Eight Years of Trifles
The telephone rang at half past seven, just as Eleanor was standing by the cooker, watching the water begin to boil in a battered little saucepan. The stove was ancient, gas, with heavy cast iron grates still sticky from some strangers greaseno matter how much she scrubbed, it never came quite clean. Each morning that greasy film reminded her she was living in someone elses flat; that other people had once been here, with their routines, their Sunday roasts, their lives.
She glanced at the screen. Katherine.
Eleanor picked up the receiver.
You still havent replied to his message, came her daughters voiceno greeting, simple annoyance.
Good morning, Katie.
Mum, really. He messaged me last night. Says youre ignoring him.
The water was boiling. Eleanor turned off the hob, dropped in a teabag. Cheap Assam in paper sachets, forty in one box. She used to drink only loose Ceylon, the sort William would order from a shop on Charing Cross Road.
He can say what he likes, Eleanor replied.
Mum, do you understand what youre doing? Youre living in some dump in Stepney. Probably got bugs. Youre all alone. Youll be sixty soon
Im fifty-eight.
Thats practically sixty! And you left a decent man, a central flat, a normal life. For what?
Eleanor looked out the window. The November sky was the colour of tarnished pewter, a leafless sycamore, the peeling yellow paint of the neighbouring five-storey block. Somewhere below, a tram rattled past. The rails here were old; the tram clanged so loudly that, at first, shed barely slept.
You adjust.
Katie, Im going to be late for work.
You never want to talk about this, do you!
I would, just not now. Or like this. Can you come on Saturday? I could make some soup.
“Im not coming to your wretched hole.
A hole. So even Katie was calling it that now. Likely Tamaras doing.
All right, Eleanor said calmly. Well talk later, then.
Mum
I love you, Katie. Bye.
She set the phone on the table. Picked up the saucepan, poured the tea into an old tumbler shed found in the cupboard, amidst strange, mismatched crockery. The glass was so thick and heavy it could have survived a world war. She hadnt seen this sort for thirty years. She took a sip. Hot, slightly bitter, with the faint taste of paper.
She finished her tea standing by the window, gazing at the bare sycamore.
Then she dressed and went out.
***
The entryway smelt of damp and cats. One ginger tom apparently lived on the third floor, though shed never seen himonly heard his nocturnal yowling. No lift. Four flights down, passing battered post boxes missing their flaps, a pair of skates left in the cornerlast winters, most likely.
It was five degrees at most. Eleanor buttoned her coat and headed to the Tube. Stepneys layout still baffled hersix months on, and she still lost track in the winding little streets. Globe Road, Whitechapel, Bow Fields. Streets different to those in the centrequiet, broader, lined with trees. People hurried along, eyes down, not much different to anywhere in London, yet still the frantic edge of the centre didnt gnaw at her, not here.
She stopped at the corner shop for a pint of milk and half a loaf. The cashier, a young woman with teal eyeshadow, didnt look up. Eleanor counted her change, tucked everything into a tote bag, and left.
The Tube was warm, noisy. She stood, clinging to the pole, thinking over the project. Yesterday, she and David had finished the first block of preliminary drawings, and today theyd start on the basement ceiling, whichjudging by the state of itwas only still there thanks to some quirk of Victorian engineering.
The manor was in Bethnal Green. Modest size, late-eighteenth century: main house plus two wings, barn turned stable, then refashioned umpteen times until it was impossible to guess its origin. Owners changed hands; the local council had once used it for storage, then abandoned it. For twenty years, it lay empty. Now, funding had been found, a team assembled, and the goal was to turn it into an arts centre. Eleanor was the principal conservation architect. David, her colleague, dealt with structural matters.
It was real work. Not those piecemeal kitchen makeovers shed done in Williams time, just to keep from going idleno, this was something grand, substantial, with a bit of history at its core.
***
David was already on site when she arrived, standing in the old ballroom in his habitual grey anorak, tape measure in hand, eyeing the ceiling.
Good morning, Eleanor called as she came in.
Take a look, he said, gesturing at a spot where a chunk of plaster had fallen away, leaving the bare brick exposed. I think I know why the ceiling’s sagging. Upstairs, the beams split its whole length. Not restorationalmost a complete replacement.
Split or starting to separate at the rings?
Come and see.
They climbed up. The stairs had had some bracing, but still creaked. Eleanor kept a hand on the rail, inhaling the smell of old timber: dry, musty-sweet, tinged with dust and some other indefinable aroma. The smell of time, perhaps. The lingering scent of other peoples lives, dissolved within the walls.
Shed always loved that smell.
David showed her the beam. She knelt, shone her torch along the crack.
Its not coming apart at the grain, she said. See the way it goes? Thats mechanical damage. There was something heavy parked here.
Reckon so. A machine, maybe.
Or a few. It was storage.
David crouched beside. They studied the beam together. Beyond the windowglass long since shatteredthe wind whispered.
Well replace it, he said.
Yes, but using the same wood. I saw the original timber spec in the archive yesterday. Looks like local pine, but well seasoned.
Finding that today
Well manage. Theres a supplier up in Hertfordshireworked with them for Bloomsbury restoration. Ill get in touch.
David nodded and stood, brushing off his knees. Tall, somewhat stooped, with the manner of a man who listened with his head slightly bowed, always looking a touch preoccupied. Deceptive: he listened intently, responded precisely, never interrupted. In four months working side by side, Eleanor had grown fond of that.
Cup of tea? he offered. Brought my thermos.
Id love one.
They stepped out into the corridor, where David had left his rucksack. He poured tea into two plastic cups.
Youre very together this morning, he remarked.
How so?
Just are. Very focused.
Eleanor smiled.
That only happens when my daughter, or perhaps my sister, phones too early.
He didnt probe. Just handed her the cup.
The tea was decentnone of your teabags.
***
Shed seen Tamara that Sunday. Her sister had turned up without notice, ringing from the entry: Let me in, Ive brought a tart. Eleanor buzzed her up.
Tamara was three years older, lived in St Albans with her husband, Geoffrey, worked in accounts for a building firm and her opinions, like good rock cakes, were firm and deeply baked in. She eyed the flat, her expression familiar from childhood: a mixture of concern and triumph.
Good lord, Tamara began. Is this a bathroom or a broom cupboard?
Bathroom.
Theres a cracked tile.
Tamara, youve brought a tart.
She had. In the kitchen she set it on the table, glanced around again. Ellie, explain it to me. Three rooms in the centre, parquet floors, a man of means. Did he hit you?
No.
Cheat?
I couldnt say. If he did, it mattered little by then.
Then what on earth? Are you some foolin your later years, leaving for this?
Eleanor fetched some plates.
Lets not.
Not what, Ellie? Im your sister! Am I supposed to stay silent? Katie rings, shes in tears. He rings too, asks if I know whats up with you. Hes a good man, you know.
He is. For someone else. Cut the tart, Tamara.
Thats always your way. Cut the tart. Avoid the talk.
Weve spoken already. Several times.
You never explained a thing. Just I was unhappy. Well, everyones unhappy, Ellie. Think lifes always rosy with Geoff? Still, you dont see me running off to a bedsit at sixty.
Its not a bedsit, its my own.
Alone! Tamara threw up her hands. Youre fifty-eight, alone in this dump, working for peanuts. And you call it all fine?
Eleanor looked at her: familiar, solid, in her forever beige jumper, genuinely confused. She really didnt understand, and it was impossible to be angry at her for it.
Tammy, Eleanor said quietly, youd get lost without me, silly goose, Tamara joked.
Eleanor shook her head. If I get lost, itll be on my own terms.
Tamara stared.
What are you on about?
Nothing. Eleanor began slicing the tart. Whats in it?
Cabbage. Ellieare you all right, truly? Been to see anyone?
I have.
And?
They say I make sound choices.
They always say that. Paid for it.
They drank tea and ate cabbage tart. Tamara chatted about Geoffrey and his bad back, about the new neighbours and their barking dog. Eleanor listened. Outside, dusk deepened; the sky behind the sycamore grew violet.
At the door, Tamara hesitated.
You ought to message him, you know. Hes worried.
All right, Eleanor said.
She knew she wouldnt.
***
Shed been with William for eight years. Not marriedhe had a particular aversion to formalities in any official document, which said plenty in itself, though she understood it too late.
The first two years were different. Or seemed so. Hed been attentive, dinners out, the theatre, trips to Rome and Prague. Hed say she was clever, praised her taste. Then, the changeslow, subtle as cracks spreading in old plaster.
Little things, at first. Once, she wore her favourite green dress to his work do. He glanced at her and said, Are you sure? Nothing else. She changedfor black.
Then, criticisms crept in: her cooking, her manner with his friends, the hours she wasted on projects with little payoff. He always had that gentle, reasonable tone, as if doing her a favour by pointing out the obvious.
“Ellie, you must know conservations a dead end. No ambition in it.”
Ive ambition.
Come now You’re good. Just an average good. Nothing wrong with that! Not everyone can be exceptional.
She never knew how to reply. Sat in another room for an hour, staring at the wall, wondering why his kindness sounded cruel.
He never shouted. Never hit. What he did was more insidious: a slow, steady erosion of self-worth. That her work was trivial, her friends boring, her taste provincial. That she should be grateful hed chosen her at all.
Shed worry over supperhad she salted the stock just so? She hesitated before calling friendswas it too often? She entered meetings doubting whether shed appear cocky. That inner voice, forever second-guessing and seeking permission, was his.
Then, there was that night.
They were at his friends place in Kensington. Talk turned to some new housing scheme; Eleanor remarked on the designpoor façade, typical penny-pinching on architects. Calm, factual.
William smileda smile she now knew too well.
Ellies our expert, he told them. Course, there are hands-on people and the theory types. Ellies the latter. She hasnt handled a big job in ages.
Silence round the table. Their host filled another glass.
Eleanor smiled politely.
She finished her meal, drank her wine, made the talk. Called a cab. On the way home, he seemed pleased, rambling on about business. She looked out at Londons night lights and thought a single, simple thing: I cant any longer.
Not hes a bad man, or Im unhappy. Simply: I cant. Like hitting a wall, knowing theres nowhere further to go.
She left three months later. Found the flat in Stepney, moved her things in two trips. William was away on business. She left the keys and a note on the kitchen tableonly one word: Sorry.
Later, she wondered why shed written it. Didnt know. She just had.
***
November in Stepney had a strange quality. The park was near, and on evenings after work she sometimes wandered through it, not straight home but a meandering route. The branches were bare, the paths slick, wet leaves spattered underfoot. But it was tranquil, and the damp, earthy air was something she breathed in as if it were medicine.
The flat was cold. Heating in these old blocks was haphazard and the radiatorsgreat Edwardian oneseither seared or did nothing. The kitchen tap dripped. Shed rung the landlord several times; he promised a plumber. None came.
Eleanor bought a washer from the big DIY shop and replaced it herself. It took forty minutes, split two nails, and a swear word when the spanner slipped and she banged her elbow. Then she stood, wiped her hands, and turned on the tap. No more drip.
She felt something like pride. Silly, perhaps, but real.
In the evenings she worked at her old kitchen table. Spread out her drawings, flicked on the green-shaded lamp shed brought alonga flea market find from the nineties. William had loathed it, said it ruined the décor. Shed kept it in the box room back then. Now it held pride of place.
The manor project moved slowly, as always with these old buildings: surveys, archive work, analysis, ideas, concepts. She cherished the unhurried natureno faking here. Either the walls stood, or didnt. The bricks were alive, or not. History was real, or it wasnt.
Shed uncovered several documents in the London archives. Turned out, in the nineteenth century, the house belonged to a merchant family named Berridge, then to his daughter, who ran something of a private school. After the war, it had been a warehouse. The daughterher name, Margaretstared out from a century-old photograph Eleanor had found: straight-backed, quietly determined. As if she knew something the picture-taker didnt.
Eleanor looked a long while.
Then set the photo aside and returned to her plans.
***
David once asked how she had come to restoration work.
They were sitting in his car, waiting for the heater to banish the chill before they set off for the archives. Snow dusted the windscreen.
Nineties, when everything was new-build, Eleanor replied. Designed houses, offices. Paid well, never short of work. Then, one day, I tagged along to see a little church being restored outside the city. Pure chance. After that
What?
I just realised it was what I wanted to do. It mattered more.
He nodded.
Not many figure that out.
You did?
Took me longer. Did what was expected. Then stopped.
She regarded him. He stared at the windscreen, now dotted with melting snow.
And then?
Now this. He nodded towards the unseen manor. And Im content with that.
It was warm and smelt of leather and his morning coffee.
They drove on to the archives.
***
William came on a Wednesday.
She hadnt expected him. The bell rang at eight, as she sat with her drawings, eating Greek yogurt from the tub. Ordinary ring, nothing unusualsame as every door in the building.
She answered, thinking it was the landlord or perhaps a neighbour.
He stood there, coat immaculate, holding a small bunch of chrysanthemums. Shed never liked them. In eight years, he hadnt remembered.
Hello, he said.
She stared at him for a moment, silent.
How did you get the address?
Katie told me.
Katie, then. Eleanor tucked that thought away to mull over later.
What do you want? she asked.
To talk. He managed a worn-out smile. Can I come in?
She hesitated, then stepped back.
He entered, glancing about the cramped hallthe faded wallpaper, the tipsy coat hook, her old boots by the mat.
You live here, he remarked. Not a question.
I do.
Eleanor He reached for her hand. She drew away. He didnt mind, just swapped the flowers to his other hand. Listen. I understand you needed space. But six monthsit should be enough.
Enough for what?
To be alone. Take a break. I dont know. Youre still working?
I am.
What it is now?
Restoration in Bethnal Green.
Good, he saidcondescending again. Thats good for you.
For the house and me, both. Eighteenth-century manor.
He placed the chrysanthemums down on her plans. She moved them aside.
Eleanor, he tried again. Do you know what youre doing? Youre living here.
I know where I live.
I want you to come back.
She looked at him. Handsome, objectivelythe sixty-five years sat lightly on him, coat cut just so.
Why? she asked.
He was thrown by that.
What do you mean, why?
Why do you want me back?
I I miss you.
What, specifically?
Eleanor, what is this?
A straight question. You say you miss me. What, actually, do you miss?
He scowled a touch, masking it with patience.
I miss you. As a person. Eight years together.
I remember.
Sois that it? You just left?
I didnt just leave. She folded her arms, dressed in a worn jumper and jeansnothing like how he’d ever seen her. I was leaving for eight years. You just didnt notice.
I dont understand.
I know.
Explain.
I have, many times. Her voice was even; it surprised her. Six months earlier, she might have cried, stumbled over her words, even apologised. Do you recall that dinner at Clive and Susans?
What dinner?
You called me a theorist. Said I hadnt tackled a big project in years. In front of everyone.
He considered.
I was joking. Dont remember exactlylikely a joke.
Perhaps. But there were plenty of jokes. I remember every one.
Too sensitive, Eleanor.
Maybe.
It wasnt meant to belittle.
Perhaps not, she said. But it hurt, all the same.
Over a trifle.
Over eight years of trifles.
They fell silent. He looked about the kitchen: at the thick glass, the battered lamp, her neat piles of papers.
And youre happy here? Truly?
Eleanor thoughtnot for him, but for herself.
It varies, she answered honestly. Sometimes its hard. Sometimes Im lonely. The radiators hardly work. But Im better here than I was there.
Its an illusion.
Perhaps. But its mine.
He picked up his coat, glancing at her. For a moment, something shifteda glimmer of honesty, not businesslike, not patronising.
Eleanor, Im not a stranger to you.
No, she said. But youre not family anymore, either. Will, go home.
He hesitated, then left.
Youll regret this, he saidnot as a threat. More a weary sadness.
Maybe, she agreed.
The door shut. Eleanor stood watching the battered leather and brass of the door, then returned to the kitchen. She set the chrysanthemums in an old jar and watered them. Flowers, after all. Too sad to throw away.
She went back to her plans.
Outside, the tram rattled pastonce, again, then faded.
She realised she no longer registered the noise as a nuisance.
***
The review meeting was set for the second week of December. A preliminary stagethe client wanted to see the approach: what to keep, what restore, what renew. Eleanor prepared in earnest. David did too. In the evenings, they rang one another, confirming details, sometimes disagreeing.
One evening, he observed something about the basement ceilingshe disagreed. They debated nearly forty minutes before recognising they were both rightfrom opposite angles: her focus was appearance, his, endurance.
Youre tough, he said, with no censure.
In my work.
And thats good.
That was thatno more. She hung up, realising she was smiling.
***
Three days before the meeting, Katie rang. Not in the morning, in the evening.
Mum, her tone changednot angry, not condescending. Can I come round?
Of course.
Katie arrived with a bottle of wine and the look of someone whod made up her mind but couldnt put it into words. She resembled Eleanors younger self: same cheekbones, same hands. Thirty-two now, a designer, living in Hackney with her boyfriend.
They sat in the kitchen. Eleanor poured wine into plain tumblersshe had only one wine glass and saved it for company, but Katie declared a tumbler was fine.
Did he phone after he left? Katie asked.
No. Just texts sometimes.
What does he say?
All sorts. I dont always answer.
Katie twisted her glass in her hand.
Mum, I gave him your address. Are you cross?
No.
I thoughthonestly, I dont know what I thought. Maybe youd talk, and
We did.
And?
And nothing. He went.
Silence. Then, eyes lowered, Katie said:
Mum, this whole time I took his side. You know?
I know.
I told myself you were off in your own world, that youd go back to normal. I pitied himhe seemed, I dont know, so lost.
He can seem that way.
Yeah. Katie lifted her head. I only realised lately. After he calledwhen he left here. He said he said you were always a bit odd. That he put up with you. That he did you a favour, eight years with him.
Eleanor nodded.
Hes said as much before.
Mum For the first time in months, Katie looked at her, really looked at herwithout the veil of annoyance or patronising concern. Were you unhappy?
Very.
Why didnt you tell me?
Eleanor thought.
I supposebecause there are no handy words for it. When you arent beaten, or cheated on, or thrown out, its hard to explain why you feel so wretched. Especially to a daughter who only saw the best of him, from a distance.
Katie stood, walked round, and hugged her. Suddenly, tight. Eleanor froze for a second, then returned the embrace. Katies hair smelt of pear shampoo, the same one since her schooldays.
Youre not an idiot, Katie murmured. Aunt Tams wrong.
Eleanor chuckled, softly.
Glad to hear it, she said.
They finished the wine. Katie pored over the drawings, asked about the manor. Eleanor explained, showed her Margaret Berridges picture. Katie said, She looks like you. Eleanor looked again. Perhaps.
Katie left at half eleven, promising to return Saturday.
Eleanor washed the glasses, tidied her things, and stood by the window.
No trams nowit was late. The yard below stood still, bathed in blue light from a streetlamp. In the neighbouring house, a single window glowed, someones figure moving inside.
She considered calling David about the basement timber. It was late; shed call in the morning.
***
The meeting was in the firms boardroom. The client was serious: came with a clutch of lawyers, their own conservation adviser who asked pointed questions. Eleanor answered; David followed up on the technical points. Once, the client asked about the timeline for replacing the floor beams. Eleanor answered honestly: if the timber arrived on time, theyd keep to schedule. If not, theyd be three weeks late. The adviser frowned. Eleanor added, Better you know now, than ask later about delays.
He nodded. It seemed to please him most of all.
Afterwards, they stood in the corridor. David clutched his folder.
Think theyll approve? he asked.
I do.
He looked at her. The hall bustled with strangers and their files.
Would you like to have dinner? he asked. Theres a decent place nearby. We could celebrate.
She smiled.
Id like that.
They walked through Decembers London, lamps glowing, snow capping cornices. David walked a little stooped, in his usual way. Their talk was simplenot all shop: wood for the beams, the advisers thoroughness, the long nights.
The restaurant was small and quiet, thick curtains, scrubbed wooden tables. They ordered warm food and red wine. Talked at length, about the city, books, change. She lost track of time.
As they left, he held her coat while she shrugged into ita simple, everyday gesture. She thought nothing of it. Or perhaps she did, but not with any haste.
On the pavement, he said:
Im glad we work together.
So am I.
They parted company at the station.
And that was the story, as she remembered iteight years of trifles, and finally, the right kind of quiet.
