Eight Years of Trifles
Wednesday, 12 November
My phone rang at half past seven this morning, right as I stood by the hob, watching the water come to a boil in the old saucepan. The cooker is gas, ancient, with heavy cast iron grates permanently slick with someone elses grimeno matter how much I scrub, it never really comes clean. Every morning that sticky film reminds me that this isnt my flat; that other people have lived here before me, with their own odd routines, their own Sunday roasts and stews, their own stories.
I glanced at the screen. Emily.
I picked up.
You still havent replied to his message, were my daughters first wordsno greeting.
Good morning, Emily.
Mum, Im being serious. He texted me last night. Says youre ignoring him.
The kettle boiled. I switched off the burner and dropped in a cheap supermarket tea bag, the kind you get in boxes of forty for a couple of quid. Once, I drank nothing but proper loose leaf Ceylon teaJames ordered it specially from Fortnums on Piccadilly.
He can say what he likes, I replied.
Mum, do you even realise what youre doing? Youre living in that dreadful little place in East Finchley. Youre on your own, nearly sixty
Im fifty-eight.
Thats almost sixty! And you left a decent man, a flat in the middle of London, a normal life. For what?
I looked out the window. The sky was a typical November grey, an old sycamore bare against the chilly light, only the corner of the next block visiblepeeling yellow paint, a reminder of how long its stood. Somewhere below, the number 13 bus rattled past on its way to Archway. The first few nights here, it was so loud I barely slept. Now, I hardly notice it.
Emily, Im going to be late for work.
You never want to talk about this, not properly!
I do. Just not like this, not over the phone before work. Could you come round Saturday? Ill make a pot of soup.
Im not setting foot in that hole of yours.
A hole. So even Emily had started using that wordprobably picked up from Aunt Margaret.
All right, I said quietly. Well talk another time.
Mum
I love you, Emily. Bye.
I set the phone on the dusty little table, poured my almost-brewed tea into an old-fashioned tumbler I found at the back of the cupboard, among pans and dishes that didnt match. The glass was thick, real English heavy glass, like the ones we had in my childhoodsmoothed edges, clunky but reliable. I took a sip. The tea was hot and slightly bitter, with a papery taste from the bag.
I drank it standing by the window, watching the bare tree sway.
Then I got dressed and stepped out into the morning.
***
The stairwell smelled of damp and cats. Theres a tom on the third floornever seen him, but I hear his midnight wails regularly. No lift, of course. Four flights down past rusty post-boxes with missing doors, past some abandoned childs sledgelast winters, I suppose.
It was about five degrees outside. I buttoned my wool coat and walked out towards the tube. I still havent got the hang of East Finchleysix months here, and I still get muddled up in the little side roads: Leicester Road, Creighton Avenue, Northern Parkway. The streets out here are nothing like those central ones; wider, quieter, lined with scrappy-looking trees. Everyone seems to hurry past, barely making eye contact, just like anywhere in London, but here the rush feels gentlernone of that central London urgency that always used to set my teeth on edge.
At the off-licence I bought a pint of milk and half a loaf. The girl behind the till, green eyeshadow and headphones, didnt bother looking up. I counted out the change, dropped the bits in my bag, and went on.
Warmth and racket greeted me in the tube. Standing by the door, clutching the rail, I ran through the days project in my head. Yesterday, Tom and I finished the first set of measured drawings, and today I would be wrestling with the rotten timber beams in the cellarvictims of Victorian shortcuts and, perhaps, the last ghost of Imperial luck.
The house was in Hackneya late-Georgian townhouse, main building with a couple of wings and what looked to have been a coach garage, adapted and re-adapted over the decades until it was hard to guess what it once was. Owners came and went. The local council used it as a storehouse for years after the war, then abandoned it. Two decades empty before someone finally found fundsand the ambitionto turn it into a cultural centre. A new project team was put together. Im the lead conservation architect. Tom, my colleague, handles the structural engineering.
Its real work. Not the scraps I’d picked up in those last years with Jamesjust little flat conversions, anything to keep me busy. No, this was proper, layered with history.
***
Tom had beaten me to the site, as usual, pacing in the vast, chilly front room, tape measure dangling from his hand, squinting up at the ceiling.
Morning, Tom.
He pointed wordlessly at a corner where the old plaster had flaked off, exposing crumbling brickwork. I think Ive finally figured out why that ceilings sagging. Found a split timber beam upstairscompletely rotted through. Not a restoration jobfull replacement.
Rot or just separated at the rings?
Come and see.
We headed up the rickety stairs, recently reinforced but still groaning under our steps. I gripped the banister, took in the sharp, dry aroma of old wood and brick dusta smell I cant put a name to, but one I have always loved. The scent of years, perhaps, or lives long vanished, held between these tired walls.
He showed me the damage. I crouched down, torch in hand, studying the split.
Its not seasonal separation, I said. See? Runs straight throughmechanical damage. Heavy machinery up here, Id say.
Agreed. Probably old latheswhen it was a store.
Tom kneeled beside me. We stared at the cracked beam together. Through a window with no glass, the wind sighed.
So, well need to swap it, he said.
Same techniques, though. I found a Victorian spec in the Hackney archiveslooks like local pine, but seasoned properly.
Finding timber like that nowadays
Well manage. Theres a dealer in Kentworked with them on the Greenwich restoration. Ill call them.
Tom nodded, rising to dust off his knees. Hes a tall man, always slightly hunched, with the air of someone lost in his own thoughtsexcept he listens more deeply than anyone Ive known, unfailingly precise and never interrupting. After four months working together, I value that immensely.
Cup of tea? he offered. I brought a thermos.
Love one.
Out in the corridor, beside his bag, he poured into two plastic cups.
You seem different today, he observed. Very focused.
I smiled.
That means my daughter or my sister called this morning.
He didnt push for detailsjust handed me the cup.
Proper tea, not from a bag.
***
Margaret came by last Sundayno warning, just buzzed from downstairs: Open up, Ive brought a pie.
Shes three years older, lives over in Finsbury Park with her husband Geoffrey, works as an accountant for a building firm, and has that unshakeable view on life that no argument can dent. She swept in, scanning the flat, wearing that familiar expressionhalf pity, half triumphthat shes had since we were girls.
For heavens sake, she sniffed in the bathroom, is this supposed to be a shower room or a broom cupboard?
Bathroom, I said.
The tiles are cracked.
You brought a pie, didnt you?
I did. She marched to the kitchen, set her pie down, pursed her lips. Helen, I really dont get it. Why on earth? That flat in Marylebonethree rooms, parquet floors, high ceilings, good man. Did he ever hurt you?
No.
Did he cheat?
I dont know. Might have. Didnt care by the end.
Then what? Why did you leave, seriously? You do realise how foolish it looks at your age?
I fetched plates.
Dont, Margaret.
Dont what, Helen? Im your sister! You want me to say nothing? Emily rings me in tears, he calls me asking whats going on. Hes a good man
He is. For someone else. Slice the pie, please.
You always do this. Cut the pie. Never talk about it.
I have, more than once.
You havent! You say, I was unhappy. Who isnt? Think Geoffrey and I have it all rosy? Im not running off to a bedsit at our age.
Its not a bedsit. Im on my own here.
On your own! Margaret threw up her hands. Fifty-eight and alone in this dump, earning peanuts, and you think thats all right?
I looked at her. Sitting opposite me, big and warm in her ever-present beige jumper, her face so utterly, sincerely perplexed. She really doesnt understand.
Margaret, I murmured.
Youll come to ruin without me, she said, half-laughing.
I shook my head. Maybe. But itll be my ruin.
She stared. Whats that supposed to mean?
Nothing. Just talking rubbish. I started cutting the pie. What did you put in this?
Cabbage. She was still squinting at me, suspicious. Youre coping, right? Seeing a counsellor?
I am.
And?
She says Im making the right choices.
Oh, well, thats what they all say. Youre paying, after all.
We ate pie and drank tea. Margaret talked about Geoffreys bad back, their neighbours new dog that howls at all hours. I listened. Outside, dusk crept in, the sky growing a strange purple over the silhouette of the sycamore.
At the door, she lingered.
You could at least text him, she urged. Hes worried.
All right, I promised.
I knew I wouldnt.
***
James and I lived together for eight years. Never marriedhe didnt believe in paperwork, which was a sign Id missed until too late.
The first couple of years were different, or so I recall: dinners out, West End plays, trips to Venice and Prague. He told me I was clever, had good taste. Then everything shifted, slowly, imperceptiblyas if a fine crack running through old plaster.
It started small. One day I wore my best green dress to his office do. He looked at me and said, Are you sure? Just that. I changed into black.
Later, it was my cooking. My manner with his friends. My devotion to work with such little to show for ittone always gentle, as if doing me a favour by pointing out the so-obvious.
Helen, you know restoration is a dead end for people with no ambition.
I have ambition, Id retort.
Hed smile. Youre a good professional. Just average. Thats not a criticism. Not everyone can be outstanding.
I didnt find words to answer that. I walked out, sat an hour staring at the wall, wondering why his kindness made me feel so small.
James never shouted, never raised a hand. Instead, he gently but relentlessly convinced me I was nothing on my own. That my field was trivial, my friends dull, my tastes provincial. That I owed him for being with me.
Making stew, Id fret about the salt. Calling friends, Id worry I was intruding. Heading to meetings, Id second-guess if I seemed too cocky. That internal voice, always doubting, always seeking permission, had his cadence.
And then came the evening that changed things.
We were at his friendsMartin and Jenniferin their nice Marylebone flat. The chat turned to a new housing development. I mentioned that the facade was dreadful, an example of a developer scrimping on architects. Calm, professional.
James looked across the table, smiled that now-familiar smile.
Helens the expert, he told Martin. But you know, you get practical and theoretical experts. Helens more of a theorist. Not worked on anything big in ages.
The table went quiet for a moment.
I smiled. Finished my dinner. Had my wine. Made conversation. Called a cab.
On the way home, James seemed content, rambling about Martins projects. I watched the London lights slide past the window and thought one simple, crisp thought: I cant do this any more.
Not: hes a bad man. Not: Im unhappy. Just: I cant.
I left three months later. Found a flat in East Finchley, moved my things in two loads. James was away on business. I left his keys and a single-word note on the kitchen table: Sorry.
Sometimes I wondered why I wrote that. No idea. It just came out.
***
November in East Finchley is oddly special. With the park nearby, I sometimes take the long way home, wandering the muddy paths among the old trees. The leaves have all fallen, the ground slick and cold, air heavy with the smell of wet bark and earthyet peaceful, as if breathing in something life-giving.
The flats cold. The heating is unreliableVictorian pipes and ancient radiators, either boiling hot or stone cold. The kitchen tap drips. Ive called the landlord twice about it; he keeps promising a plumber. No-ones come yet.
So I bought a rubber washer in the DIY store and fixed it myself. Took forty minutes, two broken nails, and one choice curse when the spanner slipped and my elbow cracked the pipe. I stood up, wiped my hands, ran the tap. No drip.
A strange sense of pride washed over me. Silly, maybe. But real.
Evenings, I work at the little kitchen table. Spread out blueprints, click on my old green-shaded lampa market find from the Nineties, one James hated and banished to the cupboard in Marylebone. Here, it sits right in the centre.
Work on the house unfolds slowly, as all major projects do: surveys, archive work, damage assessment, then the concept. I love the slow pace, the way theres no fooling architecturebricks are either sound or not, either telling their story or faking it.
I found old papers in the city records about the house. Turns out in the 1800s it belonged to a merchant, then to his daughter, who ran a sort of home school in it. The revolutionthen, storage. The merchants daughter was called Hope. One faded photo showed a woman of about fifty, straight-backed, looking at the camera as if she knew something the photographer never would.
I stared at that picture for a long time.
Then went back to drafting.
***
Tom once asked how I got into conservation.
We were sitting in his car, waiting for the heater to kick in before heading to the record office. Out the window, first snow of the season drifted uneasily.
In the nineties I did new buildsflats, offices, plenty of paid work. But once, almost by accident, joined a friend on a site visitan old village church outside London. That was it.
That was what?
I knew I wanted to do this work. That it mattered.
He thought for a while.
Not many people figure out what really matters to them.
Did you?
Took me years. Did what I ought for ages. Then I stopped.
I watched him, his gaze fixed out the windscreen, flakes sticking to the wipers.
And then?
This. He nodded towards the house we both worked on. And thats good enough.
The heater hummed. Scent of coffee and warm leather filled the car.
We drove off to the record office.
***
James showed up on Wednesday.
I wasnt expecting him: the bell rang at eight while I sat at my table, eating Greek yogurt out of the pot, papers everywhere. The buzzers an old-fashioned, scratchy jangle, just like all the buzzers in these blocks.
I answered, sure it was the landlord or a neighbour.
There he stood, cashmere overcoat, clutching a limp bunch of chrysanthemums. I hate chrysanthemums. After eight years, he still hadnt noticed.
Hello, Helen.
I stared at him for a couple of secondsspeechless.
How did you get my address?
Emily told me.
So, Emily. I filed that away to unpack later.
What do you want? I asked.
To talk. A hint of that smile. The old one. Are you going to let me in?
I hesitated, then moved from the doorway.
He looked around, taking in the scuffed hallway, peeling wallpaper, crooked coat hook, my boots by the door.
You actually live here, he saidnot a question.
I do.
Helen He reached for my hand. I pulled it away. He just switched the bouquet to his other hand. Look I get you needed space. But six months is enough.
Enough what?
Enough time on your own. A break. Whatever you want to call it. He wandered into the kitchen, eyeing my paperwork. Still working?
Yes.
On what?
House restoration in Hackney.
Thats good, he said in that patronising tone I remember too well. Good for you.
For me, yes. And for the city. Its an eighteenth-century house.
He dumped the flowers on the intentioned centre of the blueprints. I put them aside.
Helen, he said. Do you realise what youre doing? Living here. He waved at it all.
I know where I live.
I want you to come back.
I looked at him. James had aged wellsixty-five, but he looked younger, neat and tall, the coat hanging perfectly.
Why? I asked.
He blinked. Clearly hadnt expected the question.
What do you mean, why?
You want me back. Why?
Well He faltered. I miss you.
What exactly do you miss?
Oh, Helen, come on.
Its a real question, James. You say you miss me. What do you mean?
He gazed at me, an old annoyed-yet-patient look crossing his face.
I miss you. The person. Eight years”
I remember.
And now its just over? You walk out, just like that?”
Its not just like that. I folded my arms, in my old jumper and jeansnothing like the Helen he thought he knew. I was leaving for eight years. You just didnt see it.
I dont understand.
I know.
Explain it, then.
Ive tried. My voice didnt waverstrangely steady. A half-year ago I’d have been in tears, apologising incoherently. Do you remember that night at Martin and Jennifers?
What night?
You called me a theorist. Made out like I hadnt done anything real in years. In front of everyone.
He frowned.
I was joking. Cant even recall, but I mustve been.
Maybe. Its just thats one of many. And I remember every single one.
Helen, youre too sensitive.
Possibly.
It wasnt meant to belittle you.
Fine. Maybe it wasnt. Still made me miserable.
And thats ita trifle.
Yeah. Eight years of trifles.
He fell silent, scanning the kitchen again. His gaze lingered on the thick glass at the counter, on my green-shaded lamp, on the unfamiliar clutter.
And youre happy here? he asked, lightly incredulous.
I consideredfor myself, not for him.
Some days are tough. Some are lonely. The radiators barely work. But I prefer it to how things were.
Its an illusion.
Maybe. But its my illusion.
He reached for his coat.
Helen, were not strangers.
No, I said. But were not anything else anymore. James, go home.
He hesitated, then put his coat on. Opened the door.
Youll regret this, he said, soft as regret itself.
Maybe, I agreed.
The door closed. I stood there, staring at the battered old fake-leather door. Then went back to the kitchen. Put the chrysanthemums in an empty jar, topped them with water. They were flowers, after all.
I returned to my plans.
Outside, the next bus rattled byonce, twicethen silence.
I realised that sound no longer struck me as an intrusion.
***
The presentation for the concept design was due in the second week of Decembera prelim, just to show the client our thinking: what to preserve, what to replace, why. I prepared thoroughly, Tom in parallel. We discussed it on the phone in the evenings, bickering over small points.
One argument ran about the cellar joists: I saw the aesthetics; he, the structural logic. We kept at it forty minutes, until both realised we were right from different angles.
Youre tough, he remarked afterwards, unjudgingly.
In the profession.
And thats a good thing.
Nothing more sentimental. I said goodnight and caught myself smiling.
***
Three days before the presentation, Emily calledthis time at night.
Mum, she said, voice quite unlike those last few months, can I come over?
Of course.
She arrived with a bottle of wine, looking like someone whod just made up their mind but didnt know the words for it. Shes thirty-two, works as a designer, lives with her boyfriend in Tufnell Park; same square face and hands as me, back when.
We sat in the kitchen. I poured the wine into our plain glassesone lone wine glass kept for rare guests. Emily insisted she preferred the tumbler.
Did he get in touch after visiting you?
No. Occasionally he texts.
What about?
Different things. I dont always reply.
She fiddled with her glass.
I gave him your address. Hope youre not angry.
Im not.
I thought Im not sure what I thought. That maybe youd talk, sort it out
We talked.
And?
Nothing. He left.
Emily stared into her wine, then spoke as if to herself:
Ive been on his side this whole time, you know?
I know.
Told myself youd come back to your senses, go back to a normal life. Pitying himhe seemed so lost, so lonely.
Hes good at seeming that way.
Yeah. She glanced up. I only realised recently. He called me after he left yours, said, Your mums never really fit in. I put up with her. Did her a favour, those eight years.
I nodded.
Thats how he talks.
Mumshe looked at me without the old haze of irritation or condescension, for the first time in monthsWere you unhappy?
Very.
Why didnt you ever say?
I thought for a moment.
Because I couldnt find the words. When theres no fighting, no affairs, when youre not thrown out, its hard to explain why youre miserable. Especially to a daughter who only saw the best side.
Emily stood, came round and hugged me. It was sudden and rough, and for a second I didnt know what to do. Then, I hugged her back. Her hair smelled of her usual pear-scented shampoo, the same shed used since she was a teenager.
Youre not foolish, she whispered. Aunt Margarets wrong.
I laughed quietly.
Thats nice to hear.
We finished the wine. Emily pored over my plans, asked about the house. I showed her the old photograph of Hopethe merchants daughter. She looks like you, Emily said. I looked at it again. Maybe.
She left around half-eleven. Promised to come again next Saturday.
I washed the glasses, tidied the blueprints. Stood a while at the window.
No more buses; it was too late. The courtyard below glowed blue under a lone streetlamp, just one window still lit in the next blocka shadow moving behind the curtain.
I thought about phoning Tom, to check one last detail about those cellar joists. But it was late. Tomorrow would do.
***
The presentation took place in a conference room at the clients firm. Serious audiencesuits, their in-house heritage advisor who grilled us with tricky questions. I answered. Tom chimed in on the engineering. The client pressed about the timeline for sourcing timber joists for the first floor; I said honestly: If timber comes in as planned, were fine; if not, were three weeks behind. The heritage advisor frowned. I added, Best you hear it now, not chasing me for an excuse later.
That, surprisingly, seemed to please him.
After, Tom and I stood in the corridor, paperwork in his hand.
I reckon theyll sign off, he murmured.
Me too.
He looked at me, people hustling round us with their own folders, their own agendas.
Fancy dinner? he asked. Theres a good little place nearby. We could celebrate.
I met his gaze.
Id like that.
We walked through Decembers city together, past old houses garlanded with snow. Tom kept that little tilt to his head, but didnt say anything pressingchatting instead about the timber, the persistent advisor, the way it gets dark so early in winter.
The café was cosy, dimly lit, with thick curtains and battered wooden tables. We ordered warming mains and a glass of red each, talked till lateabout work, London, books, everything and nothing. I didnt once look at the time.
When we left, he held my coat for me as I put it ona simple gesture, nothing loaded.
Outside, he said, Im glad we work together.
So am I, I replied.
We headed off in opposite directions, towards our own tube stations.
