The Bitter Celebration: Helen’s Tale
Helen sat at the kitchen table, counting her coins yet again. Her purse was nearly empty, and payday was still a week away.
“Not much,” she sighed. “But what can I do? That’s all there is.”
The bills needed paying, groceries had to be bought, but with what? Wandering the aisles of the village store in Oakendale, she winced at the price tags, which seemed to climb higher by the hour. In the end, she could only afford milk, a loaf of bread, and a packet of pasta. Butter was out of reach, but margarine would have to do. Coffee, tea, biscuits, her favourite cheese—all stayed on the shelves.
With no other choice, Helen made her way to her former mother-in-law’s for vegetables. And, as always, she was met with the inevitable:
“I told you so!” Margaret would say, not for the first time.
Her mother-in-law was a stern but wise woman. At seventy-six, she was always right. Had Helen listened to her years ago, perhaps she wouldn’t be scraping pennies together now, wiping tears from her cheeks. Maybe she’d be living like everyone else—or better! But what’s done is done.
Two years ago, her husband, Paul, had left. And not just left—he’d walked out on her birthday. Helen had spent the day cooking, laying out a grand spread. Paul ate heartily, then dropped the news:
“That’s it, Helen. Enough. I’m leaving.”
She froze, disbelieving. He carried on, 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 have no children. You never bothered!”
“What are you even saying?” Helen gasped, stung. “Are you mad? Tired, poor thing? What children could you have raised? You can’t even remember to feed the cat—he wanders starving all day! I tiptoe around the house, and you shout that I’m too loud! What kind of father would you have been? Maybe I didn’t want your children on purpose!”
Where had that courage come from? And why? Paul, as if waiting for it, shoved back his chair and snapped:
“I’ll stay elsewhere for now. You’ve got time to find a place. The flat’s mine!”
The door slammed, leaving a heavy silence behind. Helen sat, numb, an emptiness swelling in her chest.
Later, she heard the gossip—Paul had “gone and married” some young lass from the shoe shop where he’d once bought boots. The tale was told with relish: how her ex had dashed about with flowers. Flowers from their own garden, no less—the lilies Helen had spent years tending. Pale pink, lemon yellow, tiger-striped, fiery red. He’d torn them up by the roots, snapping stems without a care.
Helen pitied the girl. Thought she’d landed a prize, did she? Paul wouldn’t spare the pennies for a proper bouquet—he’d begrudge her a dress, then shoes. Still, looking at his new bride—tall, sturdy, sure of herself—it was clear she wouldn’t need pity. Paul had chosen someone who’d give him “a houseful of children.” Well, let him try.
Did Margaret know of her son’s affair? With Helen, she scolded Paul, but Helen wasn’t spared either:
“What did I tell you twenty years ago? Dressing like a ragbag! I gave you decent clothes—where are they? Now you’ve got no one to blame but yourself!”
Helen remembered those “gifts”—knee-length bloomers, fleece-lined, in some garish floral print. Paul would’ve bolted sooner if he’d seen her in those.
The division of assets began. Paul insisted, “Everything’s mine!” But the court split it down the middle. Helen got the cottage; Paul kept the flat. Then Margaret stepped in—she’d been living at the cottage for years, renting out her own place for a tidy sum:
“Now, children, don’t I get a say? If Helen moves in, she’ll start bringing men round—where does that leave me?”
“Back home, Mum,” Paul retorted.
“Oh, brilliant! And how’s your girl getting to work every day? While you cosy up with your shopgirl?”
In the end, it was settled: Margaret stayed at the cottage, gave her flat to Paul, and Helen kept their old home. Just as she breathed a sigh of relief, another blow landed—the court divided debts, too. Now Helen paid half of Paul’s loan. His taste for “the good life” had come at her expense.
That’s why she trudged to the bus stop. In Oakendale, buses ran once a week. Everyone else had cars; only the old women rode, gossiping about pensions, prices, the latest scandal. Helen stayed quiet, staring out the window. Begging for vegetables from her own cottage was humiliating.
She’d tended every row, loosened the soil, rejoiced at each green shoot. The cottage was drowned in flowers, trees neatly whitewashed. Inside—bright, with patterned curtains, a bed under a cheerful quilt, a table set with fine chairs and a white cloth. No clutter, no threadbare sofas or heaps of rags. Just space, air, beauty.
No wonder Margaret had begged to live there five years ago. Clever woman—she’d never suffer. Divorce or not, potatoes had to be planted. Helen worked till her hands ached. The harvest couldn’t stay in the flat; the cellar was safer. So each week, she made the trip—some extra coin to stretch her meagre wages.
Margaret hovered, lectured, yet still put the kettle on, fed her, tucked her in, never pausing:
“I told you, Helen! You can’t go on like this! Paul and that girl—God forgive me—already have a son! Soon they’ll dump the baby on Gran and start on the next! And you? Still drifting, clueless. Changed jobs yet? Teaching’s no life for a divorced woman. What pension will that bring?”
Helen seethed but knew she was right. Teaching was no future for a woman alone. Where could she go? No office would hire her past forty. A shop? She’d never last. The thought made her want to howl.
The bus reached its final stop—just Helen left. She gazed at the lake wrapping the village, the red roofs of the wealthy cottages, the goats grazing in the field. Here, there was space to breathe. With that in her heart, she stepped off and headed home—or what was once home.
From afar, she spotted the commotion in the yard. Workers swarmed, building something.
“Has Margaret really splurged on a well?” Helen wondered. “Where’d she get the money? Did Paul chip in?”
She pushed the gate open, calling a greeting. Margaret, flushed as if rejuvenated, stood by a van, barking orders like a lady of the manor.
“Come in, no time for dawdling! These men need feeding!”
“A well, then?” Helen asked.
“For you!” Margaret drawled. “For you! Rejoice. Sick of hauling from the pump! Been saving for this—did you think I’d waste it?” She glanced at the workers, keeping her voice low.
Helen stayed the weekend. She wanted to argue—why feed the men? But reasoning with Margaret was like arguing with the wind. The workers were decent, not pushy. They ate, thanked her, then wandered out.
The foreman, Thomas, sturdy with gentle eyes, kept glancing her way. She flushed, feeling like a girl again.
“Look at you, giggling like a schoolgirl,” Margaret hissed. “He’s a good man! I’d take him myself. Go on, make use of him! Divorced, asked after you. I told him you’re my daughter. Well? Can’t my daughter be a bit odd?”
“You’re impossible!” Helen fumed—but secretly thought: Margaret always had schemes, yet she was never wrong. She liked Thomas—solid, quiet, warmth in his gaze.
“Why go to all this trouble?” she asked Margaret.
“Needs doing! This place is lovely—build some love here! Paul’s doing it, why not you? And when you both visit and bicker—Thomas’ll put Paul straight, and his girl will sort you! I’ll invite the neighbours, fry up some seeds. That’s why!”
Helen just shook her head. What could you do? And Thomas kept staring, shameless. She grabbed a towel and fled to the lake.
The water was cool. Floating on her back, Helen gazed at the sky. Sitting on the dock, she let herself think—how lovely it felt to be looked at with interest. It had been so long…
“Sorry to intrude,” came Thomas’s voice. “Your mother sent me.”
“I can guess what she said,” Helen found she could meet his eyes without flinching.
“Oh? What’s that?” He sat beside her.
“Probably told you to ‘go”She would’ve told you to take this silly woman and build a life with her.”
