The memory of her father was betrayed.
Lydia Simmons had been shuffling through the mews for the better part of an hour, though from her flat to the bakery was but a five minute stroll. Yet there was something peculiarly heavy about this English eveningthe air, dank and dreich, pressed on her. She felt no wish at all to return to her little flat, where nothing waited but a cold kettle, a floor badly in need of a mop, and her fat old cat Arthur, whod become her only real companion of late, unless one counted the television, which she flicked on first thing in the morning and only turned off when she finally climbed into bed, the voices of the presenters providing a thin pretence of other people in her home.
Her legs throbbed, her knee sent up sour pulses of pain, and the weather was foul, but Lydia still turned into the sodden playground, where all the swings and benches were slick with rain. Settling herself gingerly at the very edge of a bench beneath a rusting mushroom-shaped canopy, she thrust her hands deep into the pockets of the woollen coat shed worn for seven years now. Not that she needed a new one. For whom would she dress?
Years back, before her husband Martin died, life was utterly differentnoisier, fuller, sometimes crowded in their two-bedroom flat with the children: elder Mark and little Alice. But Mark and Alice had long since grownMartin was buried nearly fifteen years ago nowand somehow, the children drifted off, spun their own nests far away. Mark, with his wife and two little boys, had settled as far as Leeds, while Alice had dashed away to London, married an ambitious IT fellow, and it seemed they were always off somewhere, business trips or holidays abroad. They remembered their mother on birthdays and the occasional Christmas, sending her the perfunctory Happy Birthday, Mum, love you! in messages and sending photos of the grandchildrenchildren who seemed increasingly other, remote, almost strangers, never visiting their grandmother for the summer, what with their language camps, Spain, and tutors.
Lydia sighed as she watched a plump pigeon hopping across the glossy, wet tarmac, pecking for a scrap of a feast. Shed always imagined her children would be her support, that her old age would be busygrandchildren about, visits, phone calls each evening. The reality proved far more mundane: Mark rang once a month, if he remembered, always the same script: Mum, how are you doing? Fine? Works mad, kids have coldssorry, cant talk long. Alice, meanwhile, seemed to think a small deposit in her account removed any obligation, so she could live quite at peace.
So, retirement had become a sort of endless Groundhog Daywake up, switch on the telly, feed the cat, make herself oatmeal or eggs, telly again, lunch, more telly, a walk in the evening, more telly, then sleep. Sometimes Lydia caught herself talking at the screen, or scolding newsreaders if they said something daft. Arthur, her cat, would narrow his yellow eye at her, flick his tail, and slink away to nap in the armchair.
This night, she was especially reluctant to go homeit felt too empty, the air stale. Even as the spitting rain grew steadier, she only pulled her coat tighter and tugged her knitted hat lower.
Lydia? someone called, from just beside hera voice from the damp. Lydia, is that you?
She flinched, and peered up. There stood a tall, stooped man in an old-fashioned brown raincoat and a cap, his hair silver beneath, his eyes watchful and grey. At once, she recognized him: it was Geoffrey Porter, who lived in the next block over and was often pacing the courtyard with his stick. Sometimes theyd meet in the lift or the bin shed, swap remarks about the weather, and that was all.
Geoff? Lydia was surprised. What are you doing out in this rain? Youll catch a chill.
And you? he answered with a wry smile, laying a folded newspaper on the wet bench before sitting beside her. Ive seen you here nearly two hours. Looked out from my flat and there you were. Thought youd up and go, but you just sit, and you sit. So I came to checkhoping you werent feeling poorly?
No, not poorly, she waved a hand. Dont much fancy going home, thats all. Just greyness, Geoff. The sort makes you want to howl.
I know the sort, he nodded, fishing out a slim flask from his pocket. Bit of brandy, he explained when she glanced over. Medicinal, for the blues. Will you have a go? I dont drink normally, but sometimesthirty-five percent is just the thing to warm the soul.
Lydia meant to refuse, but then thoughtwhat did she have to lose? No one would see, no one to judge. She took the flask and sipped. The sharp fire rolled down her throat and filled her with a fleeting, lovely warmth.
Cheers, she said, returning the flask. And you? Arent you married?
I was, sighed Geoffrey, sipping too. Laid my wife to rest three years now. My sons are offone in Manchester, one in Wimbledon. Busy with their own lives, their families, work. They visit twice a year, ring on Sundays. Thats that. And you?
My children live far, Lydia answered simply. Rarely call. My husbands gone these many years.
I see, Geoffrey nodded. A pair of old boots, you and Itwo lonelinesses.
They fell quiet, the rain hammering the puddles. The silence was companionable, as though theyd known each other for ages, each understanding already, nothing more to be said.
Ive been watching you for a while, Lydia, Geoffrey suddenly admitted, blushing faintly. Youre always so neat, so upright, prowling the square. Always alone. Id thought of introducing myself, but never quite dared. Then todayyou sat in the rain like some sculpture. I took it as a sign.
Lydia stared at him, astonished. Youve been watching me? Whatever for?
What else have I to do? he chuckled. From my window, I see you coming down at the same hour, day after day. Ive gotten used to it. When youre missing, I start to worry.
Well I never, she said, and suddenly she felt warmoddly buoyantto think that anyone had been watching, anyone cared enough to wait on her. I hadnt a clue.
So, what say we walk together? Geoffrey offered. Much more cheerful for two. Bit safer, tooIve got a stick, you know, just in case.
Against pigeons? Lydia laughed, her first real laugh in ages.
And pigeons as well, he grinned. Shall we shake on it?
Lets, she nodded.
From that day on, life was transformed. Every evening (barring truly brutish weather), theyd meet and stroll the park just beyond their flats. It turned out Geoffrey had been an engineer, spent a working life drawing diagrams on factory floors; in retirement, hed taken up historyreading, and even penning little columns for the local paper. Lydia, once a bookkeeper, listened hungrilythough history wasnt her strong point, she relished being a quick listener, asking sharp questions. Geoffrey, for his part, loved hearing her stories of her children, of Martin, of how theyd once built a little holiday cottage and later sold it for next to nothing, as the children had no interest.
Their evenings together stretched to darkness, sat on park benches deep into the night. Going home steeped in these conversations, Lydia would catch herself smiling. Her flat took on a new warmthshe started cooking for two, wondering what treat she might offer Geoffrey. She baked scones, and even Arthurcatching the smell of something freshbecame sweeter, more likely to nuzzle at her feet.
A month passed, and for the first time Geoffrey stayed over. Theyd sat for hours, lost in tea and talk; by the time he glanced at his watch, it was half past midnight.
Geoff, just stop tonight, Lydia offered in a rush. Ive an unfolding sofa in the lounge, Ill bring the sheets.
Will I be a bother? he asked, hope bright in his eyes.
Dont be daft, she waved him through. Plenty of space.
So it went. First once a week, then twice. By and by, Geoffrey simply turned up with his slippers, his toothbrush, even a battered suitcase. Lydia would wake in the morning to the sounds of him pottering in the kitchen, and she foundquite simplythat life had taken a joyous turn. Now they watched television rarelyjust the news or an old filmfor they had more than enough to discuss themselves. Arthur, initially miffed, grew used to the new lodger and eventually curled up at his feet each night.
Geoff, shall we make stuffed cabbage tomorrow? Lydia suggested one tea night, spooning honey into her cup. Im mad for cabbage, but never bother for myself.
Lets, he nodded. Ill pick up the mince, you sort out the rice.
Indeed, together they rolled the leaves, bustling shoulder-to-shoulder in that tiny kitchen, feeling so settled, so quietly content, Lydia could hardly believe her own good fortune. She thoughtcould such a gift have fallen to me, even at my age?
Yet there was a shadow: the children. Lydia could not bring herself to tell them of Geoffrey. She knew Mark and Alice had idolized Martin, their father, and feared theyd see Geoffrey as a betrayal. Fifteen years on, yet especially Mark still set their father up as the familys modelevery video call, hed find a way to say, If Dad were here, hed have done this, or that, or approved of that. Sensing her anxiety, Geoffrey pressed her never.
Your children are your affair, Lydia, he told her. I shant meddle. Tell them when youre ready. I can wait.
But time, as it must, rolled onwardher birthday approached, and suddenly, her children announced a visit. Mark messaged, Mum, Alice and I decided to drop in for your birthday. What shall we get you? All of us, coming, kids too, for three days. Long overdue! For a moment Lydia felt a surge of joythen panic.
Geoff, she confessed over dinner. The childrentheyre due for three days. All of them.
All right, Geoffrey said easily, spooning up his lentils. Youll introduce us.
I dont know, Geoff, Lydia faltered. They might misunderstand. They loved Dad soMartin was their hero. What if things get ugly?
Whats to get ugly? he asked, eyes level. Were hardly secret sweetheartsjust two old people, living together, giving comfort. Why would your children begrudge you?”
I dont know, she sighed. Mark can be blunt Would you mind going to yours for a couple days? Ill talk to them, prepare them, then have you round properly, in your own right. It may be easier.
Geoffrey fell silent for a moment, staring into his plate before laying down his fork.
Are you serious, Lydia? What am I to youa lover you must hide from the children? Weve shared a life for nearly half a year now. I love you, and now you want to send me packing?
I dont want that, Geoff, her voice trembled. Just a few days, till Ive spoken to them. So they dont walk in on a stranger
Fine, he said after a pause, voice tired. As you wish. Ill pack up tomorrow, but rememberI do this only for you. I love you, Lydia, but I wont be hidden.
Oh Geoff, please tears threatened, theyll come round, Im sure. Justgive me time.
We havent all the time in the world, he muttered as he rose, but Ill go.
Next day Geoffrey left, and Lydia was alone againthe flat suddenly barren, no matter how well the radiators pounded. Arthur prowled the rooms, meowing plaintively for Geoffrey. Lydia stroked her cat and waited for her children.
They arrived bright and early on the SaturdayMark, his wife Linda, and two noisy boys, eight and tenAlice with her husband Michael and little Kate, five, all piling in by taxi from Heathrow. The flat roared with footsteps, laughter, the tang of perfume. Lydia rushed about, laying the table with fresh cloth, all the while glancing at the door behind which Geoffreys slippers were hidden in the broom cupboard.
That evening, once dinner was done and the grandchildren tucked up, she called Mark and Alice into the kitchen. Her heart hammered, her hands trembledbut it had to be said.
Children, she began as they sat. I have something serious to tell you.
Whats wrong, Mum? Mark, a big bear of a man with thinning hair, frowned. Youre not ill, are you?
No, not ill, she managed. ListenIve met someone. Geoffrey Porter. Weve been living together almost six months.
The kitchen became a tombMark with his mug frozen in hand, Alicetall, thin, carefully manicuredslowly folding her arms, staring.
What do you meanliving together? Alices voice was icy. Mother, have you lost your senses? How old are you?
Sixty-five, Lydia said, small but brave. But Im not dead yet, Alice.
This is ridiculous! Mark exploded, his mug clattering. You brought some random bloke into the flat you and Dad bought, where we grew up?
Hes not randomhes a good man, a retired engineer, we
I couldnt care less what he used to be! Mark snapped. Youve betrayed Dads memory, do you understand? Betrayed! He lived for us, and you drag some other man into his home!
Mark, keep your voice down! Alice hissed, but was herself near shouting. Mum, we know youre lonely but thisthis is just too much. You didnt even ask us! Didnt ask if it was all right?
And why should I? Lydias own hands shook, but her voice lifted. Im a grown woman. I have a right to a life of my own!
A life of her own, Mark sneered. Sixty-five! You should be thinking of the grandchildren, not men! We come all this way, with our families, and you youre shacking up with some old fellow! He squinted. Where is he now? Hidden?
Hes left, Lydia admitted, voice cracking. I asked him to, so you wouldnt find a stranger in your home. Wanted to talk to you first.
A real treat, Alice said, folding her arms. Well, consider us talked to. Im shocked, Mum. Truly shocked. I cant face my husbandmy mother, living with a man likelike some
Alice, stop it! Lydia could bear no more; tears escaped. Hes not a loverhes my dearest friend! We walk, we eat, we watch tellytheres nothing disgraceful!
Oh, sharing telly, are you? Mark mimicked. And how quickly you forget Dad. All those years he gave you, gave usand now you bring in this this fraud!
Dont you dare call him that! Lydia finally burst out. You dont even know him!
Dont want to, Mark shot back. It’s us or him, Mum. You see him again, count us out. Us and the grandchildrenwe want nothing to do with your new man.
Quite right, Alice chimed in. Its principle. Choose: us, or him.
Lydia bowed her head, tears pattering onto the party tablecloth shed set with such care. She wanted to say she loved them but loved Geoffrey too, that she could not choose, but the words stuck. Mark and Alice stood and left her alone in the kitchen.
That night she slept not a wink, staring into the ceilings dim, cracked paint. She remembered Geoffrey bringing her flowers, making her laugh at silly game shows; his hand stroking Arthurs fur, his fond goodnight peck on her cheek. And against that, her childrens angry, hostile faces.
Come morning, shattered by her headache, she forced herself into the kitchen for tea. Mark and Linda were already there; Linda, perhaps, seemed sympathetic, but she dare not cross her husband.
Mum, are you all right? Linda asked quietly. You seemoff.
Fine, Lydia replied, pouring her tea without looking up.
Mum, Mark said, Alice and I have talked it over. We’re leaving today. No point celebrating in this atmosphere.
What do you mean? Lydia looked up. Youve just arrived
We mean it, Mark snapped. I wont have my boys growing up thinking this is acceptable. Weve left your gifts in the hall. We’ll ring round when we feel up to it.
Mark, please she began, but he was already gone.
Within the hour, the flat was eerily quiet. Lydia stood among the gifts in the doorway and felt strangled, abandoned.
She sat in her armchair all day, television screen black. Arthur crawled onto her knees and purred, but she could find no comfort. By evening, she picked up the phone and dialled Geoffrey.
Geoff, she whispered when he answered. Her voice was dull, numb. Please dont come back. Were finished.
Lydia, whats happened? his voice was urgent. Are you crying? Did they?
They disapprove. Strongly. Said if I keep seeing you, theyre done with meall of them, even the grandchildren.
And you chose? he asked, long pause. Lydiathey’ve no right to treat you this way.
I know, she sobbed, but they’re my children. And you you’ve been wonderful, but Im so sorry. Forgive me.
Lydia his voice trembled, dont do this. Were family now, you and me! Theyre only frightened, selfish. Dont you see?
I see, she whispered, but I cant. Forgive me. Goodbye.
She hung up, switched off her phone, and wepttruly, bitterly, as she hadn’t since Martin’s death, for then her children had at least been there. Now, she was utterly alone.
Two months crawled by. Soon Lydia was back to her ritualstelly blaring, talking to the empty room, porridge only for herself. Arthur would watch her, his gaze almost accusatory, as if to say, Wheres Geoff? When will he come? She stroked him and said nothing.
Often she nearly called Geoffrey again, but remembered her promise to the children, her hand wavering over the phone. Her children, meanwhile, called less than everMark went back to How are you, Mum? All fine? texts; Alice rarely messaged at all, just sent the odd picture of Kate. No one asked how she was feeling, or if she wanted for anything. Life moved on, and Lydia realized shed drifted yet further from their lives.
One evening, after trudging in from the supermarket, she bumped in the lift into Mrs. Higgins from the fourth floora notorious gossip.
Lydia! Mrs. Higgins gasped. Not seen your friend Geoff about. Had a bit of a falling out, have you?
No, Mrs. Higgins, Lydia answered softly. We parted ways.
Oh, such a pity, Mrs. Higgins shook her head. You seemed so suited! Hes ill, you knowIve seen him barely able to walk, always alone. His son showed up the other day, but just a flying visit.
Hes unwell? Lydias heart skipped.
Who knows what it is, Mrs. Higgins shrugged. Looks terribly peaky, lost weight.
Lydia got off, stood a long moment by her doorher thoughts scrambling like mice. Hes sick. Hes alone. And Im sat here waiting for children who forget me. Why did I let him go?’
She entered her flat, set down her shopping bags, stared at her phone. After a moment, she dialled. One ring. Two. Three… Almost hung up, when his voicethin and raspyanswered.
Yes?
Geoff, its me, she blurted. How are you?
Lydia? Why are you ringing? Did your children give permission?
Dont mention the children, her voice shook. Are you ill? Why didnt you tell me?
What would be the point? he laughed without joy. You made your choice. I didn’t want to heap troubles on you.
You silly man, Lydia wiped away tears. Im coming now. Wait for me.
She grabbed her coat, snatched her bag, and rushed to his block. Upstairs, she waited at his door. At last it opened. Geoffrey had shrunk, was pale and wan, but he smiled that old, familiar smile, the one she remembered from happier days.
Lydia what brings you?
Dont be daft, she said as she stepped in and wrapped him in a hug. And Im daft too. Forgive me. Ive finally understood. The children have forgotten me, only you matter. Youre my family.
He hugged her close, and they stood that way in the hall for a long, long while. Then Lydia led him to the kitchen, sat him down. She unpacked groceries, set the kettle boiling, and started on supper.
Tomorrow, Ill ring Mark, she said, putting on the tea. Tell them straight: either they accept you, or theyll have to forget about me. I wont be forced to choose. Ive chosen already.
Dont set yourself against your children for my sake, Geoffrey murmured.
I must, Geoff, she said firmly. Half my life I spent for them, now they hold me hostage. Thats enough. Im a person too, and my happiness is herewith you.
She fed him, tucked him into bed and stayed the night. Next morning, she called her son.
Mark, she began without preamble, Ive made up my mind. Im living with Geoffrey Porter. We love each other. If you and Alice cannot accept this, I wont force you. But consider this: I am your mother, and I have a right to my life. I do not betray Dads memoryits not for you to judge.
There was a long silence, then Mark said, Mum, youre mad. We warned you.
You did, she agreed. But I choose myself. If you want to see me, Id be glad. If not, so be it. Ill always love you, but you dont get to run my life anymore.
She hung up. The relief was palpablea weight gone at last.
A week later, a text came from Alice: Mum, Mark and I talked. We don’t approve, but if it makes you happy Youre welcome to visit the grandchildren anytime. Just dont talk about Geoffrey to uswere not comfortable.
Lydia read the message, sighed, and tucked her phone away. It wasnt acceptanceonly a compromise. But most important, Geoffrey was beside her, Arthur purred in his lap, and the telly hummed in the corner, but they rarely bothered with it anymore. They had plenty to talk about themselves.
Geoff, Lydia asked, smiling shyly, shall we make stuffed cabbage tomorrow? I picked up a cabbage.
Yes, lets, Geoffreys eyes twinkled. Ill get the mince, you sort the rice.When the meal was done, they savoured it across from one another: cabbage leaves slick with sauce, laughter catching in the steamed kitchen air. Geoffrey, dabbing his mouth, reached for Lydias hand.
Funny, he said, how frightened we can beof being left behind, of disappointing the ones we love. Yet, here we are. Lifes still surprising, even now.
Lydia squeezed his fingers. I wasted too long waiting for permission. I wont waste another minute.
After supper, they walked the courtyard, the rain from weeks ago finally given over to plum-coloured twilight. The first stars blinked awake as they ambled, slow but content, Arthur trailing behind in the grass like a fat, silent shadow.
A neighbours window was lit; the clatter of a familys dinner drifted out. Across the playground, the bench where it all began stood under a dry hush of dusk. Geoffrey nodded at ither uncertain throneand together they sat, hands clasped. For the first time, Lydia was sure: she would not vanish in the grey. She had chosen gentleness, laughter, the right to keep loving when the world tried to close her in.
Somewhere in a distant city, her children lived their busy, tangled lives. Maybe one day, understanding would soften their voices. Maybe it would not. But here, beneath a sky ready to spill summer, Lydia smiled up at Geoffrey and felt something new pulse through her veinsa steady, hopeful courage, warm as brandy against the chill.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. The world was wide, and her heart, at last, was her own.
