A Bitter Celebration: The Drama of Evelyn
Evelyn sits at the kitchen table, counting her money yet again. Her purse is nearly empty, and payday is still a week away.
“Not much,” she sighs. “But what can I do? This is the wage I get…”
She needs to pay the utilities, buy groceries—but with what? Evelyn wanders through the supermarket in the middle of Littlewood, sighing at the price tags that seem to rise before her eyes. In the end, she can only afford milk, a loaf of bread, and a packet of pasta. No butter—margarine will have to do. Coffee, tea, sweets for the guests, her favourite cheese—all of it stays on the shelves.
With no other choice, Evelyn heads to her former mother-in-law’s for vegetables. And there, the inevitable awaits:
“I told you so!” Margaret will say for the hundredth time.
Her mother-in-law is a stern but wise woman. Now in her late seventies, she’s always been right. If Evelyn had listened to her years ago, maybe she wouldn’t be digging through her purse with tears in her eyes now. Maybe she’d live like everyone else—or even better. But what’s done is done.
Two years ago, her husband, Paul, left. And not just left—he walked out on her birthday. Evelyn had spent the whole day in the kitchen, setting a lavish table. Paul sat down, ate heartily, then suddenly announced:
“That’s it, Ev. I’m done. I’m leaving you.”
She froze, unable to believe her ears. He went on, irritation clear in his voice:
“How old are you today? Forty-one, right? I’m forty-five. At our age, we should already have grandchildren! Where are they? Nowhere. Because we don’t have kids. You never bothered to have them!”
“What are you even saying?” Evelyn gasped, choking on the hurt. “What are you on about? Oh, poor you, tired, are you? You couldn’t even look after the cat—it went hungry half the time! I tiptoe around the flat, and you scream at me for making noise! What kids? Maybe I didn’t want to have them with you!”
Where did this boldness come from? And why? Paul, as if waiting for it, sprang up, shoved the chair aside, and threw over his shoulder:
“I’ll stay somewhere else for now. You’ve got time to find a place. The flat’s mine!”
The door slammed, leaving tomblike silence behind. Evelyn sat, lost, the void in her chest widening.
Later, she heard that Paul had “sort of married” the young cashier from the shoe shop where he’d once bought a pair of boots. People relished telling her how her ex had run to the girl with flowers—flowers from their own garden, the lilies Evelyn had nurtured for years: soft pink, lemon yellow, tiger-striped, fiery red. He’d torn them up by the roots, snapping the stems without a care.
Evelyn pitied the girl. Thinking she’s hit the jackpot? Hardly. Paul skimped on the bouquet—he’ll skimp on the dress, the shoes. Still, seeing his new choice—tall, sturdy, self-assured—it was clear she didn’t need pity. Paul had picked someone who’d “pop out a football team for him.” Well, let him try.
Did Margaret know about her son’s affair? In front of Evelyn, she scolded Paul—but Evelyn got her share too:
“What did I tell you twenty years ago? You always dress like a ragamuffin! How many nice things have I given you? Where are they? Now you’ll be alone!”
Evelyn remembered those “nice things”—knee-length bloomers, fleece-lined, with ridiculous floral prints. 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. Evelyn 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:
“Hold on, you two—did anyone ask me? Ev turns up here, starts bringing men around, and where do I go?”
“Back to your own place, Mum,” Paul snapped.
“Oh, clever, aren’t you? And how’s your little shopgirl getting to work every day? While you lounge about in the flat with her?”
In the end, they settled: Margaret stayed at the cottage, handed her flat to Paul, and Evelyn kept their shared home. But just as she breathed a sigh of relief, another blow came—the court split the debts too. Now Evelyn paid half of Paul’s loan. The “good life” had its price.
That’s why she’s trudging to the bus stop. Buses in Littlewood run rarely—once a week. Everyone else drives; only the elderly ride the bus, chatting away, complaining about pensions, prices, the news. Evelyn stays silent, staring out the window. It’s humiliating, begging for vegetables from her own cottage.
She’d tended every bed, loosened the soil, rejoiced at the green shoots. The house drowned in flowers; the trees stood neatly whitewashed. Inside—light, floral curtains, a bed under a bright throw, a table with elegant chairs, draped in white linen. No junk—no sagging sofas, torn armchairs, piles of rags. Just space, air, beauty.
No wonder Margaret moved in five years ago. Clever—she’d never downgrade. Divorce or not, potatoes needed planting. Evelyn worked herself to the bone. You can’t store a harvest in a flat—the cellar’s safer. So she makes the weekly trip—some extra cash to stretch her meagre wages.
Margaret hovers, lectures, but still puts the kettle on, feeds her, tucks her in, never quiet:
“I told you, Ev! You can’t be like this! Look at Paul and that—God forgive me—girl. They’ve got a little boy already, soon they’ll dump him on Granny and start on the next! And you? Still drifting, clueless. Changed jobs yet? What are you doing at that school? What pension are you waiting for?”
Evelyn fumes, but knows she’s right. Teaching’s no life for a lonely divorcee. Where else? No office hires forty-somethings. Retail? She’d never last. It’s enough to make her howl.
The bus reaches the last stop—only Evelyn remains. She gazes at the lake circling the village, the red roofs of the rich folks’ cottages, the field with grazing goats. It’s open here, easy to breathe. With that thought, she steps off, heading to the house—hers, or maybe not.
From a distance, she spots commotion in the yard. Workers bustle, building something.
“Did Margaret really splurge on a well?” Evelyn wonders. “Where’d she get the money? Paul?”
She opens the gate, greets them. Margaret, flushed, almost youthful, stands by the car, bossing them around like a duchess.
“Come in, no time for dallying! These lads need feeding!” she barks.
“Is this a well?” Evelyn asks.
“Y-o-u-r-s,” Margaret drawls. “Yours! Be grateful. Sick of hauling from the stream! Was I saving for nothing?” She eyes the workers, making sure they don’t hear.
Evelyn stays the weekend. She wants to argue—the men don’t need feeding—but debating Margaret is like arguing with the wind. The workers are decent, not pushy. They eat, thank her, and head outside.
The foreman, James Carter, solid, kind-eyed, keeps glancing atShe catches his gaze and feels a flutter in her chest—something she hasn’t felt in years.
