I was gasping for air, too
It was Tom who made the announcement on a drizzly Sunday evening, just as Judith was stacking the freshly ironed shirts into neat piles. He walked into the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, and told her as if he was mentioning the boiler had packed in.
Judith, I cant breathe.
She didnt look up. She placed one shirt on the stack, picked up another.
Cant breathe because of what?
All of this. The routine. Every days the same. Get up, eat, commute, come back, eat, sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Judith carefully folded the sleeves, straightened the collar. She was fifty-one, Tom fifty-three. Theyd lived in this flat on Willow Crescent for twenty-six years, raised their son Edward, whod moved to Liverpool five years ago and now only called on Christmas or birthdays.
So what are you suggesting? she asked, steady as ever.
I want to leave.
She stopped then, but not out of fear. She just looked at him, the way you look at someone whos finally said something youve been expecting for years.
Where would you go?
Ill rent a flat. Be on my own. Just breathe.
All right, Judith said, and reached for the next shirt.
Tom clearly anticipated something elseprotests, tears, a demand for explanations. He leaned forward, searching her face.
Youre not going to say anything?
What is there to say? Youre grown up, Tom. If you want to leave, you should leave.
Arent you going to cause a scene?
She folded the shirt, set it on the pile, and finally met his eyes.
No. But on one condition.
Whats that?
Dont call me about practical stuff. Where you left your stuff, how the heating works, how to fix your wifi. If you move out, you figure it out.
He paused.
Thats it?
Thats it.
Tom had no idea what to do with that. Hed prepared for tears, for harsh words, accusations about their son, their years together, remarks that you dont just walk away after a lifetime. Hed even mentally rehearsed responses. But Judith simply ironed the shirts.
Right, then, he said at last. Ill pack my things.
Go on, then.
He went into the wardrobe, stood there for ages just staring at the shelves. Eventually, he packed jeans, t-shirts, socks, the razor, phone charger, the book hed not opened in months. He emerged to the corridor. Judith was now in the kitchen, banging pans.
Im off, he called out in her direction.
Good luck, she replied from the kitchen.
The door closed behind him. He lingered on the landing, listening. Nothingno hesitant footsteps, no sudden movement behind the door. Silence.
He pressed the lift button.
***
It took two days and a mates recommendation to find a new placea plain one-bed flat in the next neighbourhood, fourth floor, facing a quiet communal garden. The landlord, an elderly gent with a bristly moustache, showed him round in five minutes, took two months rent in pounds, and left. The place had a knackered sofa, a table, two wobbly chairs, a fridge with a faded sticker from 1977 and an old gas cooker. Mustard curtains blocked out the winter daylight.
Tom dropped his bag on the sofa, sat down, looked around.
Silence. Proper silence. No Judith puttering in the other room, no TV in the lounge, no suppers ready! He lay on his back, arms behind his head, thinking, Here it isfreedom.
The first two days were almost pleasant. He woke up when he fancied, ate naff shop food, wandered about in socks, answered to no one. In the evenings, hed ring up his old mate Davelong conversations and banter, Dave always saying: Good on you, Tom! Honestly, about time.
By the third day, Tom realised he was out of clean socks.
He eyed the washing machine, wedged into the small bathroom. He opened the hatch, peered in, then closed it. Opened again. The detergenthe dug out a little bag from under the sink and squinted at the label: For whites and colours. He poured in a vaguely measured amount, picked a random programme, hit the button.
The machine whirred to life.
An hour later, he hauled out socks that were soaking and faintly pink. It dawned on him hed thrown in a new red t-shirt with the wash.
He draped the socks on the radiator. They werent dry until the next evening.
On the fourth day, determined to eat something proper, he bought a chicken breast, potatoes, onions. He found a battered frying pan in the cupboard, sloshed oil on and fired up the gas. The oil spat. He dropped the whole chicken breast in and it welded itself to the pan. It took him forever to peel the spuds, losing half to the bin, and onions stung his eyes.
In the end, he had something brownish and tough on the outside, raw in the middle, staring up from the plate.
He ate half, chucked the rest and ordered takeaway from the nearest café.
After a week, Tom did the sums: hed spent nearly as much on takeaway as he and Judith spent on groceries for a month. He pledged to do better. Bought buckwheat, boiled it. It was edible. That cheered him up, a little.
Still, life pressed in on all sides, slow and relentless as the English tide.
***
The breakthrough came on day ten.
He was in the shower and noticed the water not draining. He looked down: a shallow, murky puddle pooling around his feet. He turned off the tap, waited, tapped the drain with his toe. The water didnt budge.
He remembered something about a trap. Judith used to say, Clean out the trap or the water wont drain. Hed nodded and left it to her.
Tom crouched, peered under the bath. Pipes, twisted white plastic, a strange joint. He wobbled it; it gave way instantly. Water surged out, icy and grey.
He leapt up, slipped, grabbed the nearest towel, which fell to the floor and became instantly sodden. He tried screwing the joint back, but water kept flooding the floor, soaked the bathmat in seconds.
He dashed barefoot to the kitchen, hunting the shut-off valve the landlord had mentioned. He turned the tap, finally stopping the torrent.
Back in the bathroom, it looked like an aftermath of a minor flood. Wet towels, wet floor. The trap still dripped.
He slumped in the hallway in his pants, staring at the wall.
His first reflex: Call Judith. Shed know what to do. He was already finding her name in his phone when he heard her voice in his headdont call me about house stuff.
He put the phone down.
Eventually, he rang Dave.
Dave, you know how to fix a bath trap?
What? Mate, I have a chap for that. Want his number?
The plumber arrived next day, changed a washer in fifteen minutes, charged an amount that made Tom boggle.
Is that a normal price? he asked.
Course, said the plumber, and left.
Tom shut the door, thinking, Judith never called a plumber for this sort of thing. She just sorted it herself. How? He never knewlike the sun coming up each morning.
***
Around this time, Tom decided to call Laura, an old flame from two decades ago, before he’d met Judith. He knew from mutual friends she was divorced. Theyd bump into each other at parties now and then, chat idly, smile.
Laura? Its Tom Walker.
A surprised but not unfriendly laughTom? Blimey, how longs it been?
Im living on my own now. Thought we could meet up. Dinner, maybe?
A pause.
Youre on your own from who?
From my wife.
So youve split?
Well, were He hesitated. In the process.
Right, she said, her tone shifting, a hint more guarded. Go on, lets meet. Why not.
They met in a little bistro in town. Laura, sharp cropped hair, lovely coat, looking well. They had wine, chatted about old friends, then she asked what he was up to.
Still at the building firm. Head of supplies.
Where do you live then?
Rented a flat. On Oakfield Road.
That all right?
He wanted to say yes, but said, It’s okay. Machines are a bit dodgy. Cookers on its last legs.
Laura studied himfirst with a quizzical look, then with sympathy. Not longing or flirtation, just sympathy reserved for someone whose life hasnt quite clicked.
Right, she said again, lightly.
The evening fizzled. They swapped stories about their kidsEdward at work, her daughter married. She left after her second glass, saying she had an early start. They said goodbye outside.
Back at the flat, shops closed, he found a pack of instant noodles, poured in boiled water, ate in silence.
Laura never called, and neither did he.
***
About then he tried to see the lads. Rang Dave, got, Yeah, Friday, but only till eight, got to be back for parents night. Called Andy, who agreed, but only if Tom gave him a lift home as hed promised his wife hed go to her parents in the morning.
The three of them met at a pub near the station. Two pints each, chat about football and jobs. Eventually Dave asked:
Hows bachelor life, Tom?
All right, Tom replied.
Judith not calling?
No.
Dave and Andy exchanged a look.
Not at all? said Andy.
Not once.
They exchanged another look. Dave swirled his pint.
Mine would be ringing three times a day by now.
Judith hasnt rung, Tom repeated.
Andy mused, Thats either a good signor a bad one.
What do you mean?
I mean, maybe shes just fine without you.
Tom finished his pint. He hadnt thought about that. Not consciously, anyway. But he thought about it all the time.
At half seven, Dave checked the time, grabbed his coat. Andy did the same. Two handshakes, a pat on the back, and they headed hometo wives, meetings, in-laws.
Tom sat at his little table for another hour and a half, nursing his pint, long after closing.
***
Judith, meanwhile, spent the first few days feeling oddly adrift, but not as shed pictured. Not empty from his absencejust extra space, as if the furniture had moved and she wasnt sure yet if it was better or worse.
On the second day, she called her friend, Susan.
Hes gone, Judith said simply.
Gone where? asked Susan, incredulous.
Rented a place. Said he was suffocating.
Susan was silent, then exhaled. Judith. How are you?
Im all right, to be honest. Strange, aint it?
Have you cried?
No. Odd, isnt it?
Maybe itll hit you later?
Maybe. Well see.
Her other friend, Margaret, rang as wellMargaret was always more blunt.
Thank God, said Margaret. Ten years Ive been telling you.
Telling me what?
That youre like a housemaid, only without pay.
Margaret, dont.
Whens the last time you did something just for yourself?
Judith thought. Couldnt answer.
Last year, I got my hair cut, I suppose.
There you go.
Next week, Margaret invited her to yoga. Judith hesitated, then agreed. The studio was nearbyshe rummaged out an old, barely worn track suit and found she was hopelessly inflexible.
No worries, the young instructor beamed. Everyone starts this way.
Two weeks in, Judith could bend a bit better. She went three times a week. After, she and Margaret would have coffee, sit and chat for ages. Judith realised she hadnt sat chatting for years without glancing at the clock, rushing home to make tea for Tom.
Evenings she readbefore, shed nod off after twenty pages. Now, she lingered over novels for an hour, sometimes more.
Edward rang one day.
MumDad says hes living by himself.
Yes, he is.
So how are you?”
It varies, Judith said. But honestly, Im fine.
Edward was quiet.
Mum, are you getting a divorce?
I dont know. I havent given it much thought.
Are you sad?
Judith smiled softly. Im surprised, actually. But not sad.
Edward digested that in silence. Hed always been like that.
All right, he said. Call if you need anything.
You toodont just call at Christmas.
***
There was one moment, in the kitchen, when Judith stopped mid-washing her cup and stared out the window.
It was just a mugher usual morning mugbut suddenly she thought: twenty-six years. Most of her adult life. Thered been good timesfirst flat, scraping the paintwork and laughing, Edward with grazed knees and a smile, that trip to the seaside fifteen years back when all three had laughed for days straight, though she couldnt remember what at anymorejust the laughter itself.
All that was gone nowor rather, it was past now, like old photos.
She waited while the feeling passed. It did, three or four minutes later.
Then she put the cup to dry, and got her kit ready for yoga.
***
Graham entered her life entirely by chance.
Downstairs in the block, Mrs Peterson, eighty and with a fine memory and a habit of talking your ear off on the stairs, asked Judith to change a bulb since her son couldnt visit for a week. Judith did, then stayed for tea, just as Mrs Petersons son turned upbut it was Graham, not the one anyone expected.
He was about forty-eight, beard, smart jacket, tired eyes of a hardworking man.
Mum exploits the neighbourhood, he said with a sly grin as he spied Judith climbing the stepladder.
Judith volunteered, thank you very much! sniffed Mrs Peterson.
He turned to Judith. Thanks. I shouldve thought to come round earlier.
Oh, it was nothing.
They talked for ten minutes in the hallway. Turned out he was in construction too, though a different firm. She mentioned she was an accountant. He left, she returned upstairs.
Three days later, he knocked on her door, having dropped off groceries for his mum. I wanted to bring you some chocolatesjust as thanks.
Oh, you shouldnt, Judith protested, but accepted graciously.
Do you mind if I pop in for a minute? I wanted to ask about your Tom, actually. Mum said he worked in supply, and Ive got a supplier headache.
Judith hesitated a moment.
Toms living elsewhere now. But I can give you his mobile.
Right, Graham said, face unreadable. Best I dont trouble you then.
He left. A week later, he called again to say hed sorted the supply issue, and wondered if she fancied popping out for a coffeeas neighbours, just for a chat. Judith considered, and agreed.
They went to a café just round the corner, talked work, change in the neighbourhood, his mother. He listened well, sometimes laughing at his own jokes before hed finished them.
How long have you been married? he asked somewhere along the way, as if just making conversation.
Twenty-six yearsor I was. Not sure what I am, now.
He nodded. It happens.
She appreciated thatno probing.
They met for coffee a few more times. He never pressed her, never rushed, just rang every so often to check how she was. Judith found the lack of expectation liberating. After twenty-six years of duty, this was like throwing open a window in a stuffy room.
***
Meanwhile, Tom started noticing things about himself hed never paid heed to.
Like how bad he was at waiting. His whole adult life, things just happened: food, clean clothes, everything sorted. If anything broke, it fixed itself. Now, waiting for laundry to dry, kettle to boil, plumber to come, even for a cold to passhe caught himself huddled under the duvet, sweating through a fever, drinking tapwater for days on end entirely alone.
Or how he couldnt eat in silence. For twenty-six years thered always been someone at the tableeven after Edward left, there was still Judith. Sometimes she talked, sometimes just sat reading, but she was there. Now, the silence was blank, dead.
He began eating in front of the telly. It helped, a bit.
About three weeks in, he called Edward.
Hi, son.
Hi Dad. How are you?
All right. Got a place on Oakfield Road.
Mum told me.
Hows she doing?
Edward hesitated longer than usual.
She says shes good. Doing yoga, meeting up with friends.
Tom tried to absorb that.
Shes notshes not lonely?
Dad, said Edward, gently, have you called me just to ask if Mum misses you?
No, just asking.
Shes all right, Dad. And so are you. Thats good.
Tom hung up, sat on his sofa, struggling to name the feeling inside himnot resentment. Something else. Something like walking into a room but forgetting why.
***
On day twenty-three, Tom met his neighbour in the lifta woman around thirty-five hed seen a few times. Her name was Caroline; she introduced herself.
Are you the new tenant? she asked.
Just temporary, he said.
Oh, you and your wife split up?
He blushed at her directness.
Yeah, we did.
It happens. Are you from the third floor? Old Mr Finch used to live therethe one who sang every night?
No, fourth. With the mustard curtains.
Ah, thats Mr Daniels place, isnt it? He only ever lets to single mensays its less hassle.
They got out. Caroline lived on the ground floor. She worked at a veterinary clinic, had a cat and a shelf of houseplants.
He gave her a hand with her shopping one evening. She invited him in for tea. Her flat was tidy, warm, smelled like cinnamon. Smart, funny, direct. But Tom found himself noticing: her kitchen was spotless, while his sink was still clogged with two-day-old dishes.
They exchanged friendly words in the hallway now and then, but nothing came of it. He felt like an unfinished sentencehalf-written, half-said.
Once, Caroline asked him, You staying long?
Dont know, he answered honestly.
You seem like someone who hasnt yet decided where to go next.
I suppose I am.
Dont let it drag on, she said. I spent two years like that after my divorce. Regretted every wasted month.
He remembered those words.
***
On day thirty-one, Tom went to the market and bought flowers. For no reason, really, except he saw a stand of big white chrysanthemums and remembered Judith had always preferred themnot roses, said roses were too showy.
He bought the biggest bunch, paid in pounds, rode the train across the city to Willow Crescent.
He clutched the flowers on the tube; people eyed him with curiosity or indifference. He rehearsed what hed say, pictured Judith opening the door. Surely, after twenty-six years, shed understand.
He rang the bell. New bell, he noticedlast one had been brass.
He heard footsteps, then voicesa womans, then a mans.
He froze.
The door opened a crack, fastened with a new chain he didnt recall. Judiths face appeared in the gap. She looked at him, looked at the flowers. Her expression was calm.
Tom.
Judith. I came by.
I see.
I these are for you. He lifted the bouquet lamely.
She studied him with no anger, no tearsnone of the explosive emotion hed anticipated.
I cant let you in, Tom.
Why not? He had no better words.
I changed the locks.
I noticed. But why?
Behind her, a shadow passed, a mans silhouette. Tom stared.
Whos that?
Thats not your business, she said, without heat.
Judith, hang on. I theres so much Ive realised.
What have you realised?
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again.
That I was happy with you. That I took you for granted. That leaving was a mistake.
She paused, staring at him through the chain.
Tom, she said quietly at last, Youve worked out you were happy. But you still dont know why. You think it was because I was here. But its because someone kept your life straightkept the shirts ironed.
Thats unfair, he shot back.
Maybe. But its the truth.
Judith, twenty-six years”
I know. Her hand closed on the door. There were good years, too. But I dont want another twenty-six like that.
Not even a chance?
She watched him a long moment. Then said:
You know the funny thing? I started breathing again, too. Turns out, I was suffocating, as well. I just never said it out loud.
He stood on the landing, flowers dangling in his hand.
Judith
Go, Tom. Call Edward, chat with him. Dont ask about mejust talk.
She closed the door softly. The lock clicked.
He waited, then let the bouquet drop, almost touching the floor. The chrysanthemums were fresh, strongoblivious to all this turmoil.
The landing was quiet. Behind another door, the sound of television.
Tom turned and walked to the lift.
***
He pressed the button, the lift arrived instantly. In the mirror he saw himself: a man with a bunch of flowers, nice jacket, slightly crumpled, eyes like somebody whod just finished somethingor perhaps just begun.
He stepped out onto the street. It was dark, streetlamps burning. People passed by on their way home. He walked towards the station, still clutching the flowers.
But then he stopped.
An old woman was sitting by a bench, scattering crumbs for a horde of pigeons. Tom placed the chrysanthemums beside her bench.
Take these, if you want them, he said.
She looked up at him, then at the flowers.
Lovely flowers. What, not taken?
Not taken.
Lifes like that sometimes, love, she said, and tossed more crumbs.
Tom walked on. The street was ordinary; homes stood as before, life trundled on as if nothing happened. Somewhere in the city, Judith had closed a door and returned to her new life, whichby all evidencesuited her fine.
Somewhere Edward was on his way home; maybe hed call, just for once, no special reason.
Somewhere, a flat with mustard curtains waited, dishes still in the sink.
Tom took out his phone.
***
On the tube, he stared at his reflection in the window: indistinct, blurry, lost.
Strange, he thought, not quite thinking anything. Juststrange.
The stations passed by beyond the black glass. All sorts sat in the carriage: young, old, tired, alert, some with briefcases, some with shopping, some scrolling on their phones. No one had the slightest interest in him, his chrysanthemums, his twenty-six years, that closed door.
At his station, he got out and emerged onto the street.
The air was sharp, hinted of first snow even before a flake had fallen.
Tom lingered, looked up at the sky.
It was just the English winter skydark, usual.
Then he walked home.
***
That night, about two in the morning, still awake, he lay staring at the ceiling. The flat was unchanged; the mustard curtains blocked the streetlight; the fridge droned now and then. It all seemed just as it had for a month.
Then he remembered something he hadnt thought of in years.
Maybe eight, ten years ago, he and Judith had gone to her parents cottage. Theyd sat on the veranda in the evening, drinking tea, darkness pressing in from beyond the little garden. Judith had been silent, and so had he. It had been a good silence, the kind where nothing needed to be said.
He remembered thinking, This is good.
But he hadnt said it out loud.
Just thought it, then forgot.
Now, lying on the rented sofa, he tried to remember the last time hed had that thought. He couldnt recall.
Outside, the first snow of winter, uncertain and few, began to drift down.
The flat was silent.
***
In the morning, he got up, boiled the kettle, and thought that he needed proper mugsthe ones here all had chipped rims, impossible to drink from.
Then he thought, I should ring Edward.
Then he considered workquarterly reports due and hed fallen behind.
Then, what Judith had said. Shed started breathing again. Shed been suffocating too.
Hed never known that. Or maybe he hadnever treated it seriously. Judith had simply always been there, quietly tending to everything while hed thought of routine as a cage, never realising it was her cage too. She lived in it, ironed his shirts, never complainedhed never asked if she wanted any of it.
The kettle whistled.
He poured tea into the chipped mug, sat at the table.
The snow was still falling, gently covering the sill.
Tom picked up his phone, scrolled to Edwards name.
Paused.
Put the phone down.
Then picked it up again.
Edward, hi. Dad here. Just thought Id callno real reason. Are you busy?
No, Edward replied, a bit surprised. Hi, Dad. Not busy.
Hows things?
All right. Working. Got snow there yet?
Just started.
Here too.
They paused. It was a good, living pause.
Dadhow are you, really?
Tom gazed out. Beyond the window, snow was falling, softly, nothing certain yet.
Im figuring it out, he said.
Okaycall again if you want.
I will. You do too. Not just at Christmas.
Deal, Edward said.
They said goodbye. Tom set down the phone, finished his tea. The tea was fine.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
***
Around the same time, Judith was also gazing out her window, coffee cup warm in hand, room quiet and snug. Graham had already gone; he never stayed the nightan unspoken agreement. Too soon for that, no need to rush.
She thought of Tomnot with anguish or joy, just the way you think about someone youve shared your life with. She could see him at the door, flowers in hand, big, a little lost, as if life had taught him much but not everything.
She wasnt angry anymore. At first, thered been angershe hadnt shown it, but it had simmered, gentle but old, over the invisible, the habitual. That he never asked how she was. He complained of routine, but shed built their routine herself, by hand. He was bored, shed never had time to think long enough to be bored.
But the anger faded. She found something steadier in its place.
She texted Susan: Yoga tomorrow?
Susan replied at once: I was waiting for you to ask. Yes.
Judith smiled and set her mug aside.
Snow drifted outside her window, too.
***
That evening, Tom rang the landlord and asked about renewing the flat another two months.
Of course, the landlord said. Just pay up front.
Tom went round to the hardware shop and bought good mugsno chips. Two of them. Then thought, why not, and took a third.
He picked up groceries: chicken stock, onions, carrots, spuds. Found a recipe for soup on his phonefour steps, last one: Salt to taste.
He stood over the pot, wondering what to taste meant. He tasted, added salt, tasted again. Maybe a bit too much, but the soup turned out all right.
He poured some into a bowlmugs werent for soupsat down to eat.
It was quiet.
In the quiet, the soup was perfectly edible.
***
Life went on, as it always doeswithout much warning, without explanation. Judith kept up with yoga, met Graham casually when she felt like it, and Graham never pushed. Tom lived his days on Oakfield Road, made his own soup, phoned Edward now and then, saw Dave and Andy for drinks, now without wives, sometimes staying out a little later.
Neither filed for divorcenot by decision, just inertia. Both too tired, for now, to bother.
One day, Judith unexpectedly ran into Tom at the shop on Willow Crescent. He was by the dairy aisle, intently reading the label on a carton of milk as though it held some secret.
She walked up behind him.
Tom.
He turned. They looked at each other. He looked wellmaybe a bit thinner, eyes a touch more awake.
Hello, Judith.
Hi. You look all right.
So do you.
They stood a moment.
Are you getting milk? she asked.
Yeah, cant decide which.
This ones good, she pointed.
Thanks.
He took it, she took hers, each turned away.
At the tills, they queued side by side, paid, and left almost together.
Well, he said. Bye.
Bye, Tom.
She turned right, he left.
And so they went.
