A White Tablecloth, A Grey Life
The stew was good. Helen knew this for sureshed tasted it three times while making it, and each time she was rather pleased. The vegetables were fresh from the Saturday market, and the meat had simmered for two hours on the bone. Shed crushed in the garlic at the last minute, as she should. On the table stood candles and a white linen tablecloththe one she always saved for special occasions. Fifteen years. Surely that counted.
It was getting dark outside. October in their patch of Manchester was always the same: grey, wet, and fragrant with rotting leaves and exhaust fumes. Helen straightened the fork beside the plate, tugged the tablecloth at the corner (though it was already perfect), then just stood in the middle of the kitchen for a bit, listening to the clock tick above the fridge.
Richard arrived at half past eight. She heard him fumbling with the lock, dropping a bag with a thud, then the click of the hallway light.
Well, whats all this? He poked his head into the kitchen, still in his jacket, nose red from the cold.
Come on, wash your hands, sit down, Helen smiled. Stew, chicken, and I made a salad.
Richard shrugged off his jacket right there in the doorway, slung it over a chair. He glanced about.
Whats with the candles?
Why dyou think, Rich? Our anniversary.
He said nothing, just walked to the sink, splashed his hands under the tap, and sat down. Helen ladled out the stew and set it before him. The cream was from the market tooshe popped a dollop on top, just as he liked.
Richard sniffed, tried a spoonful, chewed.
S bit sharp.
Helen sat opposite.
Really? I thought it was fine.
Mum does hers different. Dunno, richer? Hers tastes proper.
Helen picked up her own spoon.
Well, eat up while its hot.
I am. Richard twirled his bowl. Why risk the white tablecloth, though? Youll ruin it.
I wont.
Well see. He snorted. For special occasions Mum always uses her burgundy one. More practical. Still looks nice.
Helen looked at the candles. Their flames flickered a bit as Richard shuffled around in his seat.
Rich, she said calmly, its been fifteen years today.
Yeah, I know.
You didnt say anything when you came in.
He glanced up at her, surprised, almost offended.
“Say what? Give you a card or something? I mean, we live togetherits not a birthday.
Well, I dunno. Fifteen years is
Its fifteen years, he interrupted. Wheres the chicken?
Helen fetched it from the ovengolden, with herbs, just how he liked. He cut off a piece.
A bit dry.
Ive just brought it out.
Mustve overcooked. Mum always covers hers with foil, keeps it juicy. Says thats the trick.
Helen served herself a little chicken. She chewed quietly. Outside, a passing car swept light across the ceiling.
See your mum today? she asked.
Popped in after work. Why?
No reason. Just wondered.
He eyed the tablecloth again.
White, though. Honestly, Helen. Doesnt look right. Mum always gets it spot onthe plates match, the cloths perfect, bread sliced thin. You he nodded at the loaf, look at those slabs.
Helen set down her fork. Gently, just next to her plate.
Inside, something clenched and unclenched. Like a fist.
Richard, she said, voice steadyit surprised herdo you hear yourself?
He looked at her, faintly annoyed, as people do when you pull them away from dinner.
What? Im just saying Mum does it better. Just stating the fact, not insulting you.
You came in, didnt say happy anniversary, then spent the whole meal criticizing the stew, the tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. I cooked for three hours, Rich.
Well, so you did. What do you want, applause? Thats what you do, isnt it?
Helen was silent a moment.
My job, is it? she echoed softly, as if tasting the word.
Yeah. Youre at home, you cook. I go out and earn. Makes sense.
So fifteen years is just…whatever, is it?
Oh come on, what do you wanta poem? Mum always said: less romance, more order in the house, thats how families keep.
A candle wobbled, as if in agreement.
Helen stood. Cleared her plate. Walked to the window and stared out at the wet rooftops, yellow-lit windows, and the tree in the yardalready nearly bare.
Then she turned.
Richard, pack your things.
He looked up.
Sorry?
Pack your things and go. Please.
He stared as if shed suddenly started speaking Icelandic. Then gave a sharp, barking laugh.
Youre serious?
Very.
Because of the stew?
Not because of the stew.
Then what? Because I mentioned Mum? This is ridiculous, Helen.
It isnt, to me.
Youre upset? he got up, folding his arms. Alright, Im sorryyeah? Sit down. Eat.
No, Rich.
He stared. She stood calm and straight by the window. He probably expected tears, shouting, a slammed door. Not this.
Youre really not joking, he said slowly.
No.
Silence. Tick. Tick. Candles burned.
Over one argument
Not one, said Helen, Fifteen years of the same argument. Off you pop, Rich. Take what you need tonight; the rest can go later.
He hovered a moment. Then turned and went to the bedroom. She listened to the wardrobe doors, the crinkle of bags. She stayed in the kitchen, watching the candles. They burned steadily, no flicker.
When he returned with his holdall, he paused in the kitchen doorway. Looked at the table. The white cloth. The stew. The thick slices of bread.
Youll regret this, he said.
Maybe, replied Helen. Goodbye, Rich.
The door shut. The lock clicked. She sat, listening as his footsteps faded down the stairwell.
Then she snuffed the candlesno point burning them nowand washed up. The stew went in the fridge. She wasnt hungry.
The flat smelled of fried onions and the mustiness peculiar to October, when everyone opens the landing windows and the central heatings not quite warmed up.
She went to bed at half ten. Didnt sleep straight away. Lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the neighbours telly through the wall, thinking only one thing: amazing, she wasnt crying.
***
Mrs. Dawson opened the door before Richard got a chance to ring a second time. She always did thatlike she had a sixth sense, or just stood behind the door expecting him.
Richard, love! She threw up her hands. Eyes flicked to his holdall. Oh my goodness, whats happened?
She chucked me out, he muttered.
Who? Her? Mrs. Dawson moved aside, letting him in. I told you, didnt I warn you, love? Come in, I just made some soup. Potato and chicken, your favourite.
He took off his shoes, wandered into the kitchen, and sat. The flat smelled of food and that distinct aroma of an elderly person living alone: a bit mothballs, a whiff of medicated rub, and all underpinned by home cooking.
Mum fussed over the stove, never silent for a moment.
I could always tell, she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, Richardcold as they come! Cold women dont have children, thats not a coincidence. Nature knows best. Eat up. Ive sliced the bread.
The bread was cut thin, perfect slices. Richard looked at it and, for some reason, realised Helen always sliced thick.
Mum, he said, can we not…
What? she called. Im only telling the truth! Fifteen years she made you miserable. For what? No kids, no proper home. Try the soup.
The soup was hot and rich, just as shed promised. Richard ate in silence.
The first days passed in a fog. He went to work, came back, ate with his mum, watched telly. Mrs. Dawson cooked every day, happily. Shed get out the cutlets, lay a plate in front of him, saying, You need looking after, you always look a bit peaky.
By Wednesday shed unpacked his bag without asking.
That shirt? Dont wear it anymore, all creasedI could see. Shed tell him at dinner. Ill iron the blue one for you, it suits you best.
I like the grey, Richard replied.
Well, too bad. Blues better.
He didnt argue. Ate his cutlets, drank tea. Mum cleared up and told stories about the lady two floors down, gone her own way and still happy, and there was always a barb meant for Helen, only Richard stopped listening.
One week in, Mum declared his shoes completely knackered and that theyd hit the shops Saturday.
Theyre fine, Mum.
Theyre not. Soles coming away.
It isnt.
It is. You need new ones. Non-negotiable.
Come Saturday, they went. She spent ages, critical, made him try on pairs she liked, not he. Richard wanted plain black. She bought brown ones with an unnecessary buckle.
See, these look nice, she said.
I dont like them.
Oh, stop moaning. These are best.
The shop assistant pretended to be interested elsewhere. In the mirror by the till, Richard saw a middle-aged man in brown shoes with a buckle staring back at him with no expression.
He bought the brown shoes.
Evenings, Mum would sit opposite and reminisce about his boyhood, herself raising him alone, how tough it all was, how Helen never appreciated it. Richard nodded.
Sometimes he thought about the white tablecloth. The candles. He couldnt see why shed gone to the trouble, what there was to celebratefifteen years, so what?
But he kept thinking about it.
And about the fact she hadnt cried or shouted, just calmly asked him to leave. Hed expected something else. He was used to something else. Not this.
After the first month, Mum made him a schedule. She never called it a schedule, just said things like, Tuesday, youve got the doctorIve booked it, or, Thursday, were seeing Aunt Edna, shes asked, or, Dont be late Friday, Im making pie, I hate waiting.
That Friday, he was delayed for a work meeting. Phoned Mum to warn her. She kept talking all the way home on the bus, and Richard held the phone to his ear, staring out at the dark city.
The pie was ready. It was tasty. Everything was tasty.
Richard sat at the table and felt something pressing on his chestnot pain, exactly. Just a weight, constant and quiet, as if the air in the room was just a little too thin.
***
Helen spent the first three weeks in a daze.
She went to work, came home, made herself something simple, ate, lay in bed. The hardest bit was the evening, when the flat was so silent it was almost sinister, and then, gradually, simply silent.
Her friend Susan rang every other day, asking, Hel, how are you? Fancy coming over? Helen replied she was fine, no need. Susan turned up anyway, first Saturday, armed with wine and biscuits. They sat in the kitchen till two, Helen telling tales of candles, stew, and the mythical right tablecloth. Susan sometimes murmured, What a twit, and it helped, a little.
You did the right thing, Susan said at the end. Honestly, Hel. Absolutely right.
Its scary, Helen admitted.
I know. But itll pass.
After Susan left, Helen stood in her living room, looking at the heavy navy blue curtains. Richard had chosen them, eight years ago: Thick, blocks the light, practical. Theyd hung there ever since. Helen had never thought much about them. Just curtains.
She took them down the next day.
It took nearly two hoursheavy pole, had to stand on a chair. She folded them and put them away. Instantly, the room was transformed. The grey October daylight, miserly and cold, was still better than darkness.
Then she moved the sofa. Not aloneasked Mr. Palmer from upstairs, who was retired and always up for a bit of heavy lifting. The sofa sat by the window, and the light fell differently.
It was odd, but nice.
By the second week, she was sleeping better. Not great, but not staring at the ceiling till three.
Work stayed the same. Helen was a good accountant: careful, reliable. Never late; papers always immaculate. Colleagues respected her, especially Mrs. Evans, the chief accountantthe sort who wore pearls and never mentioned anything personal, but gave Helen approving nods.
At the end of October, Mrs. Evans called her into the office.
Helen, she got straight to the point, Im retiring next year, moving to my daughters. The manager wants you for chief accountant.
Helen was silent a few seconds.
Me? she managed, not because she misunderstood, but because she needed to say something.
You. Ive thought about it for a year now. Say yes.
Helen rode home thinking about itchief accountant, new pressures, new responsibilities, always made her nervous. Richard had once scoffed, Why bother with a career? Youre not on your own, Im earning. Shed agreedjust let it go.
Now, gazing out at the streetlights blurring by the window, she thought: why not, actually?
November was busy. She started a small, affordable redecoratingpainted her bedroom a pale yellow, swapped to thin, linen curtains, bought a warm orange lampshade for the evenings. The flat was changing. Becoming hers.
She got a couple of geranium pots, put them on the windowsill. The scent was faint and green, and perfect with the linen curtains and yellow walls.
Any admin with Richard was left to the solicitor. It all went smoothly: the flat was hers; he didnt contest. Kept quiet throughoutmaybe his mothers doing, maybe his own weariness.
In December, Helen accepted the chief accountant role. Mrs. Evans shook her hand.
Well done, she said, and for the first time, genuinely smiled.
Helen spent New Years at Susansbig houseful: kids, dogs, mountains of potato salad. It was good, slightly sad, that special sort of melancholy that creeps in on holidays. She had a glass of bubbly, stared as the fireworks went off, and thought: the years over, Im still standing, even possibly alright.
***
Richards winter was a disaster.
Mum decided he needed a proper checkup. She booked appointments everywheredoctor, heart specialist, digestive guyYou look off, love, best get checked. Richard went; the doctors found nothing amiss: Youre fine for your age. Mum always looked disappointed, as if itd be better if there was something wronga worry to keep her busy.
At work, he got grumpy. Colleagues noticed. Mike from maintenance said over a cigarette, Whats up, mate?
Nothing.
Home trouble?
No.
Mike shrugged and left. Richard stood staring out the grimy window: the car park plastered with grey slush, patchy with dirty oil. Didnt fancy going back to work. Didnt fancy going home. Didnt fancy anything.
He wondered: actually, where would he even want to go?
No answer.
At home, Mum met him nightly with dinner. It was nice, she meant well, he realised that. But with dinner came instructions: what to wear, where to go, when to be back. If he was late, she phoned. If he didnt answer, she phoned again. Then texted: Im worried, Richwhere are you?
One February, he was late backMike had invited him round for footy and a few pints. He slipped in just after ten.
Mum sat in the kitchen with the light off, flicked it on when he entered and gave him a look that made him feel like a naughty fifteen-year-old.
Where were you?
I told you Id be late.
All you said was be late. She folded her arms. Not exactly informative. I worried sick. My blood pressures up.
Mum
Eat up, Ive kept it warm. She plonked down a plate of reheated cutlets. And leave your phone on. I called three times.
I didnt turn it off, just didnt hear it. The game was on.
Football. She said it like it was something dirty.
Richard ate, staring at the table.
He was noticing now: hed started explaining himself. For everything. Why late. Why this shirt. Why not call sooner. Why didnt you eat. Why eat the wrong thing.
He remembered, with a weird pride, once saying, Mum always knows best. Now it sounded awkward, odd.
In March, he looked at local flat shares. Reasonable rent, near work. He told Mum.
She burst into tears.
Not loud, not accusatory, just quietly wept: So, youre unhappy here? Im in your way, am I? Got it, Rich.
He didnt move out.
At night, he sometimes dreamt of Helen. Not romance, justshes in the kitchen, or theyre driving somewhere. Ordinary things. Hed wake up staring at the ceiling of Mums flat, which had nothing to say for itself.
Hed wonder: Whats she doing now? Is she alright?
Then straight after: probably got herself someone already.
Oddly, this irked him.
***
February arrived bolder than usual. The snow was actually white, not Slough-grey, and on her way to the bus Helen squinted into the bright sun, thinking she really ought to finally buy a decent pair of sunglasses.
She didpink, thin-rimmed. Smiled at her reflection in the shop window, both silly and delighted.
There was plenty to do at work. New duties kept her late some nights, working on accounts, discussing figures with the manager, Mr. Thomasa practical, sparing man, who valued precision. He was pleased. You could tell.
Her colleagues were kind. A junior, Daisy, watched her with wide-eyed respect, sometimes wordlessly delivering coffee to her desk. Helen would say thank you, and Daisy would blush.
In March, Susan dragged her along to a birthday at her mates, Natasha. Helen didnt want to goitd be strangers, noise, forced small talk. Susan said, Enough sulking, youll have fun, I promise.
Natasha turned out warm and jolly, lived in a spacious flat with two cats and an enormous rubber plant. A dozen guests. Helen gravitated to Susan at first, but soon ended up chatting to a neighbouring teacher about books.
Opposite sat Alex. She hardly noticed him to begin withhe blended in: not tall, a hint of grey at his temples, a plain grey jumper. Quiet. Listened closely, sometimes smiled at the right moments.
Later on, by the window with mugs of tea, conversation started naturallyabout friends, about work. Alex was an engineer, he worked on restoration projects, widowed four years, wife lost to cancer. He explained it simply, matter-of-fact, as people do when its now part of the furniture of life.
Youve known Natasha long?
Through her ex-husband, actually. Hes moved away, but were mates. He sipped tea. Youre here with Susan?
Yeah, weve been mates since uni.
Good to have friends like that, he said.
It is, Helen agreed.
They exchanged numbers, no fuss or expectations. He messaged after three daysinvited her for coffee. She went.
They met in a little cafe by her office. Talked for two hours: Helen mentioned the divorce, he listened, no advice, no judgement. Then he shared his own story. Outside, cold but pleasant, he asked if he could call again. She said yes.
Next was a walk along the canal, then a film. Then, one evening in April, he asked her to dinner at his place.
***
Alex lived in a top-floor flat in a Victorian terrace. Helen carried a bottle of wine up the stairs, bracing herself: itd be the usual bachelor mess, and shed have to be polite and pretend not to notice. She felt jittery, out of habitused to being judged.
She rang the bell.
The door swung open. The flat smelled faintly of applessweet, warm, with a tickle of spice.
Come on in, Alex smiled. Ive jumped ahead and put a pie in. Hope you dont mind apple?
Not at all, Helen said.
The flat was simple. Not pristine, but lived-in: books and tools mingled on shelves, a newspaper sprawled across the kitchen table. No polishes, nothing for show. Just real.
She helped with the salad: chopped tomatoes, he cubed cheese. They spoke, occasionally stayed silent, but the silence never felt awkward.
Helen found herself waitingwould he say, Shouldve used cucumbers, Wrong dressing, or just eye the table disapprovingly, the way shed known so well for fifteen years.
But he didnt. They sat; he poured the wine, glanced at the table, then at her.
Thanks for coming, he said, simply.
Three words. No tacked-on comments.
Helen lowered her eyes to her plate and felt something inside gentlyalmost imperceptiblyrelease. As if shed been holding up a weight for ages, and finally, she could put it down.
April dusk sprawled beyond the window. The streetlights flickered on; the apple pie simmered sweetly in the oven, its scent filling the kitchen.
They talked for hoursher childhood, how shed wanted to teach but became an accountant, his projects, restoring places people had given up on. Helen thought, Thats a good job: rebuilding whats broken.
At the door, as she left, he walked her down to the landing.
Im glad we met, he said.
On the bus home, she thought of the pie. Not of him, or not only him. That one could just visit someone and not expect a blow to fall. To simply share a meal and head home, somehow lighter.
***
Summer crept past, calm and content.
She and Alex saw each other often, but never rushed. He never pushed; nor did she. They visited the market at weekendsshed buy greens and cream, hed buy fish. They cooked together: it was fun, nothing like cooking for criticism.
One July night she stayed over. Too late to go home, and no reason not to. In the morning, he made coffee and brought it to her in bed. Not like in the films, but just because, then sat next to her.
Working today? he asked.
From twelve.
Wanna go to the market first? Cherries should be in.
Helen cupped her hands round the mug. The day was bright and blue, fresh air coming through the window, somewhere outside, swifts screaming in the summer sky. The urge to cry came over her, not from grief, but some other deep, swelling thing that comes only when you suddenly know youre undeniably happy.
I do, she managed.
By autumn, Alex suggested she move innot with fanfare, or a ring and bouquet, but one evening as they washed up.
Hel, how about moving in? I think youd be happy here. And Id certainly prefer it.
I need to think, she replied.
Of course. Take your time.
She thought on it for two weeks, then said yes.
In November, she moved in. She decided to let her flat, not sell. She packed up her books, geraniums, lampshade, linen curtains. Alex shifted furniture to accommodate. Together they mixed his technical books with her novelsit looked good.
In December, they had a quiet registry do: only Susan and Alexs friend Sam as witnesses. Then dinner at a restaurantjust the four of them, relaxed, laughing, Susan crying, Honestly, its just happiness, dont mind me.
And in January Helen found herself staring down at a pregnancy testtwo vivid pink lines.
She sat on the edge of the bath, unmoving for a good ten minutes.
She was forty-three. Shed always assumed children werent for her. Richard hadnt wanted them, or maybe she hadnt eitherthey never really discussed it, and the years slipped by. The doctor never said never; Helen just resigned herself years ago: not meant to be.
But here she was.
Alex was in his study, sketching something. She went to the doorway. He sensed her, turned.
His face changed when he saw her.
Whats wrong? he asked gently.
She held out the test. He looked at it for a moment. Then he stood up, encircled her in his armsnot saying anything, just holding her.
At last he said, Thats brilliant, Helen. Really brilliant.
She buried her face in his shoulder and criedproperly, openly, as she hadnt in years. He didnt tense or hush her, just held on and whispered now and again, Its alright. Its all alright.
***
April rolled round again. Same cafe, same riverside, except this time Helen strolled slowly, belly leading the way, while Alex gently steadied her by the elbow.
Six months gone. Work all knew. Mr. Thomas said, Congratulations, Mrs. Collins. Your job will be waiting, so dont fret. Daisy now looked at her with a special sort of awe, one young women reserve for those who know how to live.
Their flat’their home nowwas filling up: baby bits bought bit by bit, a crib flat-packed in the corner, a soft nightlight shaped like the moon, a tiny stack of things in a drawer. Sometimes Helen just opened it to look at the little things, finger their edges. Something about it all felt steady and real.
Mornings, shed sit by the window with her tea, watching the garden as grass eased its way through the mud. The air was damp with spring, the apple tree in next doors garden already showing off, and Helen drank it in, enjoying the quiet.
Yet some evenings, when Alex was sound asleep and she lay listening to the life fidgeting inside her, she found herself thinking of the past. Not with pain or regret, more as you might when leafing through an old photo: there was such a life, such people. A sorrow for something, she couldnt say exactly what. Perhaps the fifteen years lost, giving nothing shed hoped for. Maybe for her younger self, the girl who made careful stews and ironed white tablecloths.
She didnt know whatd become of Richard. Susan mentioned shed seen him at the shop, older-looking. Helen nodded, didnt reply. She didnt wish him ill. He was simply from another chapter, someone elses story now.
***
Richard sat at his mothers kitchen table.
It was April outside, but always winter here: heavy curtains blocking out spring, the same ornaments, the same smellsmedicated rub, thick soup, and some old, untouchable undertone.
Mrs. Dawson was at the stove. She always chatted while cooking.
You look peaky again, Rich. Told you, you ought to see a proper doctor, not that surgery on Abbey Street. Ive found you a good cardiologist at Clinic Number Seven. Ill book you in.
Im fine, Mum.
You wouldnt know if you werent, she stated, with the absolute confidence only mothers can muster. Men never know till its too late. Your dad always said he felt fine too, and look how that ended.
Richard stared at the chequered tablecloth, blue and white. Practical pick. Mum was right: you cant stain it.
She put his plate down.
Eat while its hot. Buckwheat today, beef stewyou always like buckwheat.
I do, said Richard.
He dug in. The soup was goodMum was a dab hand at soups.
Richard, she said, sitting opposite, Have you thought about what I said? About Linda?
He looked up.
Not really.
You should. Shes decent, widowed, her own flat. Asked after you.
Mum.
What? Forty-five now, arent you? You can’t just go womanlessnot normal.
Ive got a woman, he blurted, surprised at himself.
Where?
Nowhere. He fixed his gaze on his bowl. “I just mean, dont set me up with Linda. Ill sort my own life out.
How can you, sitting here, staring at nothing? I can see you, love. Always thinking of that Helen of yours. Why? She threw you out. Theres a name for women like that
Mum, he said, and his tone made her pause.
Silence. Clock ticking. A bird outside, all insistent spring.
Eat up, she said at last. Who else will look after you like your mum?
Richard stared into his bowl.
Soup was goodshe had to be given that.
He ate, thinking back to walking in that October nighttired, cranky, banging on about tablecloths and stew and how Mum knew best.
He hadnt realised then it wasnt really about tablecloths. Only now, too late, did he see. A truth people learn slowly if theyre not in the habit of thinking on time.
He was in a cage. The word just turned upout of nowhereand Richard almost paused mid-spoonful. Cage. All those years thinking Helen limited himher cooking, her personality. Turns out, shed only ever gone along, given in. The prison was his own. Same walls, different address: first at Mums, then theirs, now back at Mums.
Tasty? asked Mum.
Lovely, Mum, Richard replied.
There you go. Without me, youd be lost, Rich.
He gave no answer.
The bird outside chirped louder, spring battering at the heavy curtains, a bright pointless slash of April light peeking through the crack.
Richard hunched over and finished his soup.
***
That same April evening Helen stood on the balcony of what was now their flat and watched the sunset. Her belly was round and awkward; it hurt to stand, but she stayed where she wasshe needed the air. From below, she could smell the warming earth, the green tang of something young and nameless that only happens in spring.
Inside behind her, Alex chatted to someone from work on the phone, calm and confident. There were two mugs on the kitchen tablehis, hersthe room lit by the warm orange glow of that same old lamp.
She laid a hand on her bump. The little one gave an evening kick, slow and lazy.
Well, hello there, Helen said softly, to the air.
It was scary. It was good. It was a quiet, uncertain, honest kind of happinessno guarantees, no fancy promises. Just this: an April sunset, earth-smell, warm light behind her, and the small, wiggling life within, waiting its turn.
Helen stayed a moment longer.
Then stepped back inside.
