I am not here
You’ve bought that rubbish again? Graham put the carrier on the kitchen table with a thud, something inside clinking. I told you no more Velour cream. Waste of money.
Nina stood at the window, gazing into the street. A neighbour’s girl of about seven was chasing after pigeons, who exploded upwards in a cloud, then settled back on the pavement as if nothing had happened. Nina watched and tried to remember when she last bought herself something just because she fancied it.
It’s hand cream, Graham. Three pounds eighty.
Three eighty is three eighty. Have you forgotten how to count?
She didnt answer. She turned, took the bag, and pulled out a small jar with a golden lid, setting it on the sill next to the geranium. The geranium hadnt flowered in ages. Nina kept meaning to figure out why, but never found the time.
Nina. Im talking to you.
I hear you, Graham.
She drifted to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and tried to decide what to make for supper. His footsteps, heavy and measured, faded, followed by the door to his office clicking shut. Nina exhaled.
She was fifty-eight. She lived in Reading, in a three-bedroom flat on Victory Road, married to Graham Lawrence for twenty-nine years. Their grown-up son Anthony lived in Manchester and rang on Sundays, sometimes forgetting. They had a little cottage out near Basildon, a car (driven only by Graham), and Nina had been a senior librarian at the town library for eighteen years.
Life had been lived. No one could take that from her.
She pulled out a packet of chicken from the fridge, set it on the chopping board, grasped the knife. The girl outside was gone; the pigeons scattered. The street was empty, grey, last years weeds poking through cracks in the concrete.
Nina realised she was holding the knife without cutting. Just standing there.
She put it down, walked over to the window, and opened the jar of cream. The scent was gentle, with a tinge of flowers. She dabbed a little on the back of her hand, rubbing it in. Her skin soaked it up quickly, leaving her with the faint feeling that someone had taken her hand and held it for a moment.
Nina closed the jar and went to chop the chicken.
That night was like any other. Graham ate in silence, watched the news, went off to bed. Nina stayed in the kitchen long after, turning the pages of an old gardening magazine, her tea long cold. She didnt really read. She just sat.
The next morning at the library, Nina found Linda Cartwright crying behind the periodicals shelf.
Linda, whats the matter?
Linda was three years older than Nina, had worked at the library forever, knew the shelf order by heart, and Nina had never once seen her in tears.
Oh, nothing, sorry. Linda waved her hand, dabbing her eyes. Its personal.
If you want to talk
Theres nothing to say. Linda blew her nose and hid her handkerchief away. My daughter rang last night. Told me, Mum, youre out of date. Said it just like that. Out of date.
What did she mean?
Just I gave her some advice on talking to her husband my way, you know. And she says: Mum, your advice is from another era. You dont understand how people live now. Linda straightened a pile of magazines. Maybe shes right.
Shes not, Nina replied.
How do you know?
Nina had no answer. They stood quietly, the air filled with the scent of old wood and paper, before returning to their routines.
At lunch Nina slipped outside. It was a brisk but sunny April day; she walked to the little green and sat on a bench, closing her eyes. The orange light glowed through her lids. She thought of Linda, her daughter, the word outdated.
And then of herself.
Nina Lawrence, née Parker, born Reading, 1966, finished teacher training college, English Literature faculty. She married at twenty-nine, rather late by the standards then. Graham was an engineer, serious, seemed solid. Anthony came a year later. Nina took maternity, then part-time, moved her mother in for a while until she died, then full-time work again. Life took shape. Tidy, nothing unnecessary.
Somewhere in all that, something got lost something Nina couldnt quite name. She felt it: whatever it was, it vanished long ago.
She opened her eyes. Across the green, a cherry tree bloomed tiny white blossoms, tender and deliberate. Nina stared at it, realising she hadnt painted in, perhaps, thirty years. At college, she sketched just for herself with pastels. Later there was no time, then it felt silly, then she forgot.
She took out her phone and dialled Anthony. He picked up on the third ring, sounding busy.
Hi Mum. Everything alright?
Yes, fine. I just called for a chat.
Im about to head into a meeting, can I call later?
Of course. Call later.
He didnt. That, too, was normal.
Nina finished her shift at the library, bought bread from the bakery, then walked home along the same path shed taken for eighteen years, knowing each paving stone, every turn, by heart.
Graham got home first. He was reading something on the computer. Nina took off her coat, went to the kitchen.
Hungry?
Later.
She put water on for tea, found some soup in the fridge. While it heated, she gazed at her hand cream, still on the window ledge. The jar was small, pretty. Graham was right three pounds eighty. What was the point?
But the scent was lovely.
She left it there.
A couple of weeks passed. Nothing special happened life ticked on. Then, one day at the library, a new visitor arrived: Susan.
Nina noticed Susan at once. Mid-forties, short dark hair, straight-backed, wearing a cherry-red coat. She came to the desk asking for a library card and books on psychology and, if possible, anything about watercolour.
Watercolour? Nina repeated.
Yes. I used to paint a bit, as a child. Thinking I might try again.
Nina issued a card, guided her to the right shelves. Susan moved confidently, picking up books, leafing through, putting some back, keeping others. Nina, half watching, found herself drawn to something about the woman that sense of self-sufficiency, of being enough.
Half-an-hour later Susan returned with two books.
Do you read these? She nodded to the psychology section.
Sometimes.
Have you worked here long?
Eighteen years.
Susan studied her a moment; not with judgment but truly seeing her.
Thats a long time.
Yes.
Do you enjoy it?
It was a simple question, but not an easy one.
I do. I like the books, and the people. And its familiar.
Familiar, Susan tried the word in her mouth. I see.
She thanked Nina and left.
Next week, Susan returned, dropped off a book and asked for more on watercolour. Nina found a slim album of reproductions and handed it over. Susan took it, then suddenly asked:
Would you like to try?
Try what?
Painting. I go to a watercolour class on Saturdays. Small group, very relaxed. You should come.
Nina almost said no. Mouth open to refuse, she surprised herself with:
Where is it?
Susan wrote the address on a slip. The class was at White Light Art Centre, Albion Street, Saturdays at eleven.
That evening Nina turned the slip over in her hands, storing it in her apron pocket, moving it to the window sill next to the cream. Graham never asked about the note. He rarely asked about anything unless it related to money or chores.
At Friday dinner, Nina told him:
Im going to a painting class in the morning.
Graham looked up.
Where?
Albion Street. Watercolour. Susan, that new library reader, invited me.
He chewed, considering, set his fork down.
How much?
I havent checked yet.
Well, go if youve nothing better to do.
Nina looked at him. He was already back to eating. She thought about the little phrase if youve nothing better to do how for twenty-nine years shed heard it, or something much like it. You again. Why bother. What does it cost. If theres nothing to do.
Ill go, she said softly.
Saturday morning, she rose at eight, washed her face, put on a grey jumper and navy trousers. She stood in front of the mirror. It occurred to her she hadn’t looked really looked at herself in years. Normally, she only glanced, never lingered. Now she did. The face was older, but not bad. Grey eyes, alive. Still thick hair, streaked with silver. She ran her fingers through, tried a different parting. She opened the cream, rubbed it on her hands, a little onto her neck.
She left early to take her time.
White Light was on the second floor of an old merchants house, ordinary outside, thoughtfully renovated inside: white walls, wooden floors, large windows. Nina climbed the stairs and pushed open the door.
Susan was already there, along with four other women and one chunky man of about fifty in a checkered shirt. They were all gathered at a long table, water jars and paper in front of them.
Nina! Susan waved. You made it!
Nina sat beside her. Zoe, the teacher a bright young woman explained that theyd be painting a lilac branch. Nina picked up the brush, her hand slightly trembling, not from nerves, just from habit.
Dont aim for beauty, said Zoe. Think about the water and the colour. Nothing else matters.
Nina made her first stroke. Purple bled across the wet page, merging with blue. Second, third stroke. The pigment flowed its own way, not quite what shed intended, unexpectedly fascinating. Susan painted intently; the man in the checked shirt fiddled crossly with a tiny brush and seemed frustrated.
After an hour, Nina looked at her result. It didnt look like a lilac branch. It was a wash of purples and blues, blotted and blurred. But there was something living in it. Something she had made herself.
Thats lovely, said an older woman opposite, Margaret.
I doubt it, Nina replied.
I dont. It has feeling.
Nina looked again. Maybe it did.
Afterwards, Susan invited her to a café. They sat by the window; Susan clasped her mug with both hands.
Did you enjoy it?
Yes. More than I expected.
I thought you might. Susan smiled. Sometimes you look like youre seeing things, but you dont quite dare look straight at them.
Nina hesitated.
Have you been in Reading long?
Three years. Came from Birmingham. After my divorce.
Oh.
It was hard, at first. Then it got better. Then it grew interesting.
Interesting?
Living alone. Turns out theres a lot about myself I didnt know. She smiled, not mockingly but warmly. Are you married?
Twenty-nine years.
Is it good?
Nina stirred her coffee, though it needed no stirring.
Depends on the day.
Susan nodded, not prying further. Nina liked that.
She returned home just after one. Graham was watching football, didnt ask how it went. She reheated her soup, ate alone in the kitchen, propped the fuzzy lilac painting on the wall beside the geranium.
The geranium looked a bit more cheerful than last week. Nina peered closely a tiny red bud she hadnt noticed before.
The next Saturday she went again. Then again. Susan was always there. They began talking after class, half-an-hour, then an hour. Nina shared stories of the library, the books and people she loved. Susan spoke of work as an accountant at a small construction firm, her daughter in Birmingham, learning French.
One day Nina asked:
Dont you get lonely here?
Sometimes. But it’s not the same loneliness.
How do you mean?
Susan folded her hands.
I used to be around someone, yet still felt alone. Thats the worst. Now Im by myself, but Im not lonely. Do you see the difference?
Nina did. She didnt say so, but inside, something shifted, like spring ice breaking on a river slow, uneasy, but unstoppable.
In May the library needed to organise an event for the local council something cultural. The manager, Mary Allen, gathered the team.
Any ideas?
Silence. Ninas mind was already ticking.
We could do a literary evening, Linda suggested. Reading aloud, discussions.
We do that every year. Something different?
How about stories about women? Nina said suddenly.
They all looked at her.
What sort of stories? Mary asked.
Real ones. Not fiction. Invite women from the community, all ages, to share whats changed, how life went. Nothing formal just honesty. They could display things they make too painting, knitting, pottery.
Silence.
Thats unusual, said Mary.
But it would be real.
Wholl run it?
I will, said Nina, surprising herself.
Mary gave her an assessing look.
Alright, Nina. Give it a go.
Nina called Susan the moment she left the meeting. Susan laughed.
You? Thats brilliant.
I dont know what came over me.
Thats how you know its authentic. Ill join in. And Margaret, from watercolour, she does ceramics.
Margaret was sixty-two, retired, sculpted little birds out of clay for craft fairs. She agreed at once As long as Im not expected to speak for ages. I get muddled.
Nina spent evenings working on the programme at the kitchen table when Graham was in his office. It felt new, this act of creating rather than maintaining.
One night, Graham found her there.
What are you writing?
Work. For the event.
More library business.
Yes.
He filled a glass at the sink, lingered.
Dinner was cold earlier.
Sorry. Ill warm it up next time.
He left. Nina watched him go. He mentioned a cold dinner, not that she looked more alive, or seemed happy, or interesting. Just the meal.
She returned to her notebook.
They set the date for the third Saturday in June. Nina recruited four other women, including Susan and Margaret. Another was Mrs Evans, a retired geography teacher who secretly writes poetry. The last was Zoe, their watercolour teacher.
Nina drew up a poster, put it up in local shops, and sent a note to the local paper. She worried no one would come; but on the day, over thirty people arrived mostly women of all ages, even one very elderly lady brought by her daughter.
Nina hosted herself. She didnt have a big speech just welcomed everyone and said the point was to listen. Margaret spoke first, about how she retired and felt useless, then picked up clay at a workshop and suddenly realised I had hands. Everyone laughed kindly.
Susan spoke about starting over in her forties: Turned out, I wasnt scared of new things just of the old ones. Nina made a note to remember that.
Mrs Evans read two poems. Her voice shook at first, but steadied. When she finished, someone clapped, and everyone joined in.
After, Nina and Linda tidied up.
It went well, Nina.
Surprisingly well.
Not a surprise. Youve always been good with people. You just didnt let yourself.
Nina lifted a forgotten scarf onto the hook by the door. Linda was right, and it was good, and slightly painful to realise this was a first after eighteen years.
Graham was already in bed when Nina got home. She undressed quietly, drank water in the kitchen. The cream and a glass of watercolour lilacs stood on the sill. The geranium had four bright red blossoms.
Nina put on her cream slowly, looking at the geranium, thinking of Susans words: I was scared not of new things, but of the familiar.
Next morning, Graham asked:
Howd your event go?
Well. Lots of people.
Did you eat?
There was tea.
Tea isnt food. He was back to his phone.
Nina poured coffee and took it to the balcony. Early, the street was empty, smelling of lime trees. She thought: he asked if I ate. That was caring. His way. For twenty-nine years, shed mistaken form for content, not noticing the content had changed or vanished.
She didnt know. She was only just starting to look closely.
In July, Anthony rang not on Sunday, but Wednesday.
Mum, hi. How are you?
Good, Anthony. Why?
No reason. Susan wrote to me.
Nina paused before the fridge.
Susan?
Your friend. Found me on social media, said you ran some brilliant event. I never knew.
You never asked.
Silence.
Sorry, Mum. I didnt. Tell me about it?
Nina did the art class, Margarets birds, Mrs Evans poems, the packed hall. Anthony listened.
Mum, Im proud of you.
Thank you.
Have you been doing this long?
No. I started this year.
You should have, sooner.
Yes, she agreed.
Pause.
Mum, is everything alright with you and Dad?
Nina watched two boys kicking a ball in the July sun outside her window.
It’s… familiar.
Good or bad?
Im not sure yet.
He didnt push. He promised to visit in August, and Nina set the phone down and stood by the window for a long time.
That August, Anthony came for four days. He brought cheese and nuts, and sat listening carefully to Nina. He wasnt just there; he really heard her.
One morning, after Graham had gone to the cottage, Anthony said:
Mum, youve changed.
How?
Hard to explain its like youre more here. Sounds odd.
No, it doesnt.
Are you happy?
Nina warmed her hands around her mug.
Yes, but its a little frightening.
Why?
When you see yourself more clearly, you see everyone else more clearly too. Its not always easy.
Anthony nodded, thoughtful.
Does Dad see it?
Dad sees cold soup. Nina caught herself. Sorry, thats unfair.
Its honest. He watched her. Have you told him what you need?
She looked out the window. August was beginning to fade; the grass by the edges yellowing.
Im not very good at that at saying what matters.
Try.
After he left, Nina fussed with the bedding, thinking of his challenge. Try. For twenty-nine years, she had never really given it a go always talking around the important things, never about them, because it was easier, safer, and Graham could make her lose her nerve just by a look.
In September, Mary Allen called Nina in the council wanted her event repeated, bigger, for the whole library network, with extra pay.
Ill do it.
Mary smiled.
Youve changed this summer in a good way.
Nina moved to her desk, greeted a reader picking out detective stories, checked out books, watched the light flood in through the big windows. Eighteen years, and only now did she feel she truly belonged not just present, but present as herself.
At home, something shifted. Graham noticed she came home later, left early on Saturdays, spent time with women he didnt know.
Whos this Susan then?
My friend.
When did you get a friend?
February, the library.
Every week?
Pretty much.
He gave her a look she’d never seen before not annoyance, or indifference, but confusion.
Im not saying you cant. Its just unusual.
What is?
That you have so much going on.
She sat across from him. For the first time, she really looked at him as a stranger shed lived beside for decades.
Graham, do you mind me having all this? Life beyond home and work?
A pause.
Not sure. Its different, thats all. He stared out the window. You used to always be around. Now youre everywhere.
Im still here.
Here, but different.
She studied his back broad, older, stooped. Sixty-one now. Hed aged, too, while she hadnt noticed.
Graham, when did we last talk? Not about dinner or the car, but really talk?
He turned.
We do talk.
About what?
He didnt answer.
Exactly, she said, quietly.
November brought cold, and the big town event. Nina spent weeks preparing, recruited eight women, arranged an art display. Susan helped. They met almost daily now, walked by the Thames when the weather allowed.
One day at the riverside, Nina admitted:
I cant understand how I lived before.
You just did.
No, I mean I spent years buried so deep inside myself, not coming out. Why?
Its not why, Nina. Its just what happened.
But I couldve done it differently.
Maybe. Susan gazed at the river, grey and beautiful. But it starts when it starts. Not before.
Im fifty-eight.
So?
Thats late.
You think so? I know women who gave up on themselves at thirty-five. Decided they were finished, living like museum pieces. You, youre only just starting. Sounds like good timing to me.
Nina watched a barge crawling by on the water.
You know I paint every week now? Nine months straight.
I know.
This morning I wrote my own introduction for the event. Not a template.
You read it to me. Its alive thats better than good.
The November night came; over seventy people squeezed in. Nina spoke confidently, hands hardly trembling, about how every woman carries something precious, sometimes unnoticed for years; that age doesnt close doors, sometimes it opens hidden ones. She didnt preach; she simply shared her truth.
At the end, the very old lady came over with her daughter. Mrs Doughty eighty-three.
Love, were you talking about me?
About all of us, Nina answered.
No, no: about me exactly. I used to embroider when I was young. Gave it up, thought it was silly. But today, maybe Ill try again. Eighty-three ridiculous, isnt it?
Not at all.
Truly?
Truly.
Mrs Doughty left. Nina watched her walking slowly, but holding onto something new.
December was quiet. Nina now led a small book club at the library. Six or seven regulars; they read, argued, shared.
Home was tense. Not noisy, just taut. Graham was unusually silent. Nina no longer expected him to start talking.
One Sunday evening, she went into his study.
Graham, I need a word.
Go on.
Not like this. She sat beside him. Really.
He closed his book.
Whats happened?
Nothing. I just need to say something Ive never said. Maybe I never did.
He was wary.
Ive spent a long time living as if I barely existed, she began. I cooked, worked, looked after things. But somewhere, I wasnt there. I suppose thats partly me I allowed it. But its also about us, you and me. The way weve lived together.
Graham stared at the table.
Do you want a divorce?
I dont know. But I know we have to talk. Really talk. I need you to see me. Not the dinner, not the shirts. Me.
Silence. Snow fell outside.
I dont know how, Nina, he admitted softly. I was never taught that.
I know. Im not blaming you. But I want to try, differently. And I want to know if you do too.
He hesitated, stared at the snow, then at her.
Youve changed this year.
Yes.
Half the time I cant understand you.
I know.
But I dont want He searched for words. I dont want you not to be here. This house. Anywhere.
Nina regarded him. Sixty-one, stooped, confused used to certainty, now lost.
Then lets both try, she said. I cant promise itll be easy. But well try.
January came with frost and pale light. Nina ran the club, painted every week. Pictures filled her kitchen walls; some Susan took for herself. The geranium bloomed cheerfully, since Ninad finally given it the right pot.
She saw Susan less (her work got busy), but they kept in touch.
One day, Susan asked:
Thinking of doing another event in spring?
Yes. A bigger one this time almost a festival, several days.
Thats a huge job.
Yes, Nina smiled. I like a big job now.
Susan laughed.
Whod have guessed, a year ago.
Who indeed.
With Graham, things were still complicated. They spoke more often, truthfully, sometimes well, sometimes not. Sometimes he retreated, and Nina didnt chase, just let things be.
One cold evening, Graham said over dinner:
I went to the doctor last week. Got checked out.
Something wrong?
Nothing serious. Just blood pressure; got some pills.
Glad you went.
Arent you going to ask why I didnt say earlier?
Nina put down her spoon.
Why didnt you?
Didnt want to worry you. His voice was deliberate. Habit.
Your habit is not to trouble me?
Yes. Youve always got so much on.
Nina looked at him. There was something important there.
Graham, I want to know if youre unwell. I want to know about the doctor. I want to know. Do you see?
I do. Ill tell you. And Ill try to say it.
And Ill try too.
Silence. Outside, February wind and snow; inside, warmth, the scent of dinner, the new watercolour of an apple blossom on the sill.
Nice picture, Graham said. Yours?
Mine.
He looked again.
Youre quite good.
Im learning.
At the end of February, Linda Cartwright called at nine one evening.
Sorry to ring so late, Nina. My daughters been round.
All alright?
Wonderful. We made up. Her voice smiled down the line. She said she shouldnt have called me out of date.
Are you glad?
So glad. Nina, could I join your Saturday painting class?
Of course. Eleven oclock.
Worried Ill be hopeless.
Everyone is the first time. Thats what matters.
On Saturday, Linda busied herself with the brush, awkward at first. The first stroke was too dark, the second, watery. She looked at her page, dismayed.
Nina, its awful.
I see. I like it.
Its a splodge, not a branch.
Its a first try.
Dont humour me!
Im not. Next time, youll see.
Linda looked again, then burst out laughing.
Alright. Next time.
March brought hint of spring. Nina applied to run the spring festival; library management approved. Anthony wrote hed visit in April and attend the event.
One night, with Graham in bed and drizzle tapping on the windows, Nina jotted ideas in her notebook. Outside the snow melted. The geranium was lush, with three fat red blooms and one tight bud.
She glanced at the little jar of hand cream. The old one was long finished, but she kept it; shed bought another the same Velour, three pounds eighty. Graham never mentioned it.
She wrote a heading: What I know now, that I didnt know a year ago. She paused, then closed the notebook. No need to write it down. She knew already.
The phone rang, late nearly eleven. It was Susan.
Are you alright? Nina asked, worried.
Im good better, in fact. Susans voice was different: bright, alive. Nina, I need to tell you. Ive been offered a job in Birmingham. Good post, good pay. My daughters there. Im thinking of going.
Nina was silent for a moment.
Do you want to go?
Im not sure. Thats why Im calling. Tell me something.
What?
What do you think?
Nina looked out into the dark spring night.
I think you already know. Youve made up your mind, but havent told yourself.
A short silence.
I suppose I have, Susan said. Yes.
Then what are you afraid of?
What’ll be left behind the painting group, you, Margaret with her birds, Mrs Evans and her poems.
Were not going anywhere.
Readings a long way from Birmingham, Nina.
Susan. Remember November, on the river?
What about it?
You said: It starts when it starts.
Susan laughed gently.
Im wise, then.
Always.
Nina, one question. Only truth now.
Go on.
Are you happy?
Nina looked at the geranium, the jar, the paintings, the blank page in her notebook.
I have become myself, she said. I think that’s what matters.
Thats your answer?
Yes.
Susan paused.
Im glad for you.
And I for you.
Nina?
Yes?
What will you do if I go?
Nina looked at the blank page, poised to be filled.
Ill carry on, she said.
