Morning started oddly. I realised the hallway clock had stopped dead at five to six. I gave it a shake, held it up to my ear nothing but silence. Thought maybe the batterys dead, or maybe its some sort of sign. But a sign for what? Ive already lived through everything that was supposed to happen. The kids are grown and off on their own, my husband, thank heavens, is alive and well, though hes been at his mates country house for the past five days. That quiet loneliness I was getting used to suddenly felt heavy and almost tangible.
I brewed a coffee and my eyes landed on a box of old postcards Id pulled from the attic the night before while sorting things out. I reached in, grabbed a yellowed envelope at random. It wasnt a postcard at all, but a letter written in a delicate, almost childlike hand. Dear Margaret, happy birthday and all the best The usual wishes went on, but my heart gave a little jump when I saw the signature: Always yours, George.
George Parker. My university sweetheart, the man I once thought Id marry, but life had other plans. He moved to another city to look after his ageing grandmother, our letters grew rarer until they stopped completely. I later met someone else, married, had children. I hadnt thought of George in about thirty years hed become a ghost from another life, vague and irrelevant.
Now, holding that old letter, a sharp pang of regret rose up. Not for the life I didnt lead I love the one I have. But for a thread that snapped back then, left hanging in the air, unresolved. What happened to him? Is he still alive?
It felt foolish, a product of the quiet morning and the stopped clock. I set the letter aside, finished my coffee and went on with the cleaning. Still, George kept popping into my head. I remembered us strolling through an autumn park, him reciting poetry I didnt quite get but pretended I did just to hear his voice.
The whole day slipped by in a hazy, almost meditative mood. I tidied rooms, sifted through old photographs, letters, knickknacks. The silent clock in the hall watched me like a patient witness.
The next day I bought a fresh battery and slipped it into the clock. The hands trembled, then started moving again. A click, then the familiar ticktock filled the hallway. Right then the phone rang.
Margaret? a voice sounded so familiar it hurt. The voice shed only ever heard in the backofhermind, in teenage dreams. Its George. Sorry to bother you, I I dont know how to explain. Ive been thinking about you all day, like a song stuck in my head. Got your number through a mutual friend Youve probably forgotten me entirely.
I stared at the clock, now ticking steadily. I hadnt forgotten him Id just tucked him away deep, like you hide something both precious and unnecessary. And now he was back, not to upheave everything, but to put a point, maybe an ellipsis, on it.
I remember you, George, I said softly. I was just rereading your letter yesterday.
Silence stretched over the line, surprised.
No way he whispered. You know, I found that photo of us by the river yesterday. We were there
We talked for over an hour. He lives about three hours drive away now, has an adult daughter and a little grandson. His wife passed five years ago.
We agreed to meet just for a coffee, just to talk.
I hung up and walked to the window. Rain was pattering against the sill, washing away the dust. I didnt know what would happen next. Nothing was being decided, nothing was being broken. The clock that had stopped was moving again, and in my neat, predictable life a faint, new ticking started.
I didnt make any plans, didnt even picture the meeting I was scared to jinx it, scared to let my own expectations betray me. I just floated through the next few days in a weird, wobbly state, like walking on thin spring ice, feeling it flex under each step, waiting to crack.
My husband came back from the country house, tanned, smelling of sunshine and barbecued meat. He babbled about fishing, about fixing the sauna with his mate. I nodded, smiled, set a pot of stew on the table, and caught myself watching him from a slight distance his familiar, kind face, his strong hands wielding a hammer or a fork. I thought, heres my husband, the man Ive spent my life with. And just beyond the door, another life lingered, ghostly, in the form of an older man with a voice from the past.
On the day of the meeting I chose a simple beige dress, the one my husband always says looks nice on me. No bright makeup just a flick of mascara. Why bother? I asked myself. To prove times been kind? Or to prove something to myself?
He picked a quiet little café away from the city centre, cosy with tiny tables and the smell of fresh pastries. I walked in and saw him straightaway. He was at a window, nervously fidgeting with a napkin, staring into his mug. In that instant I recognised him not the guitarstrumming student, but the man he is now, with fine lines at the corners of his eyes and hands that have stopped being boyish.
He looked up, stood, and his face showed the same mix of surprise and a little fear: Is that really you?
Margaret, he said, his voice trembling.
George, I replied, sliding into the chair opposite, legs barely reaching the floor.
The first few minutes were small talk weather, traffic, how the citys changed. He confessed hed driven out like it was an exam, changing shirts three times. I laughed, and the ice began to melt.
Then memories started to flow. At first tentative, like testing water, then bolder. We laughed at the ridiculous studentlife incidents that once seemed like tragedies, now just funny anecdotes. We remembered that dreaded statics professor everyone feared, and the nighttime walks we used to take with the whole class through the streets of London.
When the coffee was gone and fresh cups sat empty, a pause settled in the kind that signals the important part.
Ive regretted for years, he said, not looking at me, spinning a saucer, that I never took you with me, that I didnt push harder. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving us time. But time wasnt on our side.
I stayed quiet. What could I say? That I regretted? That would be a lie. Because from that fork in the road grew the life I have a husband, children, joys and sorrows. To regret it would be to betray all of that.
Dont, George, I whispered. Dont feel sorry. It was right. We were young and foolish. If youd insisted and Id gone we probably would have blown up within a month. Youd have become the person who stole my life in London, and Id have been a burden, stuck with a grandma.
He met my gaze, surprise and a sad clarity there.
You really think that?
Im sure. We mythmade the past, George. We fell in love not with each other, but with our memories of two people who no longer exist.
He leaned back, sighed a breath that felt both relieved and disappointed.
You always turn out wiser than me. I came here I dont even know why. Hoping for a miracle, maybe, that wed see each other and time would turn back.
Time never turns back, I said with a soft smile. It just is. It was ours, and that was beautiful. Now its different.
We left the café together. He walked me to the car.
Thanks, he said. For coming. And for the honesty.
Thanks to you, I replied. For finding this. It meant a lot to know.
He gave a tentative hand, I shook it warm, solid, real then let go.
Driving home I watched the streets Id once sprinted through as a reckless teenager. Nothing had changed, yet everything was new. I felt no sorrow, no emptiness, just a light, clean quiet inside, like a room after a long talk where everythings been said and the heart feels light.
At home my husband was watching football. When he saw me, he muted the TV.
How was it? he asked simply, not Where have you been? or Who with? He knew, Id told him earlier that Id met an old university mate I hadnt seen in ages.
Nothing much, I said. Just talked.
Good fellow? he asked, with no hint of jealousy, just genuine interest.
Good, I nodded. But a stranger.
I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. My eyes fell on a vase of lilacs my husband had picked up this morning from the garden purple bunches, fragrant and slightly damp. I brushed the cool petals.
He slipped behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, rested his chin on my head.
I love you, he said, as matteroffact as if he were telling me itll rain tomorrow.
I know, I whispered, closing my eyes. I love you too.
It hit me then that the stopped clock wasnt about pulling the past back. It was about sealing my place in the present, showing that everything that happened was necessary. And everything that is now is exactly where it should be in the whole wide universe.
I no longer hear the ticking that once stopped, but I know its there, beating steady as ever.
