An Empty Space
Youve become nothing, Jane. Do you understand? Nothing. An empty space.
He said it levelly, almost without emotion, as though he were reading off a shopping list. He stood by the window with his back to her, gazing out into the street. Someone was walking a dog outsidea small, ginger-haired dachshund tugging playfully towards a puddle.
Jane Williams sat on the sofa with a cold cup of tea in her hands. The tea had cooled at least twenty minutes ago, but she still clung to the mug, unsure what else to do with her hands.
What do you mean? she asked, her voice quiet, almost absent.
Thats precisely what I mean, William finally turned around. His face looked boredtired, reallythe face of someone forced to explain something that should have been obvious. I look at you and I see nothing. Emptiness, dullness. You cook, you sleep, you plod about. Youre like furniture, Jane. Good, sturdy furniture, but still furniture.
She put the mug on the table. The porcelain clinked softly against the wooden surface.
Ten years, she said.
What, ten years?
Weve lived together ten years.
So what? He shrugged, crossing the room and dropping into the armchair facing her. Ten years. Thats plenty long enough to know: theres no point anymore. I dont want to live like this any longer. I want He paused, searching for the right word. I want to feel something again. But you dont inspire any feelings. Youre just not thereyoure here, and yet youre not.
Jane felt something inside hera small, stubborn rod of steelbeginning to bend.
Where am I supposed to go? she asked.
Thats your problem now. He crossed his legs. This is my mums flat, as you know. Which means, legally, youve no claim to it. Im not rushing you outbut is a week enough to find somewhere?
A week will do, she repeated mechanically.
Good. He picked up his mobile and started scrolling, as though the conversation were firmly over.
Jane stood up, walked out and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She lay down on top of the bedspread, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling was white with a small stain in the corner; shed meant to paint over it two years ago and never had.
Beyond the wall, the television murmured something or other. William had already found something more interesting to do.
She didnt cry. She just lay there, staring at the stain on the white ceiling. Inside, her chest felt as quiet as a house right after a window is smashed in.
***
The week crawled by with sluggish, murky time. William hardly came homehe arrived late, left early; they hardly spoke. Jane packed her things, and it was dishearteningly easy, as she realised most of the flat wasnt hers at all. A handful of dresses, her winter coat, a box of old photographs, a pile of sewing magazines she’d kept for years though she never opened them anymore.
She left the sewing magazines behind, then reconsidered and took them after all.
She rang her mums cousin, Aunt Gwen, whom she hadnt seen since her mothers funeral seven years earlier. Aunt Gwen listened, paused for a long while, and then said:
Come stay. Theres a small room. Not much, but you can have it till youre sorted.
Aunt Gwen lived on the edge of Manchester, all the way out by the ring road, where the only shop within three blocks was a tiny Savers and the bus came once an hour. Jane never liked that part of townidentical five-storey blocks, chipped awnings over the entrances, tall poplars that dusted everything in fluffy white every spring.
She arrived on Friday evening, two heavy bags and a suitcase in tow.
Goodness me, youve gone thin, Aunt Gwen said as she opened the door. She was short and solid, her kindly face creased with deep lines, and she smelled of lavender and something homeylike stewing beef. Come through, dont just stand gawking in the hall. You hungry?
Not really, Aunt Gwen.
You need to eat, said Aunt Gwen with no nonsense, bustling off into the kitchen.
The room was tinya narrow divan, a battered wardrobe and a window looking straight at a blank brick wall across the way. The wallpaper had faded to some nearly indescribable shade that might once have been blue. On the windowsill sat three pots of fiery geraniums, still healthy and bright.
Jane dumped her bags and sat on the bed. The springs gave a little squeak.
Do you want a cuppa? called Aunt Gwen from the kitchen.
I will, thanks, Jane replied.
It was only there, in that little room with the geraniums and faded blue walls, that she finally cried.
***
Then came a long, dreary stretch.
That sort of stretch when you have no reason to get up in the mornings, and youre not sure you want to. She woke early, just after six, and lay listening: Aunt Gwen bustling with the kettle on the other side of the wall; the rare cars grumbling brakes out the window. She got up, washed, went to the kitchen, drank her tea, staring at the blank wall outside.
Aunt Gwen was a wise woman. She didnt pry, didnt offer advice or say, Itll all come right or Youll find someone better. Instead, she plied Jane with stew, let her watch the TV, and occasionally in the evenings suggested, Game of Snap?
So they played Snap, silently, barely a word passing between them.
Jane had a little money, but not much. She emptied out her modest savings account£1,100, barely enough for a month or so if she was careful. She was careful.
She hadnt lost her job; she worked three days a week as an accountant for a small construction firm, commuting to the other side of town, sorting paperwork, and collecting her £700 a month. Most of that went to cover her keep with Aunt Gwen, who refused to accept payment until Jane finally left an envelope on the kitchen table and disappeared into her room so Gwen couldnt hand it back.
Evenings were worst. Shed sit in her small room, thoughts circling the same old grooves. Ten years. Not nothing. Ten years of breakfasts, dinners, illnesses, birthdays, holidays by the sea, arguments and peace-making. He looked at her and saw emptiness. Maybe she really had become empty. Maybe it had all burned out and shed failed to notice. Or maybe he had burned out, or maybe both of them.
Sometimes shed pull out her phone and scroll back through their old messagesphotos of them in Cornwall, giggling with his arm around her, a time neither of them remembered what had been so funny.
Those nights, she went to bed early, pulling the blanket right up over her head.
Aunt Gwen popped her head in once.
Jane, you asleep?
No.
I can tell. Pause. Are you hungry?
No.
Well, just rest then. Pause. You know, I threw my own out once. Long before you were born. Thought itd kill me. Didnt, though.
Click of the door. Gwen left.
Jane lay there in the darkness and thought: here you are, nearly fifty, Jane. Time to start again. As if it were so simple.
***
She found the sewing machine at the start of her second month.
Aunt Gwen had asked her to sort out the box cupboard in the hallnobody had touched it in fifteen years and, when Jane tried to open it, old junk tumbled out like the archives of an entire postwar era: ancient issues of Good Housekeeping, a broken brolly, boxes of buttons, empty perfume bottles, and a pile of faded Mothers Day cards.
Somewhere right at the back, she found something heavy, wrapped in an old sheet.
She unfurled it.
It was a sewing machine. An old, black, cast-iron number streaked with gold flower patterns, the gold faded in places but still beautiful. The badge read Singer; the script curled and elegant.
Aunt Gwen! Jane called.
Aunt Gwen bustled in with a tea towel over her shoulder.
Oh, the old Singer! she perked up. That belonged to Aunty Bettymy mums sister. Id forgotten it was there. Might still work, who knows. Not touched it in years.
May I have a go?
Aunt Gwen looked at her closely.
You know how?
I used to.
Take it, by all means.
Jane carefully carried it to her room and set it up by the window. She wiped the casing down, unwound the old frayed thread from the bobbin which might have been put there thirty years ago. She found some accessories in Aunt Bettys tin: a few reels of thread, a box of needles, a soft tape measure, scissors gone too blunt with age.
There was even an oil can. The oil had gone sticky, but she bought sewing machine oil from the corner hardware shop, cleaned what she could, oiled the cogs, cleaned the feed dog, and turned the crank by hand. It stuck at first, then loosened, then ran smooth.
She sat hunched over the machine for three hours, perhaps. Worked out the shuttle mechanism. Loaded a new bobbin. Threaded the needle.
She tried it on a scrap of cloth found at the bottom of the wardrobe, pressed the pedal.
The Singer rattled gently and stitched a fine, even line. Jane felt a strange sensationlike blood returning to a numbed hand: a bit painful, but alive.
She stopped and looked at the line of stitches. Straight and true. Nearly perfect.
Something stirred in the far corner of her memory.
***
She was eighteen and always sewing. Shed make skirts from her mums old dresses, or blouses from calico bought for pennies in a jumble sale. The seamstress at the dressmakers across from her college, Mrs. Wicks, had a standing invitation to watch her workJane would observe, picking up tricks with admiration. Mrs Wicks explained everything, seeing, perhaps, that Jane was paying genuine attention.
Then came university, then William, then marriage, then the daily grind that came hard and fast. Jane had sold her first sewing machine, the one she had bought with her first pay packet, when she moved in with William; his flat was tiny, he said it took up too much space. She sold it without much fussshe was in love, convinced they were building something new.
The years passed. Sewing faded from her mind, save for the stray thought when she saw a beautiful dress in a shop window or a magazineI could make that, if only But she never did.
Now, in her little room on the edge of town, she listened to the Singers contented burr.
Next day, she went to the market. Not the big supermarket, but the old covered market where the fabric stalls sold cloth by the yard, where you could buy half a metre of linen or jersey for a few quid.
She wandered the stalls, touching the goods: linen, crepe, muslin, fine wool. She stopped at a bolt of soft, grey-blue viscosesimple, not shiny, beautiful by its modesty.
How much on this one? she asked the seller.
Four and a half metres left, love.
Ill take the lot.
The seller measured and wrapped it.
What you making?
A dress, said Jane.
And she was surprised by how certain that sounded.
***
She cut out the pattern on the floor, pinning an old magazines templatewhich shed adapted from memoryonto the cloth. The shape was simple, straight, belted, with a neat collar and three-quarter sleeves. Nothing extravagant: just a good, classic cut.
Aunt Gwen popped her head in, watched her working, but said nothing. Once, she brought in a mug of tea and left it quietly beside Jane.
Thanks, said Jane, without looking up.
Nice colour, that, Aunt Gwen replied.
Jane hesitated before snipping the first cut. She found sharp scissorsbrand new, buried in the bottom drawer. She placed the blade to the marked line, and once she made the first snip, her fear evaporated completely.
She sewed for three daysnot out of necessity, but because she was in no rush. Evening after office work, shed sit at the machine, stitching in calm order: side seams first, then the zip, the collar, fussed endlessly over the sleeves till they fit right.
When things went wrong, she paused, thought, unpicked, did it again. The Singer hummed quietly, helping her forget about William, her thoughts fixed only on fabric and stitch, the challenge of getting a collars corner precise.
On the third evening, she clipped the last thread, pressed the seams, hung the dress on its hanger and stepped back.
A good dress.
Simple, grey-blue with gentle lines, not shouting for attentionthats why it was lovely. The matching belt hugged her waist, the collar settled gracefully around her neck.
She tried it on.
In the hallway mirrorthe only large one in Aunt Gwens flatshe beheld herself. The mirrors edges were tarnished, but the image was honest.
She looked at herself for at least a minute, perhaps longer.
Looking back was not no one, not nothing, not furniture. Just a woman of nearly fifty, with dark hair tied back, standing straight, a look in her eyes where, ever so slowly, something bright was flickering into life.
The dress fit very well.
Jane! Aunt Gwen called from the kitchen. Come show me what youve done.
Jane went through in the dress.
Aunt Gwen turned from the cooker. She watched, silent for a heartbeat.
Well, there now, she said, with a small smile. Thats much better.
She turned back to the stove, because her stew was threatening to boil over, but Jane saw her smile as she did so.
Jane returned to her room, sat on the bed and smoothed the fabric on her lap. The viscose was soft and pleasant. The dress fit perfectly, pinching nowhere.
Inside, that bent piece of steel straightened a little.
***
She wore the dress that Saturday.
Just for a walk. Aunt Gwen needed her to nip to the chemist for her tablets, so Jane took the prescription, put on the grey-blue dress, threw on a pale jacket she found in her bag, and stepped outside.
The weather was bright and cool, early October. The poplars were golden.
Jane walked more assuredly, not rushing, not staring at her feet. She noticed things nowthe posh cat on the downstairs window ledge, surveying the street as though contemplating the universe; the old lady knitting something navy on a bench; the toddler dragging his mother towards a puddle as she resisted the pull.
The chemist was just down the road. Next door was a tiny café called Corner Cup, which shed never noticedor perhaps never paid attention to. A handwritten sign in the window promised Fresh Pastries and Coffee.
She went in. Ordered a cappuccino and a croissant, because today, somehow, she could.
Inside were only five small tables. In the corner sat a neatly dressed woman of sixty with cropped silver hair, sparkly earrings, and an air of unruffled confidence, the sort that comes from years of decision-making. She sipped her coffee and scrolled through her phone.
Jane took her coffee and pastry to the window table.
Ten minutes passed. Jane gazed at the street, drinking, not thinking of anything particular. She just feltwell, good. Just good, no more, no less.
Excuse me
The silver-haired woman had approached.
I dont mean to intrude, she said, but your dress is beautiful. Can I ask where you bought it?
Jane blinked, surprised.
I made it myself.
The woman leaned forward, intrigued.
Did you? Are you a dressmaker?
Not really. I used to sew, thats allnow, I just picked it up again.
The cut The other woman considered the dress admiringly. It looks so simple, but really, its exceptionally well-made. You can tell by the way it hangs. I know a thing or twoworked at House of Fraser once upon a time.
Thank you, said Jane, unsure what else to add.
Im Margaret Harrisjust call me Margaret.
Jane.
Jane, I hope you dont mind if I ask something. Its my sixty-fifth birthday in three weeks, and Id like to look wonderful at my party, but I cant find a single dress to suit me. Theyre all either too frumpy or far too young. But yours is exactly what Im after. Would you consider making one for me?
Jane looked into Margarets facecalm, unpressing, just hopeful.
Something clicked inside her.
Id be happy to, Jane replied.
***
Margaret came to her a couple days later, bringing fabric shed selected herselfa rich, deep burgundy crepe, with just a hint of luster, good quality and weight.
Jane measured her by the kitchen table, jotted everything down in a notebook. Then they sat drinking tea as Jane sketched a few ideas until Margaret settled on a design: gently flared skirt, three-quarter sleeves, modest V-neck.
That one, said Margaret. Thats it.
All right. Ill have it ready in two weeks.
How much do I owe you?
Jane hesitated; shed not considered price.
Im not sure she said truthfully.
Ill tell you what proper boutiques charge for this sort of work, Margaret insisted, naming a sum.
It was about what Jane earned in two weeks as an accountant.
Jane paused.
All rightdeal.
After Margaret left, Aunt Gwen came in.
Heard that. Good price.
Yes.
Stick with this, Jane. Youre good at it.
Jane looked up.
Aunt Gwen, why did you put me up? We barely knew each other.
Gwen pondered.
Because youre Sylvias daughter. Sylvia helped me years agonever forgot that. Just evening the score.
Then she retreated to the kitchen.
Jane glanced out her window. That blank wall across the way now had a huge mural shed never noticed beforebright blue flowers curling up the grey brick.
***
The dress for Margaret was a different sort of challengenot for herself, but for someone else. It was real responsibility, and Jane felt it every time she sat down to the machine.
She cut the fabric with care, measured twice, cut onceas the crepe was expensive and mistakes costly. Then when her hand was steady, the scissors sliced sure.
Five days later, shed finishedevery seam neat, the zip sewn in by hand, the hem finished invisibly.
At the first fitting, she read everything she needed from Margarets expression.
Oh, goodness, Margaret whispered, twirling before the hallway mirror. Goodness me
She turned this way and that, touching the fabric, smoothing the sleeve.
This is another me.
No, Jane corrected. This is you. In a good dress.
No, it is different. When a things made for you, you can feel it. I want to stand straighter in this.
Jane pinned a small take-in at the skirts side, and Margaret refused to take it off.
Ill say this, Margaret murmured as Jane worked, my friend Ruth is having a birthday soon. Shes after a dress too. Id like to pass on your numberif you dont mind.
I dont.
And, also, my sons fiancée is getting marriedwell, remarried. Shell need a dress. Not bridal, but special. Shes got an awkward figure, hard to please. Could you?
Jane met her gaze.
Yes, I could.
Margaret nodded, with a knowing satisfaction.
***
The next two months were a whirlwindexhilarating, not daunting.
Ruth wanted a formal suit. A woman sent by Ruth requested a skirt and blouse. Then the daughter of one of Margarets neighbours asked for a dress for a work do. Jane made it. The young woman posted a photo online hailing Jane as a real findand that brought in three more orders.
Aunt Gwens spare room was soon overflowingfabric piled atop every surface, pins and tapes scattering even the bed. The old Singer buzzed from morning to night.
Aunt Gwen made no complaint. One morning, surveying Janes projects covering every available inch, she just said,
Jane, you need a proper space.
I know.
Cant do it here, you understand.
I do, Aunt Gwen.
Jane had been thinking the same; the last two months had brought in more money than six months at the office. New requests never seemed to stop.
She trawled letting adverts, viewed a few roomsfirst two were grim, damp or windowless. The third was perfect: a high-ceilinged room in a converted Georgian townhouse, all wooden floors and sunlight. The rent was steep.
She did the sums: deposit, rent, new professional sewing machine, overlocker, cutting tableit would cost everything shed saved, maybe a little more.
She rang Margaret. She didnt even know why, only that she needed to.
Margaret, could I ask some advice?
Of course.
Jane explained the situation. Margaret listened, then said,
Take the room. Ill lend you the money, no strings. Pay me back when you can.
I couldnt possibly
Jane, Margaret cut her off, calm as always. You gave me the finest birthday dress of my life. Let me return the favour. This isnt charityits just how people help each other.
Jane stayed silent.
Besides, Margaret added gently, I have four friends in the queue for your work. So its partly in my interest too, that you set up a proper workshop!
***
Jane opened her studio at the start of December.
She moved the old Singer in (now more a keepsake than a tool), bought a professional machine and set everything up: cutting table, two working stations, shelves for fabric, a full-length mirror. Her sketches in frames brightened the walls. Aunt Gwen visited, inspecting the shelves, standing for ages in front of the mirror.
Lovely, she said, simply.
Aunt Gwen Jane took her hand. I want to pay you what I owe. For the room, all the months. I kept a tally.
Oh, Jane, dont bother
I have to. Please take it.
Gwen took the envelope, sighed, then said,
Ill buy myself a new fridge. The old ones wheezing like a tractor.
Well get a new one, then, Jane said.
They visited the appliance store, and Gwen spent a long time choosing, poking doors and questioning the assistant about freezers. In the end, she picked out an oversized, silvery one.
Good choice, Gwen said. Jane noticed the quiet joy in her voice, and she knew shed done something truly right.
***
December brought a wave of ordersdresses for parties, outfits for end-of-year dos, fancy blouses. Jane worked long hours, sipping endless tea, soothed by the gentle hum of her machine.
January was quieter. She took on an assistant, a young woman named Alice who was nimble with seams and hems but new to pattern-drafting. Jane found purpose teaching her, showing, explaininga new, unexpected pleasure.
She left the construction firms accountancy at last, calling to say shed be gone. Her bosses were sad, asked her to stay on till April; she agreed.
In March she got a message from a strangersomeone wanting sewing lessons.
Im not a teacher, Jane said.
But you are, really. Margaret Harris recommended you.
Jane thought for a minute.
All rightcome round, well see.
Soon, she was running classesfirst one, then two, then a small group. Teaching grew into its own corner of her timetable.
That spring, she moved out from Aunt Gwens.
She let a small flat near her studioone room, third floor, sunny kitchen. The walls were perfectly white, not a single stain. Jane brought in her things, pinned up curtains shed bought and made herself.
The first evening, she sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and gazing out over a birch-filled green.
It was her flat. Still unfamiliar, but hers.
***
She met William again at the end of May.
Jane was walking home from the studio through the little park, unhurriedthe evening warm, thick with the scent of lilacs, new leaves glowing gold. Her bag weighed heavy, filled with fabric samples she wanted to study in the daylight at home.
She spotted William from a distancethinner than before, his jacket hanging a bit loose. He walked differently, lacking the confidence she remembered.
He spotted her too, and stopped.
Jane didnt slow, but as she passed within a couple of steps, he said,
Jane.
She stopped.
Hello, William.
He looked at her. There was a strange uncertainty in his expression.
You look well.
Thank you.
A pause. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
Going anywhere?
Home.
You live nearby?
I do.
Silence. A woman with a pram rattled past, breaking the hush.
I he started, then faltered. Can we talk? Just for a moment?
She studied his tired facenot tired from work, but tired in the hollowed-out way of someone battered by setbacks.
Lets sit, she offered, nodding to a bench.
They sat. William stared at his clasped hands swinging between his knees.
I dont know how to begin.
Start as you are, Jane said. Not harsh, just honest.
Shes gonethe woman I left for, I mean. Half a year ago. Said I was dull, no ambition. He gave a half-laugh that barely made it to his mouth. See the irony?
I do.
Im back with my mum. The jobs gonethe firm closed. Everything fell apart. Sometimes I wonder what went wrong. Whether I made a huge mistake. I think about it often, Jane, really.
She just listened.
I took you for granted. You were always there, making things work, being real. And I I kept searching for something else, though I didnt know what, and missed what I had. I called you nothing, an empty space. He winced. Thats not easy to forgive. But I want you to knowI regret it.
Jane looked at the birch trees across the lane; their leaves barely stirring. Somewhere close by, the smoky scent of someones barbecue drifted in the air.
William, she said quietly. You werent wrong for falling out of love. That happens. It just does.
He nodded, wordless.
But the way you spoke to methat was cruel. ‘An empty space,’ ‘furniture,’ ‘be gone.’ That was needlessly hurtful. Not because youre wicked, just because it was. It took me a long time to forget.
I know, he murmured.
But you did me one favour by doing it.
He looked at her, surprised.
You forced me out. I was terrified, William. Leaving with two bags and barely more than a thousand quid, no idea what came next. I spent months in a poky box room at Aunt Gwens, felt like an orphan, cried myself to sleep most nights it was a rotten time.
Jane
Let me finishnot to upset you, just because its true. I found that old Singer in Gwens cupboard. Remembered how I used to love to sew, that it made me happy, that I had always wanted to do itand didnt, because of life, and because you once told me it was in the way, because of all the other becauses. I started sewingfirst for myself, then for others. Six months now, Ive had my own studio. People come, and I do what I love. And Im good at it.
He studied her, eyes unreadable.
If you hadnt kicked me out, Id probably still be there, making stew, never discovering myself. Im not saying ‘thank you.’ Im sayingit turned out how it turned out.
So have you forgiven me?
Jane thought.
I dont hold a grudge. Thats not the same as wanting to go back. I dont want to return, William. Not out of spitejust because I like my life as it is now. Im finally living my own life, I think for the first time.
He looked away.
We could have
No, she said softly, but with absolute certainty. No, William.
A long pause; not heavy, just long.
Hows Aunt Gwen? he asked, recalling the name from long ago.
Shes well. Got her a fridge. I visit on Sundays, we play Snap.
He smiled, genuinely.
Youre a good person, Jane.
So are younot a bad one. We just stopped fitting together. Maybe we never did.
She stood, picking up her bag of fabrics.
Need to rush? he asked.
I do. Early client tomorrowshe can only make it at eight.
He stood too, hesitant. Im glad things are going well for you. Honestly.
And I wish the same for you, she answered.
It was the truthno bitterness, no triumph, just truth. She wished him well. She had no energy or wish left for anger.
Jane walked down the path towards her flat, feeling his eyes on her for a few more steps, then not. Presumably, hed gone the other way.
The birch trees cast lacy shadows on the pavement. Her bag pulled on her shoulderinside was dark green wool and a catalogue of trims marked out for tomorrows client: Mrs. Livingston, a retired teacher who wanted a skirt for wintersomething neat and proper, for the theatre or the doctors.
Janes mind wandered to darts and seams, to how best to fit a straight skirt for Mrs Livingstons short, broad curves. Fitting well takes skillone must find that perfect line.
She thought about it while noticing the lilacs evening scent, a boy speeding past on a scooter singing a cartoon theme at top volume, and the savoury smell of fried potatoes drifting out of some open window.
***
She hadnt planned any more work that eveningshed promised herself: no machines after seven. She just dropped by the studio for her notebook, which lay on a table near the old Singer, waiting serenely in the corner.
Jane brushed her hand along the Singers black surface.
Thank you, she whispered.
It sounded faintly silly, thanking a sewing machine. But who else to thank for having her life turn upside downAunt Gwen, Margaret, Alice working hard to learn? Perhaps all of them, and this chain of events that began with sharp, undeserved words and led her hereto a sunlit, high-ceilinged room.
She pocketed her notebook, switched off the lights, and descended the stairs into the dusky street.
The city bustled with ordinary evening lifepeople chatting, cars passing, children laughinga typical English spring night.
She stopped at the bread shop, bought a crusty seeded loaf and a jar of real honey sold by a smiling elderly woman behind the stall.
Evening, love, the woman said, handing her change.
Evening. Is this honey from your hives?
Its May honeylovely stuff. Try it on toast tomorrow, youll see.
Thank you, I will.
She made her way homebread, honey, notebook and trimmings weighing down her shoulder. Her new dress, the one shed sewn last weekivory linen with a soft belt and billowing sleevesfelt especially comfortable tonight.
She walked the ten minutes home, mind juggling skirt patterns, thread orders, how Alice was nearly ready to handle simple designs unaided.
Eventually, she let her thoughts drop, simply enjoying the walk.
Overhead, the sky was still pink in the west. Swifts darted through the air. Life thrummed around her in all its unpredictable fullness.
Post-divorce happiness, the magazines would call it, as though it were something rare and separate. Jane didnt see it that way. She just felt: Im on my way home. I start early tomorrow. I have work I enjoy and do well. Aunt Gwen awaits on Sundays. My clients leave happy. Singer sits by the window. The sky with its birds is just right.
It was enough.
Not a fairy tale, not some tragic lacksimply enough. Maybe thats what people mean when they say second youth or new beginnings or claim self-assurance can be found at any age. Not in an instantbut through one dress, then another, then a studio, a flat, a spring evening with honey and bread in your bag.
She rang Aunt Gwen.
Aunt Gwen, you in?
Where else would I be? Watching telly. Why?
No reason. Just checking in.
Short silence.
Coming Sunday?
Ill be there. Shall I bake something?
Apple pie, if its no bother.
Ill bring apple pie.
Jane slipped her phone into her pocket, climbed the stairs, and opened her flat.
It smelled of linen from yesterdays cuttingshed worked here at the kitchen table while rain pattered outside. Shed tidied up, but the scent lingereda pleasant, reassuring smell.
She put the kettle on, sliced some bread, and opened the honey. The golden honey gleamed thick and clear.
Outside, evening shadows lengthened, but the swifts still flickered in the fading light.
Jane spread honey on her bread, took a bite, and thought: the woman at the shop was rightthis really was excellent honey.
***
The morning dawned clear.
Mrs Livingston arrived at eight on the dotsmall, bright-eyed, her white hair set in a careful wave.
Miss Williams, she said at once, Ive brought a picture. This is the sort of skirt I want. Just not too full, if you please.
She extracted a printout from her bag.
Jane examined ita classic, restrained skirt. Challenging, but interesting.
Sit downIll explain what Ive got in mind.
Mrs Livingston perched, hands folded.
You know, she mused, looking around, Ive wanted a skirt like this for years but didnt know where to go. All the shops sell the wrong things. But my neighbour recommended you. She says your dress made her feel like a new person.
Mrs Livingston chuckled. Thats a fine reference.
Its the best kind, Jane agreed.
She opened her notebook and fetched the tape measure.
Would you stand here, please?
Mrs Livingston straightened her shoulders and gazed into the large mirror.
You know, she said again, Ive been retired four years. I thought appearances didnt matter once I stopped working. But recently Ive realisedwhy not give a damn? Theres much life yet. Why wear old rags?
Exactly, said Jane.
She measured and planned, sunlight streaming in through the wide window, finishing her sketch. In the corner sat the Singerblack and gold, ever steady. In a couple hours, Alice would arrive. And after that, the next client.
And as the day unfolded, Jane understood: none of it had gone to plan. But little by little, she was piecing it all together.
***
Some endings are really beginnings in disguiseif only we let ourselves start over.
