The Red Ribbon
Susan stood by the stove, watching steam curling up from a pot of barley. Not the hearty pearl barley from the grocers, but the sort that comes in packets, seven pounds for six, bland with a touch of bitterness. She stirred with a wooden spoon, placed the lid on, and leaned her back against the refrigerator. The old Frigidaire rumbled, as if nodding in silent agreement with her movement.
Beyond the window, the long elbow of Meadow Street stretched away. Terraced houses, sycamores whose fluffy seeds clogged every window in the spring, the faded newsagent’s kiosk on the corner. Susan had lived here for twelve years, and by now, the street had become grafted onto her, like the callus on her heel or the knowledge that the fourth stair always creaked.
William entered the kitchen unannounced, as he usually dida tall, broad figure in a pale grey shirt Susan didnt remember seeing before. Only after a few seconds did she realise it was new; in the first instant she just caught a scentdelicate, floral, with something honeyed underneath. Not her perfume, not the woods-and-leather tang of his aftershave, nor the musty upholstery of his car.
So, my steadfast warrior? William peered into the pot, his mouth tilting into a gentle grimace. Bread and water again?
Barley, Susan said. With onions.
Onions? Now thats pure luxury. He ruffled her shoulder. Hold on a little longer. Soon itll all pay off. Those poplars on Hawthorn Drivestill waiting for us, youll see.
Susan nodded. Shed learned to nod in a way that seemed like agreement but was only tiredness. Her head was spinning again, for a third dayquietly, as if someone had tilted the room just a fraction. She knew it was from the diet. She knew, and she didn’t say a word.
Have you eaten today? she asked.
Business lunch at work. Decent enough.
He filled a mug from the tap, drank standing, placed it in the sink, and wandered into the living room. Susan gazed at the mug. Then she switched off the hob and began spooning barley into plates.
Three years of austerity, and she had grown used to certain things. That cottage cheese had been replaced by cheaper plain yoghurt. That her burgundy coat, which had seen five winters already, was mended by her own needle on the left cuff. That the hairdresser hadnt seen her since last November but one. She trimmed her hair herself, in the bathrooms small mirror, squinting not to see too closely. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes not.
Three years ago, William had shown her photos. A humble house in Ashgrove, forty minutes by train. Brick, with a loft and apple trees in the garden, even an old wellmore ornament than functional nowgreen shutters, a wooden porch, and a bench beneath a lilac bush.
There, he said, placing the laptop on her lap. See?
Susan looked. In that instant, she felt a warmth in her chest. Not quite happiness, but something near. A possibility. Shed always lived in flats, behind other peoples doors, other peoples air. But here, on the screenapple trees.
Well need three years of saving, tight saving, William declared briskly. Ive calculated it. Every month, we set aside this amount, and if you trim your costs just a bit…
How much is it?
He named the sum. Susan was silent.
Thats a lot.
Its a house, Susan. Our house. The garden, the air, the quietsuch things arent cheap.
She agreed, eventually. They opened a joint account. Each month, Susan put half her pension and any bit she earned from temp jobs into it. She worked as a bookkeeper at a small firm, part-time. Not much, but something. William said he put in triple her share from his salary.
Susan believed him.
Believing, after all, came naturally to her. She trusted not because she was naive, but because her life had trained her solife was lighter when one could trust. Not trusting forced constant vigilance, and that was exhausting.
The first winter went easily enough. Susan ate simpler meals, dressed humbler, but it was like a gamea return to childhood days when you cant afford ice cream, so you invent something else that feels more precious for the inventing. She made soups from whatever was cheapest, scoured budget cookbooks, found strange joy in purchasing groceries on offer. Almost fun, in its way.
The second year bit harder. Her body began to hint, not loudly, but in its own languageweak legs, tiredness that sleep couldnt touch. Sometimes, on the bus, shed find herself lost, gazing out the window, not thinking at all. She didnt see a GPno funds for private consults, and she hadnt the strength for NHS queues.
I should probably get a blood test, she mentioned to William once.
At a private clinic?
At least the waitings shorter.
Susan, every hundred pounds matters now, every month. Maybe use the NHS, yeah?
She did. Made the appointment, queued, got her bloods checked. Results: haemoglobin at the bottom of the normal range. Not dangerous, but not a thing to cheer. Eat more red meat, iron-rich foods, vitamins, the GP said.
Susan bought the cheapest vitamins from Boots. More red meat simply didnt fit her budget.
By the third year, shed stopped weighing herself. The mirror spelled enough. Her face had grown sharper, yellow shadows under the eyes, her hair duller. She found a nice enough navy coat in an Oxfam shop on Elm Lanealmost flawless, just a bargain. The shop woman, not young, hair dyed copper, remarked:
Good coat. Youll get plenty of wear from that.
I know, Susan replied.
We all know, love, the shopkeeper said, smiling sadly, but kindly.
Susan bought the coat. Walking home, she caught her reflection in a shop window, paused, then went on.
William kept up the encouragement. He had a knack for making the future gleam, like you merely had to wait a little longer, push through, and there it was. He said just a bit more so often, it became background musicheard, but not listened to.
Well done, hed say, watching her eat soup and crust. True Spartan, I respect that.
She smiled. The smile was real but without cheerher face just knew what to do at this part of the script.
Sometimes she rang her daughter. Her daughter lived up north with husband and children; calls were rare, busy with her own life. Susan never complained. She didnt know how. She didnt want to.
How are you, Mum?
All right. Saving for the house.
Still putting money aside?
Nearly there. Soon.
Good for you.
The conversation would drift to grandchildren, weather, daily bits. Susan hung up and wandered back to the kitchen.
That third autumn, everything smelled sharper. Susan later thought perhaps her body, denied so much, was scenting the world like an animal running on little. She noticed the perfume on Williams shirt first in October, there in the kitchen, stirring barley. Later, she thought shed imagined it. Or maybe someone on the bus had brushed by and the scent had clung. These things happen.
Second time, in November. William came home late, smiling and rosy, saying a meeting ran over. She helped him shrug off his coat, catching the same scentfloral, sweet, with a warmthfancy perfume, not hers, not Boots. Not a cheap bottle.
Tiring day? she asked.
Absolutely. Met with management for ages. Waste of time. He yawned, stretched, vanished to the bathroom.
Susan hung the coat, stood by the hangers a moment, then retreated to the kitchen to heat dinner.
She practised the art of not thinking about things she couldnt bear to think of. Not cowardice, but a fear of what acting on a thought would entail. Not the man, nor a scene. But if she thought… then shed have to do.
The joint account filled monthly. William showed her the statements. Susan tried to feel hope at the rising numbers. Slowly, but rising.
Look, William would tap at his phone. Look where we are. By spring, first big step.
Whats that then?
Negotiations with Ashgroves owners. Deals, haggling. Details.
She nodded. She knew nothing of such detailsthat was his territory; Susan economised, William handled papers. That was the pact.
In December, he worked late more often. Its Christmas, love, everyones out on the razz. If I dont go, Ill be the odd one out. Susan understood. Susan always understood.
Then, one night, mid-December, he came home at one. Said hed been celebrating with colleagues, but he looked somehow fresher after seven hours on the lash. Clear-eyed, even-voiced, cheeks pink but not from winemaybe from the cold, though it wasnt cold, or as if hed just spent a perfectly lovely evening.
Fun night? she asked.
Just the job, he smiled. At Ashgrove, itll be quiet, no office parties.
He kissed her on the temple and turned in. Susan lingered on the kitchen chair. The fridge hummed. Snow drifted outside.
In January, she found the receipt.
A nothing momentshe was brushing his new, navy jacket, the New Years one, before hanging it up. Habit made her check the pockets.
A small, white rectangle waited in the left one.
She pulled it out.
Restaurant The Oyster House, Marlborough Lane. Dated 28th December. A sum.
She stared so long she checked the number twice. Then set the slip down and looked out of the window. Outside, a woman was walking her terrier, the lead taut. The woman was in no hurry.
The total matched their entire monthly food budget: the pence she doled out for grains, plain pasta, bargain tea, the cheapest butter. Money she weighed in grams just to see the month done.
She put the receipt back. Hung up the jacket. Returned to the kitchen.
The fridge vibrated empathetically.
Susan poured herself some water. Sipped. Set the glass down. Picked it up again. Set it down.
William was at workhe clocked in at nine; Susan had remote work, sorted the books from home, more convenient that way. Today, she had none, and the house was hers.
She thought of who dined at The Oyster House in December. Never been there herself; only seen adverts at bus stopswhite linen, crystal chandeliers. That wouldnt be cheap.
William had told her he was meeting an old uni friend, Joe. Came back at ten, didnt smell of wine but something barely-there. Sweet. Floral.
Susan didnt draw conclusions, not yet. She fended off thought. Maybe he’d dined alone. Maybe a business meal, maybe…
But when William returned that evening, she looked at him differently. Not authoritatively, not suspiciously; justlooked.
How was your day? he asked, kicking off his shoes.
Fine, Susan said. Did you eat?
Grabbed something at work.
Ive got soup.
All right.
He sat, slurped soup, scrolled his phone. Susan watched. He was untroubled, unworriedor well-practiced in the appearance.
Will, she said.
Hmm?
Is The Oyster House expensive?
He glanced up, for a heartbeat.
How should I know? Never been.
Oh, she said. Just saw an advert.
He looked back at his phone.
Susan sipped her tea.
That February brought biting cold, a strange hush. Susan trekked to work in her navy Oxfam coat, warming her hands on the walk, shivering on the bus. Dizziness grew a little worse. She went to her GP, queued, got told what shed heard the year before: Eat better, take vitamins.
I am, Susan said.
What do you take?
Susan gave the name.
Entry-level stuff. Itll do, I suppose, but if you can possibly
I cant.
The doctor didnt press it.
William grew especially lively in February. Bought himself new things. Susan noticed: a new belt, then smart shoes, sleek brown onesnot the battered brogues of years past. Expensive, surely.
New shoes? she asked, glancing down.
Big discount. Old ones fell apart.
Discount, Susan echoed.
Yes, not from any boutique.
She nodded.
Early March, an alert flashed on Williams phone, left on the table; he was in the bathroom. Susan sat beside her untouched novel.
Title: CityCruiser Motors.
Screen text: Your Cruiser-Sport is ready for collection. Red ribbon, as requested, applied. Awaiting you at your convenience.
She lowered her book.
Shed seen the Cruiser-Sport on the roadsa flashy SUV, right out of their price range. Red ribbon she understood later that night, when William slept, breathing softly. Dealerships in advertswhen you buy a car as a gift, they attach a big, red ribbon. Make it special.
Susan lay flat, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, listening to William breathe.
She thought of barley with onions.
Of vitamins for £2.50 a bottle.
Of a coat from a charity shop.
Of her last hairdressers visit, the November before last.
Of the joint account.
Then she stopped thinking. Just lay there, listening to Williams breathing.
Next day, she phoned the joint accounts helpdesk for a balance.
The answer came.
She paused a heartbeat, thanked them, hung up.
Half. The balance was half what it should have been, by their plan.
Two years of scrimpinghalved.
She sat at the kitchen table, eyes tracing a faded coffee ring on the flowery oilcloth. Shed scratched at it for months, but it never budgedjust a stain, nothing dramatic.
Susie! William called from the other room. The kettle on?
Just putting it on, she replied.
She hauled herself up, filled the kettle, set it to boil.
The heaviness in her legs was stronger than usual.
She didnt start following him at once. Following felt shameful, but the next Thursday, when he said he had an after-work partners meeting, she left half an hour later, allegedly for a stroll. Her own mind required convincing.
His old Ford was not parked by his office, nor the restaurant where he said meetings happened, but by the Broadgate Shopping Centre. Susan saw it as she walked past. She waited, then went inside.
She found him by the jewellers on the second floor, speaking with a woman, mid-thirties, perhaps a bit older. Blonde hair in a neat bun, beige coat. Intimate, the way people are who share the same air.
Susan didnt approach. She sheltered behind a column, feigning texts.
William talking, the woman laughing. The clerk produced something velvet-clad from the display, bracelet or chain? William nodded, paid with his card.
The woman slipped the packet into her coat, fastened it. They walked off together.
Susan remained by the pillar.
People swirled around her. Somewhere, children were being tugged along; someone argued into their phone; cafe food scented the air.
She lingered a while, then drifted to the exit.
On the street, she found a bench, sat. March, the ground still wet, but the seat was dry. She watched the roadcars, passersby, a puddle at the crossroads.
She did not cry. Inside was something solid, quiet, like earth beneath snow. Not empty, not hurtingsolid, quiet.
Then she stood and walked home.
She existed the next days as herselfcooking soup, working, watching the telly. William was his usual self: lively, encouraging, distracted. Still spoke of Ashgrove. Still the future shimmered, Soon well view the house.
You know, he mused one evening, we might negotiate instalments, no need for such a heap up front.
Instalments, Susan echoed.
Yes. Its practical. Some now, some later.
How much do we have at the moment? she asked, innocently.
With the latest transferslooking good, I think. Cant say exactly, Id have to check.
Check, then.
Later, he said, reaching for the remote.
Susan stood. Went to the kitchen.
That night, she called her daughter.
Mum, are you all right? Your voice sounds odd.
Im fine. Just tired.
Still saving?
Yes.
Mum, do you really need this house? Why not buy a proper flat, here in town? Why Ashgrove?
William wants it.
And you?
Susan paused.
I do too, she said. Theres apple trees. Lilac.
Oh, Mum, said her daughter, with that tone children use when they think their parents are being rather daft.
Its all fine, said Susan. How are you?
The chat pivoted to children, life. Susan listened, answered, sat with the phone a while, thinking about apple trees. Had they ever truly existed? Was there really lilac? Or was it just a picture William found online, knowing apple trees and lilac meant something to her.
No thoughtmore like the feeling of cold water spilled on your knees.
A few days later, she phoned CityCruiser Motors simply out of curiosity, inquiring about the Cruiser-Sport.
Lovely SUV, said the woman on the line. We just delivered one with a red ribbongentlemans gift for a lady. So touching.
A gift, Susan murmured.
Oh yes, a big bow and all. Customer wanted everything just so.
I understand. Thank you.
She ended the call. Boiled the kettle. Waited for it to shriek.
Inside, all felt as before. Dense, quiet.
Later, she opened her laptop and reviewed the joint account herself. No need to call; shed set up her access day one.
Scrolling through: her deposits, each month, regular as the tides. His, less so, sometimes half his promise.
Withdrawals: regular, not all explained, not always small.
Susan fetched her expense notebook, the one shed kept meticulously. Started a new page. Wrote.
It took two hours. The fridge droned on. Dusk fell outside.
When she finished, she closed the book, pressed the cover, got up for more water.
The picture was clear now; not in a flash, more like a jigsaw, the pieces finally arranged. Three years shed saved, eating humble, wearing charity-shop coats, forgoing doctors, snipping her own fringe. Three years shrinking herself to fit their plan.
Yet the money withered away, not all, but enough; quietly, methodically. And there in the jewellers stood a blonde woman in beige, William calmly paying with a card as if hed done it often.
And at the dealership, a red ribbon.
And a slip from The Oyster House for their monthly food.
And a shirt scented with Chantelle.
Susan closed her laptop and entered the living room. William sat in the armchair, watching the news.
Hungry? she asked.
No, its late now.
All right.
She went to bed. Lay staring at the ceiling. William entered later, settled in, started snoring softly.
Susan didnt sleep for a long time. Her thoughts werent about him. She wondered when shed last considered what she truly wantednot vitamins, not a working boilerjust something purely pleasurable.
Good coffee. Shed loved real coffee, ground, strong. For a while now, shed made do with instant, sachets for pennies, for thrift.
Blue cheese. Shed last had it five years ago, before all this, on bread with grapes, as a private little celebration.
Oystersshed only had them once, down in Cornwall as a young woman, and thought it magnificence itself.
Susan turned on her side.
She didnt settle the matter that night. Her decision, when it came, grew slowlylike a loaf baking on low heat. By the morning, it was there: not dramatic, simply present, like a bare tabletop.
She lived the next days as usual. Cooking, working, chatting to William. If he noticed, he gave no sign, but that didnt matter.
One Thursday, she followed him through. Not to confirmshed done that. She needed to see.
She knew these partner meetings were regular. On Thursday, Susan wore her old grey coatdrab, unassumingand followed at a distance.
He met the same womanblonde, elegantoutside a coffee shop on Kings Crescent. They walked together to a small park. Susan followed, letting her feet take her, unhurried.
They stopped among bare trees, distant from anyone. She watched as William lifted something small and wrapped from a bag, gave it to the woman. He touched her shoulders, leaned in and kissed her.
Susan watched.
She looked down at her gloved hands, pale and reddened from the cold.
She waited a little. Then turned for home.
On the bus, she claimed a window seat, gaze drifting over the grey, wet city. Puddles, leafless trees, lamps blinking one by one as if someone was turning them on at their own pace.
At home, she went straight to her room. Out came her big suitcase, unused for years. She packed, without haste, only what was hers and only what matteredclothes, documents from the hallway drawer, health cards, an ancient savings book with her own, secret squirrelled-away funds, separate from the joint account.
Phone, charger, the unfinished novel.
Her navy coat from the charity shop went on its peg, and out came the deep maroon jacket she hadnt worn in three winterstighter now, but it looked different, not quite like the coat of those saving years.
A scrap of paper, a pen.
Thank you for the Oyster House bill and red ribbon. I hope it was delicious.
She thought for a second. Added nothing. Folded it, wrote William, and left it on the kitchen table, beside the coffee-stain on the flowery cloth.
She took her bag.
Gave the old fridge a last listen; it hummed its indifferent tune.
Well, Susan said aloud, goodbye, then.
She closed the door behind her. Slipped the key beneath the matit just felt right.
Meadow Street was unchanged in the early evening: homeward people, a dog yanking its lead, the flower kiosk glowing in the dusk.
Susan paused a moment. Then walked.
She knew where she was headed.
The big supermarket was a ten-minute walkTaste Gallery. She passed it weekly, never going in. Everything cost twice the usual, beautifully arranged, perfect fruit in baskets, soft lighting, the kind of place where shoppers bought for desire, not price.
Susan went inside.
The air held the aroma of real coffee and fresh bread. Gentle music. Soft yellow light. Towering shelves.
Basket in hand, she wandered the aisles.
Fish counter: cubes of pink-fleshed tuna glowing on the ice. She asked for a fillet.
Oysters? Yes, six in a box, in the chilly glass case marked Seafood. She took them.
Cheese counter: a wedge of blue, salty-veined cheese, grey-blue in wax. In the basket.
Artisan breaddark and seedy, crusty, not the value loaf for seventy pence but a real one.
Coffee aisle. She read labels, breathing in the aroma. Chose a dark ground blend in navy blue packaging: Ethiopiannotes of blueberry and dark chocolate. Shed never had it before.
At the till, her choices caught her eyea meal for the senses. The cashier rang it through.
Fine selection, that, came her voice.
Thank you, said Susan.
It cost a fair bit. Susan paidcard linked to her own savings.
She left, bags in hand.
Where next, she wasnt sure. Not to her daughters, so late and far. She could call her friend Val, but not yet. Susan booked a simple hotel room for the night, across the city.
After unpacking her supper on the little room tableoysters, tuna, cheese, bread, coffeeshe borrowed an oyster knife from the desk.
Do you know how? the kindly night manager peered in.
Ill manage, Susan said.
She didnot gracefully, but well enough. Savoured the oystersgrey, briny as the sea.
Then the tuna, a slice of the bread, a morsel of the cheese. She brewed coffee, inhaling the steamy aroma of fruit and chocolate.
She ate slowly, room aglow with city lights, soft music on the radio.
She thought, not of William, not Ashgrove, not tomorrow.
But of how oysters tasted just as they did that youthful day by the southern coast; that tuna, dark and melting, lingered on the tongue; that the cheese still held its sharp kindness; and the coffee, to her delight, truly smelt of blueberries.
She thought: perhaps, this is who I am. Not a stoic, not a woman who enduresbut someone who notices what things taste like, whether salt and sea or cheap bulk grain. Someone who can sit with good food in the night, quietly, and just be present.
She sipped the rest of her coffee as city rumbles drifted up.
Well, Susan whispered into her cup, hello again.
And poured another.
The future was unknownwhere she would live next week, the conversation she might have with William, if thered ever be an apple tree in a future garden of her own. Whether shed ring Val or wait for morning. Whether shed hurt tomorrow, as she didnt tonight.
All of that she didnt know.
But for nowin a little hotel room, a box emptied of oysters, a cup of rich coffeethis was her, her taste, her choice, her evening.
And that meant something.
Another bite of cheese, on bread.
A lamp flared to life outside. Another. The row blinked on, as if someone finally found the right switch.
Susan chewed, watching the lights, saying nothingnot aloud, not inside. Simply sitting; simply eating; simply being there.
For now, it was enough.
***
Susan woke before the alarm, lying quietly, watching a strange white ceiling, a faint patch near the curtain rail. Unfamiliar, but gentle in its way, pressing nothing on her.
She rose, washed, brushed her hair. Her face in the mirror: sharper than she liked, eyes ringed, but changed in some wayor maybe she imagined it.
She didnt linger at the glass. Dressed, shouldered her suitcase. Time to call Val, face her daughter, make decisions about somewhere new to live. There was much to do.
But first, she walked into the snug cafe downstairs and ordered breakfast. An egg on toast, strong coffee. Not instant.
Coffee arrived in a slim glass. She cupped it with both handssomething warm and necessary.
At the next table, an elderly woman sat reading, sipping occasionally, lost to all else.
Susan watched her: women reading over solitary breakfasts seemed less alone, more self-sufficient. There was a difference.
The egg was brought hot, with herbs. Susan ate slowly.
Texted Val, Can I come over today? Ill explain everything.
A quick reply: Of course, love! Kettles on.
Phone back in pocket, she finished her coffee.
Stood. Wore the maroon jacket. Collected her bag.
Outside, March air barely teasing the edge of spring, the world turning under cold tarmacsomething moving under the surface, slow but unstoppable.
Susan lingered on the hotel steps, pulling up her collar, setting off toward the bus stop.
She walked and thought of nothing in particular. Her legs, for once, didnt feel like batter. Her head was clearperhaps just one of those good days.
Vehicles passed. A young mother manhandled a pushchair past. On a branch, a crow watched the world as if deciding its worth.
Susan eyed the bird.
Well, then? she said quietly.
The crow ignored her, swooped down, pecked at something unseen, flapped offbusy with its own concerns.
Susan smiled, not broadly but just enough.
Her bus arrived. She climbed aboard, taking a seat by the window. The city reeled past: semis, shops, bare trees, billboards. Three years, and Susan had hardly looked out her windowsher days filled with figures, fretting, someone elses plans.
The city had kept livingall the same.
Never mind. Shed catch up.
The bus stopped at a red. In the next car, a fiftyish woman sang along with the radio, unembarrassed, lips in silent motion.
Susan watched.
Green. Cars moved. The bus rolled on.
Susan leaned back. Phone silent in her pocket. Maybe William had come home; maybe he hadnt noticed yet; maybe he knew and thought, or didnt think at all. That was his business.
Susans was her own.
She was off to Valsthered be hot tea, and a long conversation. Then another day, and after, and more of lifes awkwardness, and all that came when you start from scratch. No promises of ready-made joy on a plate. Just the real work: discomfort, tiredness, fear, questions with no answer.
But other things, too.
Coffee, scented with blueberries.
Oysters, tasting of sea.
A mirror she could look into and see someone familiar.
It wasnt much, but it wasnt nothing.
The bus drove on. The city slipped pastgrey but alive. Susan gazed out, thinking that apple trees likely exist, just not taken from someone elses adverts. Lilac, a porch with a benchsomewhere real, and hers to find.
Someday.
Not now. Not yet. Just a bus, a window, a March air not quite winter nor spring.
And that, for now, was enough.
