!” Catherine announced grandly.
Her mother gasped, clasping her hands. Eleanor and Catherine had been inseparable at school. For years after, Catherine had called, insisted on visits. But Eleanor had been… preoccupied.
She’d fallen headlong in love. Her mother begged her not to marry. “What do you see in him? A boxer. Bashing fists for a living? Broken nose today, crippled tomorrow. Think, darling…”
Catherine’s mother bustled with teacups.
“Mummy, let us talk,” Catherine said.
“Of course, of course.” She slipped away.
“Now—out with it,” Catherine said. “I knew straight off something was wrong.”
Eleanor hadn’t meant to confide. But Catherine’s eyes held such warmth that the words spilled out.
“So you married your George after all.”
“Yes. Mummy never approved. Always held you up as the sensible one. Said you’d land on your feet while I was just a ‘Turgenev heroine,’” Eleanor said without malice.
“Sounds like Margaret,” Catherine chuckled.
At first, life had been sweet. Then, in a qualifying match for the national championships, George took a blow to the head. A stroke followed. Doctors gave no promises. Eleanor, already pregnant, feared she’d miscarry from the strain.
After the birth, she’d nursed George with the baby in her arms. Without Margaret’s help, she’d have crumbled. They sold their car. She returned to work six months later. Margaret minded little Emily, now six—George’s double.
Recovery took years. Eleanor had given up hope he’d even walk again. But he fought back. Boxing was over, though. George knew nothing else. Jobs never stuck—wrong skills, no education, employers wary of his injuries. He grew bitter, withdrawn. Only Emily could thaw him.
“I’ll speak to my husband,” Catherine said, squeezing her hand. “Paul’s no industrial magnate, but he owns a firm. Security work? Chin up, darling.”
At home, Eleanor said nothing, not wanting to raise false hopes. Catherine rang three days later.
“Paul will see George tomorrow at three. Suit and tie. Sobriety mandatory.”
George went, nervous but composed. Eleanor clutched her phone until he called—hired. Relief washed over her. She’d feared the bottle might claim him.
For two months, peace reigned. Then Paul sacked his driver and offered George the role.
Soon, George returned late, sullen. His knuckles split one evening.
“Been fighting?” Eleanor asked.
“Part of the job,” he brushed her off.
Then Catherine called, furious. “After all I did, your George thrashed my husband!”
Paul had come drunk to their flat with two thugs. George threw them out. Later, he confessed: Paul kept a mistress. Worse, he’d assaulted a girl at a restaurant. George had struck him to stop it.
Catherine arrived next day, cheek swollen. “Paul hit me. I never knew him. I pitied you, but it’s me who’s wretched.”
Eleanor offered her refuge. George warned Paul would retaliate.
He was right. A black car nearly mowed Catherine down the next morning. George whisked her to a distant hotel, urging her to flee.
Then Paul’s firm was audited—fraud uncovered. Charges followed.
George’s old trainer visited. “Retiring. Want you to take over.”
“Pride stopped me asking,” George admitted.
Life twists like a winding lane. What seems a dead end might just be a turn. Walls can be broken. And in the end, it’s not the start but the finish that shows a man’s true measure.
