Eight Years of Trifles
The phone rang at half past seven in the morning, just as Eleanor stood by the stove watching the water boil in her small saucepan. The cooker was ancient, gas, with cast iron grates worn black with some strangers grease she could never quite remove. Each morning, that stubborn grease reminded her this flat was not hers, that others had lived here before, with their own routines, their stews, their lives.
She glanced at the screen. Sophie.
Eleanor picked up the receiver.
“You havent replied to his message again,” said her daughter, without so much as a greeting.
“Good morning, Soph.”
“Mum, Im serious. He messaged me last night. Says youre ignoring him.”
The water started boiling. Eleanor switched off the gas and dropped a cheap supermarket teabag into the saucepan. It was the sort that came in packs of fortynothing like the loose leaf Ceylon tea Philip used to order from that little shop near Oxford Street.
“Let him say what he likes,” Eleanor replied.
“Mum, do you realise what youre doing? You live in some godforsaken hole in Acton, probably crawling with mice, youre on your own, youre nearly sixty”
“Im fifty-eight.”
“Thats practically sixty! And you left a perfectly normal man, a flat in the centre, respectable life. And for what?”
Eleanor looked out of the window. Beyond the glass stretched the grey November sky, a bald sycamore tree, a chunk of a nearby block with yellowing, peeling paint. Somewhere below a bus rumbled past. The buses here were old, and the noise on her first two nights had kept her awake.
Now she barely noticed.
“Sophie, Im running late for work.”
“You never want to talk about this properly!”
“I do. Just not now, not like this. Can you come this Saturday? Ill make soup.”
“Im not coming to that dump of yours.”
A dump. So the word had reached Sophie as well. Probably from Linda.
“Alright,” Eleanor said quietly. “Well talk later, then.”
“Mum”
“Sophie, I love you. Bye.”
She put the phone down. Taking the pan, she poured the tea into a thick, ridged glass shed found in the kitchen cupboard among someone elses old pots. Proper English pub glassweighted, cut with geometric lines. She hadnt seen one in thirty years. She took a gulp. The tea was hot, a touch bitter, faintly papery from the bag.
She drank it standing, gazing out at the sycamore.
Then she dressed and stepped outside.
***
The stairwell smelt of damp and cats. Somewhere on the third floor lived a cat shed never seen but often heard yowling at night. There was no lift. Four flights down, past battered post boxes and someones sledge left there since last winter.
It was about five degrees outside, if that. Eleanor buttoned her coat and headed to the tube. She hadnt learnt her way round Acton yet: six months here and she still occasionally took the wrong side street. South Acton, Ealing Common, Gunnersbury Green. The streets here differed from central Londonquieter, broader, lined with trees. People hurried by without looking at each other, as everywhere in London, but their urgency here lacked that central tang of impatience shed always found grating.
She popped into the corner shop and picked up a pint of milk and half a loaf. The cashier, a girl with sparkly green eyeshadow, barely glanced up. Eleanor counted out her change, packed her purchases, and left.
It was warm but noisy on the tube. She stood, gripping the rail, mind on the project. Yesterday she and David had finished the first block of measured drawings; today, theyd have to deal with the basement floor, which, by the looks of things, was held up more by hope and Victorian workmanship than by physics.
The manor house was in Hammersmith. Modest enough, late 18th centurymain building, two wings, and what had once been a carriage house, now so endlessly patched and converted she struggled to imagine its original form. Owners came and went, the council had at one point used it as storage, and then it lay abandoned for twenty years. Now the funding had been found, the right people, and a project team brought in. Eleanor was the lead architect-restorer. David, her colleague, handled the structural work.
A real jobnone of those kitchen refurbs shed taken on in recent years during her time with Philip, just to stay busy. This was proper work, with real history.
***
David was on site already when she arrived. He stood in a large ground-floor hall in his ever-present grey jacket, tape measure in hand, staring solemnly at the ceiling.
“Morning,” Eleanor called as she entered.
“Take a look,” he replied, pointing to where a chunk of plaster had fallen away, exposing the brick. “Think Ive figured out why the ceilings sagging here. Theres a split in the main beam. Were looking at more than just restorationa near-total replacement.”
“Split along the grain or across it?”
“Come see.”
They climbed to the first floor on stairs which, though shored up, still creaked at every step. Eleanor gripped the banister, smelling dry, sweet dust of old wooda scent shed never learnt to put into words. The smell of time, she thought, the residue of other lives absorbed by these walls.
She always loved that scent.
David pointed out the beam. She crouched, took her torch, and shone it into the crack.
“Not along the grain,” she said. “See how it goes? Mechanical damage. Something heavy was standing here.”
“Agreed. Equipment, maybe.”
“Or several. It used to be a storehouse.”
David crouched beside her. Both stared at the beam. The wind rustled through a window missing its pane.
“Well need to replace it, then,” he said.
“We will. But using the same method. I looked up the archives yesterdaytheres a spec for the timber. Local pine, well-seasoned, by the looks.”
“Fat chance finding any like that now”
“I know a supplier in Hertfordshire, used them for the St. Pauls project. Ill give them a ring.”
David nodded, stood, brushed off his knees. He was tall, slightly stooped, listening with his head tipped so it seemed he was always deep in his own thoughts. But it was deceivinghe listened carefully, responded thoughtfully, never interrupted. Four months working together and Eleanor had got used to, and valued, his manner.
“Fancy some tea?” he asked. “Brought my flask.”
“Yes, please.”
They went to the corridor where Davids bag rested on the floor. He produced a flask and two sturdy plastic cups, pouring them both.
“You seem” he paused, hinting.
“Seem what?”
“Not sure. Together, somehow. Focused.”
Eleanor half-smiled.
“Means either my daughter or my sister rang this morning.”
He didnt press. Just handed her the cup.
Real tea, not from a bag.
***
Linda popped round that Sunday, unannounced, buzzing from outside: Let me in, Ive brought cake. Eleanor opened the door.
Linda, three years her elder, lived in Chiswick with her husband Gerald, worked as an accountant for a building firm, and always seemed convinced there was a right way to live, and that hers was it. She stepped inside, scanned the flat, her face a familiar blend of pity and smugness.
“Good heavens,” Linda said, peering into the bathroom. “Is this a bathroom or a storage cupboard?”
“Bathroom.”
“The tiles are cracked.”
“You brought a cake, didnt you?”
“I did.” Linda placed it on the table, eyeing the kitchen once more. “Eleanor, just help me understand this, please. There you had a flat in the centre, three bedrooms, parquet floors, someone respectable. Did he hit you?”
“No.”
“Cheat on you?”
“Dont know. Maybe he didby then it didnt matter.”
“Then what? Why leave? Have you lost your mind?”
Eleanor set out plates.
“Linda, not now.”
“Why not? Im your sister, am I supposed to keep quiet? Sophie rings me in tears. He calls, asking whether I know whats up with you. Hes a decent man, by the way.”
“He is,” nodded Eleanor. “For someone else. Slice us some cake.”
“You always do this. Deflect. Dont want to talk.”
“I have, Linda. Ive explained. Several times.”
“You havent! I was unhappywell, who isnt? You think Im always happy with Gerald? But I dont scarper off to a bedsit on my own at my age.”
“Its not a bedsit, I have the place to myself.”
“Alone!” Linda threw up her hands. “Youre fifty-eight, youre alone in a dump, working for peanuts, and you think thats just fine?”
Eleanor looked at her. Linda sat opposite, big, warm, in her perpetual beige cardigan, her face radiating genuine incomprehension. It was impossible to be angry.
“Lin,” Eleanor said softly. “You’d be lost without me, silly woman,” Linda retorted.
Eleanor shook her head: Lost, but on my own terms.
Linda stared.
“What are you babbling about?”
“Nothing, really.” Eleanor took the knife and cut the cake. “Whats in it?”
“Cabbage.” Linda still watched her suspiciously. “Are you alright, El? At least see a counsellor?”
“I do.”
“And what do they tell you?”
“That Im making the right choices.”
“Well, they wouldgets them paid.”
They had tea and cabbage cake. Linda talked about Geralds back playing up, the new neighbours with their barking puppy. Eleanor listened. Outside, dusk gathered; above the sycamore, the sky purpled.
At the door, Linda paused.
“At least text him,” she said. “Hes worried.”
“Alright,” replied Eleanor.
She knew she wouldnt.
***
She and Philip had lived together for eight years. Not marriedhe took pride in avoiding that bit of paper, which, as she realised too late, said a lot.
The first couple of years felt differentor so she thought. Hed been attentive, took her to restaurants, theatres, trips to Italy and Prague. Hed told her she was clever, had good taste. Slowly, insidiously, things shifted, like a hairline crack spreading in old plaster.
It started with small things. Once she wore her favourite green dress to his office party. He looked at her in the hall and said, Are you sure? Nothing more. She changed. Wore black.
Later came comments about her cooking. Then how she spoke to his friends. How she wasted time at work for so little in return. That last one he delivered softly, like a gentle correction.
“El, you must see, conservations a dead-endaimless people go into it.”
“I have ambition.”
“Come on.” He smiled. “Youre a good professional. Just average. Theres nothing wrong with that. Not everyone has to be exceptional.”
She didnt answer then, just withdrew to another room and stared at the wall, wondering why a man being so benign could make her feel so worthless.
He never shouted. Never hit her. He did something else instead: gently, relentlessly, he convinced her she was nothing without him. That her career was trivial, her friends dull, her tastes provincial. That she owed him, just because he was with her at all.
Shed stew over her stew, wondering if shed salted it right. Shed phone friends, fretting if it was too often. Shed enter work meetings worried she seemed arrogant. That doubting, seeking-permission inner voice? It sounded like him.
And then there was that night.
They were at his friends place in Notting Hilla lovely flat. The chat drifted round to a new housing development. Eleanor remarked on its poor facade: a typical case of a developer skimping on an architect. Straightforward, professional.
Philip looked across the table and smiled that familiar, special smile.
“Eleanor’s an expert,” he said to Mark. “Although experts tend to be either practical or theoretical. Eleanor’s a bit of a theorist. She hasnt done anything big in ages.”
The table fell silent for a moment. Fiona eyed Eleanor. Mark reached for his glass.
Eleanor smiled, finished her meal, sipped her wine, kept up small talk. Ordered a cab. On the drive home, Philip chatted comfortably about Marks job; Eleanor stared out into the London night, thinking only: I cant do this anymore.
Not “Hes a bad man.” Not “Im unhappy.” Just: I cant do this anymore. It was a wall: unyielding, obvious.
She left three months later. Found her own flat in Acton, shifted her things over two car trips. Philip was away on business. She left his keys and a note in the kitchen: “Sorry.”
She wondered why she chose that word. She never did figure it out.
***
November in Acton had its own charm. The park nearby; after work she sometimes detoured round it, not heading home directly but looping past old trees. The leaves had all fallen, paths were wet and soft underfoot, but in the dusky air there was a hush and the musty smell of damp bark she breathed in as if it were medicine.
The flat was chilly. The old blocks heating ran sporadically, and the radiators either left you roasting or freezing. The kitchen tap dripped. Shed rung the landlord several times; each time, he promised a plumber who never came.
Eleanor bought a washer at the hardware shop and did it herself. It took forty minutes, two broken nails, and a word she muttered aloud when the wrench slipped and she knocked her funny bone. But she did it. The tap ran true.
She felt a silly sort of prideyet real.
In the evenings she worked at the kitchen tablewith drawings spread out and her old green-shaded desk lamp, the one shed picked up at a flea market in the 90s. Philip had hated that lamp, said it ruined every room. In central London it had sat in a cupboard. Here it had pride of place.
Work on the manor evolved slowly, as it does with large projects: measurements, research, damage assessments, then the concept. Eleanor loved this pace and its honesty. A building either stood or it didnt. Brick was either strong or dead. History either breathed or was imagined.
Shed found records about the house in the local archives. Turns out in the 19th century it had belonged to the Goodman family, then to their daughter, whod run a sort of small home school. Then the war, then storage. The daughter was called Margaret. Eleanor had discovered her photograph in the filesa woman of about fifty, upright, with an air of knowing something the photographer didnt.
Eleanor had stared at that photograph for some time.
Eventually, she returned to her work.
***
David once asked how shed got into conservation.
They were in his car, warming up before a trip to the archives. Outside, the years first snow fluttered timidly.
“I used to design new builds in the nineties,” Eleanor said. “Blocks of flats, officesgood money, busy years. Then, by chance, I visited a little church restoration in Hertfordshire with a friend. That was it.”
“That was what?”
“I realisedthats what mattered to me.”
He was quiet.
“Thats rare,” he said, “knowing what matters.”
“You too?”
“Not straight away. I did what seemed right for years. Then I stopped.”
She glanced at him. He was watching the windscreen, now veiled in snow.
“And then?”
“Thenthis.” He nodded towards the unseen house. “And Im fine with it.”
The car was warmleather, a faint whiff of morning coffee.
They drove on in silence.
***
Philip turned up on a Wednesday.
She hadnt expected him. He rang the bell at eight as she ate Greek yoghurt and leafed through blueprints at the kitchen table. Regular old London doorbell, sharp and cheap, just like all the others in the block.
She opened up expecting the landlord or a neighbour.
There stood Philipin tailored cashmere coat, with a modest bunch of chrysanthemums. Shed never liked chrysanthemums. Eight years and hed never remembered.
“Hello,” he said.
She just stared for a moment.
“How did you get the address?”
“Sophie gave it to me.”
Of courseSophie. Eleanor stowed that away for later.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To talk.” His smilethe same old one. “Will you let me in?”
She hesitated, then stepped aside.
He glanced around the cramped hall, the peeling wallpaper, the wonky coat hook, her boots by the door.
“You actually live here,” he saidnot a question.
“I do.”
“Eleanor” He took her hand. She withdrew. He wasnt offended; simply swapped his flowers from left to right. “Listen. I know you needed time away. But six months is surely enough.”
“Enough of what?”
“Of being alone, taking a break. I dont know the word for it.” He stepped into the kitchen, inspecting the table scattered with drawings. “Working?”
“I am.”
“What is it?”
“Restoring an old manor in Hammersmith.”
“Good.” He said this patronisinglythat familiar tone. “Thats good for you.”
“Its good for me, and good for the house. Eighteenth century, quite special.”
He set the flowers downon her drawing. She moved them aside.
“Eleanor,” he began, “do you actually understand what youre doing? Youre living herein this.” He gestured.
“I know exactly where Im living.”
“I want you to come back.”
She looked at him. Philip was good-looking, she couldnt deny itsixty-five and well-groomed, tall, his coat fitting perfectly.
“Why?” she asked.
He hesitated, unprepared.
“What do you mean, why?”
“You want me back. Why?”
“I” He fumbled. “I miss you.”
“What about me?”
“Eleanor, what is this conversation?”
“A normal one. You say you miss me. I ask, what is it youre missing? Specifically?”
He looked at her, that faint irritation, so carefully concealed, flickering on his face.
“I miss you. The person. We spent eight years together.”
“I remember.”
“So, whatall over, just like that?”
“I didnt leave just like that.” Eleanor folded her arms, still in her old cardigan and jeansnothing like the image he recalled. “In truth, I started leaving eight years ago. You just didnt notice.”
“I dont understand.”
“I know you dont.”
“Explain.”
“I have.” Her voice was steadyand it surprised her, this steadiness. Six months ago shed have cried, or babbled, or apologised. “Remember that night at Mark and Fionas?”
“Which?”
“You called me a theorist. Said I hadnt done anything of note in ages. In front of them all.”
He thought.
“I was joking. I dont recall exactly butalmost certainly a joke.”
“Perhaps.” Eleanor nodded. “But that was just one of many. And I remember them all.”
“Eleanor, youre just too sensitive.”
“Perhaps so.”
“It wasnt humiliation.”
“Fine,” she said. “Even so, it hurt.”
“Over nothing.”
“Eight years of nothing.”
He was silent. Again he looked around the kitchen. His eyes lingered on the glass by the stove, the battered green lampshade.
“And youre genuinely alright here?” he said, disbelief in his voice.
Eleanor considered honestly, for herself, not for him.
“It depends,” she admitted. “Sometimes its hard. Sometimes Im lonely. Heatings unreliable. But its better for me than before.”
“Its an illusion.”
“Maybe. But its mine.”
He picked up his coat, glanced at her again. Something flickered in him; something real, but not his usual business-like calm.
“Eleanor, Im not a stranger to you.”
“No,” she said. “Not a stranger. But not quite family anymore. You should go, Philip.”
He lingered another moment, then made for the hall. Got his coat on. Opened the door.
“Youll regret it,” he said.
Not a threat. Almost regretful.
“Maybe so,” she agreed.
The door shut. Eleanor stood there, staring at the scuffed wood and the tiny peephole. Then she returned to the kitchen, popped the flowers into a spare jar with water. Flowers, after all. Too sad to throw away.
She went back to her drawings.
A bus thundered by outsideonce, then again, then faded.
She realised she no longer heard that noise as a nuisance.
***
The presentation was set for mid-December. Just the first stage; the client wanted a general planwhat to save, what to restore, what to recreate, and why. Eleanor prepared thoroughly. David did, too. Evenings, they rang each other, hashing out the details, sometimes arguing.
Once, they bickered about the basement floor for forty minutes, before realising they were both rightthe only difference was, she saw things from a design angle, he from an engineering one.
“Youre tough,” he remarked afterwards, no reproach in his voice.
“In my work, yes.”
“Thats a good thing.”
And that was all. No sentimentality.
She hung up, catching herself smiling.
***
Three days before the meeting, Sophie rang. Not in the morningat night.
“Mum,” she said, voice sounding different, not that hard-edged tone of recent months. “May I come over?”
“Of course.”
Sophie arrived with a bottle of wine, seeming to have made up her mind about something, though unable to voice it. She was so like Eleanor at her age, with those same cheekbones, those same hands. Thirty-two, worked as a designer, lived with her boyfriend near Angel.
They sat in the kitchen. Eleanor poured the wine into two old tumblersshe had only one wine glass, kept aside for guests, but Sophie insisted a glass wouldnt change a thing.
“He rang you after he visited?” Sophie asked.
“No. He sends the odd text.”
“What sort?”
“All sorts. I rarely reply.”
Sophie rolled the glass between her palms.
“Mum, I gave him your address. Youre not cross?”
“No.”
“I thought I dont know what I thought. That maybe youd talk and”
“We did.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He left.”
Sophie was quiet. Then, looking at her glass:
“Mum, all this time I sided with him. You know that?”
“I do.”
“I told myself you were just somewhere off in your own world, that you ought to come back to reality. I felt sorry for himhe seemed so lost, so sad.”
“Hes good at seeming.”
“Yes.” Sophie looked up. “I realised that lately. He called after he left you. And he said said you always had your head in the clouds. That he put up with you, that really, he did you a favour for eight years.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Thats him, yes.”
“Mum.” For the first time in months Sophie met her gaze, the irritation and condescension dropped. “Were you unhappy?”
“Very.”
“Why didnt you tell me?”
Eleanor thought.
“I suppose because I couldnt really explain it to myself. When nobodys hitting you, cheating on you, kicking you outtrying to put into words why youre miserable is almost impossible. Especially to your daughter, who only saw the best of him, and rarely at that.”
Sophie got up, rounded the table, and gave her a hugsudden, fierce. For a second Eleanor was startled, then hugged back. Sophies hair smelt of her favourite pear shampooshed loved it since she was a teenager.
“Youre not a fool,” Sophie said into her shoulder. “Aunt Lindas wrong.”
Eleanor chuckled softly.
“Its good to know.”
They finished the wine. Sophie examined the drawings, asked about the manor. Eleanor showed her a photo of Margaret Goodman. “She looks like you,” Sophie said. And, Eleanor thought, maybe she did.
Sophie left at half past eleven, promising to visit next Saturday.
Eleanor washed the tumblers, put away her work, and stood by the window.
No more buses ran by now, it was late. The courtyard below was still, bathed in blue light from the streetlamp. In the building across, just one window was lit, a lone figure crossing behind it.
She thought about ringing David to ask about the basement again, but it was too late. Shed leave it for morning.
***
The presentation was held in the project firms conference room. The client was formidableteam of solicitors, and a heritage adviser throwing out tough, pointed questions. Eleanor replied calmly. David added the technical bits. At one point, the client asked about timing for those first-floor beams. She answered honestly: if they got the right timber in time, the schedule would hold; if not, a three-week delay. The adviser frowned, but Eleanor added: “Better you hear the truth now than excuses later.”
He nodded. Oddly, that seemed to go down the best.
Afterwards, she and David stood in the corridor, he with his folder of papers.
“I think theyll go for it,” he said.
“I think so too.”
He looked at her. The hallway bustled with strangers, briefcases, laptops.
“Dinner?” he asked. “Good place round the corner. We should celebrate.”
She considered.
“Id like that.”
They walked through Decembers London, through Hammersmithold lamps glowing, dustings of snow on every ledge and sill. David strolled beside her, head tipped as usual. They chatted idlyabout timber for the beams, about the picky adviser (good thing, really), about how quickly it turned dark in December.
The restaurant was cosy, curtained, wooden. They ordered something warm and a glass of wine each. Talked for agesnot just about workabout London, its changes, books theyd read. Eleanor lost track of time.
When they left, he helped her on with her coat. Simple, everyday gesture. She noticed it, or let herself notice it now more gently.
Outside, he said,
“Im glad we work together.”
“So am I,” she replied.
They went their separate ways towards the Underground.
***
And so, gradually, Eleanor found herself livingsometimes falteringly, sometimes with surprising confidencethe kind of life that was hers and hers alone. She learned that happiness is less about comfort or consensus than about the quiet, determined rightness of being true to your own self. Eight years of little things may not seem much to others, but sometimes it takes just as long to gather the courage to begin againno matter how small the start, so long as it is truly yours.
