Morning came and Margaret Clarke noticed the hallway clock had stopped. The hands were frozen at five to six. She gave it a shake, held it up to her earnothing but silence. Maybe the batterys dead, she thought, or perhaps its a sign. A sign of what? Everything that mattered in her life had already happened. The kids were grown, gone on their own ways. Her husband, thank heavens, was still alive and well, though hed been staying at an old friends cottage in the Cotswolds for the past five days. The quiet loneliness shed grown used to felt oddly heavy this early hour.
She brewed a mug of tea and her eyes landed on a box of old postcards shed pulled from the attic the night before while clearing out the loft. Margaret reached for it, fishing out a yellowed envelope at random. Inside wasnt a postcard at all but a letter, written in a thin, almost childlike hand. Dear Margaret! Happy birthday and may. The usual wishes trailed on, but her heart stopped when she saw the signature: Always yours, Tom.
Tom. Thomas Howard. The love shed had at university, the man she once thought shed marry, but life had a different plan. Hed moved to Manchester to look after his ageing mother, and their letters grew rarer until they stopped altogether. Shed met someone else, married, had children. She hadnt thought of Thomas in thirty years or so; hed become a faint ghost from a life that never was.
Now, holding that letter, a sharp pang of regret rosenot for the life shed led, which she still loved, but for a thread that had been cut cleanly back then, left hanging in the air. Where was he now? Was he still alive?
The thought seemed silly, a product of the quiet morning and the frozen clock. She set the letter aside, finished her tea and got on with the tidying. Yet Thomas lingered in her mind. She remembered their walks through an autumn park, him reciting verses from a poet she didnt quite get, but pretended to, just to hear his voice.
The whole day slipped by in a dreamy, meditative haze. She dusted rooms, sorted through old photos, letters, trinkets. The silent clock in the hallway watched her like a patient sentinel.
The next day she bought a new battery, popped it into the clock and the hands trembled back to life. A click, then the familiar ticktock filled the hallway. And just then, the phone rang.
Margaret? a voice said, so achingly familiar it felt like a dream. Its Tom. Sorry to bother you I dont know how to say this. Ive been thinking about you all day, like a song stuck in my head. I found your number through a mutual friend Youve probably forgotten me completely.
She stared at the clock, now keeping steady time. She hadnt forgotten; shed just tucked him away deep, like you do with things you dont need but cant throw out. And now he was back, not to turn everything upside down, but to put a point, or perhaps an ellipsis, on the old story.
I remember you, Tom, she said softly. I was just rereading your letter yesterday.
A surprised silence hung on the line.
No way, he whispered. You know, I found a photo of us by the river yesterday. We were there
They talked for over an hour. He lived three hours away, in a town near the Lake District. He had an adult daughter, a little grandson, and his wife had died five years ago.
They agreed to meet, just for coffee, just to talk.
Margaret put down the receiver and walked to the window. Rain was tapping the sill, washing away the dust. She didnt know what would come next. Nothing was being decided or broken. The clock that had stopped was ticking again, and a faint new rhythm seeped into her otherwise orderly life.
She didnt plan anything, didnt even picture the meetingshe was afraid of jinxing it, of letting her expectations lead her astray. She just drifted through the next few days on thin ice, feeling it creak beneath her feet, threatening to crack at any moment.
Her husband returned from the cottage, bronzed by the sun and smelling of grilled meat. He bragged about a day of fishing and fixing the sauna with a mate. She nodded, smiled, ladled soup onto the table, yet caught herself watching him from a slight distancehis familiar, kind face, his hands that could wield a hammer or a fork with equal confidence. Thats my husband, she thought, the man Ive lived with. And just beyond the doorway, theres another life, a phantom, in the form of an older man with a voice from the past.
The day of the meetup she chose a simple beige dress, the one David always says makes her look good. She kept makeup minimal, just a touch of mascara. Why bother? she wondered. To prove time has been kind to me? Or just to convince myself?
Tom picked a quiet café off the main high street, the kind with tiny tables and the smell of fresh scones. Margaret walked in and saw him right away, fiddling with a napkin, staring into his coffee. In that instant she recognised himnot the lanky student with a guitar, but the man he was now, lines around his eyes, hands no longer boyish but livedin. He looked up, stood, and his face showed a mix of surprise and a tiny, almost frightened smile: Is that really you?
Margaret, he said, his voice trembling a little.
Tom, she replied, taking a seat opposite him because her legs felt wobbly.
The first few minutes were small talk about weather, traffic, how the town had changed. He confessed hed driven there like it was an exam, changing shirts three times. She laughed, and the ice began to melt.
Then memories started to flow, shy at first, like testing water, then more daring. They chuckled over ridiculous studentlife incidents that once seemed tragic. They remembered a dreaded mechanics professor and the night theyd all roamed the streets of Manchester.
When the coffee cups were empty and fresh ones sat waiting, a pause settled inthe kind that signals something important is about to be said.
Ive regretted for years, Tom said, not looking at her, twirling his saucer. That I never took you with me. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving us time. But time it wasnt on our side.
Margaret stayed quiet. What could she say? That she also regretted? That would be a lie. The road shed taken had led to a life with David, children, joys and sorrows. To mourn that would betray everything.
Dont, Tom, she whispered. Dont regret. Everything was right. We were young and foolish. If youd insisted and Id gone wed probably have split apart within a month. Youd have become the man who stole my life in London, and Id have been a burden, stuck with a granny.
He met her gaze, surprise flickering with a sad clarity.
You think that?
Im sure of it. We romanticised the past, Tom. We fell in love with the memory, not each other. With the two kids that no longer exist.
He leaned back, sighinga sigh that felt both relief and disappointment.
Youre always the wiser one, he said. I came here hoping for a miracle, hoping to see each other and turn back time.
Time doesnt turn back, she replied gently, smiling. It just is. It was ours, and that was beautiful. Now its something different.
They left the café together, and he walked her to the car.
Thanks, he said. For coming and for the honesty.
Thank you, she answered. For finding this. It meant a lot to know.
He gave a tentative handshake, warm and solid, then let go.
Driving home, she watched the streets she once sprinted through as a reckless teenager. Nothing had changed, yet everything was new. She felt no sadness, no emptiness, just a bright, clean quiet insidelike a room after a long, honest conversation, when everythings been said and the heart feels light.
At home David was watching the football match. He turned the volume off as she entered.
Hows it go? he asked, simply. No where have you been? or who were you with? Hed been told the night before shed been meeting an old university mate she hadnt seen in decades.
Nothing much, she said. We talked.
Was he nice? he asked, his eyes showing only genuine interest, no jealousy.
Nice, she nodded. But a complete stranger.
She moved to the kitchen to fill the kettle. Her eyes fell on a vase of lilacs David had picked up from the garden earlier that morningpurple, fragrant bunches. She brushed the cool, damp petals.
David came in, slipped his arms around her from behind, and rested his chin on her head.
I love you, he said, as matteroffact as if announcing the weather.
I know, she whispered, closing her eyes. And I love you.
She realised the stopped clock hadnt been about retrieving the past. It had been about anchoring her firmly in the present, proving that everything that happened was necessary and that what existed now was the only right place in the whole universe.
She no longer heard the ticking, but she knew it was now marching perfectly steady.
