**A Bitter Celebration: The Tale of Eleanor**
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, counting her money for what felt like the hundredth time. Her purse was nearly empty, and payday was still a week away.
“Not much to go on,” she sighed. “But what can you do? That’s the wage, I suppose.”
The bills needed paying, the fridge needed filling—but with what? Wandering through the supermarket in the quiet town of Ashford, Eleanor winced at the price tags, which 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, even her favourite cheese—all left untouched on the shelves.
With no other choice, she made her way to her former mother-in-law’s for vegetables. And, as always, the inevitable lecture followed:
“I told you so!” Margaret repeated for the umpteenth time.
Margaret was a stern but wise woman, now in her seventy-sixth year, and she was never wrong. If Eleanor had listened years ago, maybe she wouldn’t be scraping pennies together now. Maybe she’d be living comfortably, like everyone else. Or better! But what’s done is done.
Two years ago, her husband, Philip, had walked out—on her birthday, no less. Eleanor had spent the day cooking, setting a splendid table. Philip sat down, ate heartily, then dropped the bomb:
“That’s it, Ellie. Enough. I’m leaving.”
She froze, disbelieving. He barely paused, irritation in his voice:
“How old are you today? Forty-one, right? And I’m forty-five. At our age, we should have grandchildren by now! But where are they? Nowhere. Because we have no children. You couldn’t be bothered!”
“What on earth are you saying?” Eleanor choked on the injustice. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t even take care of the cat—he’s starving half the time! I tiptoe around the house so as not to disturb you, and you shout at me for making noise! And you want children? Maybe I didn’t want them *with you*!”
Where had that bravery come from? And why now? Philip, as if waiting for it, shoved his chair back and snarled:
“I’ll stay somewhere else for now. You’ve got time to find a place. The flat’s mine!”
The door slammed, leaving silence thick enough to choke on. Eleanor sat there, numb, emptiness spreading in her chest.
Later, she heard the rumours: Philip had “gone and married” some young salesgirl from the shoe shop he’d wandered into one day. The gossips relished every detail—how her ex had romanced the girl with flowers. Flowers he’d ripped from Eleanor’s own garden—the lilies she’d nurtured for years: soft pinks, lemony yellows, tiger-striped, fiery reds. He’d torn them up without a second thought.
Eleanor almost pitied the girl. Thinking she’d landed a prize? Please. Philip wouldn’t spare a penny for roses—let alone a dress or shoes. Though, looking at the new wife—tall, sturdy, sure of herself—it was clear she wouldn’t need pity. Philip had chosen someone who’d “give him a whole nursery full of children.” Well, good luck to him.
Did Margaret know about her son’s affair? In Eleanor’s presence, she scolded Philip—but Eleanor got her share too:
“What did I tell you twenty years ago? You dress like a ragamuffin! How many decent outfits have I bought you? Where are they? Now you’ve got no one left to impress!”
Eleanor remembered those “outfits”—gigantic knee-length bloomers, fleece-lined, in hideous floral prints. Philip would’ve bolted sooner if he’d seen her in those.
The divorce dragged on. Philip insisted everything was his, but the court split it down the middle. Eleanor got the cottage, Philip kept the flat. Then Margaret—who’d been living at the cottage for years, renting out her own place for a tidy sum—stepped in:
“Oi, you two, what about me? If Ellie moves in, she’ll start bringing men round, and where does that leave me?”
“Back at your own place, Mum,” Philip snapped.
“Clever, aren’t you? And how’s that new wife of yours supposed to get to work every day? While you laze about in the flat?”
In the end, Margaret kept the cottage, gave her flat to Philip, and Eleanor stayed in the marital home. Just as she breathed a sigh of relief, another blow landed—the court divided the debts too. Now, Eleanor paid half of Philip’s loans. The price of living “well.”
Which was why she found herself trudging to the bus stop. Buses in Ashford ran once a week. Everyone else drove—only pensioners rode, gossiping about their measly pensions, rising prices, and the latest scandals. Eleanor stayed silent, staring out the window. Begging for vegetables from her own cottage was humiliating.
She’d tended every inch of that garden, loosening soil, delighting in green shoots. The house was a haven—flowers everywhere, trees neatly whitewashed, bright curtains fluttering. Inside, space, light, no clutter. No wonder Margaret had begged to move in years ago. Canny woman—she’d never downgrade. A divorce was a divorce, but potatoes still needed planting. Eleanor toiled till her back ached. You couldn’t store harvests in a flat—the cellar was safer. So she made the weekly trips, squeezing what little extra she could from her pittance of a salary.
Margaret hovered, lectured, but still put the kettle on, fed her, tucked her in, never pausing:
“I told you, Ellie! You can’t go on like this! Philip’s got that—Lord help us—trollop, and they’ve already got a son! Soon they’ll dump the kid on Grandma and start on the next! And what are you doing? Still drifting. Changed jobs yet? Why cling to that school? What pension are you hoping for?”
Eleanor seethed but knew Margaret was right. Teaching was no life for a divorced woman on her own. Where else could she go? No office would take her at forty. A shop? She’d never last. Some days, she just wanted to scream.
The bus pulled into the village, empty save for her. She gazed at the lake, the posh cottages with their red roofs, the goats grazing in the field. Here, space stretched wide, air filled her lungs. With that thought, she trudged toward the house—hers, or not quite hers anymore.
From a distance, she spotted workers bustling in the yard.
“Has Margaret actually sprung for a well?” Eleanor wondered. “Where’d she get the money? From Philip?”
She pushed the gate open, said hello. Margaret, flushed and oddly youthful, stood by a truck, barking orders like a duchess.
“Come in, no time for dawdling! These lads need feeding!”
“So, a well now?” Eleanor asked.
“Yours!” Margaret drawled. “Yours! Rejoice. Sick of hauling from the pond! Been saving for years, haven’t I?” She glanced at the workers, lowering her voice.
Eleanor stayed the weekend. She wanted to argue they didn’t need feeding, but arguing with Margaret was like shouting at the wind. The men were decent—ate, thanked her, stepped outside.
The foreman, John Carter, solid with kind eyes, kept looking at Eleanor. She blushed like a schoolgirl.
“Honestly,” Margaret whispered. “Good man! I’d take him myself. Snap him up! Divorced, asked about you. Told him you’re my daughter. Well, why not? Can’t my daughter be a bit scatty?”
“You’re impossible!” Eleanor fumed—but part of her knew Margaret’s schemes always hit the mark. She liked John—steady, quiet, warm-eyed.
“Why all this?” she asked Margaret.
“Needs doing! Lovely place—build something nice. Philip’s doing it, so why not you? And when you both visit, and the rows start—John’ll sort Philip out, and that girl of his will get an earful! I’ll invite the neighbours, we’ll toast the show. That’s why!”
Eleanor shook her head. What could you do? And John kept looking, shameless. She grabbed a towel and bolted for the lake.
The water was cool. Floating on her back, sky above, she let herself think. How nice it was, being looked at like that. It had been so long…
“Sorry to disturb,” came John’s voice. “Your mum sent me down.”
“I’ll bet I know what she said,” Eleanor replied, suddenly bold enough to meet his eyes.
“Oh? What’s that?” He sat beside her.
“Told you to ‘go on, take this daft woman, build a life with her’?”
John paused, then laughed.
“Funny? It gets better,” Eleanor said.**”And so, with the sun setting over the lake and Margaret’s voice still carrying from the house, Eleanor realised—perhaps for the first time—that happiness wasn’t just something she’d lost, but something she could still find.”**
