I am not here
Have you bought that nonsense again? George put the shopping bag down on the table with a thud, making something inside clink. I told you: no more Velour. Its dear and pointless.
Nina stood by the window, gazing out into the communal garden. Outside, the neighbours little girl, about seven, was chasing pigeons. They scattered in a cloud of beating wings, only to settle again on the chipped tarmac as if nothing had happened. Nina watched them and realised she couldnt remember the last time shed bought something for herself simply because she fancied it.
Its hand cream, George. Cost me three pound eighty.
Three eightys three eighty. Forgotten how to count?
She didnt reply. Instead, she turned, took the cream from the bag, and placed the little gold-lidded jar on the windowsill beside the geranium. The geranium hadnt flowered in ages. Nina had been meaning to find out why, but never quite got around to it.
Nina. Im talking to you.
I hear you, George.
She walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and wondered what to make for tea. She heard his heavy, steady footsteps behind her, then the door to his study clicking closed. She exhaled.
She was fifty-eight, living in Manchester, in a three-bedroom flat off Victory Road, married to George Lawrence for twenty-nine years. They had a grown-up son, Anthony, who lived in Birmingham and rang on Sundaysthough he sometimes forgot. They owned a garden plot out near Stockport, a car George alone drove, and Nina worked as senior librarian at the city librarya job shed held for eighteen years.
There had been a life. No one could take that away.
She took chicken breast from the fridge, laid it on the chopping board, reached for a knife. The little girl had vanished, and the pigeons had scattered. The garden was empty, grey; last years grass pushing up in cracks.
Nina realised she was just standing with the knife, not cutting, not moving.
She set the knife down, went to the window, opened the jar of cream. Its scent was subtle, a hint of flowers. She rubbed a dab into the back of her hand. The skin drank it up, and there was the faint sense of someone taking her hand and holding it.
She screwed the lid back on and returned to the chicken.
That night was as usual. George ate in silence, watched the news, went to bed. Nina lingered at the kitchen table with a mug of cold tea, flicking through an old gardening magazine. She didnt truly read. She just sat.
Next morning at work, Nina found Lynda, the longest-serving librarian, crying beside the magazines.
Lynda, whats wrong?
Lynda Higgins, three years older than Nina, knew every books place by heart; Nina had never seen her in tears.
Its nothing, Lynda said, dabbing her eyes. Sorry. Just personal.
Do you want to talk?
Nothing to say. She blew her nose and put her hanky away. My daughter phoned last night. Told me I was obsolete. Her word. Obsolete.
In what way?
Literally. I gave her advice about her husband, you know, as you do. She says, Mum, your advice is from another era. You dont understand how people live now. Lynda straightened a stack of magazines, lips pursed. Maybe shes right.
She isnt, Nina replied.
How do you know?
Nina could find no answer. They stood together in the paper-and-polish-scented silence, then drifted away to their separate routines.
At lunch, Nina slipped out into the April chill, walking to the little park. She sat on a bench, hands in her lap, eyes closed, vision lit orange behind her eyelids. She thought of Lynda, of her daughter, of the word obsolete. Then, inevitably, she thought about herself.
Nina Lawrence, née Compton, born in Leeds, 1966. Trained as a teacherEnglish language and literature. Married at twenty-ninea late start in those days. George was an engineer, solid, reliable, earnest. Anthony was born a year later. Nina took maternity leave, went back part-time, moved her mum in until she passed, then resumed full-time work. Life unfolded in neat, cautious layers.
Somewhere in the folding of it all, something had slipped away. She could feel its absence, though she couldnt name what had gone.
She opened her eyes. Opposite, a plum tree bloomed, its tiny white flowers fragile, impossibly delicate. Nina watched and realised she hadnt drawn for thirty years, not since university. There, she had sketched sometimespastels, just for herself. Then there was no time. Then it felt awkward. Then it faded.
She pulled out her phone and called Anthony. He answered on the third ringvoice distracted.
Mum, hi. All alright?
Yes, love. Im just checking in.
Look, Im about to go into a meetingcan I ring later?
Of course. Give me a ring.
He didnt phone back. That, too, was usual.
She worked to six, bought a loaf at the bakers, and walked home, thinking shed trod this route eighteen yearsevery workdayknowing each crack, each corner.
At home, George was already there, reading at the computer. She took off her coat, went into the kitchen.
Want tea?
Later.
She put the kettle on, found some soup left, and as it warmed, she glanced at the jar of cream on the sill. It was small, lovely. George wasnt wrongthree pound eighty did seem pointless. But she liked the scent.
She left it there.
A fortnight passed in the usual way. Then, into the library one Thursday, walked Sylvia.
Nina noticed her at oncemid-forties, cherry-red coat, cropped hair, posture straight as a yardstick. She came to the counter to join the library, asking for books on psychology and anything, if there was, on painting with watercolours.
Watercolours? Nina repeated.
Yes. Did a bit in childhood. Want to give it another go.
Nina issued her card and showed the shelves. She watched Sylvia with odd curiosity. There was something about hersomething self-contained, as if being herself was quite enough.
Half an hour later, Sylvia returned with two books and nodded at the psychology shelf.
Do you read any of this?
Now and then.
Youve worked here long?
Eighteen years.
Sylvia considered that. Thats a long time.
Is, yes.
Do you enjoy it?
Nina paused. The question was simple, but the answer felt complicated.
Yes, she said at last. I like the books, the people. The place is… familiar.
Familiar, Sylvia echoed, turning the word over. I see.
She left with her books.
Next week, Sylvia came againreturned one book, asked for something else on watercolours. Nina found a slender art album for her. Unexpectedly, Sylvia asked:
Would you like to try?
Try what?
Painting. Im going to a Saturday beginners class. Small group, all quite informal. Why not come?
Nina almost said no, lips formed to refuse. But instead, she said, Where is it?
Sylvia wrote the address: the White Room art space, Galatea Street, Saturday at 11am.
That evening, Nina kept the slip in her apron pocket, then set it beside her hand cream. George never asked about the paper. He never asked most thingsunless it involved money or the house.
At dinner on Friday she said,
Im going to a watercolour class tomorrow, in the morning.
George looked up.
Wheres that?
Galatea Street. A new friend invited me.
What friend?
From the library. New reader.
He chewed, then put down his fork.
How much does it cost?
I didnt ask yet.
Well, off you go if youve nothing else to do.
Hed said itthe usual phrase: if youve nothing to do. Over twenty-nine years, Nina realised, most things she did for herself had been dismissed that way. Again? Why? How much? Nothing better to do?
Alright, she said quietly. Ill go.
She set her alarm for eight, washed, dresseda grey jumper and navy trousers. She looked in the mirrorreally looked, for perhaps the first time in years. Her face wasnt young, but not bad. Her eyes were grey, alive. Hair, streaked with white, but thick. She ran her hand through it, tried it another way. Put a bit of cream on her hands, a dab on her neck.
She left at nine, unhurried.
The White Room was on the second floor of an old merchants houseplain outside, but within, white walls, wooden floors, big windows. Nina climbed up and pushed open the door.
Sylvia was already there, plus four other women of different ages and one man in a check shirt. All sat round a long tablejugs of water, sheets of paper at each place.
Nina! Sylvia waved her over. Glad you came!
Nina sat beside her. The session-leadera young woman called Zoeexplained todays exercise: painting a spray of lilac. Nina took a brush in her hand, her fingers shook, not from nerves, but from unfamiliarity.
It doesnt have to be pretty, Zoe said. Think about water, about colour. Thats enough.
Nina laid down her first strokethe violet ran into the blue, spread against the wet paper. She traced another, then a third. The paint flowed where it willed, not quite where she intended. It was oddly fascinating. Beside her, Sylvia was frowning in concentration. The man with the tiny brush grumbled over his own efforts.
After an hour, Nina examined her painting. It wasnt really a lilac branch. Just a purple-blue haze with splotches. Yet something about it felt alive. Shed made it herself.
Thats lovely, said an older woman across from herMary.
I dont think so, Nina replied.
But I do. Theres a mood in it.
Maybe there was. Perhaps that was possible.
Afterwards, Sylvia suggested coffee at a café round the corner. Nina agreed. Seated by the window, they drank as Sylvia asked, without preamble,
Did you enjoy it?
Yes. More than Id expected.
I thought so, Sylvia said, warming her cup between both hands. Youve got a way of lookingits as if you see something but arent sure youre allowed.
Nina was silent, then said,
How long have you lived in Manchester?
Three years. Came from Cambridge, after… a separation.
I see.
It was difficult at first. Then it got better. Then it becameinteresting.
Interesting?
Finding out who I was, on my own. Turns out I didnt know half as much about myself as Id thought. She smiled, not mocking, just kind. Youre married?
Twenty-nine years.
Is it good?
Nina stirred her coffee.
Its… mixed.
Sylvia nodded, asking nothing more. That, too, felt good.
Nina got home about half one. George sat watching football, not asking how the class had gone. She heated up soup, ate alone, and pinned her watercolour to the wall by the geranium.
The geranium looked a bit livelier than before; one little red bud had appeared, unnoticed till now.
The next Saturday, she went again. And then again. Sylvia came each time and by degrees, they began chatting after classhalf an hour, then an hour. Nina talked of the library and her regulars; Sylvia about her workshe was an accountant at a small firmabout Cambridge, her daughter, who still lived there with her dad and was learning French.
Once, Nina asked,
Dont you get lonely?
Sometimes. But its a different sort of lonely than before.
How so?
Sylvia thought, folding her hands.
I used to feel alone even with someone right next to methats the heaviest sort. Now, Im by myself and not as lonely. See what I mean?
Nina understood. She didnt say it, but something within had shifted. Like ice breaking on a river, slowly but inevitably.
In May, the library announced a competitionsomething like a community culture showcase. Ninas boss, Mrs Martin, gathered the staff.
We need an idea. Anyone?
Silence. Nina, too, held back, but her mind was churning.
What about a literary evening? Lynda offered. Read aloud, discuss.
We do that every year. I want something else.
What if we had an event for women? Nina said.
Everyone turned to her.
What kind of event? Mrs Martin asked.
Womens storiestheir real, personal stories. We invite ladies from around the neighbourhooddifferent agesthey share their lives, things that changed, how they got by. No fuss. We could also show their crafts, if they paint, knit, sculpt.
A pause.
Unusual, Mrs Martin remarked.
Would be real, though.
Whod organise it?
I will, Nina said, surprising herself.
Mrs Martin considered, then nodded. Alright. Go on, Nina.
Nina left the meeting and at once phoned Sylvia, who laughed with delight.
Look at you! Really?
Me. I dont know whyI just said it.
Thats the most honest reason of all. Count me in. Lets ask Mary toothe one from classshe does pottery.
Mary, sixty-two, had taken up ceramics in retirement, making small birds to sell at markets. When Nina called, she agreed at once.
Nina planned most evenings at the kitchen table while George shut himself away. She wrote, scribbled, crossed things out, started again. It felt strange, creating something new, not just maintaining what already existed.
One night, George wandered in for water, catching her at work.
What you writing?
Work. Planning an event.
Library again.
Yes, library.
He poured water, watching.
Youre always busy lately.
So?
He shrugged. Supper was cold tonight.
Sorry. Ill reheat it next time.
He walked out. Nina watched him go. Hed noticed the cold dinner, not that she seemed more alive, not that she was doing something interestingjust that his stew was cold.
She turned back to her notes.
The event took place the third Saturday in June. Nina recruited four women to shareSylvia and Mary among them, as well as Pamela, a retired geography teacher who wrote poetry but never read it aloud, and Zoe from the art classes, the youngest.
Nina made posters, put up notices, handed a write-up to the local paper. She worried no one would turn up, but on the day, the room filled quicklyover thirty, mostly women, some still in their twenties, one very elderly, led in by her daughter.
Nina led the evening herself, barely introducing thingsjust a few words about how the main thing was simply to listen to each other. First came Mary, speaking about retiring, lost at first for purpose, then taking up clay. I realised, holding clay, that I had hands, Mary said. The room laughed, warmly.
Sylvia spoke about moving and starting over at forty-six. Turns out I wasnt afraid of the new, she said. I was afraid of the routine. Nina silently promised herself to remember that.
Pamela read two poemsher voice shook at first, then steadied. When she finished, someone in the third row started clapping, and soon everyone joined in.
Afterwards, helping tidy up, Lynda said,
Well done, Nina. It was genuinely good.
Surprisingly so.
Not so surprising. Youre good with peopleyou always have been. Just never let yourself realise it.
You think?
I know. Weve worked side by side eighteen years.
Nina picked up a forgotten scarf and hung it at the entrance. She thought, yes, Lynda was right, and that was good. But also, a bit sad. Why, after eighteen years, was this the first time?
At home, George was already asleep. Nina moved quietly, had some water in the kitchen. The cream, the painting of the lilac, and now the geranium bursting with four crimson blooms waited on the sill.
She massaged the cream gently into her hands, looking at the flowers, thinking of Sylvia. I wasnt scared of new thingsI was scared of what was familiar.
Next morning, George asked,
How was your evening?
It went well. Plenty turned up.
Did you eat?
There was tea.
Teas not food. He was back to scrolling his phone.
Nina took her coffee onto the balcony with its cold, bright air and the faint scent of lime and poplar. She realised that in asking whether shed eaten, George was being caringin his own way. Shed taken that manner for true care for twenty-nine years, not realising sometimes its substance had faded, or was simply different.
She didnt know what came next. She was only just learning to look straight ahead.
In July, Anthony rangon a Wednesday, not a Sunday, which surprised her.
Mum, hi, how are you?
Im good, love. Is all well?
YesSylvia managed to find me on social media, by the way. She sent me a lovely messagesaid you organise fantastic events. I didnt know.
You never asked.
A pause.
Sorry, Mum. I really didnt. Tell me about it.
And Nina didabout the art classes, about Marys birds, Pamelas poetry, the packed hall. Anthony just listened. At the end he said,
You know, youre brilliant. Really.
Thank you.
Have you been doing this long?
Nothis was the first time.
Should have been sooner.
Yes, it should.
He was silent again, then asked,
Mum, are you and Dad alright?
Nina stood by the window. Below, the courtyard glowed with July light, two boys booting a football about.
Things are… familiar, she said.
Is that good or bad?
Im not sure yet. Im only just looking.
Anthony didnt probe further. He promised to visit in August. Nina put the phone down and lingered at the window a long time.
Anthony visited for four days. He resembled his father in looks, but his attention to people came from her. He brought cheese and walnuts, sat round the table and truly listened. One morning, while George was off at the allotment, Anthony and Nina drank tea in the kitchen.
Mum, youve changed.
How so?
I just… you seem bigger, somehow. He laughed at himself. That sounds mad.
No, it doesnt. I get it.
Are you happy?
Nina cradled her mug. The tea was still hot.
Yes, she said after a bit. Though it is a bit frightening.
Whats frightening?
When you start seeing yourself more clearly, you see everything else more clearly, too. Thats not always comfortable.
Anthony nodded.
Does Dad notice?
Dad notices a cold dinner.
She winced, realising it was unfair. Sorry. That wasnt kind.
Noit was honest, he said softly. Have you spoken to him? I mean, about what you need?
Nina turned to the window. Beyond, August looked tired: grass was already yellow at the edges.
I dont know how, really, she said quietly.
Try, Mum.
After Anthony left, Nina changed his bed and thought about thattryrealising she hadnt truly tried for years. Shed spoken, of course, but never about the real things. Those shed always left unsaid. Safer that way. Familiar. George, she suspected, had a way of looking that stopped conversations before they began.
In September, Mrs Martin called Nina in. The council wanted another event, this time for the whole library district, and wanted Nina in charge.
Its quite a step up, Nina. More work, but I can argue for better pay.
Im happy to do it.
Mrs Martin smiled. Youre different this summer, you know. I hope youre not offended by that.
Im not.
Better, anyhow. A lot more alive.
Nina left the office, went to the counter, greeted a regular, handed out two crime novels, signed the lending register. Then she lingered, looking across the stacks, the reading tables, the flood of gold September sun through the big window.
Eighteen yearsand only now did she feel that this was really her place. Not a spot to pass time, but a place she belonged.
Things shifted quietly at home. George noticed her coming in later, going out Saturday mornings, spending time with women hed never met.
Who is this Sylvia?
A friend.
When did you get a friend?
February. Shes a library member.
And you go off every week?
Most weeks, yes.
George looked at her, and for the first time there was something newuncertainty, not the usual dismissal. She tried to read it. Suddenly she understood: he was lost.
Im not stopping you, George said. Its just odd.
Whats odd?
You have so much going on, now.
Nina sat opposite. For the first time, she looked at him without her usual inner flinchnot as a stranger, just as someone shed stopped really seeing.
Georgeare you glad Im doing these things? Aside from housework and the library?
He hesitated.
I dont know. Maybe.
Maybe?
Its just odd, like I said. He looked out the window. You used to be here. Now youre always somewhere else.
I havent left. Im here.
Here, but different.
Nina looked at his backbroad, now rounded with age. Sixty-one. He, too, had changed, and shed hardly noticed.
George, when did we last just talk? Not about dinner or the car. Just talk.
He thought.
Well, we do.
Do we?
He said nothing. Looked just beyond her.
Exactly, she murmured.
November brought the district event, and weeks of preparation. Nina found eight storytellerswomen from all backgroundsarranged for a local artist to hang paintings round the library, and with Sylvias help, spent most days after work planning or walking the riverside when the weather held.
One day on the riverwalk, Nina said,
I dont know how I lived before.
You just did, Sylvia replied.
NoI mean, I was buried inside myself, deep down, and never came out. Why?
Its not about whyits just how it was.
But I couldve been different.
You could have. Sylvia glanced out at the grey November Mersey. But different doesnt start until it starts. Never before.
Im fifty-eight.
So?
Thatsold.
Nina, please. Sylvia turned. I know women who gave up at thirty-fivedecided they were finished, nothing new left, and lived as showpieces under glass. You, at fifty-eight, are just starting. Its not lateits perfect.
Nina watched a barge creep slowly upriver.
You knowI paint every week. Nine months now.
I know.
This morning, I wrote my own introductionfor the event. Not copied. My own words.
I heard you read it.
Its good.
Its alive. Thats even better.
The November event was hugeover seventy turned up, crowding the room till people stood along the walls. Nina read her piece calmly, hands almost steady, speaking about how every woman carries something unique inside, sometimes for a lifetime, waiting to be noticed. How age doesnt close doors, but often opens ones you never saw before. She wasnt teachingshe was simply speaking her new truth.
Afterwards, the elderly woman from the first event came up, her daughter gently on her arm.
Dear, she said, You were talking about me, werent you?
All of us, Nina replied.
No, me. I felt it. I used to embroider, years back. Thought it sillygave it up. But tonight, I think… well, maybe I should start again. Eighty-threeridiculous, isnt it?
Not ridiculous at all.
Truly?
Truly.
December came quietly. Nina now led her own literary circle every Wednesdaysix or seven regulars, lively debates, everyone interrupting, Nina barely managing to keep order.
At home, things were tense, but not loudjust a new, heavy silence. George said little, clearly thinking much. Finally, Nina decided to open the conversation.
One Sunday she went to Georges study.
George, I need to speak.
Go on.
No, not like this. She closed the door, dragged a chair next to him, sat. Properly.
He shut his book.
Whats this?
Nothings happened. She folded her hands. I just want to say something I never tried to say before.
George waited, wary.
Ive spent years living as if I barely existed, Nina began. I cooked, went to work, did the garden, everything ones supposed to do. But, inside, I was hardly there. Partly, I let it happen. Partly, its the way weve livedside by side but not really seeing each other.
George looked down.
Do you want a divorce?
I dont know what I want. But we do need to actually talk. I want you to see methe person, not just the dinner or the shirts. Me.
There was a long pause. Snow was falling outside.
I dont know how, Nina, he said at last, quietly. I never learned.
I know. She looked at his tired hands. Im not blaming you. I just want to try. To do things differently. And I need to know if you want to try as well.
He didnt answer right away, staring at the snow. Then, at last, he looked at herthe same lost look shed seen lately.
You really have changed, this year.
Yes.
I dont always understand you.
I know.
But I dont want He searched for the word. I dont want you to leave. Here. He nodded at the flat. Or otherwise.
She saw him, sixty-one, rounded shoulders, uncertainthe man shed lived beside for decades, suddenly real and unsure.
Lets try, then, she said. I cant promise itll be easy. But lets try.
January came cold and bright. Nina worked at the library, ran her circle, painted each Saturday. Shed a stack of her own watercolours nowsome at Sylvias, some pinned up in the kitchen by the geranium. The geranium was thriving again; Nina had repotted it and it blossomed red.
She saw less of Sylvia (troubles at work), but they phoned regularly.
One evening, Sylvia asked,
Will you organise something bigger in spring?
I want to. Something stretched over a few daysa proper festival, perhaps.
A lot of work.
I like big jobs now.
Sylvia laughed. Youre full of surprises.
Whod have thought, a year ago?
Not me, certainly.
With George, things were still awkward. They spoke more, but it wasnt always easy. Sometimes he clammed up, and Nina didnt press. She waited, or didntjust retreated into her own pace.
In February, over dinner, he suddenly said,
I saw the GP last week. Had a check-up.
Anything wrong?
Just a bit of blood pressure. They gave me some tablets.
Im glad you went.
Youre not asking why I didnt tell you before?
Why didnt you?
Didnt want to worry you. Habit.
Youre in the habit of not worrying me?
He nodded. Yes. Youre always busy.
Nina watched him, sensing there was something important hidden in those words.
George, I want to knowwhen somethings wrong. About the doctor, about anything. I want to know. Do you see?
I do. Ill tell you. You tell me, too?
They nodded in agreement. Outside, the February snow drove sideways over the rooftops; inside, the kitchen was warm and smelled of supper. On the sill were the cream, and a new watercolouran apple blossom, white, delicate.
Nice picture, said George. You do that?
I did.
He looked again.
Youre good.
Im learning.
Late in February, Lynda rang, unusually late.
Nina, hope you dont mindmy daughter and I made up.
Thats wonderful.
I wanted to askyou reckon I could try watercolours at your class?
Of course. Saturday at eleven.
Ill be hopeless.
Everyones hopeless at first. Thats the point.
On Saturday, Lynda came, holding the brush awkwardly. The first stroke was too dark, the second too pale.
Ninalook, what a mess.
Im looking. I like it.
Its not a branchits a stain.
Its a first go.
Arent you embarrassed to flatter me?
Lynda, I mean itnext time will be different.
Lynda chuckled. Alrightnext time.
March brought a hint of spring. Nina submitted her idea for the festival, the library bosses backed it. Anthony wrote to say hed visit for it.
One evening, after George had gone to bed, Nina sat in the kitchen with her notebook. Outside, melting snow dripped, spring threatened to break through. The geranium was bursting with three red clusters, a new bud about to open.
Nina glanced at the jar of creamempty now, but shed kept it for its look. Shed bought another of the same, Velour, three eighty; George said nothing.
She opened her notebook to a fresh page and wrote: What I know now, I didnt know a year ago. She stared at the words. Then she shut the book. No need to write it downit was inside her now.
Her phone rangnearly eleven, too late for casual calls. Sylvia.
All alright? Nina asked at once.
Yesbetter, actually. I got offered a role in Cambridge. Good post, good pay, my daughters there. Im thinking… Sylvia trailed off.
Do you want to go?
Im not sure yet. Thats why I called. What do you think?
What do I think? I think you already knowyouve decided. You just havent said it yet.
A pause.
I suppose I have. Yes.
What are you afraid of, then?
Ill miss it herethe group, you, Marys ceramics, Pamelas poems.
Were not going anywhere.
Manchesters a long way from Cambridge, Nina.
Sylvia. You once told me, remember? Down the river, in November.
What did I say?
Different starts when it starts.
Sylvia chuckled softly. I remember. Wise words.
Nina smiled. They still are.
Nina, I want to ask something. Be honest.
Alright.
Are you happy?
Nina glanced at her geranium, the cream jar, the stack of paintings, and her notebook with the empty page.
Ive become myself, she said. And perhaps thats what really matters.
Thats your answer?
I think it is.
They sat in silence together for a moment.
Im glad for you, Nina.
And I for you.
Nina… what will you do, if I go?
Nina looked at her open notebook, the clean page.
Ill carry on, she said.
And thats what I learnedthat its never really too late to begin, as long as you find the courage to notice yourself, and to carry on.
