A Late Rebellion
Do you actually grasp what youre doing? came the measured, almost emotionless voice of Margaret. The unruffled calm made her words more frightening than any shout. Do you see what this means for all of us?
Alice stood by the window, watching a fine drizzle smattering the street outside. Passersby hurried beneath umbrellas, carefully avoiding one anothers gaze.
I know what it means for me, she said at last.
For you. Margaret repeated the phrase, as if weighing it in her palm. Thats always the way, isnt it? For you. But what about the rest of us?
Youre adults, Alice replied.
Mum, youre sixty-one.
I do know how old I am.
Margaret collapsed onto the sofaancient thing, older than the internet, a lumpy relic from their previous flat and the unremarkable before time. Alice watched it, thinking of all the times shed meant to ditch it but never did. Somehow, chucking the sofa felt like throwing away a beloved old pet. Familiar. Impossible to let go.
Have you even considered what people will say? pressed Margaret.
No, Alice admitted. I havent.
It was the plain and honest truth.
***
It all began one blustery March when Alice Louise Dawson, retired English teacher and part-time pillar at the local library childrens club, decided to visit her old friend in York for the weekend.
Her friend EleanorEleanor Mayfieldhad been living in York nearly a decade, after losing her husband. She bought a dainty house on the citys fringe, grew tomatoes, and, in her words, finally learned to breathe. Alice normally visited in summer, once a year, but this timewell, something had shifted. Deep down, something said: Go now. Not in July. Now.
March in York was dank and whisper-quiet. Last traces of snow lingered in the dips, while the hillocks were already muddy brown. Church spires shone against the pale, endless sky. As she strolled along a winding lane, Alice realised it had been ages since shed felt such peace. Not emptiness, actual peace. She hadnt truly felt the difference until now.
Eleanor met her on the doorstep in battered wellies and a puffy coat that had seen better decades.
There you are at last, she said. Ive got some bangers warming.
They sat in the cosy kitchen, tea mugs steaming, Eleanor talking about her neighbours, her veg patch, and her plans to acquireof all thingsa goat.
A goat? Alice lifted an eyebrow.
Why not? Own milk, make a bit of cheese. I read its not that hard.
Eleanor, youve never met a goat up close.
Exactly! Thats the adventure, Eleanor grinned, topping up Alices tea. You, on the other hand, look utterly washed out. Sorry, but you do.
Alice looked at her hands. Ordinary, ageing hands. Veins gently mapping their way along the skin.
Im fine.
Fines not an answer. Has something happened?
Nothings happened. Its all as usual.
Thats the problem, Eleanor said. When everythings always as usualthats when you need to worry.
Alice said nothing. Outside, the dusk deepened, and street lamps blinked to life, one by one.
Next morning, Eleanor dragged her to the market. Not Sainsburys, but the wild, cheery sortknitted socks and pickled onions on mismatched tables. There, by a stall laden with dried mushrooms, Alice saw John.
She barely recognised him. Thirty-five years gone; the years had done their work. Yet the tilt of his head, the way he shoved his hands in his pocketsit was unmistakable. She stopped dead.
So did he.
Alice? He sounded uncertain.
John.
That was their entire conversation for a full minute. Eleanor, quick as ever, retreated to inspect scarves while they stood adrift in the smell of fungi and damp earth.
Do you live here? asked Alice.
Second year now. And you?
Im just visiting. Seeing an old friend.
Right.
A pause. Not awkward, exactlysomething more companionable. Like they both knew there was no rush whatsoever.
You havent changed, John said.
Thats not true.
Well, only by a whisker.
Alice found herself laughing. She hadnt expected to.
***
John William Ashford had been her course-mate at teacher training college. Not a bosom friend, not a secret flamejust a fellow slogger through five years of reading lists. Then, as people do, they scattered. He went one way, she the other. Alice married, had her children, built a family. Shed heard, years ago, John had married too, had a daughter. And thennothing.
Now here he was, at the mushroom stall, looking at her.
They arranged to meet in the evening at a dinky café down the High Street. Eleanor took the news in stride.
Go, of course, she said. Ill be watching Bake Off. Im not matchmaking, dont give me that look.
I wasnt thinking that.
You were. Go on.
The café was almost empty. Rough wooden tables, amber-shaded lamps, sepia prints of old York on the walls. They ordered tea and some suspiciously pale apple pie and spent hours trawling through mutual acquaintances and memories, giggling at things that once seemed tragically important.
Then, John said, My wife died three years ago.
Im sorry, Alice replied.
Its you know. Not over itjust, you sort of live differently.
I do know.
What about you?
Alice considered. Her husband, Phillip, had left her for someone else nine years ago. No melodrama, no big soap opera explanations. Just one day, he said, Im off. Things have changed. Shed spent a long spell afterwards wondering what shed done wrong, raking over the years. Then, eventually, she got bored of wondering and started living again. Children, grandchildren, library club, occasional trips to York to see Eleanor.
Its complicated, she answered.
John nodded. He didnt ask. That was nice.
***
Back at home in Winchester, Alice told herself it was a harmless coincidencetwo old classmates, a pleasant chat, nothing more.
But a week later, he messagedfound her via Eleanor, cheeky thing. Hello. Did you get back safely? he wrote.
She wrote back. One message turned into a regular correspondencefirst sporadic, then daily. Alice, who notoriously left her phone unanswered until panic took hold (much to Margarets annoyance), found herself checking for his replies.
Johns messages were straightforward, no frills. He talked about life in York, about restoring old objects, church pews and all sorts, sending photos: a whitewashed chapel covered in snow, a tabby cat on the window ledge, a mug of tea beside a battered armchair.
Margaret noticed after a month.
Mum, youre glued to your phone!
Im reading.
You always said staring at screens was bad for your eyes.
Well, apparently its not so terrible.
Margaret eyed her strangely but said nothing more.
In April, John suggested visiting Winchester. Ive work at a restoration workshop just nearby, he wrote. If you dont mind, perhaps we could meet?
If you dont mind. It made Alice smilesuch a proper, careful man.
Come ahead, she wrote.
They met at the cathedral green, where the streams ran together, wind picking up around the cloisters, the sky crystalline with spring promise. Alice wore her best grey coatthe nearly-new one she barely wore.
He stood at the parapet with his hands jammed in his pockets, same as ever.
Hello, he said.
Hello.
They wandered down the river path, talking about everything, nothing. About repairs, about her book group. She told him how a lad of eight once wrote an essay describing books as windows the wrong way roundbecause you look inwards, not out. John stopped, grinning.
Thats a gem. Eight, you say?
Eight. Brightest button.
Youre brilliant with children. Its obvious.
Is it? Youve never seen me teach.
But you talk about him as if it matters.
Alice glanced at him. He was studying the water.
Later, they sipped coffee in some riverside place. She realised, with a shock, that she hadnt felt this relaxed with anyone in ages. Just being. No justifying, explaining, solving. Almost unreal.
As they said goodbye, John said, Id like to visit again. If its all right?
All right, she said.
***
Margaret found out in May. Not because Alice told hershe just happened to ring midday, and Alice wasnt in, nor picking up her mobile. When she finally called back, she sounded distracted, and Margarets internal radar pinged.
Where were you?
Out for a walk.
Alone?
A pause. Just a commas worth, but Margaret had always heard pauses like trumpets.
No.
And so began the Conversation. Tentative, then sharper.
Who is it? Margaret asked.
Old uni mate. I mentioned himran into him in York.
You said youd met some acquaintance.
Exactly.
Mum, youre
I know how old I am, Margaret.
Silence.
What is this? Just walks?
For now, yes. Just walks.
For now, Margaret echoed back.
Alice didnt bother to explain. Some things dont fit words. Theyre either too grand or too daft when you put them aloud.
Her son, Ben, responded differently. He lived in London with his wife and boisterous twins, called every other week. When Alice told him, cool as you please, that shed met someone, he paused, then asked:
Is he sound?
Perfectly sound.
All right, then, Ben said.
That was all. Alice spent days wondering which was bettera reaction, or this bucket of calm. Never quite decided.
***
Summer slipped by with a newly unfamiliar rhythm. John visited Winchester; she popped up to York. They spent market days poking at bric-à-brac, sipping tea in museums and poky cafés. Once, he showed her his workshoptools, varnish, the smell of old timbers. There were ancient hymnals propped against the wall, colours peeking through under cleaning.
Doesnt it scare you, handling things this old? she asked.
No. Quite the reverse. I like knowing it was here before me, and will be after.
Do you believe in anything bigger?
He pondered. Not sure what to call it. But it matters, even if no one told me so.
Alice watched him polish the face of an old icon, delicate, serene.
My husband always said my library club was a waste of time, she blurted. Said it wasnt worth the money.
And you?
I thought maybe he was right. Took years to unlearn. Almost till retirement.
John didnt reply. Just looked at her, gently. That was all she needed.
They spent evenings with tea at his place, Alice marvelling at a sudden quietness, more precious than contentment. Margaret kept up her exasperated cold-shoulderwhen Alice visited York, she kept a phone silence you could have spread butter on. Once, her granddaughter Olivia, age eight, piped up on the phone: Granny, when are you coming home? In her voice, something that thumped hard against Alices chest. Familiar, well-practiced guilt.
But for once, in that warm kitchen, the guilt faded to a dull ache.
Ever thought of moving? John asked, out of nowhere.
Alice raised an eyebrow.
To York. Or anywhere else. Just moving.
He peered into his mug, as if it was tea leaves that might decide their fate.
Are you asking me to
Im not asking anything specific, he interrupted. Justwondered if youd ever thought about it.
Alice paused a long time.
No, she said. I havent. Not really. I used to, ages ago. But it never felt possible.
What stopped you?
Kids. Grandchildren. The flat, my job, even if its just volunteer work. Everything here.
But the kids are grown up.
Its not that simple.
He nodded.
Youre right. Just a thought.
Just a thought. Alice realised that thought now lived somewhere under her ribsa weight that quietly resists shifting.
***
In August, Margaret came to visit. No occasion, nothing urgentjust a Saturday train, overnight bag, and lips so tightly pursed she might have swallowed a lemon.
They sipped tea, Margaret watching the garden through misty glass.
Are you serious? she asked suddenly.
About what?
About him. This whole thing.
I dont know, Alice said honestly.
Mum, dont you think its a bit odd? At our age?
Whose age exactly? Yours, or mine?
Ours. Our familys. Dads still alivehe
Dads been living with someone else for nine years now, Margaret.
That doesnt change the fact you were married for thirty years.
It changes it completely, actually, Alice said.
Margaret pushed away her mug.
Are you thinking what Olivia will think? What shell understand?
Olivia is eight.
Exactly. She understands everything.
Shell understand what we explain.
And what will we explain?
Alice studied her daughter, the same sharp chin and stubborn brow as her father; once endearing, now slightly too familiar.
We explain that Granny has met a good man. Thats enough, I think.
And after that?
Well see.
Well see. You always say that when youre avoiding a question.
No, Alice countered. I say it when I really dont know whats next. Thats as honest as I get.
Margaret lingered by the window for an age, and then, quietly, almost kindly: I worry youll regret this.
I might regret not doing it more.
Her daughter turned.
Thats philosophy. Philosophys not a comfort.
Its not meant to be, Alice replied. But I live with it every day.
Margaret left that night. The goodbye hug was as tight as ever, and Alice felt in it something warm but taut, as if neither would let go first.
***
September snapped cold and sharp. Alice had retired six years back, but the library club kept a rhythm to her life. The children came round on Tuesdays and Fridays, reading, drawing, acting out little skits. The room was cramped and cheerful, with saggy cushions and battered shelves.
The librarian, Patricia Wentworthsixty-five, sharp as her nameknew about John. Not because Alice had said, but because something in Alice had subtly shifted. She was more present for herself, not just for everyone elses fuss.
Somethings up with you, Patricia remarked one day, like an observation on the weather.
There is, yes, Alice agreed.
Anything good?
I dont know yet.
Doesnt matter. Patricia shrugged. At least its something. Were like two rivers, you and me. Flowing but never deciding where.
Alice barked a laugh.
In September, John proposed a trip awayjust to Oxford for a few days, to see an exhibit of ancient manuscripts. Alice agreed. They booked two rooms in a poky guesthouse, mooched around museums, strolled the city. One night, after supper by the Thames, John said:
I want you to know something.
Whats that?
Im not rushing, or pressuring. If you feel pressured, its not coming from me.
She looked at him.
I know.
I mean it. Im sixty-three, Im not a lad expecting romance to unfold like a novel. Im just happy you exist.
She didnt respond immediately. Past the window, the river shone black and cold.
Its hard to accept, she murmured at last.
Why?
Im used to words with strings attached. Expectations, terms.
There are none.
I get that. Im just not used to it.
He nodded. They finished their wine and trudged the riverbank, coats done up to their chins, simply walking side by side, that being enough.
***
October brought the chat Alice dreadedand needed.
She called Margaret herself. No preamble.
I need to tell you something. Johns asked me to move to York. To live together. Im considering it.
The silence hung thick.
Youre serious.
I am.
Youve known him seven months.
Eight.
Mum! Eight months! Do you realise what that is?
I do. Its eight months.
Thats nothing! You know nothing about him!
I know enough.
What do you know? That you like him? That its easy? Mum, people change. Everything changes!
Margaret.
What?
Your father changed, too. After thirty years.
Nothing, for a long moment.
Thats not fair, Margaret finally muttered.
Im not trying to be unfair. I just want to be honestwith you and with myself.
Then Ben called, clearly after a sibling conference.
Mum, are you really thinking of moving?
I am.
Is it decent? I mean, the arrangements there, him?
Decent chap, clean house. Nothing fancy, but comfortable.
Will you sell the flat?
No, Ill rent it.
And if you want to come back?
Ben
What? Im just asking.
Im trying not to plan for failures before Ive even tried. Let me do this.
Another pause.
All right, he said at last. Just call often, okay?
I will.
Afterwards, Alice sat a long while, rain tapping at the glass, watching the lamp swing in the street. For the first time in sixty-one years, she was about to make a decision that was hers alone. Not because someone left. Not because events crowded her. Just because she wanted to.
It was a strange feeling. Slightly wild. No less daunting.
She messaged John: Im thinking. Please give me a little longer.
Minutes later: Take all the time you need.
***
Eleanor phoned each week, diplomatically on the fence. She never said move in, never said dont rush. She just relayed news of her own grand acquisitionthe goat.
Whats its name? asked Alice.
Penelope.
Seriously?
Yes. Shes terribly grand, you know.
You are astonishingly unpredictable.
Is that good or bad?
Good, definitely good.
Listen, if you were thirty, would you think so long about this?
Whats age got to do with it?
Nothing. Or everything. Ive noticed, the older we get the more we weigh up. Sometimes its wisdom, sometimes its fear masquerading as wisdom.
That sounds like something Patricia would say.
Was that a compliment?
A statement of fact.
Alice hung up, realising Eleanor was probably right. Fear dressed up as wisdomnailed it. Shed once been scared of making decisions, scared shed fail. Then she grew afraid of not decidingrealising inaction is a choice, too.
This fear, though, wasnt about John. It was about her. About a life spent tackling other peoples needswife, mum, teacher. Now that she had permission to live for herself, she barely knew who that was.
The library clubher own bit of freedom. The first thing shed done for herself in years.
Now, there might be something more.
***
Come late October, Alice had a call from her ex-mother-in-law, the indomitable Edith Dawson. Edith, eighty-two, lived alone in Winchester; Alice still stopped by, out of human decency if not duty.
Margaret told me, said Edith, direct as a dash.
Told you what?
About your new gentleman. And this possible move.
Alice considered.
And what do you think?
I think youve earned it, Edith said quietly. My son didnt appreciate you. I saw it years ago, but didnt say. Saying it now.
Edith
Dont interrupt. At my age, theres no need for hints. Go, if you want. Grandkids will cope. Margarets only bothered because shes scared. But thats her business.
Im not invisible.
You are, as a grandma, as a mum, as the reliable background. But as Alice? How many see that?
Alice found nothing to say.
Precisely, said Edith. Now go. And ring me, Ill be delighted.
Afterwards, Alice gazed out at the brittle branches in the garden, all the leaves long-gonea bare honesty, wintery and clear.
She thought how people saw her: Margaret, the eternal mother nearby; Ben, a woman who needed a safe ceiling; Patricia, the reliable hand at the library. Even Edith, surprisingly, saw her as a person.
And Johnhe just saw her. Not a role, not a job description. Just a woman in muddy boots buying mushrooms, who knew his name.
***
November brought the first snow, and an unexpected call from Olivia.
Her granddaughter phoned on her ownunusual, since Margaret usually handed her the phone mid-call. Now, Sunday morning, the tablet dinged with Olivia on video.
Gran, its me.
Olivia? Where are you calling from?
Mums iPad. Gran, are you really going away?
Alice sat.
Youve overheard the grown-ups, havent you?
A bit. Mummy talked to Uncle Ben. Are you going?
I dont know yet, Liv.
If you do, will you visit?
Ill always visit.
Promise?
I promise.
A pause, then: Gran, is it pretty there?
Where I might move?
Yes.
Its lovely. White church towers, snow in winter, a river too.
Like ours?
Smaller and wrigglier.
Right. A pause. Gran?
Yes?
Mums worried youll get ill and we wont get there in time.
Alice winced.
Tell Mummy Im fit as a fiddle and intend to stay that way.
She knows. Shes just worried.
I know. So am I.
What about?
Alice considered.
Lots of things. Thats normal, Liv. Everyone worries, even the brave.
You said brave people worrythey just do things anyway.
Thats right. You remembered.
I remember everything, Olivia replied, chuffed.
All right, Ill get off or Mum will catch me.
Olivia?
Yes?
I love you.
Love you, Gran. Bye!
***
Mid-November, Alice went back to Yorknot just for a weekend, but a whole week. Told Patricia, packed her duffel, and left a key with a neighbour for post.
John picked her up at the station. He started nattering about restoring a church roof, while Alice watched the snowy fields, remembering her trip in March, how something felt complete.
They settled in at his modest house, wooden floors, draughty panes that rattled in the wind. Alice cooked a few times; John did the laundry. Mornings, they sipped coffee in the sunlit kitchen, snow floating softly outside.
One evening, she asked:
Dont you feel cramped having someone around all the time?
Hm?
I mean, living together. Youve been on your own eight years.
He considered. I only felt cramped living the wrong way. This is different.
What do you mean?
Spent years working awful jobs, just for the pay packet. Eventually, I snapped. Took up restoration in my fortieseveryone said I was daft.
And were you?
I did it anyway. My wife was all for it. She always had my back.
Tell me about her, Alice asked.
He was quiet.
Emma. Calm, always. Not silentjust soothing. You could tell if shed come in.
Do you miss her?
Yes. It was that simple. Missing isnt the same as not going on, you know?
I know.
Is it the same for you?
Alice thought of Phillip, and how even in the best years, unease was always therea longing for an image that was more smoke than real.
Different, she said. But yes, I do understand.
They sat in a silence that was comfortable, not cold.
***
On the fifth day, Margaret called.
Alice stepped outside, the snow crisp and stars at the edge of the clouds.
Are you still there? Margaret asked.
I am.
For how long?
Till Sunday.
Long pause.
Mum, can I ask you something, truthfully?
Go ahead.
Are you doing this to prove something? To yourself, to us?
Alice stared at the sky.
No, not to prove anything.
Then what?
Just to live. Differently to before.
So you werent happy before?
I wasnt unhappy. Just not living quite as I wanted.
And what did you want?
That was trickyshed had a home, children, a job she loved, friends. No great tragedy to report.
But thered been another feelingliving one step beside herself, like her life was an immaculate plan, and she was acting it, not really inhabiting it.
Missing myself, I suppose, she replied.
Yourself? Whats that mean?
Just thatmyself.
A long silence.
Will you be happy? Margaret asked, genuinely.
I dont know. But I want to try.
All right, said Margaret. All right.
Not an endorsementbut not a declaration of war, either.
***
Sunday came. Alice packed her bag, poised for departure.
Have you decided? John asked.
Almost.
Almost good, or almost bad?
Almost means give me a bit more time. Not much.
He nodded.
Youre worried youll make a mistake.
I am.
May I say something?
Of course.
Mistakes come in two types. Ones you make, and realise its wrongpainful, but clear. And ones you never make, so you never know. The seconds worse, for me.
Alice stared at him.
Youre doing that deliberately, arent you?
Doing what?
Saying all the things Ive been thinking but dared not say.
He laughed. It suited him.
Nope, just thinking out loud.
Alice returned to Winchester that evening. The flat met her with its familiar hush and the friendly glow of next doors telly. She unpacked, put the kettle on, and flopped at the table.
There was her book, open at a slim, dog-eared pagea line shed read before but only now truly understood: Loneliness is a fact, not a sentence. Its what you do with it that shapes things.
She closed it.
Then texted John: Coming in January. For a long stay. Well see.
He replied: Ill be waiting.
***
December drifted by in a fog of practicalities. Alice still ran her club, stopped in on Edith. Everything was outwardly the same, but inwardly, shed made her mind upor almost.
Margaret rang in early December.
Changed your mind yet?
No.
Will you rent out the flat?
Thats the plan. Already got an agent on it.
Right A pause. Mum, can I ask?
Always.
Dont you think sometimes we overrate newnessthink itll fix everything, and it only disappoints?
Margaret.
Yes?
Im sixty-one. Not a starry-eyed teenager. Ive done some living, thank you.
But anyone can fool themselves.
Yes, but age helps one filter dreams from delusions.
What if hes not who you think?
Could be. Theres always an if. Did you know how marriage would turn out?
I was twenty-seven!
And?
She didnt answer for a long time.
Fine, Margaret said eventually. Fine, Mum.
Will you help me pack before I go?
A beat.
I will. Of course I will.
***
Alice spent New Years at MargaretsOlivia, her son-in-law Sam, and Ben with his bunch. It was boisterous, cramped, noisychildren whizzing about, adults talking all at once.
Olivia snuggled in beside Alice, whispering trusted secrets about each dish.
Mum made that salad herself. The cakes Tescos thoughdont tell!
You shouldnt be reporting on your mothers culinary crimes.
Im not reporting, just commenting, Olivia explained.
Near midnight, as the kids drooped and adults sipped prosecco, Margaret spoke up.
Mums off to York in January.
She said it as if reading the shipping news.
Sam nodded. Ben gave Alice the smallest of smiles.
For long? Ben asked.
Well see, Alice replied.
Olivia opened one eye.
Granny, are you really going?
I am, love.
Youll still visit?
Whenever I can.
Oh, good, Olivia mumbled, and fell asleep.
Alice watched her, thinking: this is lifesleeping children, grown-up children with gin, the battered sofa she couldnt chuck out. And somewhere, in another city, a man waiting, just because she said so.
***
January fifteenth, Alice rang Patricia at the library.
Im leaving the club.
A silence.
When?
In February. Ill help you find a replacement.
You moving, then?
Yes.
York?
York.
To him?
Yesto him, and to myself as well.
Now thats a good answer, Patricia said. Well miss you, but I hope you find whatever it is youre after.
On her last day, the club children made her an enormous card, all their scribbled drawings around a window with curtains. The same tongue-tied boy had written: Look inside this window.
Alice folded it and slipped it in her bag.
***
On the twenty-third of January, she arrived in York. John carried in her suitcase. The spare room was cleared for her, window ledge adorned by a red geranium.
Where did that come from? she asked.
Bought it. Decided the house needed cheering up.
Absolutely right.
She gazed out at the wintry gardenfences, neighbours gardens, rooftops dusted in white.
So, what do you think? he asked.
I dont know yet. Ask in a month.
I will.
She smiled. Thank you for not pushing.
He paused. Thank you for coming.
***
Three months passed. Alice adapted slowly. York was small, and small can stingeveryone knows each other, and she, the newcomer, was watched with the sort of curiosity usually reserved for rare birds.
Eleanor introduced her to the local book groupten regulars, plenty of gossip about Jane Austen.
Im not sure Ill fit in, Alice confessed.
Just turn up. No one can bite if youre holding tea.
She went. She liked it.
Margaret called weekly, eventually learning to ask not just How are you?, but, more gently, How is he? Hows the club? What are you reading? They were getting there, cautiouslyadjusting, like eyes to dawn.
Olivia wrote an actual letter. Paper and pen! Two churches and a river in Crayola, and: Granny, Im coming in the spring holidays. Mummy says so. PS: Penelopeis that really a goat? Eleanor told me.
Alice replied, in kind, on notepaper.
***
Come April, Margaret finally made the trip up. Alone, no entourage.
She took in the little housewooden floors, geranium, the kitchen table. John offered tea, then made himself scarce.
Its nice here, Margaret conceded, as if just noticing.
Yes.
Cosy though. You miss Winchester?
I do. I miss you, Ben, Edith, my river walk.
And still?
And still.
Margaret twirled her cup.
Is he good?
He is.
Are you happy?
Alice hesitated.
Im not sure happy is the word. But Im all right, honestly all right.
Margaret nodded. Okay then.
What does okay mean?
It means okay. Margaret looked up. I still worry. For you. Probably always will.
I know.
Im trying. To understand.
Thats all I ask.
They chatted about Olivia, about work, Sams car obsession. Calm, no undertone.
Later, at the gate, April air full of worms and shoots, Margaret said, I dont get itnot really. Probably never will.
I know.
Just youve always been there. Always right there, one phone call away.
Still am. Just at a different distance.
Ill get used to it.
I know you will. Youre strong.
Im not as strong as you.
Just as strong, I reckon.
Margaret smiled, then hugged her tightly.
Ill call when Im home.
Ill be waiting.
Margaret strode off down the street, shoulders squared, pace brisk. At the corner, she turned.
Mum!
What?
Your geraniums blooming. I noticed.
Full swing, Alice grinned.
Good, said Margaret, then disappeared.
***
Alice went inside. John was heating soup for lunch.
All right? he asked, not turning.
All right, Alice replied.
Then, after a pause, Shes good, really. Just frightened.
Understandable. Its not easy for her, either.
No.
Alice set plates on the tablehabit, now, after three months.
John?
Yes?
Do you think this is rightwhat Ive done?
He turned, meeting her gaze.
What do you think?
Alice paused.
I think for the first time, its truly mine. Mine alone.
There you are then, he smiled. You answered yourself.
They began to eat. Outside, York sat quietly beneath the last snow, new green emerging in fits and starts.
Alice thought: So here it is. Not happiness like a shiny button, or a decision with neat full stops. Just dinner, a window, and the man across the table. That was enough.
Maybe.
The soup was hot. The geranium was blazing. And somewhere in her bag was a card from that club kid, a window with curtains, inviting herin.
***
Evening brought a call from Olivia.
GrannyMum said she visited you!
She did.
How was it?
Lovely chat.
She didnt cry, did she?
No, why?
Sometimes she does. She thinks I cant tell. Because of you.
Alice sighed.
Sweetheart.
Yes?
Tell her Ill visit soon, very soon.
All right. Granny?
Yes?
Is it spring yet there?
Almost. The last snows hanging on.
Its properly warm here. Seems oddsame country, such different weather.
Not at all. Thats England for you.
Do you miss us, Granny?
Darkness now, first stars winking.
Terribly, Alice said. Every day.
Good, Olivia replied, satisfied. That means you love us.
Alice could only nod.
Bye, Granny.
Bye, love.
She put down the phone. John was already humming over the washing up, geranium casting pink shadows on the sill. A muffled dog barked in the lane. This, now, felt like home.
And Olivia, as usual, was right. If you miss someone, thats loving them. Andmost likelythe reverse is true.
Thats life, isnt it? Not full, not perfect, not the sort you read about in wise books. Just life. With its distances and closeness, its right and wrong decisions that, over time, become just decisions. Yours.
Alice stood, went to the sink, and joined in with the washing up.
