TAKE A MOMENT TO LOOK AROUND!

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 1

Look around, will you?

Emma was off on a work trip, Poppy was staying with her grandparents, and Victor Clarke was left to his own devices. It was a strange sort of quiet.

Emma rarely ventured far, but a colleague had taken ill, and she was forced to seal an important contract for the firm. Victor, whos been in business long enough to know the drill, drove her to the station and then headed home.

Halfway there he remembered that there would be no supper on his table that night. With Emma away, hed have to sort out dinner himself. He could pop over to the grandparents for a quick meal, but then Poppy would beg to come home, leading to a frantic evening of homework, running about, and no chance of a proper rest. And he wasnt exactly looking forward to that when the office already had a preChristmas pile of work.

At first he thought about ordering takeaway, but the thought of a delivery driver circling his street made him sigh. Instead he trudged to the local supermarket, even though he loathed the bustle of the aisles.

Shoppers filled their trolleys, then bolted to the tills, impatiently waiting for their turn. Victor found himself squeezing into the line with a halffilled basket and a couple of cans of good, dark stout. Hed imagined a relaxed evening of nothing more than lounging in his favourite armchair, but the queue had other plans.

Ahead of him stood a frail, elderly lady in a threadbare dark coat and a bright orange scarf, constantly tugging at the scarf as if it might slip off. She finally reached the till, where a loaf of bread, a box of sugar, a slab of processed cheese, a few packets of porridge oats and the rest of her items waited on the belt.

She placed her money on the small tray, and the cashier, looking more exhausted than annoyed, started counting.

Fifty pence short! she announced at last.

The ladys hands fumbled in her pockets, her voice wavering.

Just a moment, love, Ill find it

Dont dawdle, Im not your dear, and youre holding up the whole queue.

The cashier arched a brow, shoulders tensing, and gave the woman a thinskinned look. Victor, unable to stand the scene, flung the missing fifty pence at the till and muttered, Lets finish this, shall we?

The incident seemed settled, but the old lady, picking up her groceries, turned to Victor and said, Thanks, dear, but Ive got a little something

The cashier snapped, Off you go, then, woman!

Feeling a pang of pity, Victor watched the lady shuffle across the scuffed, whitewashed floor. Ah, people, he thought, sometimes were too blunt to show any kindness. His mood darkened a shade.

At the exit, the elderly woman waited, a shy smile spreading across her face.

Heres a bit of change I found in my purse. Take it. She handed him a handful of lowvalue coins.

Victor winced as the sting of embarrassment hit him. Oh, no need for that, he replied, I was impatient, Im sorry. He reached for his car keys.

Do you live far? I could give you a lift home, he offered, trying to smooth things over.

No, love, Im just round the corner, she said, Ill manage.

But Victor insisted, and they walked together. The short stroll gave him a chance to chat.

Do you live alone? Any help around? he asked, keeping his pace easy.

Just me, she answered, voice trembling a little. I had a grandson onceTommy. Smart lad, helped me with everything, even worked in his dads garage. He was a good handson sort of boy.

Victors ears perked up. My old schoolmate, Simon, died in the service last year. Only two of us survived that operation, and theyre both still dealing with injuries.

She nodded, eyes distant. My grandson died too in a storm at sea. He and his wife were out swimming, the waves took them. It was a terrible night.

She introduced herself as Ethel Jones. Victor, feeling a strange kinship, invited her to his flat for tea.

Come on, have a cuppa, he said.

Ethel accepted, and they headed up the narrow stairs to her secondfloor flat. Inside, the kitchen was modest: a few slices of ham, a knob of butter, a tin of sardines, a packet of biscuits, a couple of bananas and a jug of apple juice.

This is all I have, she said. Feel free to take anything you like.

Victor set his own groceries on the table, except for the drinks, and said, No objections here.

From that day on Victor became a regular visitor, asking if any chores needed doing, any leaky tap fixed, or any tradesmen called. Ethel thanked him each time, usually with a soft smile and a knitted hat for Poppy.

One afternoon, over tea, Ethel opened up about her life. I was born in 38, right in the middle of the war. My brother was tiny, my father went off to the front, and my mother raised us alone until she passed away. I remember loading trucks, gathering the souls whod given everything for the country. My mother was taken away, and I chased after her, but she was already gone.

She went on to speak of the orphanage, the aunt and uncle who brought her to this town, the loss of her husband to a long illness, and then the tragic sea accident that claimed her son and daughterinlaw.

Wheres your family? Victor asked.

None left, she whispered. My brother went abroad years ago, sends money now and then on a card I cant quite manage. My son died in that storm, and my grandson hes gone, too.

Victor suggested they call her brother. Ethel rummaged through a battered kitchen drawer and produced a small notebook with a number scribbled under the name Alex.

He dialed, and a bright, youthful voice answered. Hello, Alex? This is Victor Clarke, a classmate of your brothers, Simon. Were speaking with your sister, Ethel.

Their conversation was warm, tears slipped down Ethels cheeks, but she laughed through them, He said hed pop over soon. Thank you, Victor. Youre a good lad.

Victor left feeling a strange mix of sorrow and purpose. He started bringing her simple thingsa basic mobile phone, teaching her to top up the credit, even a cheap Samsung with his own number saved. He also showed her how to use her bank card so she wouldnt have to endure the cashiers impatience every time she tried to pay for a few pennies.

He never forgot to check on Ethel, to lend a hand with groceries, to keep the kettle on for a chat. Emma, back from her trip, praised Victors thoughtfulness and invited Ethel over for dinner a few times.

The old lady, at first shy, soon bonded with Emma, sharing stories of a life lived through hardship, love, and loss. When the house next door finally emptied after the occupants passed on, Ethel felt a strange, comforting connection to the new family shed found.

It turned out that a little kindness, a few minutes of patience, and a willingness to listen were all a solitary senior needed.

As Victor strolled away from Ethels flat, she called after him, Take care of yourself, love. Thank you for everything.

Ethel Jones has since passed on, but this tale hangs around as a reminder of her gentle spirit and of all the lonely souls who could use a hand.

Sometimes it pays to look around you. You never know whose day you might brighten.

Reigniting the Marriage — “Listen, Liz… How about we try an open relationship?” Victor suggested cautiously. — “What?” Liz didn’t catch on at first. “Are you actually serious?” — “What’s so strange about it? It’s perfectly normal,” her husband shrugged, working hard to keep his tone casual. “People do it all the time in Britain—super modern. They say it even reignites the marriage. You always said a little chocolate on a diet doesn’t hurt, helps keep you on track. Same principle, a bit of variety and all that.” Liz blinked slowly, taking it in. Comparing a bit on the side to a chocolate bar was… impressively daft. Or just cheeky. — “Victor…” she started, “if you want to leave, just go. I’ll give you your ‘freedom’, but don’t drag me into your nonsense.” — “Lizzie, no need to get all prickly,” he protested. “I do love you! It’s just… the spark’s gone. Could do with a bit of excitement, you know? Otherwise it’s just shopping lists and the electric bill. Too dull. We both need a shake-up. I’m not putting you in a box here—you can have fun with someone else too! What’s the harm?” Liz narrowed her eyes. Suddenly it was plain as day: her husband was lying. The darting eyes, fingers drumming nervously on the table… Yeah, he wanted his freedom. But not today, not tomorrow,—he’d wanted it yesterday. — “Vic? Come on. Tell me straight. Have you already found someone? Is this just to ease your conscience?” — “Oh, here we go!” Victor waved a hand irritably. “Would I really bring it up if that were true? Regret even asking now. You haven’t changed a bit—still living in the Stone Age. Forget it.” He stalked off with the air of a wronged saint, leaving Liz alone with her thoughts. Twenty-five years. She’d given him the best part of her life, stood by him through thick and thin, through skint stretches, all those late nights at work that suddenly looked suspicious… And now he sat there, fat and happy, wanting her to become an accomplice in a crime against their marriage. “Reignite”… Please. How convenient. That night, they slept in different rooms. Well—slept was a stretch. Liz lay awake, staring sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes out the window, wondering how they’d got there. Once, Victor had run to buy her armfuls of bluebells, worked extra shifts for their dream wedding, cried with joy when their daughter was born. Now… She almost wished he’d just leave. Where was the point of no return? When she stopped putting on mascara at home? When he forgot their anniversary, blaming overtime? Not that it mattered anymore. Half of her wanted to file for divorce and erase it all. The other half rebelled—how can you just throw away half a life? Maybe there never really was passion, but habit, a shared mortgage, and a well-oiled routine made up for it. Victor still felt like a safe pair of hands. Their daughter had left home, old age was ahead, but they’d always looked out for each other. Once, he’d even taken out a loan to help Liz’s mother. Not every man would do that. Inside, Liz burned with hurt, fear, and anger. Maybe Victor thought she was past it—just some old housewife who’d boil up Bisto and knit for the grandkids, waiting like a faithful dog for him to roll home from his escapades. No chance. — “Alright,” she declared the next morning, “have it your way.” — “What do you mean?” — “Let’s do your open relationship.” Victor nearly choked on his tea. He expected a row—she just calmly agreed. — “Well… good. You might like it,” he threw over his shoulder. “By the way, I’ll be late tonight.” Her heart twisted. That fast? …The evening was grey and silent. Liz felt wrecked. Unwanted. Like she’d been weighed and found wanting—like an out-of-date iPhone model. She studied her reflection. Tired eyes, crow’s feet, skin not as smooth as it once was. But still a trim figure, thick hair. Maybe she was still attractive? Maybe it was Victor who’d lost the plot. Other men had noticed her—like Andy, the manager next door, only transferred in a month ago. A handsome man, silver at the temples, a rumble in his voice, always with a sly glint. He’d watched her from day one—opening doors, bringing coffee, offering compliments. Asked her to lunch, and just last week, dinner. — “Andrew, I’m on a diet. The ‘married’ kind,” she’d quipped. — “Lizzie, marriage is a stamp in a passport, not a life sentence,” Andy had grinned. “But I won’t push it.” Victor wanted her to “reignite”? Wanted her to get out more? Why not. — “Good evening, Andy. You still up for that dinner? I seem to have found both a free evening and an appetite for breaking diets,” she messaged. It wasn’t vengeance. Liz just wanted to feel like a woman again. To breathe some life back into herself, after two days of Victor trampling on her sense of self. …The rest of the night, she felt a strange mix of shame and giddy excitement. Andy was all a date should be—thoughtful, attentive, making her feel like the only woman in the room. She was embarrassed, but those long-lost sensations came rushing back: anticipation, being at the centre of attention. Finally, something in her life besides Victor’s dinners and dirty socks. — “Come back to mine?” Andy suggested as she finished her dessert. “We’ll pick up wine, watch something… keep the evening going?” She nodded. Part of her screamed “What are you doing?” But Victor’s face flashed up, the way he said she should “enjoy life”. They’d barely made it to Andy’s when her phone started shrieking. Husband. She declined, again and again. — “Yes?” she answered, steadying her voice. — “Where are you?! It’s ten o’clock! There’s nothing but a mouse in the fridge and you’re out gallivanting! Have you lost your mind?” Liz froze. Andy, sizing up the row, quietly left the room. Romance quickly faded. — “Actually… I’m on a date, Vic.” — “A what?!” — “Are you daft? You suggested open relationships. You literally said: enjoy yourself, meet other people. Well, here I am, meeting someone. Problem?” A silence thick as fog, broken only by Victor’s huffing. — “So you actually went off with someone?! I was JOKING! I wanted to check you, you understand? CHECK! And you—just waiting for an excuse, yeah? Played the part for a day then straight into someone else’s arms?” Liz was stunned. — “Who did you run off to tonight, then?” — “No one! Just work. That’s all. Here’s what: I don’t want any filth from you. Either you pack up, or I’m leaving. We’re getting divorced.” He hung up. Liz stared at the wall, feeling spat on, humiliated. — “You alright?” Andy called through. — “Yeah… just nothing.” Liz tried to smile, and failed. — “Liz…” Andy checked his watch. “I think, given the circumstances, you probably need to go sort things out at home.” The fairytale collapsed; the pumpkin replaced the carriage; the gallant date didn’t want to drown in someone else’s family mess. Fair enough. He’d wanted a pleasant evening, not a soap opera. Maybe she should’ve just gone for a divorce right off. But hindsight always gets the best lines. That night, Liz didn’t go home—she booked a hotel. No desire for a blazing row. She needed space to admit it would never be the same. Three years passed… And life, like a sculptor, carved away all the excess—though not without pain. Victor was quick to get a new girlfriend. Even before the divorce was through. She vanished the minute they sold the house—taking his share of the money on the way out. Nothing ever happened with Andy. They still bumped into each other at work, but no more banter—just a polite nod. Liz realized something: men happy to play “lover” backed away the moment “life partner” or even “shoulder to cry on” flickered onto the screen. So Liz didn’t look for anyone else. Alone in her new flat, she found time and energy she’d never dreamed of—energy that household chores and Victor’s demands had always drained. Now she used it for herself. Morning swims banished her back pain; English courses kept her mind sharp. She chopped her hair short, changed her wardrobe—everything for herself. And most importantly, she became a grandma. Her daughter, Mary, had a baby girl six months ago. When the divorce storm was at its peak, Mary turned on Liz—Victor played the victim brilliantly, spinning tales of a cheating wife who broke the family for a bit of fun. Time put everything right. Mary visited to confront her mum, but saw not a fallen woman, but an honest, tired one. Liz told the truth: Victor had wanted all this. He’d been absent for years. She’d been lonely for longer. Now Mary, married herself, finally understood. When Victor paraded his new “girlfriend”, Mary sided firmly with Liz. Now, Liz was in Mary’s kitchen with her granddaughter. Little Sophie was reaching enthusiastically for her finger. — “Dad called again…” Mary grimaced. “Wanted to visit, see Sophie.” — “And?” Liz asked. — “Told him we’d be out of town. I don’t want him around, Mum. One minute he slags you off, the next he expects me to get you back together. I just get stressed every time he shows up. And I’m not letting him twist Sophie against you. He can enjoy his so-called freedom on his own…” Liz said nothing, just hugged her granddaughter closer. Victor got exactly what he wanted—complete and utter freedom. No one left to ask for anything, no one to stop him watching TV all night. And only then did he taste the real flavour of his freedom—a sharp, lonely bitterness. But now, it was far too late.

Just Hold On a Little Longer – Mum, this is for Anna’s next semester. Mary set the envelope down on the scratched plastic tablecloth. One thousand pounds. She’d counted it three times—at home, on the bus, at the front door. It was always exactly the amount needed. Eleanor put aside her knitting and looked over the top of her glasses at her daughter. – Mary, love, you look a bit peaky. Shall I put the kettle on? – No need, Mum. I’m just popping in, have to dash straight to my second shift. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—maybe Mum’s joint cream or the drops Mary bought every month. Forty pounds a bottle, lasting just shy of three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets. Plus quarterly check-ups. – Anna was so pleased about the bank internship, – Eleanor said gently, taking the envelope as if it were made of the finest glass. – She says there are good prospects. Mary kept quiet. – Tell her these are the last funds for uni. The final semester. Mary had carried this weight for five years. Each month—an envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Each month, the calculator came out: minus rent, minus medicine, minus groceries for Mum, minus Anna’s tuition. What was left? A rented room in a shared flat, a winter coat now six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own place. Mary once dreamed of a weekend in London—just to wander Tate Britain, walk along the Thames. She’d started to save, but then Mum had her first serious turn and all the savings vanished on doctors. – You ought to take a break, love, – Mum stroked her hand. – You look done in. – Soon, Mum. I will. Soon. Soon meant once Anna got a job. Once Mum’s condition settled. Once Mary could exhale and care for herself, just as she’d been telling herself for five years. Anna got her economics degree in June—first class, Mary had taken a day off to attend the ceremony. She watched her little sister cross the stage in a new dress—her gift, obviously—and thought: this is it. Now it all changes. Anna would start earning, and Mary could finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. – You don’t get it, – Anna sat curled on the sofa in fluffy socks – I didn’t go to uni for five years to slave away for peanuts. – Fifty grand a year isn’t peanuts. – For you, maybe. Mary bit down on her annoyance. At her main job, she earned forty-two. Her second job—an extra twenty, on a good week. Sixty-two thousand, with luck. If she kept fifteen for herself, she was lucky. – Anna, you’re twenty-two. You need to start work somewhere. – I will. Just not for a pittance in a dingy office. Eleanor busied herself in the kitchen, clattering plates—always acting like she couldn’t hear. Every time her daughters argued, she absented herself, then later, as Mary went to leave, she’d whisper, “Don’t be hard on Anna, love. She’s still young. She just doesn’t get it.” Doesn’t get it. Twenty-two, and still doesn’t get it. – I’m not made of time, Anna. – Stop dramatising. It’s not like I’m asking for handouts. I just want to find something decent. Not asking directly. But Mum asked: “Mary, Anna needs some money for a course; she wants to brush up on her English.” “Mary, Anna’s phone is broken, she needs it for job searching.” “Mary, Anna’s coat is wrecked, and winter’s coming.” Mary sent the money, bought the coat, paid the bills. Silently. Because that was how it always went: she toiled, and the rest just accepted it. – I’ve got to run, – she stood up. – Evening shift tonight. – Wait, I’ll pop some pasties in a packet for you! – Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Mary took the bag and stepped into the chilly, cat-scented stairwell. Ten minutes at a brisk clip to the bus stop. Then an hour on the bus. Then eight hours on her feet. Then four more on her computer, if she made it in time for her freelance shift. And Anna would be home, scrolling vacancies, awaiting the universe to provide her with the perfect hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pounds, work-from-home role. The first blow-up came in November. – Are you even doing anything? – Mary snapped, seeing Anna sprawled on the sofa just as she was the week before. – Have you sent a single CV? – I’ve sent three. – In a whole month—three? Anna rolled her eyes and buried her face in her phone. – You don’t get how the job market is now. The competition is brutal, you have to pick the right jobs. – The “right” ones? The ones where you get paid to lie on the sofa? Eleanor popped her head round from the kitchen, wringing her hands on the tea towel. – Girls, fancy a cuppa? I made cake… – Not now, Mum, – Mary rubbed her temples. Third day running with a headache. – Just tell me why I have to work two jobs when she won’t take on one? – Mary, Anna’s still young. She’ll find her way… – When? In a year? In five? I was working at her age! Anna jerked upright. – Sorry for not wanting your life! Slaving away, never doing anything but work! Silence. Mary took her bag and left. On the ride home, she stared at the rain-streaked window and thought: a workhorse. That’s how I look from the outside. Eleanor called next day, pleading for peace. – Anna didn’t mean it, darling. She’s just upset, it’s hard for her. Just hold on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon. Hold on. Her mother’s favourite phrase. Hold on till Dad gets better. Hold on till Anna grows up. Hold on till things improve. Mary had been holding on all her life. The arguments became routine. Every visit to Mum ended the same way: Mary tried to reason with Anna, Anna snapped back, Eleanor darted between them, fretting and begging for calm. Afterwards, Mary left. Eleanor phoned with apologies. And it all repeated. – You have to understand, she’s your sister, – Mum said. – And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine. – Mary… In January, Anna called herself. Her voice sparkled with excitement. – Mary! I’m getting married! – What? To who? – He’s called Dave. We’ve been seeing each other three weeks. He’s just perfect! Three weeks. Three weeks—and now marriage. Mary wanted to say it was crazy, to get to know someone first, but held her tongue. Maybe it was for the best. If she got married, her husband could support her, and Mary could finally breathe. That fragile hope evaporated at the family dinner. – I’ve got it all planned! – Anna beamed. – Hundred-guest reception, live band, found a dress in a designer boutique… Mary put her fork down. – And all that costs…? – Well…—Anna shrugged, disarmingly—Five grand? Maybe six. But it’s once in a lifetime! A wedding! – And who’s paying? – Mary, come on… Dave’s parents can’t help, he says, mortgage and all. And Mum’s nearly on the breadline. You’ll have to get a loan, probably. Mary stared at her. Then at her mum. Eleanor looked away. – Are you serious? – Mary, it’s a wedding, – Mum used that syrupy tone Mary remembered since childhood. – Once in a lifetime, love. Can’t be stingy… – You want me to take out a six grand loan to pay for a wedding for someone who’s never even bothered to find a job? – You’re my sister! – Anna slapped the table – You have to! – Have to? Mary stood. The world went strangely calm and quiet. – Five years. Five years I paid for your education. For Mum’s medicines. For your food, clothes, heating. I work two jobs. I have no car, no flat, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight, and I haven’t bought myself anything new in a year and a half. – Mary, calm down… – Eleanor started. – No! Enough! For years I’ve supported both of you, and you’re sitting here demanding more from me? That’s it. From today, I live for myself. She left, snatching her coat from the hook. It was minus five outside but Mary didn’t feel the cold. She felt a strange warmth instead—as if she’d finally shrugged off the sack of stones that had weighed her down all her life. Her phone buzzed endlessly. She blocked both numbers. …Six months later. Mary moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat—her own, finally. In summer she visited London—four days, Tate Britain, the Thames, long summer evenings. She bought herself a new dress. And another. Some shoes, too. She found out about her family by chance—from a school friend who worked near her mum’s place. – Hey, is it true your sister’s wedding was called off? Mary froze with her coffee cup. – What? – Oh, they say the groom bailed. Heard there was no money, so he legged it. Mary sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter—and, strangely, delicious. – Don’t know. We don’t speak. That evening, Mary sat by the window of her new flat and realised she felt no spite. Not an ounce. Just a quiet, peaceful satisfaction of someone who has finally stopped being the family workhorse…