Youll fall to pieces without me! Youre uselesscant manage a thing! her husband bellowed, flinging his shirts into a worn suitcase, the sound echoing oddly off the wallpaper.
But she managed. She didnt fall apart. Perhaps if shed allowed herself a pauseto consider survival with two little girlsa world of dark possibilities would have grown in her mind. Perhaps then shed have forgiven the affair. But there was no time for self-pity; the girls were due at nursery and she needed to dash to the surgery for work. Her husband had just sauntered in, smug, bloated with a new lovers adoration.
So, shrugging on her coat, Tamsin directed affairs with startling clarity:
Molly, help Alice do up her coatmake sure she eats her breakfast at nursery, wont you? The teacher said shes refusing her porridge.
And you, Graham, best collect all your precious possessionsno dawdling. Dont drag things out. Drop the key through the letterbox, would you? Goodbye.
Molly had arrived precisely half an hour before Alice, so shed always been the eldest. Both girls were now four: clever, willful, each with her quirks. Molly would spoon down detested porridge with stoic resolve; Alice would cross her arms, face set with protest: Lumps! I shant eat it.
At least the nursery was only ten minutes away. The girls nattered and chattered, stopping Tamsin thinking too deeply about the chaos waiting ahead. At work, there was no margin for reflectionthe GPs day scheduled to the second, with house calls lurking after hours. It was only that evening, when she hung up her coat beside a row of empty pegsonce reserved for Grahams jacketsthat the absence settled on her like a fog. She was alone, now. But Tamsin had never been one for wallowing; things must remain normalor perhaps, even brighter for her daughters sake. One could fold in on oneself, or quietly find a solution, even wring a drop of cheer from the day. For now, tea must be brewed, dinner sorted.
Whats changed for us, really? Tamsin mused, dicing tomatoes under a flickering kitchen lamp. Hes gone. What did he do that I cant manage? Nothing I can name. Tamsin nodded, almost convincing herself. All it needs is a little adjustment to our routine. Well be fine. Ill make sure of it. Better alone, with peace, than together in suspicion.
After a chapter of Peter Pan and kisses planted on sleeping curls, Tamsin tip-toed to the kitchen to unload the washing machinedamp uniforms and socks to be draped about radiators. A cup of chamomile tea might soothe her thoughts and let her sketch out tomorrow: two little faces so aliketwins, though double mischief had never daunted her. She was always bewildered when people looked at her with sympathy.
Were really all right, shed say. Nobodys collapsing here. Im managing.
The kettle rattled to a boil; she dropped in her lemon balm, flicked on a mellow lamp. Outside, rain sleeted through the snow, wild and cold, as warmth filled her small flat. Only the clock ticked, gently nagging
And then, the doorbells metallic squawk. Tamsin blinked. On the mat stood her neighbour, Mrs. Jennings. A wiry, elderly woman, always swathed in some ancient shawl. There was something about herreserved, clipped, as chilly as her morning hellos. She walked a scruffy mongrel past the bins each sunrise; more than once, Tamsin had seen the beast watching binbags hopefully by the kerbJennings must have taken pity and rescued her. The old woman had no visitors, did her shopping in solitary silence.
Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Jennings began, pulling the shawl closer around her shoulders. Saw your husband packing the car today. Did he leave you?
Thats not your concern, Tamsin replied stiffly.
Your husband isnt my concern. I only wanted to sayif you ever need a hand, I could sit with your girls, or anything, really.
Unexpected, Tamsin found herself saying, Come in, why dont you? She teetered down the hall for a second cup, pulling out the tin of digestive biscuits.
Whats your name? Tamsin asked.
Margaret Jennings. And youre Tamsin, arent you? Well, Tamsin, Im not here to interfere. Justknow youre not alone. No chargeI enjoy it. In fact, Id consider it a pleasure. She sipped her tea, eyes bright behind the steam.
This is lovelyis there lemon balm in this? Grows everywhere on my allotmentherbs and all sorts. Come up in the summer, theres space for the girls. Theres a bramley treeapples like youve never tasted
And Tamsin, watching her neighbour, wondered why shed long imagined the old woman so disagreeable. Perhaps because Mrs. Jennings never offered insincere smiles, never poked her nose into business that wasnt hers; perhaps because she didnt press with feigned concern or syrupy questions. She wasnt aloof, reallyjust private, respectful. Not a word about Graham, no salt for her wound, just an offer of help.
Tamsin looked closer: neat lace collar, hair in a precise twist, slippers barely worn, the faintest aroma of lavender. She let Mrs. Jennings stories of summers on the allotment, warm baths, apples and the greedy ducks on the lake roll over her. With each word, the ache retreated a little, the world felt a degree brighter.
She remembers all this clearly, even though five years have slipped by. Remembers Grahams rage: Youll fail! You cant cope! But all of it is behind her now.
Margaret Jennings dices apples, arranging them with an artists grace onto the pastry, before sliding the pie into the oven. The salads are prim, the stew bubbling softly. Today is Margarets birthday. Outside, August humsthe doors of the snug garden cottage thrown wide to birdsong and golden light. The kitchen swims with the scent of apple pie.
How she saved me, Tamsin thinks fondly, studying Margarets flushed cheeks. What would I have done without her? The girls absolutely adore their Granny Margaret. She could so easily have shut her door, but she hadnt. Now her daughtersnine and so grown!spend every summer here. The lake, the friends, and their beloved grandmother: gentle, wise, and dear.
Ill fetch a few more apples. Well make compote, Tamsin says, and steps with her basket to the shady garden.
Beneath the apple boughs, in a dappled patch of sunlight, lies Alba, the dog. Who couldve foreseen that grim little cur from the bins would transform into this gentle, golden lab? All it took was a home, and love.
Its all love, Tamsin thinks, as she offers Alba a gentle biscuit from her palm. Only love can save usonly that.
