A Bitter Celebration: The Drama of Eleanor
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, counting her money yet again. Her wallet was nearly empty, and payday was still a week away.
“Not much to work with,” she sighed. “But what can you do? That’s just how the wages are these days.”
There were bills to pay, groceries to buy, but with what? She wandered through the aisles of the shop in the centre of Littlebrook, sighing at the price tags that seemed to rise before her eyes. In the end, she could only afford milk, a loaf of bread, and a pack of pasta. Butter was out of reach, but margarine would have to do. Coffee, tea, biscuits for tea, her favourite cheese—all of it remained on the shelves.
With no other choice, Eleanor made her way to her former mother-in-law’s for vegetables. And there, as always, the inevitable awaited her:
“I told you so!” Margaret would say, for the umpteenth time.
Her mother-in-law was a stern but wise woman. At seventy-six, she was always right. If Eleanor had listened to her years ago, perhaps she wouldn’t be digging through her purse with tears in her eyes now. Maybe she’d have lived like everyone else—or even better. But what was done was done.
Two years ago, her husband, Paul, had left. And not just left—he’d walked out on her birthday. Eleanor had spent the entire day in the kitchen, preparing a lavish meal. Paul sat down, ate heartily, and then dropped the bombshell:
“That’s it, Eleanor. Enough. I’m leaving you.”
She froze, disbelieving. He continued, irritation plain in his voice:
“How old are you today? Forty-one, right? I’m forty-five. At our age, we should have grandchildren by now! Where are they? Nowhere. Because we don’t have children. You never bothered to give me any!”
“What on earth are you saying?” Eleanor gasped, stung. “What’s gotten into you? Poor thing, tired of it all, are you? What kind of father would you have been? You can’t even look after the cat—he goes hungry half the time! I tiptoe around the house, and you shout that I’m making too much noise! What kind of children could we have had? Maybe I didn’t want to bring them into this mess!”
Where had that burst of courage come from? And why? Paul, as if waiting for it, shoved his chair back, sending it skidding, and spat his final words:
“I’ll stay somewhere else for now. Gives you time to find a place. The flat’s mine, after all!”
The door slammed, leaving a crushing silence. Eleanor sat there, lost, feeling an emptiness swell in her chest.
Later, she heard the gossip—Paul had “sort of married” a young shop assistant from the shoe shop where he’d gone to buy a pair of boots. The story was told with relish, how her ex-husband had wooed the girl with flowers. Flowers he’d plucked from their own garden—lilies Eleanor had nurtured for years: pale pink, lemon yellow, tiger-striped, fiery red. He’d torn them up by the roots, snapping their stems without a second thought.
Eleanor pitied the girl. Did she really think she’d struck gold? Paul had skimped on the bouquet—he’d skimp on dresses and shoes too. But seeing his new flame—tall, sturdy, confident—it was clear she didn’t need pity. Paul had clearly chosen someone who’d “pop out a whole nursery.” Well, let him try.
Did Margaret know about her son’s affair? In Eleanor’s presence, she scolded Paul—but Eleanor got her share too:
“What did I tell you twenty years ago? Always dressing in rags! How many nice things did I give you? Where are they? Now you’ve got nothing!”
Eleanor remembered those “gifts”—enormous bloomers down to the knees, fleece-lined, in hideous floral prints. Paul might have bolted sooner if he’d seen her in them.
Then came the property split. Paul insisted, “It’s all mine!” But the court divided everything evenly. Eleanor got the cottage; Paul kept the flat. Then Margaret intervened. She’d lived at the cottage for years, renting out her own flat for a tidy sum:
“Now then, you two, anyone care what I think? If Eleanor moves in, she’ll start bringing men around, and where does that leave me?”
“Back to your own place, Mum,” Paul snapped.
“Oh, clever, aren’t you? And how’s your little shop girl getting to work every day? You planning to loaf about with her in my flat?”
In the end, they settled it: Margaret stayed at the cottage, gave her flat to Paul, and Eleanor kept their old home. But no sooner had she breathed in relief than another blow landed—the court split their debts too. Now Eleanor was paying half of Paul’s loan. The price of his “glamorous life” was hers to bear.
That’s why she trudged to the bus stop. Buses in Littlebrook ran rarely—once a week. Everyone else drove, leaving the bus to the old women who’d known each other their whole lives. They chattered, complained about pensions, prices, gossiped. Eleanor stayed silent, staring out the window. Begging for vegetables from her own cottage was humiliating.
She’d tended every plot, loosened the soil, rejoiced at each green sprout. The house was awash with flowers, the trees trimmed. Inside—bright, flowery curtains, a bed under a vivid quilt, a table set with crisp white linen. No clutter—no sagging sofas, torn armchairs, piles of rags. Just space, air, beauty.
No wonder Margaret had asked to stay there five years ago. Clever woman—she knew what she was doing. Divorce or not, potatoes needed planting. Eleanor worked herself to the bone. The harvest couldn’t be stored in the flat—the cellar was safer. So she made the weekly trip, scraping what little extra she could onto her meagre salary.
Margaret hovered, lectured, but still put the kettle on, fed her, tucked her in, never pausing:
“I told you, Eleanor! You’ve got to toughen up! Look at Paul—his new girl’s already got a son, they’ll palm the kid off on me soon enough and start on the next! And here you are, drifting along, clueless. Changed jobs yet? Still at that school? What sort of pension are you expecting?”
Eleanor seethed, but she knew Margaret was right. Teaching was no life for a divorced woman alone. Where could she go? No office would take a woman in her forties. A shop? She didn’t have the stamina. It all made her want to scream.
The bus reached the last stop with only Eleanor aboard. She took in the lake circling the village, the red-tiled roofs of the well-off, the field where goats grazed. Here, the air was light, the space endless. With that thought, she stepped off and headed toward the house—hers, or maybe not hers anymore.
From a distance, she spotted commotion in the yard. Workers bustled, building something.
“Did Margaret actually pay for a well?” Eleanor wondered. “Where’d she get the money? Paul?”
She pushed the gate open, called a greeting. Margaret, flushed as if years younger, stood by a van, barking orders like a sergeant.
“Come in, no time for dawdling! These lads need feeding!”
“So, we’re getting a well?” Eleanor asked.
“Y-o-u are,” Margaret drawled. “You! Be grateful. Sick of hauling water from the pump! Was I saving up for nothing?” She glanced at the workers, lowering her voice.
Eleanor had to stay the weekend. She wanted to argue the men didn’t need feeding, but reasoning with Margaret was like arguing with the wind. The workers were decent, not pushy. They ate, thanked her, and went back out.
The foreman, James Wilson, solidly built with kind eyes, kept stealing glances at Eleanor. She blushed, feeling like a schoolgirl.
“What’s got into you?” Margaret muttered. “He’s a good man! I’d marry him myself. Take the chance! He’s divorced, asked about you. I said you were my daughter. Well? Can’t my daughter be a bit odd?”
“You’re shameless!” Eleanor protested, but she thought—Margaret always had some scheme, and somehow, she was always right. She liked James—genuine, quiet, warm-eyed.
“Why go to all this trouble?” Eleanor asked.
“Needs doing! This place is lovely—build something here. Paul’s building with his missus, you build with yours. Then when you both visit and row, James’ll sort out Paul, and his little wife can deal with you! I’ll invite the neighbours, we’ll roast some nuts. That’s why!”
Eleanor just shook her head. What could you do? And James kept staring, shameless. She snatched a towel and ran to the lake.
Stepping into the cool waterShe floated on her back, staring at the sky, and for the first time in years, she felt something like hope.
