A Late Rebellion
23rd October
Do you realise what youre doing? My daughter Janes voice was even, almost completely devoid of feeling, and the calm made her words more menacing than any shouting ever could. Do you understand what this means for all of us?
I was standing by the window, gazing out at the street below. A fine autumn drizzle fell, and people bustled by under their umbrellas, not meeting each others eyes.
I know what it means for me, I replied at last.
For you. Jane repeated the phrase as if she were weighing it in her palm. Thats always been your way: for you. What about us?
Youre adults.
Mum, youre sixty-one.
I smiled tightly. You neednt remind me.
She sat down on the old settee, faded and sagginga relic from a previous house and a previous life. I watched her settle there and thought of how often Id promised myself Id get rid of it and never did. Habit, I suppose. Or sentimentality. As if to throw out that battered old sofa would be to throw out something living.
Have you so much as thought about what people might say? Jane asked.
No, I answered truthfully. I havent.
And it was the truth.
***
Everything began in March, when IGillian Mary Saunders, former English teacher and now a pensioner with a small job running childrens clubs at the local librarydecided to spend a weekend with my old friend, Vera Smith, in Salisbury.
Vera had moved to Salisbury after being widowed eight years ago, buying a little cottage on the edge of town and growing her own vegetables. She claimed, rather grandly, that shed finally learned to breathe there. I usually visited in summer, but this year, some instinct nudged mego now, not later.
March in Salisbury was cold and quiet. There was still frost on the lower ground and the claggy earth was just beginning to show on the higher slopes. The spires of the cathedral gleamed in the pale sky. As I walked down the narrow lane to Veras, I realised I hadnt felt real quiet for years. Not emptinessquiet. Theres a difference, I learned then.
Vera met me on her doorstep in old slippers and a hugely puffy coat. At last, she said. Ive just warmed up the pies.
We sat at her kitchen table, drinking tea, while she gossiped about the neighbours, the allotment, and the goat she planned to buy.
A goat? I raised an eyebrow.
Why not? My own milk, and cheese in the endIve read its not so difficult to make.
Vera, youve never met a goat close-up in your life.
Precisely why I look forward to it, she grinned and topped up the teapot. But you Youre looking grey as dishwater. Sorry, but you are.
I looked at my handsordinary, older hands, knuckles showing. Im fine.
Fines not a real answer. Something happened?
Nothing. Same as always.
Thats just it, Vera said. When everythings always the same, thats the trouble.
I didnt answer. Outside, the evening darkened to indigo and the first streetlights snapped on at the end of the road.
The next morning she hauled me off to the town marketnot a supermarket, but the real thing with car boots and tarpaulins, pensioners selling pickled onions and peg-dolls. And there, by the stall with dried mushrooms, I saw Nicholas.
I didnt recognise him straight away. Thirty-five years will do that, and hed changed. But something about the way he stood with his hands in his pockets was unmistakable. I stopped.
He stopped too.
Gillian? There was uncertainty in his voice.
Nicholas.
That was all, at first. Vera, tactful old soul, slipped off to another stall, and Nicholas and I just stood there in the earthy, damp air, surrounded by the smell of mushrooms and wet wool.
Do you live here now? I asked.
Second year. You?
Visiting. An old friend.
Right.
Another silencethis one not awkward, but calm, as if we both knew there was no rush.
You havent changed, he said.
Now, dont you start.
Well, a little. Only a little.
I surprised myself by laughing.
***
Nicholas Blake was an old university mate. Not a close friend or any youthful romancejust someone Id spent my degree years alongside. We drifted our separate ways after graduationhe left for one town, I stayed in another, married, raised children. Id heard through the grapevine that hed married too, had a daughter, but nothing else.
Now here he was at the market, looking at me.
We agreed to meet that evening in a little café by Market Place. Vera was serenely unfazed when I told her. Go, obviously. Ill stay in with my TV dramas. Dont look at me like that, I have no designs on your evening.
The café was nearly emptywooden tables, lamps with warm-yellow bulbs, black-and-white photographs of old Salisbury on the walls. We ordered tea and a slice of apple pie and slipped into conversationtraipsing through old classmates, laughing at old drama. It felt easy, like slipping into a well-worn coat.
He told me, My wife died three years ago.
Im sorry.
Well. You sort of just live differently, dont you.
I know.
And you? he asked.
My husband, Victor, left me nine years ago for someone else. Hed offered little by way of explanationsaid he was sorry, thats just how things turned out. I tortured myself over what Id done wrong, until the thoughts dulled and I just settled into livingchildren, grandchildren, my club at the library, Vera every so often.
It depends, I said.
He nodded and didnt press further. I was grateful for that.
***
Back home in York, I thought nothing more would come of itjust one of those nostalgic, slightly odd but pleasant encounters that sometimes happen as you get older.
A week later, though, he messaged mefound me through Vera, no less. Hello. Did you get back safely? he wrote.
I answered. Then I found myself checking messages more than usual. We wrote rarely at first, then more often, then daily. It was odd, because Im not given to constant texting. Jane always tells me off for reading messages and waiting half a day to answer. But this I found myself waiting for his replies.
He wrote plainly, matter-of-factly: his life in Salisbury, his work as a restorer, his projects on icons. He asked about my library club, about the children. Sometimes hed send photosa snowy church, a cat in a window, a mug of tea on a scrubbed wooden table.
Jane noticed after about a month.
Mum, youre always on your phone.
Im reading.
You always said these gadgets ruined your eyes.
I was mistaken.
She gave me a strange look, but left it there.
In April, Nicholas said he had business in Yorkat a restoration workshopand wondered if we might meet.
If you dont mind, we could see each other, he wrote.
I smiled at that formality: such an earnest and gentle man.
Come along, I wrote back.
We met by the Minster, where the Ouse and Foss rivers blend. The spring sun was bright in a cold wind. I wore a smart grey coat Id owned two years but hardly ever took out.
He was standing by the parapet, gazing at the river. I approached.
Hello, he said.
Hello.
We strolled along the embankment, talking about our respective bits and bobshis restoration work, my club. I recounted how a boy, eight years old, wrote an essay on how books are like windows, only the sort that look inwards. Nicholas stopped and considered that.
Thats exactly right, he said. Hes only eight?
Yes, quite a thoughtful child.
Youre good with children. It shows.
Why do you say that? Youve not seen my club.
Because of how you talk about them. Like they matter.
I looked at him as he gazed out over the river.
Later we had coffee by the riverside. As we parted, he asked, Would you mind if I came again?
Youre very welcome, I said.
***
Jane found out in May. Not because I told her, but by accidentshe rang at an odd hour while I was out with Nicholas. When I finally called back, I was distracted, and she caught a note of something out of the ordinary.
Where were you?
Out for a walk.
On your own?
A pausebrief, but Jane has always caught my pauses.
No.
Thus the interrogation begantentative at first, then gradually more forceful.
Who is he? Jane demanded.
An old university friend. I told you about Salisburyremember?
You said you ran into someone you knew.
Well, yes.
Mum, youre
I know how old I am, Jane.
Silence.
What is this, anyway? Are you just taking walks together?
For now. Yes. Just walks.
For now, she repeated.
I didnt elaborate. Some things are impossible to explain, not for lack of words, but because words are too heavy, or too slight.
My son, David, took it differently. He works in London, busy with his wife and two children. When I told him, calmly, in passing, that Id met someone, he just paused and asked:
Is he all right?
Yes. Hes lovely.
Fine then, said David.
That was that. I couldnt decide which was betterhis reaction or Janes.
***
Summer settled into an unfamiliar rhythm. Nicholas visited York; I went to Salisbury. We wandered markets, museums, cafés. Once he took me to his workshopa small, high-ceilinged space, thick with the scent of linseed and old wood. Icons lined the walls in various statessome dark and unknowable, some shining with new colours.
Arent you nervous handling something so old? I asked.
No. Its a comfort, actuallyknowing something existed before me, and will go on existing after.
Do you believe in it?
He hesitated.
I dont have a word for it. I just feel its important. Not because anyone told me so.
I looked at the icon he was restoringits face clear, glowing, calm.
My husband used to say I was wasting my time with the club, I said, surprising myself. Said it wasnt worth the money.
And you?
I suppose I believed him, for quite a while. Almost up to retirement.
Nicholas just looked at me, and somehow, that was enough.
In the evenings wed sit in his kitchen with tea, and Id feel a peace I havent known for years. Not from the absence of problemsthey remained: Janes deliberate silence when I left for Salisbury, the prickle of guilt when my eight-year-old granddaughter Sophie would ask, Grandma, are you coming back soon? But here, these worries pulled back a little. Nothing had vanishedjust shrunk.
Have you ever thought about moving? Nicholas asked suddenly one night.
I looked up. Where?
Here. Or somewhere else.
He was careful, eyes on his mug.
Are you?
Im not making an offer, he said quickly. Just wondering if it crossed your mind. Ever.
I sat quietly. No, not really. Maybe long ago. But it always seemed impossible.
Why impossible?
Children. Grandchildren. My flat. My work, little as it is. My lifes here.
Your children are grown.
That doesnt end the story.
He nodded.
Youre right. Just asking.
Just asking. The question now had a place inside me. Some questions linger, unasked or not.
***
In August, Jane came to visit. No occasionshe just arrived on the Saturday train, overnight bag in hand, her lips set firm.
We drank tea by the window. She asked, Are you serious?
About what?
About him. About all this.
Im not sure, I said honestly.
Mum. Doesnt it feel odd? For someone your age?
For my age or yours?
Our age. Our familys age. Dads still around, you know
Dads lived with another woman for nine years, Jane.
That doesnt change the fact you were married for thirty years!
Id argue it does, I replied. It changes everything.
Jane put her cup down. What about Sophie? Whatll she think?
Shes eight.
Exactly! Shes not stupid.
Shell understand what we explain to her.
And what will we say?
She looked so much like her father in that moment. As a child it was endearing; now it felt different, though I could not name how.
Well tell her Grandmas met a nice man. Thats enough.
And after that?
After that, we wait and see.
Jane turned to the window. You always say wait and see when you wont talk.
No, I said gently. I say well see when I honestly dont know. Its the most truthful answer there is.
Jane stood at the window, silent. At last she said, quietly, without rebuke, I just dont want you to regret it.
I could regret not doing it, as well.
She turned round. Thats philosophy. It doesnt make it any easier.
It doesnt for me, either. But I live with that.
She left on the evening train. We hugged as we always didtight, real, with something tense underneath, as if both of us were afraid something would break.
***
September arrived, crisp and cold. Although Id been retired for six years, the library club still gave my life a rhythm. I met children on Tuesdays and Fridays, reading, sketching book scenes, acting out stories. A small room, low shelves, old cushions on the floor.
The library manager, Tamara Green, sixty-five, heard about Nicholas, but not from me. I suppose she noticed the changes in mea slight withdrawal, a new kind of attention to myself.
Youve got something going on, was all Tamara said one afternoon, matter-of-fact.
I have, I admitted.
Is it good?
I dont know yet.
Well, never mind, Tamara smiled. The points that somethings going on. Weve both been like rivers with no idea where were flowing.
I surprised myself by laughing.
In September, Nicholas invited me to join him in Bath for a few days where there was an exhibition of old manuscripts. We booked separate rooms in a small hotel, visited museums, strolled through town. One evening, sitting in a riverside restaurant, Nicholas said suddenly,
I want you to know something.
What?
Im not rushing you. And Im not pressuring you. If you ever feel pressure, its not coming from me.
I looked at him.
I understand, I said.
No, I mean it. I dont want this to sound like politeness, but the truth. Im sixty-three. Im not a boy waiting for specific outcomesjust happy youre here.
The river outside glittered black and gold. I didnt answer straight away.
Its hard to accept that, I said.
Why?
I expect words to come with strings attached.
There arent any.
I know. Im just used to something else.
He nodded. We finished our wine and walked home togetherside by side, not arm-in-arm, and it felt just right.
***
October brought the conversation Id been dreading.
I called Jane, and before she could speak, I said: I need to tell you something. Nicholas has asked me to move to Salisbury. Live together. Im considering it.
There was a long silence.
Youre serious.
Yes.
Youve known him seven months.
Eight.
Mum! Eight months! Do you realise
I do. Its eight months. Thats exactly what it is.
Its nothing! You dont really know him!
I know enough.
What do you know? Janes voice sharpened. That you like him? That hes pleasant? People change, Mum. Everything does!
Jane.
What?
Your father changed too, after thirty years.
Nothing for a while.
Thats unfair, Jane said quietly.
Im not trying to be unfair. Im trying to be honest. With you and with myself.
David rang later, surely after an earful from Jane.
Mumare you really thinking of moving?
Im thinking about it.
And is he all right? Place okay?
Hes a good man. Keeps to himself. Small house, but cosy.
Are you selling the flat?
No, Ill let it. Im not burning bridges.
And ifwell, if you want to come back?
If that happens, Ill come back. But Id rather not plan for disaster.
A pause.
All right then, but keep in touch. Call often.
I will, love.
I sat for a long time by the window after. Rain fell, rattling the glass. The streetlight swayed in the wind. For the first time I was awareIm sixty-one, and this is my first-ever decision made entirely for myself. Not because someone left, not because I was forced, but just because I wanted it.
It felt strange. Almost frightening.
Later, I messaged Nicholas: Still thinking. Please give me a little longer.
He replied quickly: Take as much time as you need.
***
Vera continued to call weekly, keeping a neutral stanceneither urging me on nor urging caution. Instead she told me about her goat, which shed finally bought.
Whats her name? I asked.
Prudence.
Seriously?
Why not?
Vera, you are impossible.
Is that meant kindly?
Its definitely a compliment.
Let me ask you something, Vera said after a brief silence. If you were thirty, would this decision have taken so long?
Whats age got to do with it?
Nothing. Or everything. I find that the older we get, the longer we think things over. Sometimes, thats wisdom. Sometimes its just fear in a clever overcoat.
You could have been a philosopher, Tamara thinks so too.
Is that praise or fact?
Its fact.
Afterward, I reflectedVera was right. Fear masquerading as wisdom. When I was younger I was terrified of making mistakes; then, only later, realised that not deciding is its own mistake.
But this fear, now, is different. Not about Nicholas, about me.
Because all my life I have been someones wife, someones mum, someones teacher. But what then, when those titles fadewho am I now?
The library club, at least, was my own. The first thing I chose for myself in a long, long while.
Now, perhaps, this too.
***
Something I didnt expect happened at the end of October. My former mother-in-law, Victors mother, Mrs. Anthony, rang. Shes eighty-two, lives alone in York, and I visit her sometimes. Habit. Human decency.
Jane told me, she said right away.
Told you what?
That you might move away. That theres aman.
I hesitated. And what do you think?
I think you deserve it, she said, surprisingly gently. My son never treated you properly. Even then, I could see it. Go if its what you want. The grandchildren are all right, theyre with good parents. Janes upset because shes afraid of losing you. But you dont have to stay where no one sees your true self, dear.
They see me.
As grandma. As mum. As the one always there. But as a person?
I had no answer.
There you go, she said gently. Go. And keep in touch, Ill be happy.
I stood at the kitchen window for a long time after, thinking how people see me differently: Jane the ever-present mum, David the reliable one, Tamara the intuitive colleague, and somehow, Mrs Anthonyseeing me as plain Gillian, no labels.
And Nicholas? What does he see?
I dont know for sure. But I think, perhaps, it is mejust me. Because he met me with no baggage, no history to cloud things. Just a woman he bumped into at a market.
***
November brought the first fluttering snow and an unexpected call from Sophie.
She rang on her owna rarity, as Jane would usually hand her the phone at the end of their calls. But this Sunday morning, my phone buzzed from an unfamiliar number.
Grandma, its me.
Sophie? Where are you calling from?
Mums iPad. Grandma, are you moving away?
Did you overhear the grown-ups?
A bit. Mum was speaking to Uncle David. Are you?
Im not sure yet, darling.
If you did, would you still come visit?
Of course. Always.
Promise?
Promise.
She hesitated. Grandma, is it pretty there?
Where?
Where you might move.
Verywhite churches, snow in winter, a river.
Like we have?
A bit, but smaller.
I see. Grandma?
Yes?
Mums worried you might get ill, that something might happen and we wouldnt be there.
A lump rose in my chest. Sharper than I expected.
Tell Mum Im fit as a fiddle and not planning on changing that.
She knows. Shes just scared. So am I.
Of what?
She thought.
Lots of things. But everyones scared sometimes.
You once said brave people get scared, but do it anyway.
Thats true. You remembered.
I remember everything, she said, proud.
Well, I must go, or Mum will notice. Bye, Grandma.
Bye, love.
***
Mid-November, I went to Salisburynot just for the weekend, but a whole week. Packed my bag, asked Tamara to watch my post.
Nicholas met me at the station. We rode to his house as he chattered about his latest project, and I watched the white fields glide by, remembering the trip in March, to Veras. Something had come full circle.
We spent the week together in his snug house with wooden floors and single-glazed windows that rattled in the wind. I cooked sometimes, he tidied up. Every morning we drank coffee together in the kitchen, watching the sideways-falling snow.
One evening I asked, Do you find it cramped, living with someone again? After so long on your own?
He thought. It was only cramped when I lived a life that wasnt mine. This is different.
How so?
Years working constructionall for the money, the family. Then eventually I changedtoo late, some said. I learned restoration in my forties. My wife always supported me. She was a quietly supportive soul.
Tell me about her, I said gently.
He paused.
Anna. Calm, not silentjust she made everything less frantic. When she entered a room, it cleared somehow.
You miss her.
He nodded. Yes. But that doesnt mean I cant move forward. Do you understand?
I do.
He asked, Is it the same for you?
With Victor? Different. There was always anxiety, not calm. I think I missed the idea of him, not the man.
We sat in silence, and it was a good, companionable silence.
***
Thursday, Jane called, five days in.
I went to the porch. The snow had stopped, and the sky was clear, stars twinkling.
Youre still there? she asked.
Yes.
For how long?
Back on Sunday.
Pause. Mum, can I ask you something? Really truthfully?
Of course.
Are you doing this to prove something? To yourself? To us?
I studied the stars. No. Not to prove. Just to live differently.
Was your old life so terrible?
No. But it wasnt quite mine.
What were you missing?
A hard question. My life was not an unhappy oneflat, children, work I loved, friends. But deep down, always a sense of living right next to my own life. Running to plan, but somehow absent from its heart.
I missed myself, I said finally.
Myself? What does that mean?
It means what it means.
Jane was silent a long while.
Will you be happy? she asked. No sarcasm, just quietly.
I dont know, I said. But Id like to try.
All right then, Jane said. All right.
Not agreement, but not a declaration of war.
***
On Sunday, bags packed at the door, Nicholas asked, Have you decided?
Almost.
Is almost good or bad?
It means I just need a little bit longer. Not much now.
He nodded.
Youre afraid of making a mistake.
Yes.
May I say something?
Go ahead.
There are mistakes you make, know it, and move on. Its not pleasant, but you get it. Then there are mistakes you make by not trying, and you never know. The second kind scare me more.
I stared at him.
Are youdoing that on purpose?
What?
Saying what Im too scared to think aloud?
He burst out laughing. Hes got a good face when he laughs.
No, it just comes out, I suppose.
Back home in York, late, the flat met me with its usual hushthe smell of my own walls, the familiar neighbours lamp shining in. I put the kettle on, sat down, glanced at the book Id left on the table. The bookmark stuck out halfway through. I read the line: that each of us carries our solitude along, not as a punishment but as a fact, to be navigated as we see fit.
I closed the book.
Then messaged Nicholas, Ill come in January. For a proper stay. Lets see.
He replied: Ill be waiting.
***
December drifted past. I kept up the library club, visited Mrs Anthony, did all the usual things, but the atmosphere inside had changedless anxious, less calm, just new.
Jane called early December.
Still not changed your mind?
No.
Youll rent the flat out?
Yes. The estate agents coming next week.
I see. Well. Mum, may I ask something?
Anything.
Are you sure this isnt justyou know, thinking something new is always better?
Jane.
What?
Im sixty-one. Not an eighteen-year-old on her first adventure. I know what Im about.
Thats no guarantee against illusions.
True. But it helps curb them.
And what if hes not what he seems?
He could be anything. We never know, really. You didnt know with Andy, I wager.
I was twenty-seven.
And?
Silence.
Fine, Jane said at last. Fine, Mum.
Will you help me sort my things before I go?
A long pause.
Yes, of course I will.
***
New Year I spent at Janes, with Sophie, her husband Andrew, and David with his clan down from London. The house overflowed; children ran wild, grown-ups talked all at once.
Sophie tucked herself beside me and, in whispers, narrated the provenance of every dish.
Mum made this salad. But this ones from the shop, though she pretends otherwise.
You oughtnt say such things.
Im not telling tales; just stating facts.
Just before midnight, once the grandchildren were heavy-lidded on the sofa, Jane cleared her throat.
Mums moving to Salisbury. In January.
No drama, only a flat statement.
Andrew nodded. David looked at me, For good?
Well see, I smiled.
David grinned.
Sophie cracked open an eye. Grandma, are you going? she mumbled.
Yes, darling. But Ill visit. I promise.
She sighed. Kay. And drifted off.
I watched her, thinking: this is life. Sleeping child, adult children with drinks, the ancient settee we never quite got rid of. And somewhere, in another city, a man whod messaged, Ill wait.
***
15 January
Time to make it official. I rang Tamara.
TamaraIm giving up the childrens club. End of February. Theres time to find someone else.
Youre leaving then?
I am.
To?
To Salisbury.
To him?
To him. And to myself, too.
She was silent for a second. Thats a good way of putting it. Itll be tough, finding a replacementbut we will. You were excellent, Gilland you did it for yourself.
The children gave me a huge group card on the last day. The same boy who wrote about books drew a window with curtains, scrawling beneath: For looking inwards.
I folded the card and put it in my bag.
***
23 January
Salisburyat last. Nicholas helped me haul my suitcase into the spare room hed cleared. On the sill was a geranium in a pot.
Wheres that from?
I bought it. Thought we could do with a flower.
A very right thought.
I went to the windowsnowy garden, silent, neat fences, someone elses allotment, rooftops beyond.
So? he asked.
I dont know yet. Ask me in a month.
I will.
I turned to him.
Nicholas.
Yes?
Thank you for not rushing me.
He shrugged lightly. Thank you for coming.
***
Three months now, and Im still settling in. Salisbury is small and that brings its joyspeace, and its trialseveryone knows everyone. I am the new lady, and theres subtle curiosity.
Vera introduced me to a few localsone, Mrs. Norris, runs a little book circle at the community centre and asked if Id help.
Im not sure Im up to it.
Just come and see, love. If you like it, stay. If not, never mind.
I went. And liked it.
Jane and I ring each other weekly, sometimes more. The conversation slowly changed, growing gentler; she asks about Nicholas, about the club, about what Im reading. Gradually, the distance grows less strangefrom awkward to familiar.
Sophie sent me a letteran actual letter, with a stamp. She drew two churches and a river. Grandma, Ill visit soonMum says at Easter. PSIs Prudence really a goat? Vera told me.
Of course, I wrote back.
***
It was April when Jane finally visitedalone, just for a day.
She walked in, took the house in: old floors, geranium on the window sill, the kitchen table.
Nicholas offered her tea and tactfully slipped away.
We sat together.
Its nice here, she said, almost as if surprised.
Yes.
Small though.
Quiet, though.
Dont you miss York?
I do. I miss you, too. Tamara. The riverside.
And yet?
And yet Im here.
Jane cradled her cup.
Is he good to you? she asked simply.
Yes.
Are you happy?
I thought. I dont know if Id use the word happy. But Im well. Truly well.
She nodded.
All right.
All right as in?
All right as in all right. She met my gaze. Im still scared. For you. I probably always will be.
I know.
But Im trying to understand.
Thats enough for me.
We drank tea, and she told me about Sophie, her job, Andrews new plans for a carnothing loaded. Just talk.
Soon it was time for her to go. I walked her out.
The April air was raw, scented of wet earth. The trees shimmered green, just beginning.
Mum, she said at the gate.
Yes?
I dont understand this, not fully. Maybe never will.
I know.
But you should know something.
Whats that?
She paused, then held my gazethose same dark, mobile eyes I once saw first in her cot in hospital.
Youve always been there. Always. I forget what its like if youre not always just there, ready with an answer.
I still answer. Always.
I know. Its justthis is a different distance. I have to adjust.
You will.
You think?
I looked at hera face I knew by heart.
I do. Youre strong.
She managed a little smile. Not as strong as you.
Just as.
She hugged me tight. Then collected her things.
Ill ring when Im back.
Ill be listening.
Down the lane she went. Back straight, stride quick. Her fathers daughter, in ways that mattered.
Halfway down the street, she called back over her shoulder: Mumyour geraniums in bloom. I saw.
It is, I called back.
Good, she said.
And was gone.
I went inside. Nicholas was heating soup. I stood at the window. Jane had already vanished.
The geranium shone pink in the last of the light.
All right? Nicholas asked, back turned.
All right, I answered.
A pause.
Shes a good girl, I added. Just afraid.
Reasonable, too. It isnt easy for her.
No.
I pulled plates from the cupboard; the motions already familiar.
Nicholas, I said.
Yes?
Do you think I did the right thing?
He turned to look at me.
What do you think?
I considered.
I thinkit was mine to do. For once, just mine.
There you go, he said. Thats your answer.
We sat down for supper. Outside, late April Salisbury shimmered white with the final snows, new green pushing through.
I sat there, thinking: this is it. Not happiness, as a concept. Not a final solution. Just lunch. Just a window. Just the person sitting here with me, and the unusual calm that brings.
Is it enough? I dont know.
But the soup was hot, the geranium blooming. In my handbag, a handmade card from an eight-year-old boya picture of a window for looking in.
***
That evening, Sophie called.
Grandma, Mum said she visited you.
She did, yes.
How are you?
Well, we talked.
She didnt cry, did she?
No, darling. Why?
She does sometimes. When she thinks Im not listening. Because of you.
I closed my eyes.
Sophie
Yes?
Tell your mum Ill visit soon. Very soon.
All right. Grandma?
Yes?
Is it spring yet?
Almost. Some snow still, though.
Its very warm here. Weird, isnt it? Same country, different weather.
Not so unusual, love.
Grandma, do you miss us?
I looked out the window, evening falling and stars coming out.
A great deal. Always.
Good, she said, sounding content. Its good. Missing means loving.
I had nothing to add.
Bye, Grandma.
Bye, love.
When I hung up, Nicholas was singing at the sink, washing dishes softly. The geranium was a dark shape in the window. In the next garden, a dog barked lazilyat home now, a part of this hush.
I sat and thought Sophie was right. Missing means loving. Maybe the other way around too. Loving means missing, and having someone to miss.
That, perhaps, is life. Not perfect, not as in clever books, but just life with its distances and closeness, right and wrong turns that eventually simply become the life you chose.
I got up to help him with the dishes.
