Youll never manage without me! Youll fall apart! You cant do anything on your own! my husband shouted as he stuffed his shirts into a big suitcase.
But I did manage. I didnt fall apart. Maybe if Id given myself time to dwell on how Id survive with two children, Id have invented all sorts of dreadful futures perhaps I would have even forgiven his unfaithfulness. But there was no time for that; it was nearly time to take my daughters to nursery and dash off to work. Hed only rolled in half an hour earlier, smug and self-assured, basking in the glow of his new love.
So, pulling on my coat, I gave out instructions in my most no-nonsense tone:
Olivia, help Annie with her jacket and make sure she eats well at nursery. The teacher says she refuses porridge again.
Alex, please gather all your precious belongings at once. Dont drag things out. And leave the flat keys in the post box. Thats all. Goodbye.
Olivia was born exactly thirty minutes before Annie, so she naturally took on the role of the elder. Theyre both four. Independent, each one stubborn in her own way. Olivia will eat that hated semolina just because its expected; Annie will wrinkle her nose and say, There are lumps I wont eat it.
I was grateful the nursery was just ten minutes from home. The girls chattered on, keeping my thoughts from drifting into panic or misery. Work left me no time to mope: as the GPs receptionist, every minute was scheduled and there were still house calls afterwards. Only in the evening, when I saw the empty hangers in the hall where my husbands jackets used to be, did it hit home: from now on, I was alone. But moping was never my style everything would be as it always was, perhaps even better. You can always give up and slip into despair, or you can steady yourself, look for solutions, and search for a bit of hope. First step: get dinner going.
Whats really changed for us girls? I thought, slicing tomatoes for the salad. Hes left. What did he actually do for us? What will I have to take on now? Nothing I cant handle. #musings. Id just need to tweak the days routine a bit. Id be fine. Everything would be alright. I didnt want to live my life always wondering where he was, if he was with her again. Better to be alone. Harder, but peaceful.
After the nightly chapter of Alices Adventures in Wonderland and kisses for my sleepy daughters, I hurried to the bathroom the washing machine had finished, and I needed to hang out the clothes.
Before bed, I poured myself a cup of tea, gathered my thoughts, and made a plan for tomorrow. My girls were like two peas in a pod twins. Two may be more work than one, but Id never found it a burden. I used to be baffled by peoples sympathy.
Were fine, really, Id tell them, no ones running themselves ragged. Im managing.
The kettle whistled. I brewed tea with lemon balm, flicked on a cosy lamp. Outside, sleet fell against the window, but in my little flat, it was warm and quiet, the only sound the steady tick of the clock.
Then the doorbell rang. Standing on my doorstep was my neighbour, Mrs. Jenkins, an elderly lady Id always found rather off-putting. A solitary pensioner, shed walk her scruffy little mutt each morning, always greeting me with a stiff, tight-lipped Good morning. I had seen the dog rummaging about near the bins sometimes, looking on hungrily as rubbish bags were tossed away. I supposed Mrs. Jenkins had taken pity and brought the poor creature home. No one ever visited her; she went to the corner shop and occasionally the post office, but that was about it.
Im sorry to disturb you, she said, wrapped in a thick shawl. But I saw your husband packing the car today. Has he left?
Thats not really any of your business, I replied sharply.
No, youre right. Your husband isnt my concern. I just wanted to say if you ever need help, you can count on me. If you need someone to mind the girls or anything else.
Please, come in, I said, and as she stepped over the threshold, I asked, Whats your name? I poured tea into two cups and put out a plate of biscuits. Do have one.
Im Eugenia Jenkins. I know youre Katherine. Well, Katherine, she said, breaking off a bit of shortbread, Im not forcing myself on you. Just know any time you want help, Id be glad to. No, not for money! I just enjoy it.
Mrs. Jenkins took a careful sip of tea and nodded. Delicious. Thats lemon balm, isnt it? Ive got a lot of herbs at my allotment, and lemon balm as well. You must visit in summer. Theres space enough. And a wonderful old apple tree the fruit is marvellous
And as I listened, I found myself wondering why Id always thought her unpleasant. Maybe because she wasnt one to fawn with false cheer, or pry into whether I coped with twins, or prod into my private life like so many others. She just passed by with her dog, silent and dignified. And now, instead of asking about my husband or pouring salt on the wound, she offered a simple kindness.
Looking at her, I saw her differently now: tidy as could be, new slippers, hair pinned up, a neat dress with a lace collar, and a delicate scent of perfume.
Listening to her stories of her allotment, the apples, a tiny steamy summer shed, and the lake full of greedy ducks, I felt lighter inside, my worries drifting off into the night.
All that happened five years ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. I remember my ex-husband shouting in my face, Youll never manage!
But thats all behind me now.
Eugenia Jenkins deftly slices apples, arranging them on pastry before sliding the tin into the hot oven. Salads are ready, and the roast bubbles away on the hob. Its her birthday today. Its August, and the doors and windows of her cosy cottage are flung wide open. The kitchen is filled with the scent of apple pie.
How often shes helped me, I think, watching her rosy face glowing with happiness. What would I have done without her? The girls adore their Granny Jenny. And she could have shut the door that first night. Now my daughters are nine, proper schoolgirls. Every summer, its just us here in this warm, welcoming cottage: the lake, their friends, and their much-loved granny our own, kind-hearted one.
Ill go pick some more apples, we can make a compote, I say, stepping out into the orchard with a basket.
Beneath the apple tree, in the dappled shade, lies Alice, the dog. Whod have imagined that skinny, sorry little creature left for dead beside the bins would become this beautiful, glossy Labrador lady?
Its all down to love. Only love saves us, I think, and hold out a biscuit to Alice in the palm of my hand.
