Warm It Up Yourself
Evelyn Mayhew set down the pot of stew on the kitchen table and looked at her husband. Douglas Mayhew was already seated, hunched over his mobile as if it alone tethered him to the waking world. He didnt so much as flinch at the clatter of the pot.
No spoon, he said, eyes fixed on his screen.
Theyre in the holder, as always, Evelyn replied, voice caught somewhere between patience and something colder.
I see that. Pass it here.
Evelyn slid a spoon across to him, near the bowl. He said nothing. But thirty-one years of his silence had worn her down so thoroughly that only today, for some inexplicable reason, his lack of gratitude pierced like a tiny ice splinter. In that surreal kitchen haze, she imagined the world had stilled; the ticking clock warped into a faraway drum, each tick echoing in her ribcage.
This stews cold, Douglas grunted, setting his phone aside.
Its just come off the hob.
I said its cold. Or do you not trust what I say?
She said nothing. The window beckoned; the world outside was buried beneath a slow, majestic snowfall. December transformed their London street into a pale, silent corridorNew Years Eve snow always fell with quiet ceremony, or so it seemed to her.
Warm it up, would you? came Douglass voice, as if from a distant room.
Evelyn turned. Douglas was back to scrolling, the blue light illuminating the tired lines on his face.
You could pop it in the microwave yourself. Its only two minutespress start.
Silence fella dense, dreamlike pause. She heard the clock in the hallway, a glass clinking next door, a front door slamming somewhere on another floor.
What did you say? Douglass voice was brittle as if reality itself had cracked.
I said warm it up yourself. Button says start, two minutes. Easy.
He looked up at her with the wide-eyed incomprehension of someone told the ground had turned to clouds. Impossible, absurd, and yet unavoidable.
Evelyn.
Yes, Douglas?
Are you all right?
Perfectly fine.
He watched her with the proprietary gaze of a man checking his antique armchair for new blemishes.
Go on, then. Heat the stew.
She stood at the window a moment longer. Then she surrendered to habitturning, switching on the hob beneath the pot. In thirty-one years, habit had always bested a moments odd pain. She understood that. But the splinter inside her kept melting.
Theyd met when she was twenty-two, back at that small manufacturing firm in Readingshe in planning, Douglas a supervisor. Hed seemed tall, assured, carrying a smile that told the world he always knew what was best. Only too late did Evelyn realise his confidence was never about himself, but about his god-given right to decide things for others.
Three normal years, then their sonHarrywas born. Douglas quietly shifted the world onto her shoulders: child, house, meals, washing-up, both their parents, birthdays, illness, school meetings. He workedhis trump card, always. I slog all day, you want me to do the dishes too? Evelyn worked as well, but in the logic of their dream, her toil was the airnecessary, invisible.
She stopped calling it a marriage. It was just livinga parade of days spent boiling, cleaning, ironing, shopping, visiting his mother, picking up Harrys boy from nursery. Even so, shed carved out corners for herself: a book here, a chat with Frances in the evenings, when Douglas drifted away into television.
Frances had been her friend since school. Married late, at thirty-eight, to a widower with two children, turned out to be a good man. Evelyn envied her, not with bitterness, just a quiet ache. As one might envy someone who, by some gentle twist of luck, had managed what you could not.
How many times are you going to tell me about that stew? Frances would sigh on the phone. Fifth time this month.
Every times a new story.
No, Evelyn. Same story, different stew. Do you hear the difference?
Evelyn heard, but what could she do? At fifty-three, with thirty years training as toxic wife, as Frances called it, it was no simple matter to just live differently. Where would she go? To whom? Harry was married, had a flat, a life. This London flat belonged to her and Douglas, together. There was work, thoughbursar in a little construction company, respected by Mr. Paul, the director. Evelyn, all our accounts are on your shoulders, hed say, and it felt real.
But today something inside had shifteda bodily, weather-like premonition. The mornings river of melting ice had swollen by noon into a warm drop beneath her breastbone. A new warmth, frightening for being a stranger.
Harry rung after lunch.
Mum, are you coming round for New Years? His voice shimmered with static.
I dont know, love.
What do you mean? Its already New Years Eve. Sophies making trifle, therell be pies. Come over.
Ill talk to your dad.
Mum There was concern there, as if he wanted to ask even more. Are you all right?
Im fine.
Sure?
The snow outside remained impervious, falling with silent vigour.
Im sure, she said, and ended the call.
Douglas lay on the sofa, television mumbling about northern drizzle. Evelyn stood square in the lounge.
Harrys invited us for New Years.
Too far.
Forty minutes on the Tube.
Too late to come back.
We can stay over.
Where? On the floor? Archie sleeps on the camp bed.
They have a new chair-bed, Sophie said.
Im not going. My backs bad.
Evelyn nodded. Douglass back always ached when children or chores were involved. Not so with fishinghed disappear to Hampshire every summer, return upright, cheerful.
Fine. Ill go alone.
What?
I said, Ill go. You stay. Back and all.
Another glance, bewildereda cracked mask of outrage and confusion.
Alone? On New Years?
Yes. I want to see my son and grandson. You can come if you like.
She fetched her overnight bag, hands tremblingoddly, not from frailty, but something akin to resoluteness.
Evelyn, youve lost your mind?
He filled the doorway, arms folded like a barricade.
No, she replied, refusing to turn. Ive never been better.
Youre leaving, on New Years Eve? Alone?
Im going to see my son. Not quite the same. She faced himthirty-one years, and now the lines of care and, perhaps, an ownership where shed mistaken love. Today, an older man, aggrieved, accustomed to the world revolving for him.
Ill be back tomorrow, she said. Or the day after. Ive not decided.
She donned her coat, wrapped her scarf. Douglas muttered behind her: Selfishyour ageshamefulalways the way. She knew those words, backwards and forwards, like nursery rhymes that had lost meaning long ago.
She walked into the corridor.
Snow welcomed her like confetticrisp, scented with orange peel trailing from a neighbours bag. Evelyn turned her face skyward; snowflakes settled like blessings. She stood, doing nothing, for no one.
Frances answered on the third ring.
Evelyn? Whats happened?
Nothing. Im off to Harrys for New Years. Alone.
A pause, long and appraising.
Alone?
Douglas stayed. Bad back.
Evie, Francess voice suggested careful gladness. Evie, is it true?
It is.
Youre marvellous.
You talk as though Ive done something grand.
You have. Maybe you cant see it, but you have.
The Tube was crowded, packed with laughter and boxes, a dazzle of party hats; Evelyn watched and wondered when shed last cared for New Yearsa holiday that meant unending lists: shopping, recipes, guests, her husbands final barb before midnight.
Last year, Douglas had asked her friend Rose, Still didnt find a husband, Rose?smiling. Rose had tensed, the room had chilled. Evelyn had asked him not to joke so. Only a laugh, you lot need to lighten up!
His jokes curled like fistfuls of nettles, never laughter.
Sophie answered the door, flour on her hands, pretty eyes shining.
Mrs. Mayhew! How lovely! No Douglas?
Couldnt make it. Im alone.
A quick, searching look, then an embrace, warm, easy.
Do come in. Its all a bit of a muddle, but festive.
Archiefivehurtled down the hall, howled and leapt into her arms.
Gran! Grans here! I told Father Christmas youd come!
You did, Archie? What did you ask for?
A builders kit! With a motor! I wrote that I wanted you to come too, and here you are! Works, see?
She laughed, real laughter, not summoned for politeness but the bubbling sort, somehow misplaced these past years.
Harry emerged, tea towel over his shoulder.
Mum! Such a bear hug, just like in childhood. Tube all right?
Yes, its lovely seeing everyone all dressed up for once.
Cuppa? Sophie, whatll it be for Mum?
Coffee, please. Strong.
They sat sipping while Archie built vehicles from blocks. Harry kept stealing glances, much more sharply than usual.
Mum, are you going to be honest?
Archie, careful! Corner thereno running! She called, as the boy zoomed past.
Mum
Dont look at me as if you need to rescue me. I dont need managing, Harry.
He spun his cup.
I just want you happy.
I know.
Are you happy?
Evelyn stared out as snow thickened on the windowsill, a hush as heavy as a blanket.
Im thinking about it, she said at last. Thats something.
The evening sparkledreal for once. Sophie a dazzling host, pies to die for, recipe secretly noted. Archie conked out clutching his new building kit. At midnight they toasted with Bubbleshop, the supermarkets own fizz, and Evelyn made a wishher first in years to be entirely her own.
She returned home on the second. Harry and Sophie asked her to stay on, Archie wept she should live with them forever. But she returnedno use fleeing life, only shaping it.
Douglas met her the way a housecat might meet the postman.
Youre back.
Yes. It went well.
How am I? Alone at New Year. Thats how.
I did invite you.
My back.
I recall.
She unpacked her bag, hung her coat. He watched.
Not going to apologise?
She turned slowly.
For what?
For leaving your husband alone at New Year.
You chose it. Im not apologising for your choices.
He gaped. Whats happening to you?
Me? I think its just New Year. Arrived late, perhaps.
Through Januaryslow as a rainstormEvelyn mulled over the past. Never one for drama, shed always rolled each thought over like the first stone found in a river. The revelation: shed spent thirty-one years beside a man who never respected her. Not by malice, but by convictionenough to provide, clothe, house. The rest, just poetry.
Had she asked for respect? Voiced needs? No. She remained silent, building silent walls to contain everything unspoken. Quelling the urge to make a fuss. Enduringher own badge of honour, unasked-for.
Whod told her to live this way? No one. Yet it hung, aroma-like, in every word from her motherFamily is everything,from her mother-in-lawLook after your husbandand the next-door neighbourDont wash your dirty laundry in public. Behind these adages, shed built walls even she no longer understood.
Now, cracks began to web the walls. Quiet, melting, like spring frost on Oxford Street.
On the 8th of January, Frances called.
Evie, let me tell you something. Remember Patricia Dawson? Tall, red hair.
Patricia from Oak Terrace? Of course.
Left her husband at fifty-six. Got a flat, works in a florists, now does wedding arrangements. She told me, Frances, I wish Id done it sooner. Only the things that should crumble did.
Evelyn listened.
Did you hear that? asked Frances.
Yes.
Im not telling you what to do. Just saying: you deserve better. You know that?
I do. Knowing and feeling, thoughnot the same.
Start to feel it.
Easier said. Harder with Douglas parked at the kitchen table daily, phone in hand, Whats for supper? his only greeting.
Yet things shifted. When Douglas passed a hurtful comment, she no longer fled to the kitchen. She stayed. Looked straight at himnot confronting, simply present. More often than not, he fell mute midway.
One night:
Youre acting strange.
How so?
You look at medifferent.
How?
Unpleasant.
Unpleasant to be looked at?
Not like that. Itsdifferent.
Douglas, maybe youre just not used to me looking.
Nothing. He cleared away his plate. TV blared afterwards.
Mid-January, something odd at work. Mr. Paul summoned her in: company expanding, a new office to open in Islington. He wanted her as chief accountant therewith higher pay, flexible hours.
Evelyn, youre our best. I mean that.
She sat, something inside her rising up, as if shed slouched for years and suddenly straightened her spine.
When must I decide?
A week. But I hope youll say yes.
At home, she mulled it over, then finally called Frances.
Ive been offered a promotion.
Frances bright as bells. Thats fantastic!
Im still thinking.
What is there to think about?
Douglas will kick up a fuss. Its a new schedule, different area.
Do you need his permission?
A long, windblown pause.
NoI suppose I dont.
There you go! Youve worked harddont throw it away for his convenience.
The following day, Evelyn texted Mr. Paul: I accept. Thank you for trusting me. Then boiled a compote for Archies visit.
Over dinner, she told Douglas:
Ive got news. Im chief accountant at the new Islington office.
Is it far?
Forty minutes.
Why bother at your age?
More responsibility, better pay, new challenges.
You already earn enough.
Now, Ill earn more.
He peered at her.
Wholl sort my lunch?
She paused, weighing words.
Douglas, youre fifty-eight. A grown man. You can sort your own lunch.
I cant cook.
Its not fate. You just never tried. You can learn.
Evelyn!
Im taking the job. Thats decided.
He retreated to the lounge. TV volume up. Evelyn washed up, prepared compote, hung out towels, then stepped onto the cold balcony. She thought of Patricia arranging flowers, Francess husband presenting that ridiculous bouquet at her birthday. Shed wept the whole drive home; when Douglas had asked, she lied: Just tired. Hed nodded, nothing more.
February brought surprise: searching for invoice files, Evelyn found a yellowed envelope. Douglass handwriting. April, long ago, Harry a child.
She hesitated. Read it in the end. Not to herbut Helen, someone, somewhere. Just a handful of lines, honest, personal. Douglas wrote: how he felt about Helen, how things at home were tangled, how with her, the sun came out.
Sitting on the bedroom carpet, holding the letter, Evelyn didnt cry. First: So it was then. Then: How much time Ive lost. Then: Not lost. Built somethingHarry, a life, a bit of me.
She restored it, washed her face, regarded herself in the mirror. Calm-grey eyes. Lately, shed begun to recognise them as her own.
That evening, Frances rung.
You okay?
I found something. An old letter.
A letter?
Not to me.
Pause.
Evie
Dont. Its fine. Ive realised somethingtheres no need to wait for an excuse. The right to your own lifethat just is. No evidence needed.
So youve decided?
Im thinkingjust now, in a new direction.
Frances, gentle: Whatever you decide, Im here.
March brought the new job. The staff at Islington were few and kind. Especially Mrs. Whitfield from HRa gentle, older woman, always with a smile and a cheery hello. On day one she brought a mug of tea, said, Let me show you where everything is.
The work was harder, and that was good. Reports, spreadsheets, phone calls, puzzlesher mind stirred, not emptied. Coming home, tired, she felt alive.
Douglas never warmed to her new work. Your job, hed say, as if it were a parrot or pet rock. She now knew to keep his world and her own quite apartseparate and independent, like the river from its banks.
AprilHarrys birthday, gathered at his flat: Sophie, Archie, a few friends. Douglas came too, withdrawn and stiff, slipping out early.
One of Harrys friendsMarcussat next to Evelyn, speaking of work restoring old houses. The ones with cracked façadesyou think theyre finished, but the beams inside are solid. Its the ones that look sturdy outside that are sometimes rotten. She thought: People, too.
When Harry hugged her goodbye, he said, You had a good time, Mum?
Yes. Truthfully.
He squeezed her. Anytime you need anythinganything at all, me and Sophiewere here, okay?
She promised. I know, love.
In May, Mrs. Whitfield phoned. Sorry to intrude, but have you thoughtabout living alone?
Evelyn nearly dropped her phone.
Why ask?
Ive gone through it myself. Left my husband at fifty-one. Got a little place. A shock at first. But in time it feelsright.
They talked for an hour. Mrs. Whitfields story was calm, honest. Im not suggesting you do the same, justfreedom gets easier.
That night, as the blue dusk settled over her kitchen, Evelyn looked at listingsjust out of curiosity. Her new salary could support it. She wrote lists: what kept her; what set her free. Under keeps, three things. Under releases? One, in careful, neat script: Fear.
She lived with the word for weeks, flattening it, studying it from all angles. Fear of whatjudgement? Whose? Neighbours? Late mother-in-law? Acquaintances who hadnt spoken in years? Fear of loneliness? But she was already alone. Thirty-one years in a flat with a man who saw right through herthe loneliest of all.
In the end, the fear was just habit. Habit of believing she could notor must not. That everyone lives like this.
But not everyone. Patricia wasnt living this way now. Mrs. Whitfield wasnt. Frances wasnt. They lived differently.
June 16th. Evelyn dialed about a flat. One-bed, third floor, sunlit, walking distance to her new office. The ownera tidy, pleasant Mrs. Antoniamet her with plain talk and a smile.
You work?
Im chief accountant.
Pets?
No.
Quiet?
I live like mist, Evelyn said, and laughed, surprised by her own poetry.
Youll take it?
I will.
She rode back on the bus through the lush dreaming London. Trees spilled green over pavements; somewhere, children sold ice-cream. She held the flat key. It felt monumentala pebble to build a new world on.
That evening, she told Douglas simply:
Douglas, Ive rented a flat. Ill be living on my own.
He stared at her, as if words had gone and lost all meaning.
What?
Im leaving. Ive tired of our life. Not of you, just the coldno respect, no warmth, no talk. I want something different.
Youve found someone? The inevitable, required question.
No. I found myselfat last.
Ridiculous.
Perhaps. Ridiculously mine.
Youre fifty-three, Evelyn.
I know my age quite perfectly.
Itsnot serious.
Its utterly serious.
What will people say?
Ive thought of that. It wont stop me.
He looked at her, long and long. Then, in a small voice:
Its about the letter, isnt it.
You noticed it?
I saw it was moved.
No. Not the letter. The letter only made clear what I already knew. This isnt about you. Its about me.
She slept alone that night, hearing him clatter and shuffle deliberately in the kitchen. The air filled with endings.
She moved in steps; Harry helped haul boxes, Sophie arrived with Archie in tow.
Gran, theres a balcony!
Yes.
Can we grow flowers?
We can.
Ill get you a little plantmy present.
Mrs. Whitfield arrived that evening with a homemade strawberry shortcake, declaring softly, To your new life, Evelyn.
It wasnt grand, just honest and kind. Still, Evelyns chest ached sweetly.
They sat late with tea, talking of everything: work, the city, Mrs. Whitfields distant daughter, Archies latest projects. An ordinary night. Two women, a small flat, strawberry cake, proper tea.
Once alone, Evelyn curled on her new settee, under her own blanket, and listened to the silenceher silence, no longer tense or bracing, but gentle, soothing.
She slept deeply, dreamless.
August settled hot and full. She knew her way around work, the nearest newsagent, even which cleaner to trust. In the evenings shed wander to the small park and sit on a benchwatching children, occasional dogs, and thinking of nothing at all, as though she were gently floating.
Douglas rang at the end of August.
Harry says youve landed on your feet.
Im fine.
Pays good?
Enough.
Maybe we could talk?
About?
Wellus.
Evelyn gazed at the wind in the parks poplars.
Douglas, theres no us anymore. Surely you see?
I do. But perhaps
No, she said, gently. Not perhaps. Im not coming back.
Why?
Because I wasnt happy there.
And here?
Here Im learning. Different thing.
He paused. Youve changed.
Yes.
A lot.
Thank goodness.
A few more calls, growing less frequent. She answered if she wished. The right to chooseonce unimaginablewas now hers.
Autumn. Patricia rung, courtesy of Frances. They met for coffee. Patricia, in a cobalt coat, radiated not wild delight, but steadiness. They talked for hours: first months alone, the strange hours, sudden humming on a bus. I hadnt sung in years. But one day, justthere I was. Thats how it happens.
Do you regret it? Any of it?
Only not leaving sooner.
Scared?
Oh yes. But its only scary till its done. Once youve leapt, the fear goes. Because the worst already happenedand nothing at all fell apart.
Evelyn turned these words over again, later, staring through her small London window. Nothing fell apart. Harry was close; Archie called to say, Gran, I miss you! Her job suited her. Friendsreal friendssurrounded her.
And something elsea feeling unnamed. That she sat, truly, in her own life. Not as guest or servant or afterthoughtbut as Evelyn Mayhew. Fifty-three, chief accountant, mother, gran, person.
She marked New Years twice: first with Harry, Sophie, and Archie, with trifle and pies and delighted talk of tiny motors, then at her own flat, hosting Frances and her husband, Mrs. Whitfield, and Patricia in another bright coat. Tea, laughter, no shadowed remember whensjust chosen company and music humming low.
At midnight, glasses raised, Evelyn made another wish. She didnt say it aloud. This time, it wasnt hope or entreaty, but a gentle affirmation: I continue.
Mid-January, in the newborn year, the phone rang. Not an in-law now, just Gwendoline, Douglass mother, living with a distant cousin outside London. Thered never been true closeness, but habits of courtesy endured.
Evelyn, the voice quivered with age and something like relief. Douglas told me.
All right.
I want you to know: you did the right thing.
She listened.
I should have said so long ago. I saw how he treated you. I was silent; mothers stay silent for their sons. I regret it.
Gwen
No, dont interrupt. Youre a good woman. Always were. You deserve happiness. Age has nothing to do with it. Im near ninety, and still, I wake hopeful, if theres one speck of joy to find. Dont go burying yourself alive, do you hear?
I hear, said Evelynher throat tight.
Good. Ring me sometimes, just for a natter.
I will.
Thats a promise?
Promise.
She set down the phone and, with a startled giggle, wondered at the strangeness of the universe: that the world might put comfort in the last place youd expect.
Late February, Harry visited alone, bringing something delicious from the shop. They drank tea, talked school admissions for Archiewho was outwardly calm, inwardly a tremor of nerves.
Mum, Harry said at the doorway, You look well. Different.
Better or worse?
Much better. Likeyouve clicked on, somehow.
Id been switched off a long time.
Im sorry. I should have seen, asked more. Thought all was fine because you carried on. I never thought to question whether you were happy.
Harry. She smiled. People see what they can. You couldnt have seen what I kept hidden. Youre a good son. Always.
He hugged her. Left.
Evelyn stood a full minute at the door, then returned for another cup of tea. The snow, again, fanned across the windowheavy, persistent.
She thought of last New Years Eve, standing at a different window. The first crack in the ice.
Now, all that had melted. Water to wash her face, to quench her thirst, to flow on and onnever still.
A week later, Douglas called.
Evelyn?
Yes.
Been to the doctor. Nothing muchjust high blood pressure. Got to watch my diet.
Thats good you checked.
Youd have reminded me.
Douglas.
Yes?
You remind yourself now. Thats as it should be.
Pause.
So, you really wont come back?
No.
And youre all right?
Evelyn looked out. Snow still fallingcalm, patient, Decembers gift.
Yes. Im quite all right. Dont worry.
Im not just asking.
I know.
He hesitated, then in a voice caught somewhere between echo and confession:
I know Im to blame.
Evelyn waited, choosing her words not out of malice or comfort, just for truth.
Douglas, I dont hold any bitterness. We had a long life, a shared life. But it wasnt the life I wanted. And maybeit wasnt what you wanted either. Only you can know that.
Im thinking about that, he said.
Thats good, she replied. It helps.
She put the phone down, set the kettle on, and picked up the small, bright key from her shelfjust a key, though somehow, in the bright unreality of the dream, the only real thing there was.
