The Wall in Her Favour
Helen, why must you interject in this conversation? Victor didnt even bother to look my way. He was standing by the window with a glass of wine, broad-shouldered, always so certain of himself, speaking quietly, almost gentlywhich was, somehow, the worst of all. Andrew was asking me, you see? Me. Dont trouble him with your ideas.
Andrew Simmons, our guest and Victors new partner in some logistics venture, stared into his plate, obviously uncomfortable. I could tell by the way he shifted on his chair and picked up his fork, though he had no intention of eating.
I merely pointed out that there are vast, vacant spaces in the city centre, I said, voice flat.
Victor finally turned. In his eyes was that look Id learnt to recognise after twenty-seven yearsnot anger, but something worse. Condescension. Youve fed our guests, the tables splendid, everything is lovely. Why not go and bring dessert, darling?
There were four others at the table. Lara, Andrews wife, gave me a quick glancesomething close to sympathy flashed in her eyes, or maybe I imagined it. I stood up, gathered a few plates, and walked away to the kitchen.
I stood for a minute at the sink, staring out of the rain-smeared window. It was one of those fine autumn drizzles, blurring the yellow glow of nearby houses into patches on the glass. I was fifty-two. Behind me, voices rose in conversation, Victors laughter rang out, glasses clinked. I fetched the cake Id baked that morning from the fridge and carried it back in.
Thats how I lived, back then.
Our house stood in a pleasant part of a large English city, where we’d spent our whole married lives. Victor had built it himself when business picked up about fifteen years agoa spacious two-storey place, with a garage and a garden Id planted myself. Victor never had the time, and the gardener wed tried that first summer put everything in the wrong place. The house was beautiful. Visitors would always say, What a lovely home, Mrs. Wyatt, what marvellous taste you have. And Id smile and thank them, because it was my tasteevery curtain, every bookshelf, every currant bush along the fence.
Except the house, of course, was in Victors name.
Id never worked in the sense that Victor did. Wed met at university, Id spent a few years teaching draftsmanship at a college, then our son James was born. Then Victors business grewthere were moves, business dinners, events, guests to entertain. I left work. Victor said, There’s no need for you to get by on a pittance. Ill provide for us. And he did, easily, even generously at times, but it always meant that when I wanted money for something of my own, I had either to ask, or to squirrel away a bit from the household accounts.
My jewellery-making started by accident, about ten years ago. I was stuck at the cottage on a rainy weekend, found an old box of beads in the loft that Id bought years before and forgotten. By evening, Id made a necklacesurprisingly good. Then I made another one. My friends began asking me to give them pieces, then they offered to buy them. I bought proper tools, learnt to work with gemstones, silver. It becamehow should I say?my space.
Victor watched this development the way he might watch me grow tomatoes in the greenhouse. Something to keep me from being bored, and that was that.
You and your baubles, hed sometimes say, when I showed him my latest piece. Its not a serious venture, Helen. Do you mean to sell them at the local market?
I never answered. What could I say?
James grew up, moved to London, married there, settled. Wed see each other at Christmas, sometimes for birthdays. He called on Sundays, asked after my health; Id ask after his work. It was all right. We loved each other, we just had our own lives.
Except, I didnt really have one of my own.
I had a large, lovely house to oversee, a husband, guests twice a week, charity luncheons that Victor attended more for networking than anything. I was always at his side in the proper dress with the proper smile. I was his calling card, the human face of his business. A respected man, nice family, beautiful wife, knows how to receive people. Thats work, too, I know. But it isnt paid, and nobody thanks you for it.
The letter arrived in February. Ordinary post, a solicitors address on High Street, a name I didnt know. I opened it at the kitchen table while Victor was still asleep.
My mothers cousin, Mrs. Nina Bell, whom Id only met three times in my lifelast time more than twenty years ago at a relatives funeralhad died in December. Shed had no children. She left me a buildingnot a flat, not a plot, but an old commercial property in the city centre, two storeys, built in the fifties, three hundred and forty square metres. Derelict for years.
I read the letter three times.
Then I rang the solicitor.
Yes, Mrs. Wyatt, thats right. Mrs. Bell specifically named you as sole beneficiary. And, by the way, the land itself is included. She made sure to secure the freehold in the ninetiesabsolutely above board.
Land in the centre? I repeated.
In the very centre. Not a large plot, but a prime spot.
I thanked him, put down the phone, and sat holding the letter for a long time.
I didnt tell Victor. Im still not certain why. I suppose I do know, reallyI could picture it all so clearly: hed look it over, say the building should be demolished or sold, that he knew just the person for the job, and then it would all spin out of my hands. Id stand by and smile while decisions were made for me, once again.
The first time I visited, I told Victor I was seeing a friend.
The place was tucked away behind an old theatre, in that part of the city where Victorian homes shared streets with post-war blocks and new glass offices. The lane was quiet, still cobbled, trees just budding for spring.
The building itself was forbiddingcrumbling plaster, boarded windows, rusty gatesbut the brickwork was steady. I circled it twice, pressed my hand to the wall in places, eyed the roof, found it sound. I slipped in through a side door that hung loosely on its hinges.
High ceilings. Huge windows, missing most of their glass. Beams on the upper floor, wood partly rotted, but mostly intact. Old tiles beneath the dirt. A scent of damp and old wood.
Standing there, looking through a gap in the roof at the grey sky, I felt something unexpected. Not fear, not despair. More like the feeling when you find yourself somewhere new and realise, somehow, this is where you belong.
The solicitor, Mr. Hurley, was a pleasant man, about forty-five. We sorted the paperwork in two weeks. I took the deeds myself and put them in a folder hidden at the back of my jewellery room, where Victor never stepped.
Nadia, a friend since school, worked as an estate agent. I called and told her everything.
Are you serious? she asked, after a long silence.
I am.
Helen, this is money. A building in the centre, and landits a fortune. Do you understand?
I do. But I dont want to sell.
What do you want to do, then?
I was quiet for a moment. Then I said:
Do you remember the art exhibitions we used to go to, when we were young? That dusty old guild hall on Rosedale Road.
Of course I remember.
Id like something like that. A place for people to hold exhibitions, work, learn things. An art space, as they say these days.
Nadia was silent for even longer this time.
Helen, itll take a fortune. The renovations, electrics, all of it.
I know.
Do you have the money?
Not yet. But I will.
She didnt ask more. One thing about Nadiashe could listen, and she could keep her peace. Thats why I loved her.
I set about finding the money in the only way I knew: through my jewellery. Over the years, Id amassed a collection of pieces, many of which Id never sold, just made for the joy of it. Some of the best things Id ever craftedsilver pendants set with Cornish stones, intricate bracelets, full sets of jewellery that had taken weeks.
Nadia knew a lady who ran a small local gallery and shop for handmade crafts. We reached an arrangement: Nadia would bring in my pieces, say they were by a local artist who wished to remain private; the shop took a percentage. The first lot sold within three weeks.
Helen, you wouldnt believe it, laughed Nadia over the phone. They keep asking if therell be more. That ring with the labradorite, remember the one you wouldnt part with? Sold within two hours.
For how much?
Nadia named the figure.
I stepped out to the balcony for air; the room felt too small.
In three months Id earned a sum Id never imagined possible. I saved everything on a card Id opened in my own name at a branch by the solicitors office. Victor knew nothing about it.
I found builders as well, not through Victors contacts, but by arranging meetings in cafés during the day while he was at work. The crew I chose was modestfour men, headed by Martin, a quiet fiftyish chap who looked at the building with the same lack of disdain as me.
Good, solid walls, Martin said, tapping the bricks. The roof will need new timbers. Floor on the ground level, some replacement. New windows, naturally. Electrics from scratch, but that goes without saying. Four months, if we work without delays.
We wont stop.
Martin studied me, without judgmentjust measuring.
Very well, he said.
Life at home went on. I cooked, entertained guests, accompanied Victor to functions, listened to talk of logistics and investments. Sometimes hed say something, and Id nod, thinking about window frames, about building high storage on the top floor, about the lighting for the gallery. Victor noticed nothing. Id always been background noise, and backgrounds never move.
Once, I nearly tripped up. He found a receipt from a builders merchant in my bag, for paint samples.
Whats this? he asked at dinner.
Bought a few things for the house, I replied smoothly.
Looks like primer.
Planning to do up the cellar. Its damp down there.
He shrugged and turned back to his phone. It took less than a minute.
Martin turned out to be an excellent craftsman: careful where care was needed, swift where urgency was best. We didnt speak much, just the essentials. Sometimes Id visit the site and simply stand there, amid the hammering, sawing, sanding, feeling deeply well. Physically wellin body and mind. As if the air itself had changed.
Nadia dropped by in June, once the windows were installed and the walls newly plastered.
My word, Helen, she gasped, spinning around, its going to be marvellous.
Yes, I nodded.
Have you thought about what youll do here? What events youll run? You need a clear vision, as people say nowadays.
I have. Art exhibitions, first and foremost. There are so many talented local artists and nowhere for them to display their work. Workshops, too. The studios can be rented out to those who need workspace. Maybe a small café on the ground floor, a book nook.
Youve planned it all already, she laughed.
Ive dreamed about it for years, I said. I just didnt know it could actually happen.
In September I met Kate, manning a stall at a craft fair, surrounded by handmade dolls, reading a book while people bustled past. Her dolls were unlike any Id seen before. I stopped, picked up one.
You make these yourself? I asked.
I do.
How long?
Seven years. She looked up at me. You like them?
Very much. Im Helen. Im opening an art space, not far from here. Im looking for people whod like to exhibit or work there.
Kate set her book aside.
Thats how the community began to grow. Kate knew two artists; one of them invited a sculptor. The sculptor brought a woman running pottery classes, whod long searched for a decent space. By October, I had twelve names in a list, all waiting for the place to open.
But the money was running out. I had only a handful of pieces left to sell, and still needed to pay Martin for the final stage, plus lights and the sign.
I sold the last thing I wanted to keepa set Id worked on for two years: silver and an amethyst from Somerset. Nadia phoned the next day.
Helen, it went within an hour of my delivering it. The woman said shed never seen the like. She asked if theres more.
There isnt, I said.
Are you upset?
No, I told her. And it was true.
The new space opened quietly at the start of November. I made a post in a local online group about the new art hub, inviting artists and anyone interested. The first evening drew sixty people.
Victor was away on business that day. I told him Id be at Nadias. He just said, Fine, Ill sort dinner myself.
I stood in the gallery, watching people as they examined the exhibits, chatted, picked up Kates dolls, and my hands were tremblingnot from fear, just from finally having something Id longed for happen, at last.
Martin came too, leaning by a wall, taking it in.
Turned out well, he said.
Thank you, I said.
No, thank you, he replied, quietly.
Things moved faster than Id dared hope. The studios were let out, the pottery workshops filled up. The café on the ground floor, run by a young woman named Sophie, opened in December and quickly became a go-to spot, even for locals who werent part of the art space. The town paper wrote a little piece. Then another.
Once, an elderly neighbour from across the lane stopped me.
Was it you who opened that, then? he nodded at the building.
Yes, it was.
Ive lived here all my life, he said, and never thought this side-street would offer anywhere worth going. Well done, you.
I thanked him, walked on, smiling halfway down the street.
Victor found out about it all in Januarynot from me. One of his partners had seen a photo of the opening in the local press and noticed my name. He brought it up at dinner.
Helen, said Victor that evening, after the guests had left, anything you ought to tell me?
I was washing up, calmly, not in any hurry.
Yes, I said. Sit down. Ill put the kettle on.
I told him everythingabout the inheritance, about the building, about the renovations and the jewellery sales. He listened in silence, his face unreadable behind his old business mask.
When I finished, he said nothing for a long time. Then: You kept this from me.
I did.
Why?
He was genuinely asking, or at least thought he was.
Because if Id told you, Victor, you’d have made the decisions. It would have become your project, not mine.
That isnt fair.
No, I agreed. No more than you never once, not once in twenty-seven years, truly asked me what I wanted.
He got up, holding his cup, and stood at the window.
You expect me to say Im proud of you?
No, I said. You neednt say anything.
He didnt.
We lived another few months in the old house, but something had shifted. Not with a crash, but quietlylike the slow thawing of frost, the way ice shapes itself into water without fuss.
And then came the ball.
The citys charity ball happened every February, a major event with business people and the council. Victor always attended. This year, an envelope arrived addressed to me as wellseparately. A woman from the committee rang to say that, for the first time, a new city enterprise award would be given out at the ballBest New Urban Spaceand the art centre, which Id named Bell House after my aunt, was among the honourees.
Could you attend in person? the woman asked.
Yes, Id be honoured.
Victor found out about the award the same day; I saw no reason to hide it. He gave me a curious look, as youd give someone you thought you knew, but suddenly realise you do not.
Congratulations, he said, brief and formal.
Thank you.
I bought my own dressa deep navy blue, simply cut, no fuss. I wore my own jewellery: a labradorite ring Id made in place of the one Id sold, and small garnet earrings.
At the venue, Victor sat closer to the stage with the committee, as usual. As a nominee, I was seated elsewhere, by the other entrants. Our eyes met as I sat downhe nodded; so did I.
The hall was grand, an old manor with ornate ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Well-dressed crowds, flowers, music. I sat tall, thinking that a year before Id have been standing at the sink, listening to laughter from the other room.
When they announced my category, I rose and strode to the stage, steady, even if my legs were untrustworthy.
The committee chair, a kindly man with a resonant voice, spoke of the importance of cultural spaces for the city, then said my name and handed me a small crystal trophy and an envelope.
Would you say a few words? he asked.
I took the microphone. The room fell silent. I caught Nadias eyeshe was sitting with her husband, grinning. Then I found Victors face. He was gazing up; his expression unreadablesomewhere between pride and regret.
I want to thank those who believed in this place long before it existed, I said. The artists and craftspeople who came and stayed. And my aunt Nina, though she is gone. She left me far more than a building.
Three minutes, not more. The room applauded. I left the stage, holding the trophy, and returned to my seat.
Nadia hugged me tightly at the interval.
Helen, did you see his face?
I did.
And?
Nothing special, I said. Nothing particular.
Victor came over later, as the dancing started and the crowd dispersed.
A fine speech, he said.
Thank you.
You look well.
Victor, I replied, you dont need to say anything else.
He was silent.
We need to talk. Properly.
I know, I said. Lets talk at home.
The conversation was long, not loud. Wed both tired of argumentsthere had hardly been any, after all. Instead it was that weary, heavy silence you get after years together, when you realise there isnt much left to say.
I told him I wanted a divorce.
He was silent a long time. Then asked: Is there someone else?
No. I just want to live my life.
You are living your life. Now.
Yes. And I want to keep doing that. Alone.
He paced the room.
What about the house? Shall we split it?
The house is in your name, I said evenly. But the ground its built on thats mine.
He stopped, startled.
What?
I explained, calm and steady. Years ago, the freehold to the land beneath our home had been secured by my aunt, Nina, through my mothers side; I only discovered the details whilst going through the inheritance papers. My solicitor had checked everything: it was all legal, straightforward. The land was mine.
Victor stared at me as hed never done before.
Youve known for a long time?
Learned of it sorting out the inheritance.
And you kept it to yourself.
Yes. As you did so many other things.
He sat down.
We talked for a long time yet. No shouting, no tears. Just two weary, middle-aged people, who after all those years together, looked at each other and saw the unfamiliar, or perhaps something familiar but long forgotten.
The lawyers took three months. The divorce was quiet, without scandal. I left the house to Victor, but only on terms set by my solicitor. The settlement went into Bell Housewe expanded the café, opened a small second gallery above.
I rented a flat nearby, a modest one, in the same district as Bell House. Fourth floor, with a view over old rooftops and a single gnarled lime tree that blossomed so strongly in spring its scent filled the air even through closed windows.
The first night there I woke at three in the morning, listening to the silence. No voices, no footsteps, no breathing beside mine. Just occasional cars below and the rain.
I was fifty-three, alone, and unafraid. That, in itself, felt important.
A year passed.
By the next winter, Bell House was thriving. Three resident artists rented studios, the ceramics workshops ran three times a week, booked solid for months. Sophie made the café a wonderfully cosy spot, all wooden tables and old city photos on the walls. Every Friday night, a small jazz quartet played.
Kate sold out all her old dolls and was working on commissions. We became close friendsthe kind that meet just when you most need each other.
Nadia would sometimes say:
Helen, you look ten years younger. Maybe fifteen.
Just finally getting some proper sleep, Id reply.
I still made jewellery, but now for myself, in the quiet evenings in my flat. Id turn on the lamp, lay out gems, silver, tools, and work. It was peaceful, my timenobody elses.
I met Victor by chance at the start of December, leaving the café near Bell House as he came down the street. We saw each other at the same moment.
He looked a little older than a year before. Or perhaps Id never really noticed. Or perhaps the change was in me.
Helen, he said.
Victor. Hello.
We stopped. The pause between us wasnt awkwardjust the sort of quiet you find with someone youve known all your life, and who is now nearly a stranger.
How are things? he asked.
Good. And with you?
Not bad. He hesitated. I heard youve opened a second gallery.
Yes, in November.
Well done, he said. It was sincerenone of the old condescension. Just said.
Thank you.
Another pause. He shifted his weight.
Listen, he began, I have a question. Strictly business. Im considering a space for a small showroom, in the centre. Any idea whos handling new renovations in the area? Decent people, someone youd trust?
I looked at him, and something old shifted inside mea reflex, perhaps, after twenty-seven years answering, helping, making things easier for him or on his behalf. It was ingrained.
I smiled.
No, Victor, I said, quietly. I dont know.
He looked surprised. Not hurtjust surprised.
Right, he said. Understood.
Best of luck to you, I said.
And to you.
We walked opposite ways. I reached the corner, stopped, turned up my collar. The cold was sharp, clean. The smell of Christmas trees from the market drifted up from the next street.
I thought, later on Ill walk up to Bell HouseKates hanging her new series tonight. There will be people, Sophie will bake something special. Therell be jazz, voices, light pouring from the big windows.
And I walked on.
