No Way Back
Margaret placed her mug on the table and eyed her husband over the rim. He was by the hallway mirror, fiddling with the collar of a new shirt. It was one of those tight checkered numbers youd expect on a lad of twenty-five, not a man fast approaching his fiftieth birthday.
Mark, are you off to work or what?
To work, of course. Where else would I be off to?
Just checking. You never wore things like that before.
He turned. His look was slightly different than usualmore distant, a touch impatient. As though he was in a hurry for somewhere and she was a roadblock.
People do buy new clothes, you know. Its perfectly normal.
I didnt say anything.
Exactly. You never say anythingbut you just stare.
He shrugged on a coat, not the old grey one that had haunted the hall hook for a decade, but a short, dark-blue affair. Margaret watched him as he left, picked up her mug, and moved back into the kitchen. Outside it was early Marchgrey and soggy. On the windowsill, the geranium she watered every Tuesday sat dutifully, leaves crisp and homey in their slightly tart scent. She pressed her forehead to the glass and thought that the last time she and Mark actually went somewhere together was back in Octoberto a play shed loved, though Mark had trudged home in stony silence.
Twenty-five years. Shed long since stopped counting in days.
Margaret worked as an accountant at a small building firm on the outskirts of Bath. The job was undramatic, the staff as permanent as the Queen. They called her Mrs Faraday, even the ones older than her. She was accurate, punctual, never late, never eager to leave early. At home, everything was in divine order too. The kitchen tablecloth got changed every Sunday for an identical clean, ironed one. Her dressing gown was soft, towelling, the colour of clotted creamthree years old and still cherished. She loved her evenings: book in hand, tea and her homemade blackcurrant jam (Augusts pride) to spoon onto toast. Life, really, was sewn together like a well-fitted dress: nothing extra, everything in its place.
The Mark situation began changing in February. First, he joined a health club. Harmless enough, except for the toneless Im getting healthy and more Im sick of being a wreck. Margaret let it go; shed read about men and their pre-fiftieth-crazy schemesmidlife crisis, all those cross-trainers and impossible diets, men desperate to prove there was still a future. Let him go, better health never hurt anyone.
Then came aftershave. Sharp, sweet, with a distinctly synthetic aftertasteutterly unlike his previous, understated, woody one. This stuff lingered in the hall long after hed gone. She once inspected the bottle in the bathrooma made-up name, all sleek black and silver. She put it back, unresolved.
Then the shirts, more and more, then the jeansexpensive, tight, with artful rips at the knees, discovered by accident while Margaret was tidying the wardrobe. She returned them and closed the door.
By March, Mark started coming home late from work. At first, once a weekthen more. Usual explanations: meetings with colleagues, had to fix a project, stopped at a mates. Margaret nodded, used to trusting him. Twenty-five years isnt just a numberits a habit that, without trust, makes no sense.
But something inside tuggeda dull, uncomplaining ache, like an old scar bothered by cold tap water.
By April, she noticed him guarding his phone. It had always lain about, no secrets. Nowalways in his pocket, and phone calls took him out to the hallway. Once, she walked into the kitchen and he flipped it over, screen down, and asked awkwardly if she needed help with dinner. He had never offered before.
Her friend Susan from university was blunt:
Maggie, are you blind? Its classic. Mans midlife crisis. My Pete bought a motorbike at forty-eight and rode around with a leather jacket for three months. Then he got tired and sold the darn thing.
Mark isnt like that.
Theyre all not like that until you realise they are.
Susie, dont start winding me up.
Im not winding you up. Im just telling you. Keep your eyes peeled.
Margaret did look. The more she looked, the less she understood what she was seeing. Her husband was at home, he ate, he slept, he made small talk about work or leaky taps. It was all as usual, and somehow, not usual in the slightest. He felt slightly foreignnever rude or nastyjust as if his mind was somewhere else and his words were for show.
One evening while they sat over tea and biscuits, she risked a question.
Mark, is everything alright?
Fine.
You seem… a bit distant, lately.
He looked up at his mug.
Maggie, Im exhausted. Things are tricky at work.
I get it. Im just asking.
Its all fine. He reached for a biscuit.
May was warm. Margaret bought petunias from the same little old woman at the Sunday market, as she did every yearred and white, lined up in balcony tubs. Watered each morning, checked on their blooms. It was her small, undemanding joy, one that never asked questions.
Mark came in past midnight on several occasions, citing business dinners. Margaret didnt argue. Shed lay in bed, listen to him shuffle about in the bathroom, the floorboard near the bed creak. Sleep did not come easily after that.
One night, she blurted it out:
Mark, do you have someone else?
He was silent for longer than the standard no required.
Why do you think that?
Im just asking.
Maggie, dont start inventing things.
Alright. And she didnt ask again.
Still, something shifted insidenot shattered or broken, just pushed out of place, like furniture ever-so-slightly misplaced making the room subtly wrong.
By summer, Mark was sleeping at a mates now and again. First once, then two or three times. Margaret would pack him a shirt and say nothing. Maybe Susan was rightjust a midlife wobble. Men get lost at this age, then find their way again. You cant just toss away twenty-five years.
One July evening, he sat opposite her at the kitchen table, wearing the same checked shirt from March. Fingers interlaced, he looked through the window at the geranium. Margaret sat with her tea, waiting. She knew what was comingshed probably known for ages.
Maggie, we need to talk.
Go on.
Im leaving.
She set down her mug. The tea was still hot; she felt the warmth in her hands.
For whom?
A small pause.
Her names Emily. Shes twenty-two. Met her six months ago.
Outside, someone watered plants on the next balcony. A rhythmic dripping filled the silence.
So, since February, Margaret said.
Roughly.
When you bought all those shirts.
Maggie…
Im not blaming. Im just adding things up.
He looked guiltyawkward, perhaps expecting tears or shouting, or at least something to make him feel less wrong.
You dont understand, he said. I want to feel alive again. As if lifes still ahead somewhere. Look at usweve turned into pensioners.
Youre forty-nine, Mark.
Exactly.
Im struggling to see the logic in exactly.
He got up, made a show of putting his mug in the sink just to avoid eye contact.
We live like flatmates. You know it. Its the same every daytablecloth, geranium, cuppa at the same time. Thats not living, Maggie, its a swamp.
Its a home, she said quietly. It took me twenty-five years to build it.
I know, and I am grateful. Genuinely. But I cant do it anymore.
She looked at him, feeling she barely knew this personnot because hed changed, but because perhaps hed always been like this and shed only ever seen what she wanted to.
Are you taking your things today?
He was surprised by the question.
No, not today. Bit by bit.
Alright.
She poured away the dregs of tea, set her mug by his, wiped her hands on a towel and left the kitchen. In the living room she opened the window. Outside it was warmsmelling of sun-baked tarmac and a trace of linden from the avenue. She stood there, breathing. Tomorrow shed water the petunias. The butter was running out; shed need to pop to the shop.
Sometimes, Margaret thought, the little ordinary thoughts are far more life-saving than words.
The weeks that followed were odd. Not crushingshe still got up, ate, went to work, watered her plants. But the flat sounded differentquieter than acceptable. No Marks stuff in the bathroom, the hall hook suddenly too empty. She bought a new hook and hung her bag so it didnt look abandoned.
Susan arrived the very first weekend, armed with a cabbage pie, and stayed until evening.
How are you, love?
Im alright.
Honestly?
Honestly. Im not good. But Im alright. Theres a difference, you know?
I do. Susan paused. Did he at least explain himself properly?
He did. Said we’d become old, it was all a swamp.
A swamp.
Yes.
That’s his swamp, not yours.
Margaret poured more tea. The outside darkened; lamplight glowed over the kitchen table. Pie sat invitingly on a chopping board. Warmth, she realised, was her special skillbut it was no longer needed for two.
Shes twenty-two, Susan.
I heard.
Its not jealousy. Its just… arithmetic that doesnt add up. When I was twenty-two, Mark was a grown man. Now hes with someone the same age as I was then.
Theyre all after lost time. But time doesnt come back, Maggie.
No. But hell have to learn that himself.
Margaret didnt answer. She had her own puzzle to solve but didnt know where to begin. She just felt everything was ever so slightly in the wrong placelike a bookcase nudged off-kilter.
No one at work knew, and she didnt plan to tell them. Colleagues noticed she was quieter, but Mrs Faraday had always been more reserved than chatty. The new girl, Katie, once asked if everything was fine. Margaret said she was just tired. Katie fetched her a coffee from the machinewhich was unexpectedly lovely.
August drifted by in a kind of trancenot unhappy, not pleasant, just numb. Margaret made jam as usual, skimming froth into a special jar she’d eat alone with white bread. The currants were monstrous and sweet that yearrows of jars on the pantry shelf brought peace, as if life continued regardless.
Mark rang once to collect the rest of his things. He came that Saturday morningquietly packing his books, tools, a few files. He paused by the kitchen table, glanced at the geranium.
How are you?
Im alright.
Dont be cross with me.
Im not, Mark. Im just living.
He nodded and left. She listened to his footsteps fade, then made herself scrambled eggsthree, loads of dill. Ate, washed up, checked the petunias; they were fadingSeptember close.
The divorce paperwork got done in October, with no drama, just businesslike efficiency. Shed hired a sharp-eyed young solicitor; the flat was always in her name, so splitting was simple. Mark didnt haggleperhaps new beginnings had no room for bargaining over old lives.
Margaret left the courthouse, stood on the steps. It was grey, drizzly. She turned up her collar, walked to the bakery, bought a poppy seed loaf. At home, she brewed tea, cut the bread. Sat eating, watching autumn do its slow work on the leaves outside.
Psychology of Marriage, she later read online by accident, suggests the real separation happens long before the official one. That sounded about rightsomething started to snap months before, when she noticed his theatre silence and the flipped over phone. But she hadnt wanted to call it by name.
November brought frost and a new rhythm. Margaret finally joined the watercolour evening class shed put off for years. Every Wednesday she walked to a studio round the corner which reeked of paint and possibilityand nobody there knew a thing about her. Her paintings were rubbishsplotchy, wobblybut she loved it: the focus, the simple joy of colouring.
The teacher, an older woman with striking silver earrings, once told her:
Youre too tentative with your washes. Be bold. Paper can take it.
Margaret thought, thats a lesson for more than paint.
Susan phoned every week, sometimes visited. They chatted about work, books, the world generally. Mention of Mark grew shorter, sparser, which Margaret noticed with mild relief. Not indifference, just life moving, patiently filling the holes.
She sometimes wondered the eternal question so many women of her age do when the husband runs off with someone younger: What did I do wrong? Every time, she found no honest answer. Shed kept a good home, was faithful, didnt cause scenes, worked, wanted for nothing extra. Maybe, she mused, the mistake was assuming all that was enough.
Then that thought faded too, since if she was frank, she still didnt know how shed do anything differently.
Winter came early and snowy. Margaret bought herself new bootscomfy, low-heeled, deep maroon. A colleague remarked how smart they lookeda small thing that brightened her whole day.
In January, Susan calledvoice odd, half-alarmed.
Maggie, are you sitting down?
Im by the cooker. Why?
Heard anything about Mark?
No. Were not in touch.
Hes had a heart attack. Literally in some club. Tamara from his work called, said he collapsed right on the dance floor! Ambulance and all.
Hes alive?
Hes alright, in hospital nowthey say it was serious.
Margaret stood there, staring into her silent kitchen as the snow fell thickly outside.
Whats he been up to these months?
Pretty lively, apparently. Clubbing with little Emily, out most nights, no sleep, still pumping iron at the gymhis body wasnt built for all that.
I see.
Maggie, are you going to do anything?
Ill think about it.
She hung up and stared out at the snowkids in the square building a snowman. Margaret tried to isolate her feelingsa bit of worry, a lot of exhaustion, and deep down, a muted relief that she was safe at home, not over there.
Next day, she rang the hospital, asked about visits. Yes, stable, visits allowed.
That evening, she filled a bag: sparkling water, apples, a few homemade biscuits left from the weekend. Zipped her coat, set out.
Hospitals smell like only hospitals dotoo warm, disinfectant, and anxious. She found the right ward, got escorted by a tired-eyed nurse to his room.
She entered quietly. Four bedsthree empty. Mark lay by the window. Hed changed. Or maybe she simply saw him more clearly now. He looked thin, grey, dark circles under the eyesnot a man reborn, but one whod bit off more than he could chew.
He stared at her in disbelief.
Maggie.
Evening, Mark.
She set down the bag, pulled up a chair.
I didnt expect you.
Well, I came.
He couldnt read her.
How are you feeling?
Better. Yesterday was grim, todays not so bad. They say a week here, at least.
You need the rest.
Maggie… He stopped, fiddled with the sheet. Emily hasnt come. I called, she said she would, and… nothing.
Margaret looked at the apples, then back to him.
I know.
How?
I just do.
He closed his eyes, silent for ages. Then:
I was an idiot, Maggie.
Most probably.
Not just probablycertainly. I dont know what came over me. I looked at her and thought… Id be young again. You get it?
I do.
And really, Im just an old fool they put up with while the cash lasted.
She said nothing. The sky outside was a crisp wintry blue, snow evenly caked on the ledge.
Maggie, I want to say sorry.
Not now, dont make speeches. Youre ill.
No, I must. I get it now. I compared you to her when I shouldve been grateful. You built a home, I called it a swampand that was unfair.
She looked at his handsshe knew them like her own face. Twenty-five years; hands dont age the way faces do.
Maggie. I want to come back.
The silence was thick.
Did you hear me?
I did.
I want to come back. I see nowwithout you, that was real life. What I chased was fake.
Margaret got up, went to the window, watched a grey bird land on a bare twig. She was honest with herselfwhat did she feel for him now? She looked for a flicker of the old warmth and only found calm. Not cold and hardjust calm. Like an ache that, after years, had faded at last.
Mark, she said, back to him. Youll be fine. Theyll fix you up. Youll recover.
I mean home.
I know. I heard you. I actually am glad you came to your senses, but I wont come back.
He looked wounded.
Why not?
She tried to answer kindly.
Because I pity you. That’s what I feeljust concern. Thats not nearly enough for living together. Can you see the difference?
But maybe you could again
No. Some things cant be returned, Mark. Its not even about wanting or not. Theres just nothing left, like an empty well.
Maggie, please.
I came because I do careso I brought you apples and water. Thats real. But I cant go back to before. Not out of anger, but because before doesnt exist anymore.
He shut his eyes, silent for ages. Then said quietly:
I understand.
Good.
She took her coat, adjusted the collar.
Ill ask the nurse to keep an eye on you. Call your son. He should know.
Were a bit distant these days.
Call him. Hes your son.
She picked up her bag, paused by the door.
Theyre Bramleysgood apples. Eat them.
She shut the door quietly behind her.
Outside the ward it smelt of musty warmth; she nodded to the nurse and walked the stairs. The main doors were heavy and cold air almost welcome. The snow had stopped. It was silent, the wintry waywith nothing but the squeak under her boots. She walked to the bus stop, thinking what shed tell Susanthen decided, not yet. Shed sit with it herself a while.
The bus came quickly. She found a window seat. The city rolled pastbare trees, glowing lamps, people hauling shopping bags. Lifethe real thingkept moving along.
Margaret thought: when your husband runs off with someone younger, the worst bit isnt him leaving. Its what comes afterward: not just surviving but working out whats next. Not revenge, not waiting, not looking back. Building something new. Its harder than it looks.
She gazed out the window, thinking about Wednesdaysher art class. The teacher said next time theyd do winter landscapes. Margaret was still muddling shadows in snow, how blue melds with grey where the light falls. But shed give it a go.
She got off at her stop, shivered, buttoned up. Her way home was deeply familiarthe chemist, the bakery, the playground. The swing creaked, oddly, although no children were about.
Up on her landing, she unlocked the door. Warmth and homeliness, faint but present, greeted her. She slipped off her boots for slippers, ambled to the kitchen, set the kettle going. The linen stripy tablecloth sat perfectly, and she straightened one corner.
While the kettle boiled, she checked the dusty leaves on the geraniummust wipe those. Kettle clicked off.
She poured tea, cradled the mug in both hands for comfort.
Outside, the streetlamps glimmeredearly, hesitant, as they do in January.
Margaret sipped, and thought, On Friday, Ill stop at the market for eggs and milk. Might as well grab more Bramleys. Ill bake a pie; Susans been after my recipe for ages.
That was her plan for Friday.
And on Wednesday, shed paint snow.
***
Outside, the January town bustled noisily as ever. But in this kitchen, with its geranium on the sill, it was quiet. And this was her silenceit wasnt up for sharing now.
Her phone lay on the tablehe could call. Ask again. She knew shed pick up, ask after his health, tell him to obey the doctors. Thats how she was.
But back she would not go.
You know what, Mrs Faraday, she said aloudand in the empty kitchen her voice sounded unexpectedly sure, it wasnt a swamp. It was a life. Just not his.
She finished her tea, washed out the mug, wandered into the lounge to switch on the lampshed never liked reading under harsh lights.
On the side table, her book lay open at a dog-eared page. Margaret settled in, found her place and read on. Outside, gentle snow was falling. The geranium sat stolidly on the window. The tablecloth lay flat as ever.
Everything, at last, was in its place.
