Late Rebellion
Do you truly understand what youre doing? The tone in Emilys voice was flat, unyielding, and, oddly, far more frightening than any emotional outburst. Do you have any idea what this means for the rest of us?
I stood silently at the window, watching the drizzle blur the streetlights in York. Autumn rain pattered steadily on the glass, and people hurried past under umbrellas with downcast faces.
I know what this means for me, I said at last.
For you. Emily repeated, as if weighing the words. Its always for you. And what about us?
Youre all grown-ups, I replied.
Mum, youre sixty-one.
I know exactly how old I am.
Emily sank into the old sofa. It had followed me here from our London flat, a battered relic of another chapter. Id threatened to replace it countless times, but couldnt bring myself to. Comfort, guilt, or simply memorythrowing it out felt a little like losing a part of myself.
Did you even consider what people will say? Emily asked.
No, I answered truthfully. I didnt.
And that was the honest truth.
***
This began in March, when IMary Jane Harrington, once a teacher of English literature, now a pensioner who ran a childrens club at the local libraryspent a weekend with my old friend Susan in Bath.
Susan moved there eight years ago after her husband passed away, bought a tiny cottage near the edge of town, planted a garden, started living in her own rhythm. Usually, Id visit in summer, but this time, something nudged me. Go now, it whispered. Dont wait for summer. Now.
March in Bath was raw and hauntingly quiet; patches of snow clung to the verges, earth was turning black and ready for spring. Church spires gleamed under a pale sky. I walked through ancient narrow streets and felt an unaccustomed hushreal stillness, not emptiness. Only here could I sense the difference.
Susan met me on her stoop in wellies and a battered anorak.
Finally, she said. Ive warmed up some pies.
We sat in her kitchen, drinking tea as Susan filled me in on the neighbours, her vegetable patch, and her plan to buy a goat.
A goat? I arched an eyebrow.
Why not? My own milk, fresh cheesedoesnt sound too difficult.
Susan, youve never even seen a goat up close.
Thats what makes it interesting, she grinned, pouring more tea. What about you? You look grey, Mary. Sorry, but you do.
I studied my hands. They were just handsolder now, blue veins exposed.
Im fine.
Fine isnt an answer. Is something wrong?
Nothings changed. Everythings the same as always.
Thats exactly the problem, said Susan. When everythings always the same, thats how you spot problems.
I said nothing. The days were drawing in; a lamp flickered at the end of the lane.
The next day Susan dragged me to the market. Not some supermarket, but the real deal: tables laden with pickled cabbages, handmade socks, the smells of damp earth and brine thick in the air. And thats where I saw Tom.
I didnt recognise him at first. Thirty-five years is a long time, and hed changed, but something in the way he stoodhis posture, his hands shoved in his pocketsmade him unmistakable. I stopped.
He stopped too.
Mary? he managed uncertainly.
Tom, I replied.
That was all we exchanged at first. Then Susan tactfully excused herself to the socks and left us at the mushroom stall, surrounded by the smells of dried fungi and cold earth.
Do you live here now? I asked.
Second year, he said. What about you?
Just visiting a friend.
I see.
Another silencebut not awkward. It felt as though we both instinctively sensed there was no rush.
You havent changed a bit, he said.
Not true.
Maybe not much, just a little.
I laughed, surprised to hear myself.
***
Tom Bennett had been a university course mate. Not a close friend, not a flame, just someone whod shared long seminar tables with me for five years back in the Sheffield teacher training college. Afterwards, we drifted like everyone does. He moved to Bristol, I stayed in York, married, had children. Id heard, through the grapevine, that hed married too and had a daughter, but that was all.
And now he stood at a mushroom stall, looking at me as if no time had passed.
We agreed to meet in the evening at a little café on Baths high street. Susan didnt comment.
Go, of course, she said. Ive got my soaps to watch. Dont look at me like Im matchmaking.
Id never said she was.
You always think it, she grinned. Just go.
The café was nearly empty, wooden tables, yellowish lamps, old black-and-white photos of Bath on the walls. We ordered tea and apple pie, and talked for agesshared memories, gossip from university days, laughing at the dramas that once seemed colossal.
Later, Tom said quietly, My wife passed away three years ago.
Im sorry, I replied.
Its all right. Im not sure you ever get used to it. Perhaps you just live differently.
I nodded. I understand.
How about you?
I paused. My husband, Richard, left nine years ago for another womanno big drama. One evening he simply said that was how it had turned out. Back then, Id gone over every detail, wondering what Id missed, reliving years as though counting beads. Eventually, Id stopped. Life went on. Children, grandchildren, my library club, one summer trip to Bath each year.
It varies, I said.
He nodded and didnt push. That was a kindness, too.
***
Home in York, I told myself it was just one of those pleasant old acquaintancesnothing more. Old course mates meet, chat, part ways. Happens all the time.
But a week later, he messaged. Susan had given him my numberhe wrote, Hi, hope you got back all right?
I replied. A slow trickle of messages began, at first infrequent, and then, before long, every day. It felt oddmessaging wasnt something I did much of. Emily was always berating me for reading texts without replying for ages. Now, I caught myself waiting for his next message.
His writing was simple, without frillshe told me about fixing old church panels, photos of snowy spires, a tabby cat basking on his windowsill, his mug of tea on a battered work table. He asked about my club, about the stories the children wrote. Occasionally, hed send a photoBath in snow, a cat watching crows.
A month in, Emily picked up on it.
Mum, youre always on your phone now.
Im reading.
You always said screens ruined your eyes.
I suppose I was wrong.
Emily looked at me askance, but said nothing.
In April, Tom mentioned hed be in York on businessrestoring something at the Minster. Maybe we could meet?
Maybeit made me smile. So very careful.
Come, I replied.
We met at the city walls, where the Ouse and Foss twist together. The wind blew cold off the river, but the light felt almost springlike. I wore my good grey coat, one of those rare purchases that sat untouched in my wardrobe most of the year.
Tom was already waiting, gazing at the river. His face was wind-chapped, hands buried as ever in his pockets.
Hello, he said.
Hello.
We strolled along the Embankment, chatting about restoration, my library group. I told him how eight-year-old Harry had written an essay claiming books were like windows turned inside-out, because you saw not out but in. Tom stopped.
Thats spot on, he said. Eight years old, you said?
Yes. Remarkable child.
Youre good with children, you can tell.
How do you know? Youve never seen.
Its how you talk about themlike it matters.
I looked at him. He looked at the river.
Afterwards, we warmed our hands on coffee at a small café, and I realised I hadnt sat like this in yearsjust talking, no hurry or expectation. It felt almost forgotten, and it was good.
He said, as we parted, Id like to visit again, if thats all right.
Of course.
***
Emily found out in May. Not because I confessed, but because she called at an odd hour and I wasnt home. When I finally rang her back, I was distracted and she caught on.
Where were you?
Out for a walk.
On your own?
A slight pause. Emily heard those, always.
No.
And so, the conversation begantentative at first, then sharper.
Who is he? she asked.
A university friend. I told you I met someone in Bath.
You just said youd met someone.
Exactly.
Mum, youre
I know my own age, Emily.
Silence.
So, what is this? Just walks in the park?
For now, yes. Just walks.
For now, she repeated.
I didnt try to explain. Some things cant be summed uptheyd only sound too heavy or too flippant.
My son, Peter, took it differently. He lived in London with his wife and two children. When I told him, quite casually, that Id met someone, he simply asked,
Is he alright?
Yes, I replied.
Good, he said.
That was all. I thought about that for a long time. Was this better than Emilys reaction? I couldnt say.
***
Summer took on a new rhythm. Tom visited in York; I went down to Bath. We wandered markets, museums, cafes. He once showed me his workshophigh ceilings, the scent of boiled linseed and dusty oak, old icons and battered panelling queued up along the walls.
Doesnt it scare you, handling these old things? I asked.
Not at all. Quite the opposite. Its comfortingknowing these objects existed before us, and will after.
Do you believe? I ventured.
He paused.
Im not sure what word to use. It just mattersno one elses say needed.
I looked at the icon he was restoringthe face emerging, pale and serene.
My husband used to say I wasted my time running the childrens club, I found myself admitting. Not worth it for the little they pay.
And you?
I suppose I nearly believed him, or at least pretended to. Until retirement, almost.
Tom didnt reply, just looked at me. It was enough.
That night, as we shared tea in his kitchen, I realised I hadnt felt this calm in years. Not that there were no problemsEmily barely called when she knew Id travelled. An eloquent silence. And my granddaughter Isla, eight now, once asked over the phone: Gran, will you be home soon? Her tiny voice pricked my conscience, sharp but familiar.
Yet in his kitchen, the guilt subsidednot vanished, just shrunk.
Have you thought about moving? Tom asked suddenly.
Moving? Where to?
Here, to Bath. Or anywhere, really. Just moving.
He spoke without judgment, staring into his teacup.
Are you offering?
Im not saying anything definite. Just askingif youve considered it.
I hadnt, I admitted. Or once, long ago. But it felt impossible.
Why impossible?
Children. Grandchildren. Flat. My club, even if its small. Everythings here.
The children are grown.
It doesnt make it any easier.
He nodded.
Youre right. I just wondered.
That question lodged somewhere deep. The sort that doesnt easily depart.
***
August brought Emily to visit. Out of the blue one Saturday, overnight bag in hand, lips pressed thin.
We sipped tea while she gazed at the garden.
Are you serious about this? she asked.
About what?
About him. All of this.
I dont know, I replied honestly.
Mum, dont you think this is a bit odd? At our age?
Whose ageyours or mine?
Ours. My familys. Dads still alive, you know
Dad left for another woman nine years ago, Emily.
That doesnt erase thirty years of marriage.
Actually, it changes everything, I said.
Emily set down her mug.
Have you thought what Isla will think? What shell understand?
Islas eight.
Exactly. She understands everything.
Shell understand what we explain.
And what will you explain?
I studied Emilys faceso like her fathers. That used to warm my heart, but now it unsettled me in some way I couldnt name.
Ill tell her Gran met a good man. Thats enough.
And after that?
Well see.
Well see. Emily walked to the window. You always say that when you dont want to talk.
No. I say it when I genuinely dont know whats next. Thats honesty.
She was silent for a long time. Then, softly, almost sadly,
I just worry youll regret it.
I might regret never trying more, I replied.
She turned.
Thats philosophy, but it doesnt help me sleep.
Nor me, I admitted. But I live with it.
Emily left on the evening train. We hugged tightlythe familiar tension in our embrace, as if we both dreaded a break neither of us could name.
***
September arrived crisp and biting. Id retired six years back, but the club at the library lent me a sense of rhythm. Children came on Tuesdays and Fridays, to read, draw, and perform sketches. Our room was modest, with low bookshelves and worn cushions on the floor.
The head librarian, Margaret Harrissixty-five, sharp eyednoticed.
Somethings going on with you, she observed without a trace of question.
Somethings going on, I agreed.
Is it good?
I cant say yet.
Doesnt matter, said Margaret. The main thing is somethings happening. Otherwise were like rivers, flowing without knowing where.
I laughed.
That September, Tom suggested we spend a few days together in Cambridge for an exhibition of medieval manuscripts. I agreed. We booked two separate rooms in a little guest house, visited museums, wandered the city at dusk. Over dinner by the Cam, Tom said:
I want you to know something.
Yes?
Im not rushing you. Or pushing you. If you feel pressured, thats not from me.
I looked at him.
I believe you.
I want you to believe its honesty, not mere politeness. Im sixty-three, Marynot a lovesick youth expecting the moon. Im simply glad youre here.
I was silent. The lights on the river flickered beyond the window.
Its hard to accept, I admitted at last.
Why?
Because Im used to people expecting thingswaiting for a return, some bargain.
There are no bargains here, he said.
I know. Im just used to something else.
He nodded. We finished our wine and strolled the riverbank, his presence beside meneither holding my arm nor walking aheadperfectly right.
***
October brought the conversation I knew was coming.
I rang Emily, got barely halfway through when I declared, I need to tell you something. Toms asked me to move to Bath. To live with him. Im considering it.
A long silence.
Youre serious.
Yes.
Youve known each other seven months.
Eight.
Mum! Eight months! Do you understand what youre doing?
I do. I know its been eight months.
Thats nothing! You know nothing about him!
I know enough.
What do you know? You like each other? You get on? People change, Mum. Everything changes!
Emily.
What?
Your father changed too. After thirty years.
Another long silence.
Thats not fair, she whispered.
It isnt about being fair. I want to be honestwith myself and with you.
Peter rang that evening. Clearly Emily had briefed him.
Mum, are you actually going to move?
Im thinking about it.
Are things alright down there? Is he decent?
Hes a good man. Keeps a lovely home. Not huge, just right.
Will you sell the flat?
No. Ill let it.
And if you ever want to come back?
Peter.
What? Im being practical.
If I have to, Ill come back. But I want to try this without what ifs hanging over me. Is that alright?
A pause. Sure, he said. Just keep in touch.
I promise.
Afterward, I sat alone. Autumn rain battered the windows. Sixty-one years old, and thisthiswas the first decision, big or small, that was purely mine. Not dictated by abandonment or circumstance. I just wanted to.
Strange, new feeling.
I messaged Tom: Im thinking. Please give me a little more time.
He wrote back quickly: Take as much as you need.
***
Susan rang regularly, maintaining a diplomatic neutrality. She didnt urge me to hurry, nor did she caution patience. She chatted about her goatwhom shed actually purchased.
Whats its name? I asked.
Matilda.
Youre joking.
Not at all. It suits herMatildas got real character, you know.
Susan, youre full of surprises.
Is that good or bad?
Good, I replied. Definitely good.
Listen, said Susan after a pause, do you think, if you were thirty, youd hesitate so long?
Whats age got to do with it?
Nothing. Or maybe everything. I just think, as we get older, we overthink. Sometimes its wisdom. Sometimes its just fear dressed up as wisdom.
You sound like Margaret.
That a compliment?
Its the truth.
I hung up thinking Susan was right. Fear disguised as wisdomso true. Once, I feared getting things wrong. Later, I feared never getting round to the things I wanted. Both are forms of cowardice.
This fear wasnt about Tom. It was about what Id lost: being more than a wife, a mum, a teacher When all those roles faded, who was left? The club at the library had been the first thing Id chosen for myself, after years of shoulds and musts.
And now, perhaps, this too.
***
Late October brought an unexpected call from my ex-mother-in-law, Mrs. Bennett, now eighty-two, still in York, still independent. I visited her, out of kindness and some strange loyalty.
Emily told me, she announced with no preamble.
Told you what?
About your friend. That you might leave.
I hesitated.
And what do you think?
I think you deserve it, she said calmly. My son never appreciated you. I saw that back then but never said it. I will now.
Mrs. Bennett
Dont interrupt. Im of an age where I can be blunt. Go, if you wish. The grandchildren are finethey have good parents. Emilys upset because shes afraid of losing you. But you dont need to be there just to be taken for granted.
They do see me.
As a gran. As a mum. As the one whos always there. Do they see you as a person?
I had no answer.
There you are, she concluded. Goand ring me. Ill be glad to hear from you.
I stood a long while at the kitchen window afterwards. The trees were all barethe garden stark and still.
People see you differently, I thought. Emily, as her anchor. Peter, as someone who needs stability. Margaret saw a colleague. Mrs. Bennett, most unexpectedly, saw me.
Tomwhat did he see?
I wasnt sure. But I sensed he saw Mary, not a role. No history or expectationsjust the woman hed met at a market stall.
***
November brought the first snow, and a phone call from Isla.
She rarely phoned herselfit was usually at the end of her mums call. So it surprised me Sunday morning, seeing her number.
Gran, its me.
Isla? Where are you calling from?
Mums iPad. Gran, are you moving away?
I sat.
You overheard grownups talking.
Kind of. Mum was talking to Uncle Peter. Are you?
Im not certain, love.
If you move, will you visit?
Of course.
Promise?
Promise.
Silence. Then Isla said,
Is it pretty there?
Where I might go?
Yes, love. Lots of white churches, and snow in winter, and a river.
Like ours?
Yes, only smaller.
Okay. Gran?
Yes.
Mums scared you might get illthat we wouldnt be able to help.
A sharp pang.
Tell Mum Im healthyand plan on staying healthy.
She knows shes just scared.
I know. Im scared too.
Of what?
A lot of things, darling. But everyone gets scared sometimes.
Didnt you say brave people get scared too, but do things anyway?
Yes, I did. You remembered.
I remember everything, Isla replied proudly. I should goMum will wonder.
Isla.
Yes?
I love you.
I love you too. Bye.
***
In mid-November, I spent a whole week in Bath. Not just a weekend. Packed accordingly, told Margaret, asked Susan to collect any letters.
Tom met me at the station. He chatted about a church dome he was restoring, and I stared out at the white-dusted fields, realising Id travelled the same way in March. A circle closing.
We settled together into his small house, creaking wooden floors and rattling sash windows. I cooked, he tidied, wed drink morning coffee at his tiny kitchen table, watching lazy snowflakes drift sidewise on the wind.
One evening, I asked,
Do you find it cramped, sharing with someone?
What?
Living together. Youve been alone eight years.
He thought.
It was claustrophobic beforewhen I wasnt living my way. This is different.
How so?
I spent years labouring on building sites. Needed the payfamily to support. But I came to a crossroadsdecided to retrain. I was over forty; everyone said it was silly.
And you?
I did it anyway. My wife supported me. She was alwaysa supporting person.
Tell me about her, I asked.
Tom paused.
Anna. She was quietnot silent, just settled. Life slowed down with her in the room.
You miss her.
Yes, he said simply. But missing doesnt mean I cant move forward, you know?
I do know.
And Richard?
Its differentless missing, more regret, maybe. I was anxious more than peaceful.
I understand, I said.
We sat together in gentle silence.
***
On Thursday, the fifth day, Emily rang.
I slipped out to the stoop. The snow had stopped; stars flickered above.
Are you still there? Emily asked.
Yes.
How much longer?
Till Sunday.
Mum, I want to ask something. Honestly.
Go ahead.
Are you doing this to prove something? To yourself, or us?
I looked at the stars.
No. Not to prove anything.
So why? she pressed.
To live differentlyon my own terms.
Was your old life so awful?
Not awful. Just not quite right.
What was missing?
Thats difficult. I had plentya flat, a job I loved, friends, children. I wasnt unlucky.
Still, something was off. I always felt I was living just a step away from myselflife like a well-kept plan, but I was standing beside it, rather than inside.
I missed myself, I admitted.
Yourself? What does that mean?
It means what it means.
A long silence.
Will you be happy? she asked softly. No irony, just wondering.
I dont know, I said. But I want to try.
All right, she said. All right.
Not exactly approval. But not a battle either.
***
Sunday, bags packed in Toms hallway, he asked,
Have you decided?
Almost.
Is almost good or bad?
It just means I need a little more time.
He nodded.
Youre afraid of making a mistake.
Yes.
Can I say something?
Go on.
There are two kinds of mistakes. The ones you make, realise, and learn from. They hurt, but you understand. The ones you never makeyoull never know. The second kind bother me more.
I stared at him.
Did you rehearse that? Its just what I was thinking, but couldnt say out loud.
He laughed, and his face was lovely when he laughed.
Not rehearsed. Just the way it is.
I went back to York late. The flat welcomed me with its usual hush, familiar dust and the glow of a streetlamp opposite. I unpacked, made tea, sat at my table.
On it was a book Id started pre-trip, the bookmark still wedged in the middle. I opened to my place and read a lineone Id seen before but only now understood: that loneliness is a constant, but not a cursejust something you choose how to handle.
I shut the book.
Then, I messaged Tom: Ill come in January. For a while. Lets see.
He replied: Cant wait.
***
December felt in limbo. I kept teaching my club, visited Mrs. Bennett, did all my usual chores. Nothing was different on the outside. Insidesomething had shifted, as though a decision had simultaneously been made and not made.
Emily phoned early in December.
You havent changed your mind?
No.
Youre letting the flat?
Yes. Ive got an agent sorting it.
Right. Mum, can I ask you something?
Of course.
Do you think thisisnt this just the classic new is always better thing?
Emily.
What?
Im sixty-one, not an impressionable teen. I know what Ive lived through. I have plenty of perspective.
That doesnt make you immune to illusions.
No. But it helps filter them.
What if hes not as he seems?
What if. Life is always what if, Emily. Didnt you have doubts before your own marriage?
I was twenty-seven.
And?
She said nothing.
All right, Mum, said Emily at last. Shall I help you pack?
A long pause.
Of course, Ill help, she said.
***
I saw in New Years Eve at Emilys. Isla, her husband David, Peter and his family all crowded round one tablecosy and noisy, kids running about, everyone talking at once.
Isla cuddled close, whispering the provenance of each dish.
Mum made this salad. That ones from the shopbut shell say she made it.
Dont keep me posted on such things.
Im not reporting, Gran, just saying, she declared.
At midnight, when the small ones drooped with sleep, Emily announced,
Mums moving to Bath. In January.
Matter-of-fact, no drama.
David just nodded. Peter asked,
For good?
Well see, I replied.
He managed a smile.
Isla opened one eye.
Gran, youre going?
Yes, my darling.
You promised youd visit.
And I will.
Good, she mumbled before dozing off.
I gazed at hera sleeping child, grown children with wine, that old lumpy sofa Id never gotten round to replacing. And, somewhere in a different city, a man who had written, waiting.
***
On the fifteenth of January, I called Margaret
Margaret, Im handing in my notice at the club.
She was silent.
When?
February. To give you time for a replacement.
Youre moving?
Yes.
To Bath?
To him, yesand to me, too.
Thats a good way of putting it, Margaret said. Well manage, but itll be hardyou were good at this.
Thanks.
Best of luck, Mary. Really.
My last day, the kids gave me a group carda big sheet, everyone doodling on it. Harry, my window-philosopher, drew a window with curtains and wrote beneath: So we can look inside.
I folded the card and tucked it into my bag.
***
On 23rd January I arrived in Bath. Tom took my suitcase to the tidy, sunlit spare room hed prepared. A pot of geraniums bloomed on the sill.
Wheres that from? I asked.
Bought it. Figured we needed a flower.
A wise choice.
I stood at the window. The garden was blanketed in snow, quiet and white. Fence, neighbours gardens, rooftops beyond.
Well? he asked.
Ask me again in a month.
I will.
I turned.
Tom.
Yes?
Thank you for not hurrying me.
He paused.
Thank you for coming.
***
Three months passed as I adjusted. Bath was smallat once comforting and challenging. Everyone seemed to know each other, so I stood out and was eyed with cautious curiosity.
Susan introduced me to some longstanding residents. One, Mrs. Price, suggested I help at the local reading group. Ten or so attendees, discussing books once a fortnight.
Not sure Im up to it, I said.
Nothing to it, scoffed Mrs. Price. Try, see. If you like it, stay. If not, no harm.
I tried it. I liked it.
Emily and I spoke weekly, sometimes more. Her questions shifted, from How are you? to How is he? and Whats your club up to? and, tentatively, What are you reading? She was acclimatising, like eyes to a new light.
Isla wrote me a letterproper post, with a stamp and everything. Two churches and a river drawn in felt tip, a promise: Gran, Ill come visit you soon, Mum said at Easter. At the end: Matildais she really a goat? Susan told me.
I replied the same way, with pen and paper.
***
One April evening, Emily visited. Alone, no Isla. Just for the day, knackered from the train.
She wandered the house, brown floors, geranium, cosily cluttered kitchen.
Tom made the tea and discreetly vanished into his workroom.
Its lovely here, she saidalmost with disbelief.
Yes.
Its tiny, though.
Its quiet, I replied.
Dont you miss York?
I do. I miss you. Margaret. The riverside.
And still?
And still, I said.
Emily turned her mug.
Is he good to you? she askednot like before, but in earnest.
Yes.
Are you happy?
Its hard to say. Happiness is a big word. But Im well. Honestly well.
Emily nodded.
All right.
What does all right mean?
It means all right. She looked up. Im still afraidfor you. Probably always will be.
I know.
But Im trying. To understand.
Thats all I could ever want.
We drank our tea. Emily told stories about Isla, about work, about David wanting a new car. Ordinary stories, nothing between the lines.
She packed, ready for the journey home. I walked her to the gate.
The April air was soft, smelling of earth and early leaves.
Mum, she said at the gate.
Yes?
I dont understand thismaybe I never will.
I know.
Butknow this.
What?
She hesitated, then met my gazeher fathers eyes, in her own face.
You were always there. Always. Im just used to itthat you answer when I ring.
Ill always answer.
I know. Its just the distance feels different now. I must get used to it.
You will.
You think so?
I looked at hermy firstborn, straight-backed, brave.
I do. You always do. Youre strong.
Not as strong as you.
Just as strong.
She barely smiled, but she hugged me tightly. We stood for a long time.
Then she turned back, picked up her bag.
Ill call when I get in.
Im waiting.
She headed down the roadthe same determined walk. She turned back halfway.
Mum, she called out.
Yes?
Your geraniums blooming. I saw it.
It is, I agreed.
Thats good then, she said.
And walked away.
***
Back inside, Tom was warming up soup. I leaned at the window, watching as Emily disappeared round the bend. A woman with a shopping bag shuffled past. The geraniums pink buds glowed in the dusk.
Was it all right? Tom asked, not looking round.
It was, I replied.
I hesitated.
Shes lovely. Just scared.
Naturally. Its not easy for her either.
No.
I set the table. By now, this had all become familiar.
Tom, I asked.
Yes?
Do you think I did the right thing?
He turned, studying me.
What do you think?
I considered.
I thinkthis is mine. Properly mine, for the first time.
There you go, he said. Youve answered for yourself.
We sat for soup. Outside, April in Bath was white with late snow, a trace of green peeking through.
I gazed out, thinkingnot of happiness, not of the end of indecision. Just soup, a window, the man opposite, with whom I felt at peace.
Would it be enough? I didnt know.
But the soup was hot. The geranium bloomed. And, in my bag, was a card from an eight-year-old whod drawn a window for looking in.
***
That evening, Isla rang.
Gran, Mum says she saw you.
She did.
Are you both alright?
We had a good talk.
She didnt cry?
No, darling. Why do you ask?
Sometimes she cries when she thinks I cant hear. About you.
I closed my eyes.
Sweetheart.
Yes?
Tell Mum Ill come soonvery soon.
Okay. Gran?
Yes?
Is it spring there yet?
Almost. Snows nearly gone.
Its really warm here. Weird, right? Same country, different weather.
Not weird. Normal.
Gran, do you miss us?
I stared at the night, the first stars out.
A lot, I replied. Always.
Thats good, said Isla, as if relieved. Its good to miss people.
You think so?
Of course. If you miss someone, it means you love them.
I didnt know what to say.
Bye, Gran.
Bye, darling.
I put the phone down. In the kitchen, Tom was humming softly at the sink. The geranium glowed dark against the window. A dog barked somewhere, a sound now woven into what I called silence.
I considered Islas wisdom. If you miss people, it means you love them. Perhaps loving means missing, and having the luck to miss and be missed. Thats lifenot perfect, not a storybook, just real, with its distances and closeness, with choices that grow to fit the shape of our lives until, at last, they are simply ours.
I stood up, and helped dry the dishes.
