The Late Rebellion
Do you know what you’re doing? Janes voice was steady, almost monotone, and that very calmness was more unsettling than any shouting. Do you realise what this means for all of us?
Margaret stood by the window, gazing out at the street. Outside, a dreary autumn rain was falling, and passerby hurried beneath umbrellas, not looking at each other.
I know what it means for me, she said at last.
For you. Jane repeated the words, as if weighing them in her palm. It’s always about you, isnt it? And what about us?
You’re grown-ups.
Mum, youre sixty-one.
I know how old I am.
Jane slumped down onto the sofa. It was an old sofa, from the previous flat, from the previous life. Margaret looked at it and wondered how many times she’d meant to get rid of it but never did. Out of habit, out of sentimentality, perhaps out of the feeling that throwing it out would be like discarding something alive.
Did you at least think about what people will say? Jane asked.
No, Margaret answered. I didn’t.
And it was the truth.
***
It all began in March, when Margaret Ann Smith, once a teacher of English literature, and now a pensioner picking up a few hours running a children’s club at the library, set off to spend the weekend with a friend in Canterbury.
Her friend, Vera Edwards, had lived there for eight years. Shed moved after being widowed, bought a little house on the edge of the city, started a veg patch in the garden, and as she put it, finally started to breathe. Margaret usually visited once a year in summer, but this time, something shifted. Something inside told her to go nownot in summer. Now.
March in Canterbury was damp and still. Patches of snow clung to gullies, the higher ground already black with earth. The cathedral spires pierced a pale sky. Walking a narrow street, Margaret realised she hadn’t felt such silence in ages. Not emptinessshe only understood the difference standing there.
Vera met her on the doorstep in wellies and a battered old coat.
At last, Vera said. Ive already got the plates warming.
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea while Vera rattled on about her neighbours, her veg, and her plans to buy a goat.
A goat? Margaret raised an eyebrow.
Why not? Fresh milk, make my own cheese. Everyone says its simple enough.
Vera, youve never even seen a goat up close.
Makes it all the more exciting to try, Vera smirked, pouring more tea. And you? Honestly, you look grey lately. Sorry, but you do.
Margaret glanced at her handsordinary hands, no longer young, veins showing, nothing special.
Im fine.
Fine isn’t an answer. Did something happen?
Nothing happened. Its all the same.
Thats the problem, Vera said. When everythings always the same, thats when trouble brews.
Margaret said nothing. Early evening clouds deepened outside, the first burst of a streetlamp flickered into life down the hill.
The next day Vera dragged her to the market. Not a shiny supermarket, but the open market with grannies selling pickles and knitted socks. There, at a stall with dried mushrooms, Margaret saw Nicholas.
She didnt recognise him at first. Thirty-five years had passed, and hed changed a lot. But something about the tilt of his head, his hands buried in his pockets, was the same. She stopped.
He stopped too.
Maggie? he faltered.
Nicholas.
That was all they could manage at first. Vera quietly excused herself to inspect the socks, leaving them standing among the earthy tang of fungi and cold soil.
You live here? Margaret asked.
Second year now. And you?
Just visiting. My friend lives here.
I see.
Another stretch of silence. Not awkwardsomething else. As if they both knew there was no need to rush.
You havent changed, he said.
Not true.
Well, a little. Hardly at all.
Margaret found herself laughing, unexpectedly.
***
Nicholas George Harding had been her course mate. Not really a friend, certainly not a boyfriend, just the sort who shares a seminar table for five years. after uni, theyd drifted apart, as everyone does. He moved to one city, she stayed in another, married, had children. Through mutual friends, shed heard at some point hed married, had a daughter, but nothing more.
Now here he was, at a stall selling mushrooms, looking at her.
They arranged to meet that evening in a small café on the high street. Vera was completely unfussed.
Of course go, she said. Im busy with my series anyway. And dont look at me like that. Im not matchmaking.
I dont think you are.
You do, Vera said dryly. Go on.
The café was nearly emptywooden tables, yellow lamps, black-and-white photos of old Canterbury on the walls. They ordered tea and an apple tart, talked for hours, sharing memories of classmates, old jokes, laughing at things that once had felt important.
Eventually he said, My wife died three years ago.
Im sorry, Margaret replied.
Its all right. I dont know You get used to it, though thats not quite the word. You just start living differently.
I understand.
And you?
She hesitated. Her husband, John Peter Smith, had left her nine years before for another woman. Not much in the way of excuses. One evening hed simply announced that it was how things were. Shed spent years examining it all, wondering what shed done wrong, poring over the years like rosary beads. Then she just got tired and focused on livingchildren, grandchildren, the library club, Vera in Canterbury that one week a year.
It varies, she said.
He nodded and didnt press her. That too, she appreciated.
***
She went home, back to York, thinking it had been just a pleasant chance encounter. Ex-classmates meet, chat, part ways. It happens.
But a week later, he messaged her onlineVera mustve given him her details. Hi. Did you get home alright?
She replied. They started messaging. Not often at first, but soon every day. Which was odd; Margaret was hardly the text-happy type. Her daughter, Jane, often chided her for not replying promptly, sometimes leaving a message unread for half a day. Now Margaret was checking her phone, waiting for his reply.
He wrote plainly, without embellishment. Stories about his life in Canterbury, his job as a restorer, his interest in church icons. He asked after her club, her grandchildren. Sometimes he sent photos: a white church blanketed in snow, a cat staring out the window, a mug of tea on an old table.
Jane noticed after a month.
Mum, youre always glued to your phone these days.
Im reading.
You always said staring at a phone would ruin my eyes.
I must have been wrong.
Jane gave her a funny look but said nothing.
In April, Nicholas suggested coming to York.
Ive a job at a restoration workshop there, he messaged. If you dont mind, perhaps we could meet?
If you dont mind… Margaret smiled at his carefulness. A serious, cautious man.
Do.
They met at the Minster gardens, where the Ouse and Foss rivers meet. A brisk chill in the April wind, but the sunshine hinted at a real spring at last. Margaret wore her good grey coat, the one she bought two years ago but rarely had cause to wear.
He stood at the railing, facing the river. When she approached, he turned. Weathered face, hands in pockets, just like at that market.
Hello, he said.
Hello.
They walked along the riverside. Conversations, as usual, drifted across different topicsrestoration, her club. She told him how an eight-year-old boy wrote an essay claiming books are like windows, only upside-down, because you look into them, not out. Nicholas paused.
That’s very true, he said. Eight, you said?
Eight. Imaginative lad.
Youre good with children. You can tell.
How can you tell? Youve never seen me at work.
You talk about them the way people talk about things that matter.
Margaret watched him watch the river.
Later, over coffee at a riverside cafe, she realised she hadn’t simply chatted like this in a long timeno rush, nothing to settle, nothing to account for. It was a lovely, almost-forgotten feeling.
When they left, he said, Id like to come back. If thats all right.
All right, she replied.
***
Jane found out in May. Not because Margaret told herJane had rung unexpectedly, and Margaret had been out, didnt answer for ages. When she called back, she seemed distracted, and Jane grew suspicious.
Where were you?
Out for a walk.
Alone?
A pausea tiny pause, but Jane always heard pauses.
No.
That started it. At first cautiously, then more and more confrontational.
Who is he? Jane asked.
An old course mate. I told you, we met in Canterbury.
You said youd bumped into an acquaintance.
Thats exactly what happened.
Mum, you
I know how old I am, Jane.
Silence.
So what is this? Do you two just go on walks?
For now. Just walks.
For now, huh Jane repeated.
Margaret didnt explain. Some things are hard to elaborate, not for lack of words but because words fail. Any explanation would have felt either too momentous or too glib.
Her son, David, reacted differently. He lived in London with his wife and two children, called every fortnight, and when Margaret mentioned, quite offhand, that shed met someone, he paused
He all right?
Hes all right.
Good, then, David said, and that was that.
Margaret thought about both her children’s reactions afterwards. Which was better, she couldnt decidethe drama or the indifference.
***
The summer bloomed with a new rhythm. Nicholas visited York; she went down to Canterbury. They browsed markets, museums, had tea in cafés. One day he showed her his restoration workshop: a small place with tall windows, the scent of linseed oil and old wood. Painted icons or panels lined the walls, some blackened and shadowy, some already cleaned up, colours glowing once more.
Arent you afraid to handle something so old? she asked.
No. On the contrary. Its comforting to know it was here before youand will be after.
Do you believe in all that?
He paused.
I dont know what to call it, he admitted. I just feel it matters. Not because someone says it does.
Margaret looked at the icon he was restoring. The face was nearly cleared, luminous, serene.
My husband used to say all this was pointless, she blurted suddenly. The library club. Said it barely paiddidnt see the point.
And you?
I dont know. I told myself he was right. For years. Nearly until retirement.
Nicholas said nothingsimply looked at her. And it was enough.
That evening, they sat in his kitchen, drinking tea, and Margaret realised she hadn’t felt this content in ages. Her problems remained: Jane nearly stopped ringing if Margaret was away in Canterburya silent protest. And once, her granddaughter Sophie, aged eight, asked on the phone, Gran, when are you coming home?and her tone gave Margaret a little jab of guilt. Sharp, and familiar.
Still, right here, that pang faded into the background. Not disappeared, just lessened.
Have you thought of moving? Nicholas asked out of the blue.
Margaret looked up.
Where?
Here. Or somewhere new, perhapsjust moving for a change.
He spoke gently, staring into his mug.
Youre suggesting?
Not exactly. Just asking if youve ever thought about it.
Margaret considered.
No, she said. I mean not seriously. Ages ago, maybe. But it seemed impossible.
Why impossible?
The children. Grandchildren. The flat. My group, small as it is. Its all here.
Children are grown.
That doesnt change anything.
He nodded.
You’re right. Just asking.
Just asking, Margaret thought. But now the question wouldnt leave. These questions stay buried inside once asked.
***
In August, Jane arrived at Margarets for a visit. Not for a holiday, just came up with a hold-all and pursed lips one Saturday morning.
They sat drinking tea, Jane brooding at the window. Eventually, she broke the silence:
Are you serious about this?
About what?
Him. This. The lot of it.
I dont know, Margaret answered honestly.
Mum, dont you think its… a bit odd? At our age?
You mean your age or mine?
Our familys age. Dads still around”
Dads lived with another woman for nine years now, Jane.
That doesnt negate thirty years of marriage.
It actually does, Margaret said.
Jane set down her mug.
Have you thought what Sophie will think? What shell understand?
Shes eight.
Exactly. She understands everything.
Shell understand what we explain.
And what will we explain?
Margaret looked at her daughter. The resemblance to her father was startling therethe same decisive mouth and dark brows. As a child it had been endearing. Now Margaret saw something unidentifiable in it.
Well tell her Grans met a good man. Its enough.
And after?
Well see.
You always say well see when you dont want to talk.
No, Margaret protested. I say it when I genuinely dont know whats next. Its an honest answer.
Jane lingered at the window a long time. Then she said, in a near-whisper, almost kindly:
Im afraid youll regret it.
I might regret not doing it more.
Jane turned around.
Thats just philosophy. Doesnt make it any easier.
It doesnt make it easier for me either, Margaret said gently. But I live with it.
Jane left on the evening train. They hugged hard, as usual, and Margaret noticed something in the embracewarm and taut at once, as if neither wanted to let go, both afraid something would snap.
***
September arrived, cold and sharp. Margaret had officially retired six years ago, but the library club filled her days with purpose. The children came Tuesdays and Fridays, reading, drawing, acting out stories. It was a small room at the back of the library, with low shelves and threadbare cushions on the floor.
The librarian, Tamara Brown, sixty-five, had sussed out about Nicholas. She hadnt heard it from Margaret, just noticed she was different. More self-contained, focussed on herself (but not selfishly so).
Somethings going on with you, Tamara observed. Not as a question.
It is, Margaret admitted.
Good?
Im not sure yet.
Well, thats fine, Tamara smiled. At least somethings happening. You and I, were like rivers flowing without knowing our course.
Margaret laughed.
That month, Nicholas suggested a few days away in Oxfordan exhibit of ancient manuscripts he wanted to see. Margaret agreed. They booked separate bedrooms in a little B&B, wandered through the museums, strolled the streets at night. One night over dinner by the Thames, Nicholas said:
I want you to know something.
Yes?
Im not rushing you. Not pushing. If you feel pressured, its not coming from me.
Margaret looked at him.
I know.
I just want you to take that as the truth, not politeness. Im sixty-three. Im not a young lad waiting for some specific thing and getting sulky if it doesnt happen. Im just happy youre here.
She didnt reply right away. The dark river flowed outside the window, distant lights across the water.
Its hard to accept that, she eventually said.
Why?
Im used to peoples words carrying expectationdemands, unspoken rules.
Not here.
I know. But it takes getting used to.
He nodded. They finished their wine and walked the embankment. It was cold, so Margaret turned up her collar. He didnt take her arm; he just walked beside her. It felt right.
***
October brought the conversation Margaret had both dreaded and longed for.
She called Jane herself, and before Jane could interrupt, said:
I need to tell you something. Nicholas has asked me to move to Canterbury and live with him. Im thinking about it.
A long silence.
Youre serious.
Yes.
Youve only known each other seven months!
Eight.
Mum! Eight months! Do you get what that means?
I do. It means eight months.
Thats nothing! You know nothing about him.
I know enough.
What do you know? Jane’s voice quivered with incredulity. That you like him? That its nice being together? People change, Mum. Everything changes!
Jane.
What?
Your father changed too. We were married for thirty years.
Silence.
Thats not fair, Jane whispered.
I dont want to be unfair. I want honesty. With youand myself.
Later, David phoned, probably having heard from Jane.
Mum, do you actually want to move?
Im thinking about it.
Are his circumstances normal? Is he all right?
Hes a good man. Decent. His house is small but nice.
And your placewill you sell?
NoIll rent it.
And if you change your mind?
David.
What? I just want to know.
If it comes to that, Ill come home. But I dont want to live with ‘what ifs.’ Let me try, just for once, without that hovering.
Pause.
Go for it then, he said. Just keep in touch a bit more.
I will.
After they rang off, Margaret sat by the window for a long time. Outside, autumn drizzle streaked the glass, the lamplight swayed in the wind. She thought how, at sixty-one, this was the first truly independent decision of her life. Not because someone had left, or circumstance forced it. Simplybecause she wanted to.
A strange, almost alien feeling.
She picked up her phone and messaged Nicholas: Im thinking. Give me a bit more time.
He replied minutes later: Take as much time as you need.
***
Vera rang weekly and maintained diplomatic neutrality. She didnt say, Go for it, nor caution her against hurrying. She just asked about things, shared goat stories (she had finally bought one).
What have you called her? Margaret asked.
Prudence.
Seriously?
Of course. Shes very dignifieddeserved a proper name.
Vera, you are something else.
Is that good or bad?
Good. Definitely good.
Tell me honestly, Vera said once, if you were thirty, would you think this hard about it?
Whats age got to do with it?
Nothing. Or everything. I notice, as we get older, we ponder morecall it wisdom, but often its just fear hiding behind grown-up caution.
Youre as much a philosopher as Tamara.
Is that praise or fact?
Its fact.
Margaret hung up, mulling Veras words. Fear, disguised as wisdom. On the nose. In her youth, she hesitated for fear of mistakes. Later, she was more afraid of stalling, because failing to act is still a choice.
But this particular fear wasnt about Nicholas. It was about herself.
Shed been a wife, a mother, a teacher. When those roles faded, she wasnt sure who she really was.
The library groupshed chosen that. The first thing shed done just for herself in years.
Now, this.
***
Late October, Margaret received a call she never expected. Her former mother-in-law, Anne Smith, Johns mother. Eighty-two and living alone in York, Margaret sometimes visited her, out of habit and out of kindness.
Jane told me, Anne began without preamble.
Told you what?
About your friend. About you possibly moving.
Margaret said nothing.
And what do you think? she finally asked.
I think youve earned it, Anne said, matter-of-fact. My son never valued you. I saw that long ago, but didnt say a word. Im saying it now.
Anne
Dont interrupt. Im old enough to speak plainly. Go, if you want. The grandchildren will be fine. Janes cross because shes frightened of losing youthats not your job, being there for people who dont really see you anymore.
They do see me.
As Granny. As Mum. As the one forever there. Not as a person.
Margaret found no answer.
Exactly, said Anne. Go. And ring meIll be glad to hear.
Afterwards, Margaret stood at the kitchen window. Outside, the last leaves had fallen from the trees, branches bare and shaking in the wind.
She reflected on how people see you: Jane saw Mum who must remain close, David saw someone needing security. Tamara saw a capable colleague. Anne, unexpectedly, saw simply a person.
But Nicholashow did he see her?
She wasnt sure. But she felt he saw her as herselfnot a role, not a function. When hed met her at Canterbury market, it was without preconceptions, no history. Just a woman he recognised.
***
In November came the first snow, and a surprising conversation with Sophie.
Sophie rang herselfrare, as usually Jane would pass her the phone at the end of calls. This time, Sunday morning, a strange number flashed up.
Gran, its me.
Sophie? Where are you calling from?
Mums tablet. Gran, are you really moving?
Margaret sat down.
Did you overhear the grown-ups?
A bit. Mum was talking to Uncle David. Are you moving?
Im not sure yet, sweetheart.
If you do, will you still visit?
Of course.
Promise?
I promise.
Pause. Then, Sophie said: Gran, is it nice there?
Where?
Where you might go.
Very. White churches in the snow. And a river.
Like here?
Smaller.
Oh. Gran?
Yes?
Mum worries youll get ill there and well be too late.
Margaret felt a pain in her chest, sharper than she’d expected.
Tell her Im fine and plan to stay fine.
She knows. Shes just scared.
I know. Im scared too.
Of what?
Margaret considered.
Lots of things. But thats normaleveryones scared sometimes.
You always said even brave people are scared, they just do things anyway.
You remembered.
I remember everything, Sophie said, proudly. Id better go before Mum notices.
Sophie.
What?
I love you.
Me too. Bye.
***
Mid-November, Margaret went to Canterburynot for a weekend, but for a full week. She packed for a week, told Tamara Brown, and asked a neighbour to look after the post.
Nicholas met her at the station. He chattered about the roof he was restoring, while she watched the snowy fields rush by and thought how she’d taken the same road in March on her way to Vera. Full circle.
They shared his small housewooden floors, rattling windowpanes. Margaret cooked now and then; he did the cleaning. In the mornings, side-by-side over coffee in his little kitchen, snow falling sideways outside.
One evening, she asked, Is it strange for youliving together, even for a week? After all those years on your own?
He thought a moment.
I felt crowded when I lived a life I didn’t want. This is different.
How did you live differently?
Worked in construction for years, needed the money. One day I switched, trained in restoration. Late in lifeover forty. Everyone said it was foolish.
What did you think?
I went and learned. He smiled. My wife supported me. She was that kind of person.
Tell me about her, Margaret asked.
He fell quiet.
Anne. She was quiet. Not the silent typejust, she made things calmer when she entered a room.
You miss her.
I do. He said it simply, no drama. But it doesnt mean I cant look forward. Do you understand?
I do.
Is it the same for you?
Margaret thought of John, of the anxiousness shed felt with him, the image she missedone that may never have existed.
Its different. But its similar, I suppose.
They sat there. The silence was companionable.
***
On Thursday, the fifth day, Jane called.
Margaret stepped onto the porch. The snow had stopped; the sky was clear, flecks of starlight above.
Youre there? Jane asked.
Yes.
How long?
Till Sunday.
Silence.
Mum, can I ask you something? Honestly.
Go on.
Are you doing this to prove something? To us? Or yourself?
Margaret gazed at the stars.
Nonot to prove anything.
Then what?
I just want to live differently than before.
Was your old life so bad?
Not bad. Just not quite what I wanted.
So what was missing?
Margaret weighed the question. What had she lacked? Shed had a home, children, a job she liked, friends. No great misfortunes.
But there was always a sense of living slightly aside from yourselfas if your life was a neat, polished plan, ticking along well, except you yourself werent quite inside it.
Missing myself, she finally said.
Myselfwhat does that mean?
It means exactly that.
Jane was quiet for a while.
Will you be happy? she askednot sarcastically, not bitterly, just asking.
I dont know, Margaret replied. But I want to try.
All right, Jane said. All right.
Not acceptance. But neither was it outright resistance.
***
On Sunday, Margaret had packed, ready in the hallway, when Nicholas asked:
Have you decided?
Almost.
Almostis that a yes or no?
It means I just need a bit longer. Only a bit.
He nodded.
Youre afraid of making the wrong choice.
Yes.
May I say something?
Go ahead.
Mistakes come in two flavours. The ones you make and regretbut at least you know. And the ones you never make, so you never know. The second kind, to me, is worse.
Margaret stared at him.
Are you doing this on purpose?
Doing what?
Saying exactly what Im thinking, but can’t say out loud.
He laughed. His face was kind when he laughed.
No, not on purpose. It just comes out that way.
She returned home to York late that night. The flat greeted her with its usual silence, the familiar walls, the glow from the window across the street. She unpacked, put the kettle on, sat at the table.
A book lay open where shed left it. The bookmark stuck in halfway. She found the place, and reread a line shed surely read before, but only now understood: a person always carries loneliness with thembut its not a curse, just fact, to be handled differently by each.
She shut the book.
Then opened her phone, wrote to Nicholas: Ill come in January. For a while. Lets see.
He replied promptly: Waiting.
***
December passed in a strange limbo. Margaret continued helping at the library, running her club, visiting Anne Smith. Same things as always, only inside she felt changed. Something had been settled, something hadnt. Not anxiety, not contentmentsomething in between.
Jane rang at the start of December.
Have you changed your mind?
No.
Are you renting your flat, then?
Yes. The agents sorting it.
I see. Mum, can I ask?
Of course.
Do you think maybe it’s just you know, sometimes we convince ourselves the new thing is better, and then”
Jane.
What?
Im sixty-one. Not eighteen, prone to silly fantasies. Ive seen life. Ive things to compare.
Doesn’t mean youre safe from delusion.
No. But it helps.
What if hes not what you think?
Well, perhaps he wont be. Life is always ‘perhaps,’ Jane. Remember when you got married? Did you really know him for sure?
I was twenty-seven.
And?
Silence.
All right, Jane said at last. All right, Mum.
Can you help me pack when the time comes?
A long pause.
Of course, Jane said softly. I will.
***
Margaret spent New Years with Jane, Sophie, and her son-in-law Andrew. David came up from London with his wife and the kids. The table was crowded and noisy; children ran about, adults talking all at once.
Sophie parked herself next to Margaret and whispered trivia about every dish (Mum made this one herself; we bought this, but Mum pretends she cooked it).
Youre not meant to tell me these things.
Im not telling, just saying, Sophie corrected primly.
At midnight, as children dozed on the settee and adults nursed their drinks, Jane suddenly announced:
Mums moving to Canterbury. In January.
Neutraljust a statement.
Andrew nodded. David looked at Margaret.
For long? David asked.
Well see, said Margaret.
He grinned faintly.
Sophie stirred, half-awake.
Gran, are you going? she mumbled.
Yes, love.
Youll visit?
I promised.
Good, said Sophie, and drifted off.
Margaret studied her. There was lifea sleeping child, adult children with wineglasses, the old sofa she never chucked. And somewhere in another city, a man whod written: waiting.
***
On 15 January Margaret rang Tamara at the library.
Tamara, Im leaving the club.
Silence.
When?
February. Ill give you time to find someone new.
Youre moving?
Yes.
To where?
To Canterbury.
Oh. To him?
To him. And to myself.
Thats a good way to put it. Tamara nodded. Well find someone. Itll be hardyouve been wonderful. But we will.
Thank you.
Good luck. Real luck.
On her last club day the children gave her a giant card, each drawing something. The boy who wrote about book-windows drew a curtain-framed window and under it wrote: So you can look inside.
Margaret folded the card, put it in her bag.
***
On the twenty-third of January she arrived in Canterbury. Nicholas helped carry her cases. Hed cleared out a little room for her. A geranium sat on the window sill.
Where did this come from? she asked.
Bought it for you. Decided youd need a flower.
Good call.
She went to the window: the garden was blank under white snow, beyond the fence another plot, then rooftops.
So, what do you think? he asked.
I don’t know yet. Ask me in a month.
I will.
She turned round.
Nicholasthank you for not rushing me.
After a pause, he said, Thank you for coming.
***
Three months on, slow adjustment. Canterbury was small, which was good and challenging. Good for its peace; challenging because everyone knew everyone, and she, as the new face, attracted glances, cautious curiosity.
Vera introduced her to a few local women. One, Mrs. Newton, suggested Margaret help out at the local literature group at the community centre. About ten regulars, reading and discussing books.
Im not sure Im up to it, Margaret admitted.
Oh, don’t fret. Come try it. If you like it, great. If not, fine, Newton said.
Margaret tried it. She liked it.
She spoke to Jane weekly. Gradually, the questions shifted from how are you to include hows he? and hows the book group?an adjustment, slow and careful, like eyes to a new light.
Sophie wrote her a proper letter, in an envelope with a stamp. She drew two churches and a river, with a note: Gran, Ill visit you at half-term; Mum promised. P.S. Is Prudence really a goat? Vera told me.
Margaret wrote back, old-fashioned too.
***
One April evening, Jane finally came to visit. Alone, not with Sophie. She spent just a dayarrived by day train.
Entering the house, Jane looked around. Margaret watched as Jane took in the wooden floors, the geranium, the table by the window.
Nicholas brewed tea, then tactfully slipped off to the workshop.
They sat together.
Its nice here, Jane observed, her voice unsure.
Yes.
Small though.
But quiet.
Dont you miss York?
I do. Miss you, Tamara Brown, the riverside
And yet?
And yet.
Jane turned her mug.
Hes good? she asked. No undertone this time.
Yes.
Are you happy?
Margaret thought.
I dont know if thats the right word. But Im well. Truly well.
Jane nodded.
All right then.
All right means?
It just means all right. Jane looked up, her fathers eyes on her. Im still scared. For you. Maybe I always will be.
I know.
But I try. To understand.
Thats all I need.
They had tea. Jane chatted about Sophie, work, Andrew considering a new car. Plain conversation, no subtext.
Soon she had to leave. Margaret walked her out.
The April air was damp, fresh with earth. Trees unfurled pale green leaves.
Mum, Jane said at the gate.
Yes?
I dont fully understand any of this. Perhaps never will.
I know.
But you should know something.
What?
Jane paused. Then, in those familiar dark eyes, she said,
Youve always been there. Always. Ive taken it for grantedthat I can call and youd answer.
I always answer.
I know. Its just a different sort of distance now. It’ll take me time.
Youll get used to it.
Do you think so?
Margaret studied her daughterthe face she knew since birth, since that first day in hospital, when she, young and frightened, held that tiny bundle.
I do. You always adapt. Youre strong.
Not as strong as you.
Just as strong.
Jane smiled, a touch wry. Then hugged Margaret, tightly, as ever. They stood a while, wordless.
Then Jane hoisted her bag.
Ill call when Im back.
Ill be waiting.
Jane headed up the lane. Margaret watched: her stride straight, briskher father in her bearing.
Halfway up the street, Jane called back, Mum!
Yes?
Your geraniums flowering, saw it from the gate.
It is.
Good, Jane said, and walked on.
***
Margaret went inside. Nicholas already in the kitchen, reheating soup. She stood at the window; Jane was gone now. Down the street, an elderly woman trundled a shopping trolley, slowly.
The geranium shone pink.
All right? Nicholas asked, back turned.
All right, she answered.
A moment’s pause.
Shes a good soul, Margaret added. Just frightened.
I get it. Its hard on her too.
Yes.
Margaret stepped away from the window. She fetched crockery, laying the tableroutine now, after three months.
Nicholas, she said.
Yes?
Do you think this was rightwhat Ive done?
He turned and looked at her.
What do you think?
Margaret paused.
I thinkfor onceits mine. All mine.
There you go, he said. Youve answered yourself.
They had lunch. Outside, spring lingered, Canterbury hush blanketed by the last of the snow, new green pushing through.
Margaret watched, and thought: Here it was. Not happiness as an abstract, or a tidy solution as a result. Simply lunch. This window. This man, and feeling at ease.
Would it suffice? She didnt know.
But the soup was hot. The geranium bloomed. And deep in her bag, a card from an eight-year-old boy, with a windowthe kind you look through inside yourself.
***
In the evening, Sophie rang.
Gran, Mum says she visited you.
She did.
How did it go?
We had a nice talk.
She didnt cry?
No. Why?
She cries sometimes when she thinks I dont hear. About you.
Margaret closed her eyes.
Sophie.
Yes?
Tell your mum Ill come visit soon. Very soon.
All right. Gran?
Yes.
Is it spring yet with you?
Nearly. Some snow, but almost gone.
Its warm here! Funny, isnt it? Same country, different weather.
Its normal, love.
Gran, do you miss us?
Margaret looked out at the dusk, the first stars.
A lot, she said. Always.
Good, Sophie said, mollified. Missing means loving.
Margaret had no reply.
Bye, Gran.
Bye, love.
She put down the phone. Nicholas was washing up, humming. The geranium sat on the sill, dark in the twilight. A dog barked somewhere nearby, part of the new-normal in this homes hush.
Margaret sat and thought: Sophie was right. Missing meant lovingand maybe, the other way too. You love because you miss, and you miss because you love. Thats life, perhaps. Not picture-perfect, not neatly told in clever books. Just life, with all its distances and closeness, its tidy and untidy choices, which over time become simply yours.
She stood. And went to help with the washing up.
