Three New Keys
“Why do you look so peaky? Or are you back on one of your diets?” My mother-in-laws voice echoed through the hallway before shed even said hello.
I was standing over the hob in my tattiest dressing gown, stirring porridge and daydreaming about my Saturday, finallyall mine. Gen had taken off fishing with Colin from next door and promised to be back for dinner. I’d already laid out the day in my mind: breakfast in peaceful silence, a stroll around the park, then curling up with a book and ignoring the ticking of the clock. Splendid. Such days came up as often as a full English in my kitchenalmost never.
And now this.
I turned around. Valerie Price had already made it to the kitchen, peeling off her coat and slinging it over a chair without so much as a backward glance; it promptly slid to the floor, but she didnt notice.
“Morning, Mrs. Price,” I said, keeping my voice levelsomething Id practised for years.
“Yes, yes. Wheres Gen?”
“Fishing.”
She stopped in the middle of the kitchen and stared at me like Id just shared some wild news.
“Fishing? Gen never said a word to me.”
“Probably slipped his mind,” I replied, turning back to the hob.
The porridge bubbled away. I turned down the heat. The sky outside, all washed-out October grey, promised stillness. Not even the wind bothered to show up that morning. Half an hour earlier, Id been planning to go out for a walk, to enjoy the leaf-scented air. Now I just watched the porridge, feeling the days promise twisting away from me.
Valerie picked her coat off the floor, hung it on the hook, then came to the table. She rummaged in her handbag and produced a bulging carrier bag with the air of a magician revealing her latest act.
“I baked a load of pasties. With cabbage. Gen loves those with cabbage.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You could at least try one, dont look so disgusted in advance.”
I wasnt disgusted. I wasnt doing much of anything, really, other than standing with my back to her, spooning porridge into a bowl. My hands might have looked serene, but underneath I felt like a coiled spring. On the surface? Calm. Seven years training.
“Come, have breakfast with me,” I said. Politeness on autopilot, like breathing.
“Ive already had mine. Cup of tea will do, thanks.”
I flicked on the kettle and sat down across from her, attacking my porridge as if it could save me. Valerie Price watched my bowl with a look of supreme disdain.
“Is that it? Porridge on water?”
“Milk, actually.”
“Not much better. Did Gen at least have eggs before he left?”
“I wouldnt know, Mrs. Price. He went at six. I was asleep.”
She clucked her tongue. That little head shake, so familiar now, meant: imagine, a wife who snoozes while her husband leaves hungry.
I watched a pigeon strut along the windowsill outside, poking at crumbsliving its own life.
“You really ought to switch those curtains,” said Valerie, surveying the kitchen like she was on House Doctor. “Theyve gone a bit grey.”
“I like them.”
“Oh, you do? Gen said he wants new ones as well.”
Gen never said any such thingto me, anyway. Perhaps to her, sharing in those whispered mother-son conferences about me and our flatthe kind I was never part of and, if I was honest, never missed.
The kettle boiled. I made her tea, put a mug and the sugar bowl in front of her. She nodded her approval.
“Thank you,” she said. Teaspoon clinking. “Do ring Gen and let him know Im here for him.”
“Hes fishing, Mrs. Price. No signal on the river.”
“No signal? Where has he gone, the back of beyond?”
“He said so himself.”
She drew her lips tight, sipped her tea, and eyed her bag.
“Get me a nice plate for these, would you? Ill make it look presentable.”
I fetched a serving plate. She began arranging the pasties with military precision. They were golden and fat, wafting the smell of cabbage and pastry. At another time, with a different mood, I might have grabbed one. Today, I just watched.
“Tell me,” said Valerie, still lining up her pasties like soldiers. “Do you and Gen ever talk, actually talk?”
“We talk.”
“He rings me every day. Tells me everything. You, though, quiet as a mouse.”
“What sort of things does he tell you?”
She paused, then went back to work. “Oh, this and that. Says hes tired. Tense at home.”
I set my spoon down.
“Tense,” I echoed. Not as a question, just saying it aloud.
“Well, you know. Some tension. I can always tell.”
“You can tell, coming round all of twice a month.”
“Im his mother. I feel it.”
I took my bowl to the sink and stared out the window a while. Down below, a man walked his little ginger dog, ambling along as the dog drag-hunted for something secret in the grass. Serene, really.
“Isobel,” said Valerie Price.
“Yes?”
“Youre not upset, are you?”
I turned back. That looka masterclass in maternal expectation. Not guilt; no, she waited for the polite phrase: No, of course not, everythings fine. So the performance could continue.
“No,” I replied. “Not upset.”
Satisfied, she sipped her tea. “Good. Im not your enemy, dear. I just want the best for you both.”
“I know.”
I was forty-eight. Gen was fifty-one. His mother, seventy-three. Wed been married seven yearsa second go for both of us. I used to believe that with a second marriage people were wiser, more capable of negotiation, of knowing boundaries. Turns out, that all depends on the people involved.
Valerie Price finished her tea and stood.
“Show me what youve got in the fridge.”
“What for?”
She was already halfway there.
“Need to see what I can make for Gen when he gets back. Fishing always makes men famished.”
“Mrs. Price”
“Yes?”
I hesitated. “Ill cook dinner myself.”
She paused, hand on the fridge door, surprise flickering across her face.
“Isobel, Im only trying to help.”
“I know. But I can manage.”
“You always say that. But I can see how you two eatGens nearly faded away.”
“Gen eats what he pleases.”
“Hes a man; hell never cook for himself.”
“Hes not alone here.”
We looked at each other, the fridge between us and two metres of battle-worn linoleum I’d once picked out with Gen, choosing beige because he agreed to anything back then. Now, she told me it should be replaced, the edges curling at the threshold.
“Fine,” she said, after a pause. “Suit yourself.”
I exhaledI hoped she was about to leave.
“Ill just wait here for Gen,” she announced, unfurling a ball of yarn and knitting needles. She planted herself at the kitchen table, a woman with nowhere pressing to be.
I watched her: knitting needles flicking, grey yarn unspooling beside a plate of pasties, coat once again draped over the dining chair. I made my own mug of tea and retreated to the living room.
I curled on the sofa, feet tucked beneath me, and stared at a little landscape print Id picked up at Walthamstow marketa riverbank, meadow, an old willow tree: restful. I adored that painting.
The click-clack of knitting needles floated in from the kitchen.
I texted my friend Jo: Shes here again. Jo replied in a minute: No warning? Me: Shes got keys. Jo sent a rolling-eyes emoji. Isobel, how long can you put up with this? Will you ever talk to Gen about it?
I put my phone away.
I had talked. Not just once. The first time, two years in, when I noticed Valerie wasnt visiting usshe was visiting Gen, in the flat that was his before I turned up. Gen, you need to warn me, Id said. He shrugged. Shes my mum, its how she is. But this is our home. Well, so let her come. She cant just barge in. Youre overreacting.
The second conversation, she rearranged all the spice jars and declared it made sense her way. I came home, stared at the shelf, and felt oddly violated. It was my shelf. I knew where everything lived. Now I didn’t.
Gen said, But you can just move them back. “It’s not about the spices.” “Then what?” I couldn’t explain in a way hed accept. Or I was out of will to try.
The third conversation: she cleaned the whole flat, top to bottom, while I was out. Whos annoyed when someone cleans their flat? Wellme, apparently. It meant she could enter without warning. Shed been in our bedroom. Seen my things, my bookshelf, my slippers. She might have stood there and thought whatever she liked.
Gen said, She was just helping. I said, The point is, she has a key. Its my flat. I live here too. I dont know what you want.
That stuck with me. I dont know what you want. Seven years on.
From the kitchen, I heard the sink running, the fridge opening, the rustle of her plastic bag.
I got up and went to the kitchen.
Valerie was dicing onions.
“What are you doing?”
“Making stew. Gen adores my beef stew.”
“Mrs. Price. I asked you not to touch the food.”
“Isobel, its only stew! What harm?”
“I decide what gets cooked in my kitchen.”
She laid down her knife, silent.
“In yours,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Well, well.” She picked up an onion again. “Fine.”
The knife started up again, methodical, determined, as if I hadnt said a word.
I took the chopping board from her. The onion rolled onto the table, half-done.
“Please, dont.”
We stood there, too close for comfort. I saw the lines on her forehead, the tightness in her mouth, the sharp spark in her eyes.
“Youre forbidding me to cook?”
“Im asking you to respect my home too.”
“Gens home. He grew up here.”
“Gens been grown up a long time. And Ive lived here for seven years.”
She took the board back, tidy but firm, and set it on the table.
“Ill talk to Gen,” she said.
“You do that.”
“Youre being very rude.”
“Im asking for some respect.”
“Oh, listen to you, all these new-fangled words. Learned that off the telly, did you?”
I moved away, finished with the debate. The pigeon had disappeared, the man and his dog too. The courtyard below was empty, yellow leaves sliding down the wet tarmac.
“Isobel,” she said, softening. “Dont get angry, Im just trying to help.”
“I know.”
“Gen looks half alive without real food. You work all the time, you can’t keep up.”
“I manage.”
“If you say so. Let me help.”
She resumed chopping. She had a remarkable talent for hearing exactly what she wanted, and ignoring the rest.
I left the kitchen, closing myself in the bedroom. I tried, and failed, to read. Called Jo.
“Shes making stew,” I said.
“In your kitchen?”
“In my kitchen, yes.”
“Isobel.”
“Yes?”
“You have to talk with Gen today. Not next time. Today.”
“I have talked.”
No. Youve hinted. Its not the same.
I was silent. Jo was right, of course. Shed known me twenty years, often better than I knew myself. Shed been saying it for ages: stop hinting, say it flat-out. But out-loud honesty is terrifyingnot because I was frightened of Gen. He wasnt harsh. He just stuck to the script, loved his mum, hated drama, and so, ignored everything with conflict printed on it.
Jo called it, infantile. Took me years to use the word myself.
“Ill talk,” I promised.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Ring me after.”
I put my phone away, lay on the bed, stared at the white ceiling and the familiar tiny crack by the cornice. Classic Isobel.
Two hours later, I tidied myself up and returned to the kitchen. Valerie had laid the table for three, the plate of pasties, bread, the stew bubbling.
“Sit down, eat. Its ready.”
“Thank you. Ill eat later.”
“Itll get cold.”
“Ill warm it up.”
She looked properly wounded.
“Isobel, whats wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“No, something. Youve been sulking all day. What have I done now?”
I fetched some water.
“Mrs. Price,” I said, “lets be honest.”
“Go on then.”
“You let yourself in, without warning, every time. Because you have keys. I feel it, all the time: coming home, wondering if youll be hereor if youve already been.”
“So what? Im family.”
“Youre family to Gen. To me, youre my mother-in-law. Slightly different.”
She sat up.
“Different? Were a family.”
“Family talks things through. Family warns each other when they visit. Family asks if its convenient.”
“So I have to ask permission to see my son?”
Here we were. Permission. The word always reared up like a pantomime villain.
“Phoning just to say, Hi Isobel, Id like to stop by Saturday, can I?thats not humiliating. Its polite.”
“Im here for my son!”
“Who isnt even in. And I live here too. Id just like to know whos coming home.”
She stood, tidied her plate, grabbed her bag. As she fumbled with her coat, I noticed her hands were shakingnot out of weakness, but insult.
“Fine,” she said. “Just fine.”
“Mrs. Price, I dont want a row.”
Im listening.
“I want us to get along.”
“Being polite means asking you first?”
“Just a calls enough, yes.”
She buttoned her coat, holding a bag with a couple of pasties left.
“Stews on the hob,” she said at the door. “You can bin the rest.”
She closed it quietly; somehow, that made it worse.
I sat in the kitchen, alone. The stew really was aromatic, damn her. I dished up a bowl, ate in silence, watching the clouds outside roll over the city. Good stew, I’ll grant her that.
Then I washed up, shifted the saucepan, covered the pasties against drying out.
Texted Jo: We talked.
Jo: And?
Me: She left in a huff.
Jo: Thats her prerogative. You did right.
I put my phone down, thinking about what needed to be explained later. Gen would come home to stew and pasties, ask what happened. Thered be one of those long, looping conversations where hed say, Why did you do that? and Id reply, How did I do it, exactly? Hed say, She just wants to help, and Id say, I know. And then, So whats the problem?
I got my book and went to the living room. This time, I could read. Silence is a wonderful editor.
Gen rocked up at seven. I heard fiddling with the keys, a dull thudprobably the fishing gearthen his boots on the kitchen tile.
“Ooh, stew! Mums been?” he called.
I appeared from the lounge.
“She came round. Sit down, Ill dish you up.”
He hung his jacket, beaming at the saucepan. Gen was a heavy-set, ruddy-faced man with a capacity for happiness as broad as his appetite. Cloud passed over, hed sulk spectacularly. Id watched him for seven years, seen his daily habitsclockwork, including the sacred call to Valerie at precisely half past eight.
I ladled out the stew. He already had a pasty, delighted.
“With cabbage. Did you try one?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Good.”
He tucked in, narrating the rivers glories, Colins epic catch (a bream, naturally), the divine air, positively exhilarating. I nodded, sipped my tea, and waited.
“Mum seemed a bit upset?” he ventured, cleaning his plate.
“A little,” I said.
“Did you talk with her?”
“I did. Gen, we need to talk.”
He stilled, instantly stiff.
“About?”
“The keys.”
He paused.
“Isobel”
“Gen, I want you to ask your mum for her keys back.”
“Shes my mum.”
“And thats exactly why she can call before she comes. Its normal. Its respectful. Its what families do.”
“She just visits.”
“She comes unannounced, goes in our bedroom, moves things around, cooks things I didnt ask for.”
“Its only food. Whats the harm?”
“Gen” I paused, steeled myself. “Please hear me. I dont feel this is my home. Im always waiting for her to show up. I check the cupboards in case somethings moved. Its exhausting.”
He sat back, arms folded.
“Youre overreacting.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you always react like this. Mum helps out and you”
“I what?”
“You make a production out of it.”
“She lets herself in, rearranges, and cooks in my kitchen. Thats not a production, Gen, thats a pattern.”
He sighed, annoyed. “What do you want? Forbid her to visit?”
“Ask her to ring ahead.”
“Shes old. Set in her ways.”
“Shes seventy-three, not a relic. She can use a phone.”
“You want her keys?”
“Yes. I politely ask.”
He stood, poured some water, and glared out the window.
“She’s been alone since Dad died eight years ago. Aside from me, shes got no one.”
“I know.”
“The keys make her feel, well, safe. Not quite so alone.”
“There are other ways to reach out, Gen. Phone calls. Visitswhen invited. A second set of keys isn’t about not being lonely, its about control.”
“My flat,” he retorted.
Yes, the final chess move, always kept in reserve. My flat.
“Yes, your flat,” I said quietly.
We were silent.
“I wont ask her for the keys,” he decided.
“Alright,” I said.
“Youre okay with that?”
“Now I know.”
“Issy, come on.”
“What?”
“This coldness.”
“Its not coldness. I understand now.”
“Understand what?”
I stood, mug in hand.
“That youve made your choice,” I said.
“I havent chosen! I just wont upset my mum.”
“Youll upset me, though.”
“No ones upsetting you.”
“Gen,” I said from the doorway, “have you ever asked herhonestlyhow it feels, living in a place where someone might walk in at any moment, with their own key? No. Because you know the answer, and its inconvenient.”
I left him there. He didnt follow.
I sat on the sofa, listened to him pacing about, then calling his mummurmuring in undertones, Dont you worry, Mum Isobels justwell, you know Of course, come by whenever you like
Of course, come whenever.
Something settled in my chesta silence, not pain. Just quiet. Like a room after you switch off the light.
He came through.
“Issy.”
“Yes?”
“Lets not do this.”
“Do what?”
“Thisthis silence.”
He perched beside me. I didnt shift.
“You called your mum?”
“Had to. She was upset.”
“I see.”
“I do get you feel awkward. I do. But could you be kinder? She is on her own.”
“Gen, Ive tried kindness for six years. I kept telling myself it was nothing, she means well. I put up, I compromised. But here we are. She still arrives unannounced, still takes over my kitchen, still complains its tense here. And you tell her, every time, Of course, come whenever you like.”
He took his hand away.
“You wont make an effort.”
“Im exhausted making all the effort.”
“So thats it? Divorce?”
He said it almost cheerfully, perhaps hoping shock would snap me back to sense. I let silence answer.
“Issy. I’m asking you.”
“I heard.”
“And?”
“I wont answer if you make it a threat.”
“Its not”
“Of course it is. You want me to beg you not to, so we drop the subject and keep on as always.”
He sighed and turned away. “You make everything so complicated.”
“Maybe.”
“Over keys.”
“Its not about keys, Gen. Its about what the keys represent. But you dont want to talk about that.”
“Im talking now, arent I?”
“No, youre telling me why I should shut up.”
“I’m out of ideas, Isobel. I don’t know what you want from me.”
Seven years. Here we were again.
I grabbed my purse and coat.
“Where are you off?”
“Just for a walk.”
“Issy”
“I need air.”
It was dark outside, lamplight casting greasy shadows over sodden leaves. I wandered aimlessly, not toward home. For once, I didnt want to returnnot because of an argument with Gen, or even Valerie, but because home wasnt home anymore. Not proper home.
I paused near a bench, didnt sittoo wetand watched the trees carry on with their business. I texted Jo: He told his mum to come whenever she likes.
Jo rang almost at once.
“Go on,” she prompted.
I summarised, short and to the point. She listened.
“Issy,” she said, “Ill be straight. It’ll probably sting. Youre living in his flat. That matters. As long as it’s his, youll always be a guestlong term, maybe, but still a guest.”
“I get it.”
“Im not sure you do. If you did, youd have changed things by now. He’ll never take her keys. Because its not about her, its about the flat. About which of you belongs.”
“I hear you.”
“Sowhat will you do?”
“I dont know. Not yet.”
“Dont rush. Just think.”
I left the park, drifted through the next street, found myself outside the hardware shop, just as they were closing. I drifted in, letting my mind wander. Half wondering what had brought me, I found myself in front of the locked display.
Door locks. A display of them, gleaming in their packets. I picked one up, weighed it in my hand. Put it back.
Chose another. Solid, three keys. Checked the priceaffordable.
I stood there a few minutes, the bloke behind the counter barely glancing up. Eventually, I took the lock to the till.
Gen was in front of the telly when I returned.
“Whereve you been?”
“Walk.”
“Long one.”
“Mmm.”
I put the hardware bag on the kitchen chair, poured myself a glass of water, and put the bag away under the sink.
Gen followed.
“What did you buy?”
“Bits and bobs.”
He nodded. Made himself tea. Stared out the window.
“Issy, Ive been thinking. While you were out.”
“And?”
“I do see how its hard for you. I do. But Mum She wont change. You do know that?”
“I do.”
“Lets just accept it? She pops in, so be it. At least we get stew and pasties out of it.” He smiled, wanly.
“GenI wont accept it.”
Smile gone.
“Then I dont know what to say.”
“I dont want words. I want action.”
“What sort?”
“Talk to your mum. Properly. Dont just placate her. Set rules. No visits without prior notice. No more queen-of-the-kitchen routine.”
“Shell be hurt.”
“Maybe.”
“Shes old”
“Gen, doing whatever you please isnt a perk of old age.”
“You dont get it.”
“Then what?”
He set down his mug, stared.
“If its so awful here, maybe maybe you should ask yourself if youre in the right place after all.”
There it wasthat damning echo of guest-hood. Something inside me stopped, not breaking, not falling. Just still.
“You want me to leave?”
“Im saying think about it.”
“Fine,” I said. “Ill think.”
I took my tea to the bedroom, curled up in the dark. Gen watched telly. Eventually, he came to bed.
“Asleep?”
“No.”
“Issy. Dont sulk.”
“Im thinking.”
“What about?”
“What you said.”
He sighed and turned away. Within minutes, he was snoring gently.
He left at eight for the allotment with Colin, back by evening, he promised. I nodded. Once hed gone, I made myself coffee, sat at the table, then fetched the hardware bag from under the sink. I set it on the table and just looked at it for a bit.
Then I texted Mr. Porter, who lived belowhandy with odd jobs.
“Mr. Porter, you free today? Could you fit a new lock on my door?”
Replies: “Around midday okay? You got the materials?”
“Yes.”
“Ring me when youre ready.”
I finished my coffee, watched another pigeon on the sill. Or maybe the same one. They all look alike.
Mr. Porter knocked at noon, lugging his toolbox.
“Alright, Mrs. Jones. Whats the lock?”
I showed him.
“Good choiceGerman. Well, sort of. Give me half an hour.”
I left him to it, listened to the click and scrape at the door, the muttered commentary he spoke to his screws.
When he called, “All done,” I tested the key, turned it. Smooth as silk.
“Works perfectly,” I said.
“Proper job. Old lock for the bin?”
“No need to keep it.”
He packed up.
I paid him, thanked him, and closed up with my set of three new keys, right there in the flat that was, technically, his. Triumphantly, minefor now.
I called Jo. “Changed the lock.”
She hesitated. “Does he know?”
“No.”
“Whens he home?”
“This evening.”
“Issythats a different conversation now. Not just keys.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure you want this?”
“I want to know no one can walk in except me.”
“But its his place.”
“I know. So Im planning my next step.”
A pause.
“The next step,” she repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
“Divorce?”
“Yes.”
She exhaled. “Youll need a solicitor. Ill text you one.”
I wrote it down.
“Jo Im not scared. Odd, right? I should be terrified. Im not.”
“Its not odd, Issy. You decided long agoyoure just catching up with yourself now.”
Maybe. I held the new keys, staring at the new lock.
Gen arrived about six. I heard the keys try and fail, the doorbell.
I didnt open immediately.
“Issy,” his voice through the letterbox, “the locks busted.”
“I know. I changed it.”
A silence.
“What?”
“I changed it, Gen.”
“Open the door.”
I opened up. He still had his fishing kit and was staring like Id rewritten the rules of the universe.
“You changed it.”
“Yes.”
“In my flat.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stepped aside. He entered slowly, as if suspecting the floors might try to eat him. He hung up his coat, muscles tense.
“Issy. Explain.”
We sat in the kitchen.
“I changed the lock. Because I wont live in a place where anyone, even family, walks in whenever they like.”
“Its my place.”
“You reminded me yesterday. I recall.”
“Isobel!” He soundedfinallylost. “Do you understand what youve done? I could get legal”
“Feel free.”
“Mums keys wont work now!”
“Nope.”
“And you didnt think maybe to ask?”
“I thought about it. Did it anyway.”
He sat, as if his legs had quit on him.
“You actually did this.”
“I did.”
“You want a divorce.”
Not a question this time. A realisation.
“Yes.”
“Over keys?”
“Not over keys, Gen. Over seven years making the same arguments, and you always picking your mother. Over being told to accept it. Over being told to wonder if I belong here. And I see nowyoure right. Not quite how you meant it though.”
He stared at me for a long time.
“Youre serious.”
“Very.”
“Please. Lets talk. Just talk”
“Gen, weve talked for seven years. Im done talking.”
“But you cant just”
“I didnt just. This took time. You just didnt notice.”
He rubbed his face. Stood, wandered, stopped.
“What now?”
“We need to see a solicitor. About splitting up. The flats yours. I wont fight for it. Ill need time to find somewhere.”
“Youve been planning this?”
“Yes.”
“For ages?”
“I suppose.”
He sat again, staring at the table.
“Mum”
He didnt finish.
“Call her,” I said softly. “Thats your right.”
I left. In the lounge, dusk filled the room. I packed my book and a few small things, deliberately, unhurried. Through the wall, I heard his subdued voice, talking to Valerie. I didnt strain to listen.
October ticked by outside. Someones child shrieked in the courtyarda joyous sound. A door slammed.
I held the three new keys. One of them, finally, after all these years, was mine alone.
My phone buzzed. Jo: “How are you?”
I thought a moment. I wrote: “Quiet.”
She replied: “Thats good. Quiet is a beginning.”
Maybe so. I put the phone away. Tomorrow the lists would startlawyers, rightmove, endless forms. But for now: quiet.
In the hallway, the three keys, shining on their shelf. Beside them, Gens old key, now useless in the new lock.
Gen appeared at the door.
“Issy,” he whispered, “are you sure?”
I looked at himtired, broad face, slightly hunched, hands stuck in his pockets. I knew this man, knew his smiles, his habits, even his fears, and especially his faithfulness to his mum, which left no space for anything else.
“Yes,” I said. “Im sure.”
He nodded once, slow, acceptance or wearinessI honestly couldnt tell.
“Alright,” he said. “Alright, then.”
His words hung between us in the hallway, next to the new lock and three new keys and a coat on a peg, and I didnt know what that little alright really meantacceptance, exhaustion, or something with no name yet.
I picked up my bag.
“Ill stay at Jos tonight.”
“Fine.”
The new lock clicked gently shut as I left. Good quality. As Mr. Porter said.
“Isobel,” Gen called after me.
I turned.
“Will you call?”
I looked at him, really looked for a moment.
“Yes,” I said. “Ill call.”
And went down the stairs, into the unknown.
