Every Tuesday
Eleanor darted through the corridors of the London Underground, her hand clutching an empty carrier baga white crinkled emblem of todays failure. Two fruitless hours wandering Westfield, her mind a tangled reel of questions, and not one present chosen for her goddaughter, daughter of an old friend. Sophie, now ten, had abandoned ponies for astronomy, and finding a decent telescope that didnt ruin her budget felt like an astronomical feat itself.
Night was falling, and the subterranean air throbbed with the tiredness that clings to the end of a long day. Allowing crowds to sweep past, Eleanor pressed towards the escalator. It was then her ears, dulled by hours of background noise, tuned into a sharp, impassioned sliver of conversation behind her.
I never thought Id see the day, honestly, a young womans voice, bright yet trembling, rang out. Now, every Tuesday, he picks her up from school. Himself. In his own car. And they drive off to that park with the carousel
Eleanor paused on the moving stair, glancing over her shoulder just in time to spot a woman in a scarlet coat, face flushed with emotion, eyes alive. Next to her, a friend listened closely, nodding along.
Every Tuesday.
She too had once had a day like that. Not a reluctant Monday, nor a Friday buzzing with weekend promise, but a Tuesday. The axis around which her world once spun.
Every Tuesday, five oclock sharp, shed leave St. Marys Comprehensive, where she taught English Literature, and make her way to the other side of London. To the Royal College of Musics junior department, housed in an old mansion with creaking floorboards. Shed collect Henry: seven years old, impossibly solemn, clutching a violin nearly as tall as he was. Not her own child, but her nephew. Her brother Daniels boy, left fatherless after a brutal car crash three years ago.
In those raw first months after the funeral, Tuesdays became survival. For Henry, cocooned in silence and grief. For his mother, Julia, broken and barely able to rise from her bed. And for Eleanor herself, anchoring the remnants of their lives together, trying to offer steadiness amid the heartbreak.
She remembered it all. Henry shuffling out of class, gaze glued to the floor. Shed reach for the heavy case, receiving it in silence. Together theyd walk to the tube, and shed fill the hush with gentle storiesabout a funny misspelling by a pupil, or the crow that filched a sandwich from a boy outside school.
One gloomy November, trudging through a puddled street, he suddenly piped up: Aunt Ellie, did Dad hate the rain too? Her breath caught at the jagged swell of pain and tenderness. Detested it. Dived for shelter at the first drop, she replied. And Henry slipped his hand into hersnot to be led, but as if gripping something slipping away. Grasping not her hand but a flickering memory. She felt in his small fingers all the force of childhood longing, fused with bewildering certainty: yes, his father was real, he truly hated rain, he ran for cover. He existed not just in crumpled photos, not only in Nans weary sighs, but right here in the drizzle, in this street.
For three years, her life divided starkly into before and after. And Tuesdaybleak or brightwas the only day that felt alive. The others were filler, a grey stretch of waiting. Shed plan carefully: picking up Henrys favourite apple juice, loading up her phone with funny cartoons for crowded trains, inventing new topics to keep conversation afloat.
And then, slowly, Julia found her footing again. Work, thententativelya new partner. She decided to movefresh start, new city, far from the shadows. Eleanor helped them pack, zipped Henrys violin snugly into its case, hugged him fiercely on the platform. Write, call, Ill always be here, she said, hiding tears.
At first, the phone rang every Tuesday at six. For a few precious minutes, Eleanor was Aunt Ellie again, racing to squeeze all her questions into a swift quarter of an hour: school, the violin, new friends. His voice was a fine, golden thread woven across the miles.
The calls stretched to every other week. Henry was growing up: more after-school clubs, more homework, new mates, video games. Sorry, Aunt Ellie, forgot last Tuesdayhad a big test, he messaged, and shed reply: No bother, love! How did it go? Her Tuesdays became less about calls, more about waiting for a message that sometimes never came. She never minded. Some days, she messaged first.
Thenjust the big occasions. Birthdays, Christmases. His voice, a little deeper, now gave broad brushstrokes: All good, Its fine, Still studying. His stepdad, Michael, was gentlea steady presence, never trying to replace Daniel but simply there. It was enough.
Not long ago, a baby sister arrived. Amelia. In photos online, Henry held the tiny bundle, awkward yet radiating affection. Life, harsh and generous in dizzying turns, carried them forward. Scabby old wounds faded beneath nappies, school runs, and cautious plans for what lay ahead. For Eleanor, there remained her nichea slightly faded, but cherished Aunt from a different chapter.
Now, standing in the roar of Piccadilly Circus station, that chance phraseevery Tuesdaypulsed through her, not as reproach, but like a gentle echo. Like a note from the Eleanor who bore, for three years, a burning torch of responsibility and loveraw as a wound, exquisite as a gift. Back then, she knew exactly who she was: an anchor, a lighthouse, a vital cog for one small boy adrift. She mattered.
The lady in red nursed her own heartache, her knotty compromise between yesterdays pain and todays demands. Yet the pulse, the ritualevery Tuesdaywas a secret code. The code that says: Im here. You can count on me. You matter to meon this day, at this hour. It was a language Eleanor once spoke fluently, which now lingered barely on the tip of her tongue.
The train rumbled away. Eleanor straightened her posture, catching her reflection in the darkened window: tired, yesyet steadier.
She emerged at her stop, already decidedtomorrow shed order two matching telescopes, reasonable but well-made. One for Sophie. The other for Henry, by post. When his arrived, shed send a message: Henry, so we can look at the same sky, even from miles apart. Next Tuesday, six oclock, if its clearshall we both find the Plough? Lets set our watches. Love always, Aunt Ellie.
She rode the escalator upwards, rising into the brisk evening air. London was cold, the city lights sharp. The coming Tuesday no longer felt hollow; it was once again spoken for. Not out of duty, but a gentle pact between two people bound by memory, gratitude, and the quiet, unbreakable thread of family.
Life pressed on. Yet hidden in her calendar were days not just to get through, but to set aside. Days for the soft miracle of gazing at constellations in tandem, across the miles. Days when memory didnt sting, but warmed. Days when love, having learnt the language of distance, spoke more quietly, more wisely, and with greater strength than ever before.
