I Wont Give Up His Flat
What exactly brings you here?
Eileen was guarding the doorway as though she wasnt just blocking the entrance to a room, but actually defending the border to her whole life. Palms braced flat against the frame in a wordless dare.
Hello, Mrs. Marsh.
I asked, what for.
Helen didnt reply straight away. Instead, she studied the doormata fraying blue one edged with white shed bought ages ago at the market in Camden. It was still here, battered but alive.
May I come in?
The silence was something fierce. Eileen didnt budge for a while, but then, apparently remembering the remnants of courtesy, she stepped aside and padded off to the kitchen. If that wasnt an invitation, it would have to do.
Helen slipped in and closed the door behind her. The hall smelled familiar, yet off; once it was overpowered by Brians tobacco-scented jacket, always slung over the left peg. Now, just a fleece robe and a moth-eaten bobble hat.
Eileen attacked the kettle in a way which clarified she was less interested in tea than in giving her hands something to do instead of shoving guests out by the collar.
I saw lights on, said Helen. I was passing.
At ten oclock at night?
The bus was late. I was stuck at the stop.
Eileen snapped the kettle lid and turned round, sizing up Helen as though they werent family but two strangers left in a lift together.
Well, youve come this farhang your coat up, she muttered.
Helen slid her coat onto the left peg under the hat, thought for a second, and moved it onto the right one.
They sat at the table, eye to eye. Eileen poured tea, and it wasnt really an offering so much as basic British muscle memoryguests get tea, even if you dont fancy their company. A mug was plonked in front of Helen, sugar nudged across without looking.
How have you been? Helen tried.
Fine. Eileen gripped her mug like a mugger. Same as always.
Helen looked at her hands: creased, dotted with time, but unnaturally white-knuckled for someone supposedly fine.
I wanted to talk, Helen began.
About what?
Lots of things.
About documents?
Helen hesitated.
Not just that.
Eileen sipped. The mug landed with a polite but pointed tap.
If its about paperwork, chat to Mr. Fleming. Ive said my piece.
I know.
Then theres no need to repeat yourself.
It wasnt a question. Helen didnt treat it like one, just sipped her own teaall too hot, set it back.
Outside, Londons drizzlemore of a mist than actual rainlicked at the window. Streetlamp shadows rocked back and forth across the sill.
Helen knew this kitchen intimately. She knew, for example, the left-hand drawer housed everything from ball of string to spent batteriesBrian never binned them in case theres a spark left. Under the sink was a bucket for leaking pipes, because the pipe dripped with Victorian steadfastness every autumn. Behind the fridge was that slot coin she’d once tried to fish out with a ruler; she, Brian and Tom all in fits.
Tom. Three months now.
I brought you some jam, she said. Plum, the one from the farmers market. Left it by the door, no idea if you noticed.
Eileens gaze flicked briefly to the hall.
I noticed.
You like plum jam.
Liked then after a beat I like it.
It was precise, somehow, that slip. Like Eileen herself couldnt remember which tense she lived in now.
Helen thought she understood. She, too, sometimes lapsed into the present when talking about him, then wished she hadnt started at all.
I heard you were going to see Nora in Oxford, Helen offered.
That was the plan. Not got round to it.
And whys that?
Oh, you knowthings. Eileen made a vague gesture.
Helen looked at her. There were no thingsand both of them knew it. There was only the flat, not wanting to leave it alone; the fear of coming back to empty silence. Perhaps, too, the dread that Nora might look at her with pityand Eileen didnt deal well with pity, not when aimed at herself.
Mrs. Marsh, Helen said more quietly, its not just the documents. Honestly.
Honestly, repeated Eileen, and it was impossible to tell which side of truth she stood on.
I get it, youre cross with me.
Im not cross.
All right.
I just A crack in her cool. I just dont get how its so easy for you. Half a years gone by. Youyou seem to have moved on. And Im still here.
Helen didnt protest with the usual Youve got the wrong idea or Thats not what you think. She just waited.
I saw you, Eileen pressed on. So did Jenny from next doorshe told me. You were at the café with someone. In August. The one on Portobello Road.
That was a colleague. Were working on a project.
A colleague, Eileen echoed archly.
Yes.
Eileen shuffled over to the window, peering out at the drizzle and swinging lamp.
Tom really loved you, you know, she said, not turning. Maybe more than you realised.
I did realise.
Im not so sure.
Helen gripped her mug. Something inside her lurched, like the streetlamps shadow. She knew she would say something regrettable if she opened her mouth just thenso she didnt.
Im not saying youre a bad person. Eileen watched the rain. Thats not it. You’re still young, forty-twos nothing. Whole life ahead. Im sixty-eight with one son. Was.
I know.
And now hes not here. And you bring jam.
That might have sounded cruel, if it wasnt so accurate. Helen felt oddly grateful for the bluntnessa clarity she couldnt have asked for.
I really dont know a better way, she admitted. Ive never been good with words. I needed to bring something, or it felt worse.
Eileen returned to the table, examining Helen as if she werent sure what sort of creature shed let into her house.
Were you crying in the stairwell before you came in?
A bit.
What, just now?
Mmm.
Something invisible shifted in Eileens expression. She pulled her chair out.
Were both fools, you know, she declared.
It was the first thing all evening that had no hidden meaning.
They listened to the rain, which had gone full-on British weather now, coming down proper.
Can you tell me about the will? asked Helen. Not from a solicitor, but from you. What was it that upset you? Tell me straight.
Eileen looked surprised, as if for the first time anyone had actually asked hernot just fed her the official line.
Its the flat, she said. His flat. My husband and I saved for yearseight years, almostto buy it for him. So he had his own. He lived there, you lived therenot that I mindbut it was his. And now, legally, its yours.
Yes, thats what the will says.
You and he werent married.
We lived together six years.
I know. Eileen folded her hands. I just I think hed want me to be involved, somehow. Not just cut out. It feels wrong.
He wrote the will himself, Mrs. Marsh.
I know he did. After a pause: Perhaps thats how it should be. I dont know anymore. I was angry, to begin with. Im not any longer. Just confused.
About what?
Why youre keeping the flat. Jennys daughter told me you said you might move out. That being there alone is too much. So, why hold on to it?
Helen looked at her.
I said that in July, when things were really bad. Im not sure what Ill do.
If you sell Eileen began.
Im not planning to sell.
But if you ever did, Eileen insisted, tell me first? Not some estate agent, not a strangerme?
It dawned on Helenthis was the core, wasnt it? Not the property, not the cash. It was the right not to become a stranger; the right to know first, to stay linked, however thinly, to her son through this woman whod shared his home but known him differentlynot as a mother, but in some private grown-up way.
Ill tell you first, said Helen. Promise.
Eileen gave a brisk, satisfied nod and poured herself more tea.
Have you eaten today? she asked.
Had something this morning.
This morning? She gave an exasperated click and was in the fridge before Helen could object. I made spaghetti soup. Want some?
Yes, thanks.
While Eileen reheated the soup, Helen watched her back and thought about how, in a parallel universe, they might have been differentway closer, popping to the coast together, joint Christmas dos, casual phone calls. Or perhaps not; perhaps theyd always be a little cautious, neither quite friends nor quite strangers.
The soup was plain but decentjust carrots, onion, a few limp herbs and lots of thin spaghetti, the sort you make when you dont really care but know you ought to eat.
Tastes good, Helen said.
Dont flatter, came the automatic reply.
No, really.
Eileen ate. Then, midway through her last spoonful: You know, he was looking for you at the hospital. Did you know that?
Helen paused. What?
Youd gone to your conference, you said. He went in for tests. I was therehe kept asking when youd be back. I never knew, so I said I didnt know. Hed say, She shouldve been back today. Tomorrow, then. Or the next.’
Helen set her spoon down gently.
I came home the very next day, once I heard.
I know. At last Eileen looked up. Im not blaming, just telling.
Why?
No idea. So you know, maybe. So someone else remembers.
It was honest. Helen felt a dryness in her mouth that not even soup could shift.
He never told me he was worried, she said. I thought he was calm, taking it as it came. I thought he preferred it if I didnt fuss.
He never liked being fussed over.
Exactly. I thought I was doing the right thing.
Maybe you were. Eileen cleared the bowls, uncertain. Or not. Who knows now?
Who knows now settled on the table and did not move.
Helen helped with the bowls anyway. They washed and dried together at the sink, remarkably in sync for two almost-strangers.
They returned to the table. Eileen fetched some biscuits from the sideboardnot the posh ones, of course, just the last battered remnants from a Sainsburys packet.
Jenny says I ought to join some club, Eileen announced. Retirees painting watercoloursThursdays at the local community centre.
Would you like that?
Honestly? Feels odd.
Odd?
At my age.
Its the perfect age, Helen said.
Eileen gave her an arch look. Thats what a social worker would say.
And you sound like youre a hundred.
Sixty-eight.
Close but not quite Methuselah.
Eileen grinned, took a small bite of biscuit, chewed.
Ive always been busy. First Rob, then Tom, then work. Then there were supposed to be grandchildren, but here we are. Im not very good at justbeing. Painting watercolours is just being.
Maybe its time to learn.
Easy for you to say.
Harder to say, actually, retorted Helen. Its hard for me, too.
Eileen looked at her. What, you going to join a club as well?
No! ButI come home and dont know what to do with myself either. I think, hed have come in, made some daft comment, and life would settle.
A lull.
He did have a way with nonsense, Eileen agreed.
He did.
Like that time he told me as a boy he thought stoats were little oats. Stoats! Where did he get that?
He once insisted elephant in Mongolian is zaan, and thats funny, because it sounds like someone full of themselves.
Eileen actually laugheda short, accidental bark, like someone remembering how.
God. He picked things up everywhere, that one.
He was reading all the time.
From age five. Couldnt drag him away from a book.
He showed me a photo once. You on the patio, him about eight, book in hand, everyone else playing cricket.
I remember that old garden. Rob had his vegetable patch out therewas obsessed. Tom sat reading, and I thought, what a strange child. Got used to it.
What was he reading then?
Something about captains. And the sea. Hed never even seen the sea until he was sixteen. When he did, he just stood and stared. Rob said, Well? He said, Its not as big as in the books.
Helen smiled. Shed heard Toms version of that storydifferent detail, same soul. It was almost a family legend.
He told me about Rob a lot, Helen said quietly. He missed him.
Robert Marsh had died six years ago, just before Helen met Tom. They never met.
Yes. Straightforwardly. He did.
And you still miss him?
Every day. Tears werent needed for the words to ring true.
Helen nodded. They sat in soft silence.
Tell me about him, Helen asked. About Tom as a boy. He didnt talk much about childhood.
Eileen looked at her askance.
Why do you want to know?
I want to. While I canit wont always be possible.
It sounded abrupt, and Helen recognised the harshness but didnt retract.
Eileen said nothing for a bit, then left the kitchen and rummaged around in the sitting room. She returned with an old cardboard box from the top shelf, the sort you only open for memories and nothing practical.
All his, she said. I was going through it in Septembergave some away, kept the rest.
She popped the lid off. Inside: battered exercise books, a couple of battered toys, some childish drawings. Helen picked up an exercise book, opened it. The handwritingwobbly, earnest second-form script: Tom Marsh, Year 2.
Goodness, she murmured.
Exactly, said Eileen. Thats what I always say.
They riffled through it togetherEileen narrating small legends. The time Tom tried to stand on his head at age six and had a lump for a week. The time he brought home a stray cat, which Rob despised, then grew fond of, and after two years, the cat left of its own accordTom said it chose to live independently, its right. The time he decided, aged fourteen, to be a programmer because they dont go outdoors and you can work in slippers.
He did work in slippers.
Promise kept.
It was nearly midnight before Helen looked up and realised the hour.
I should golast bus soon.
Stay. The invitation popped out of Eileens mouth so fast, she seemed as startled as Helen. Sofa bed in the spare. Ill fetch bedding.
I dont want to be a bother.
To who?
Helen caught her gazeEileen looking away now, as though her mouth outran her mind.
All right. Thanks.
While Eileen laid out the bedding, Helen did the washing up. She watched her own face in the dark window, the kitchens yellow glow behind. Three months ago? Shed never have imagined such an evening: soup, schoolbooks, stay the night. Reconciliation, she thought, is rarely legal or logical, never tidied up by solicitorsits just coming round, with or without jam, and hoping something will click back into place.
She didnt know if it ever would. But tonight, maybe, something had nudged.
The guest room was unchanged from the last time shed stayed, when she and Tom visited togetherthe same sagging sofa, the same checked blanket (which Eileen, for obscure reasons, always called brown on the phone, though it was more brick-coloured than anything). Helen lay down, blanket up to her chin.
On the shelf were booksmostly Robs: battered history, yellowing hardbacks. And in among them, a slim, unfamiliar title. Helen sat up, squinted: Letters From Nowhere, by someone shed never heard of. On the flyleaf, in Toms recognisable biro scrawl: Happy birthday Mum. Read slowly. Love, T.
Helen shut it and slid it back. Watched it for a while from the sofas half-light.
Beyond the wall, the house whispered on: floorboard creaks, water pipes, someone moving about in nights soft routineslife, not waiting for anyones permission to continue.
Morning brought porridgeunsweetened with salt and butter, the kind her own mother made before Helen was converted to instant golden syrup sachets. Eileen slid the bowl across, no questions. A glass of orange juice, too, unexpectedly.
What times work? asked Eileen, stirring her own porridge.
Ten. Im all right for time.
Youre only round the corner. Tube?
Yes.
Third stop, I remember.
Helen blinked. You remember?
Tom told me. Said flatly, as if that explained everything.
Helen ate. Salty porridge, once loathed, now an unexpectedly welcome echo. Childhood returned.
Ive something for you to see. Eileen fetched an envelope. Found it sorting through thingsthe Army stint from university. He sent me this. Its just to show youso you know how he wrote.
She laid out a lettera neat, three-page epic about fog outside draughty barracks and missing home, the comfort of Mums pasties, and longing for quiet in his own room.
A different Tom, softer, unarmoured.
Can I copy it? Or snap it? Helen asked. Just for myself.
Eileen regarded her, then, after a moment: Keep it. Its yours. I dont need it anymore.
Its yours, Eileen.
Helen. The first time shed used her name that day. Take it.
Helen slipped it into her bag, without the right words, and didnt try to find them.
They washed up together, as the night beforelike a team, oddly natural.
You really should go see Nora, Helen advised. Flat will still be here. Take a break. Shes probably waiting.
She phoned me last week. Claims Im ignoring her.
Welldont. Go.
Well see.
Mrs. Marsh
Well see.
Helen hung up her tea towel, zipped her coat.
If you dont mind, she said, I could visit sometimes. Not often. Now and then.
Eileen stared at the sink. Held her tea towel, thinking.
Come round, she said at last. Ill make soup again.
With spaghetti?
Unless you fancy lentil?
Spaghettis just right.
Sorted, then.
Helen got ready, Eileen walked her to the hallway.
Thanks for last night.
Oh, go onoff you go or youll be late.
Helen had her hand on the latch, paused.
That book, she said, the one Tom gave youdid you read it?
Started. Slowly.
He wrote read slowly.
I noticed. Eileens pause was fractionally longer. Well, he knew me, didnt he?
Helen nodded. Opened the door.
Goodbye.
Goodbye, Helen.
The door clicked shut. Helen lingered in the corridor, listening for the lock. It snapped after a pauseEileen waiting, making sure shed really gone.
The stairwell stank of damp and paint. The light on the landing flickered but held. Helen went down slowly, gripping the rail.
Outside, more of the same October: grey skies, jostling commuters, a delivery van squawking, pigeons picking bits of sandwich with all the English self-importance in the world. Everything unrelated to last night, yet somehow deeply connected.
Helen headed to the station thinking: Reconciliation isnt one magical event after which everything is different. Its not a contract, its not a conclusion. Its trickling soup. A battered notebook. A night on a musty sofa. A towel in someone elses kitchen. A letter tucked in a handbag.
She had no idea what the future held for her and Eileensome awkward, unnamed territory: not mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, not exactly friends, not quite strangers. Just two people with a tangled, if gentle, claim on the same memory, each loving one man, each in her own waynot enough for closeness but not material for estrangement.
The letter nestled in her bag. Shed wait till evening to reread it. At home, with proper light.
She descended into the tube. The carriage doors swept shut and off they went.
A few stops from her office, she messaged Eileen: Arrived fine. Thanks for the porridge.
Reply came back some twenty minutes laterby then, Helen was shedding her coat at the office, mind already wandering to the Monday morning agenda.
No trouble. I put your jam in the cupboard.
Helen smiled, tucked her phone away.
Down the hall, someone laughed for absolutely no reason. Outside, a slice of sky was technically visibleLondons October version of brightening up. Maybe itd clear by this afternoon. Maybe not. Who could say? October, after all.
She went off to her meeting.
On Friday night, three days later, Eileen rang. Helen was stirring leftover curry, had to dash to answer the phone on the third ring.
Im going to see Nora, Eileen said, jumping straight in. Saturday, first thing.
Brilliant, said Helen.
For ten days.
Enjoy it.
Pause.
You dont mind me calling?
No, Im glad you did.
Well then. Thats all, really.
Give my love to Nora.
I will. Another pause. Helenlisten. That book. On the shelf in the spare room. Take it next time you come. It was Toms. Should stay with you.
Helen stood there, spoon in hand, dinner hissing nearby.
All right. I will.
Thats that, then. Id better start packing.
Safe journey.
Thank you.
They hesitated on the line, the silence tinged with a warmth that didnt need filling.
Goodbye, Helen.
Goodbye.
Helen turned the gas down. Sat beside the window, watching streetlights come on in the gathering dark.
Somewhere in Oxford, Nora was probably laying the table for two. An inscribed book sat waiting on a North London shelf: Read slowly. Love, T. Somewhere in a strangers cupboard, Helens plum jam.
And maybe thats all there is, in the end. Not the will at the solicitors, not the property or the documents. Just thisjam in someone elses cupboard. A letter in a battered envelope. Someones words, spat out at the worst moment but precisely what lands.
Helen gave her curry a thoughtful stir.
