He Left for Another, and Here I Stayed
– Linda, I need to tell you something.
I was stood at the stove, stirring a pot of stew, when Bens voice rang out from behind me. He had that tone he always used when something had gone wrong at work or when hed overspent a mix of tension, guilt, and the determined resolve to say what must be said.
– Go on, – I replied, not turning from the pot, watching that nothing burned.
– Im leaving. Theres someone else.
I put down the spoon. Turned around. Ben was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, already wearing his jacket, which was odd, as he never bothered with one at home in the evenings. Hed clearly put it on for this conversation, as though it lent the whole scene some sort of official weight.
– How long? – I asked.
– Eight months.
– I see.
He seemed to expect something different tears, shouting, questions. He shifted from foot to foot.
– Linda, I dont want us to end on a bad note. You were always my rock. The one I could depend on. Ive always valued that.
I looked at him for a long, steady moment, the way you look at a strange object someones brought into the house and you cant imagine why.
– Your rock, – I repeated softly. – Fine. Will you be staying for dinner?
– What?
– The stews ready. Are you eating or not?
Ben lost all composure.
– No, I no. Linda, do you understand what I said?
– I do. Youre leaving for another woman. Eight months. Rock. Got it. You wont eat. Fine.
I took a clean plate, poured myself some stew, and sat at the table.
Ben lingered for another five minutes, then went off to the bedroom to pack. He was noisy with drawers and bags. I ate my stew alone. It was very good hearty, just the right tang. Id perfected it over thirty years, exactly to Bens taste.
That thought made me put the spoon down for a moment.
Then I took it up again and finished my meal.
***
Ben Harris, fifty-six, always insisted the best years were still ahead. He was a project manager at a construction firm, sturdy-looking, always kept fit, and secretly touched up his greying hair with a mens colour shampoo, though he denied it to everyone, even me. He married at twenty-seven; wed been together twenty-eight years, raised a son, Paul, who was now living and working in Manchester and phoned once a week.
Alice Evans worked in Bens office as a manager. She was twenty-nine, slim, with a lovely head of chestnut hair, and an endearing habit of saying brilliant at anything that amazed her which was often: a new restaurant, a new phone, or Bens knack for sorting office issues with one call. He enjoyed the attention.
Me, Linda Harris, fifty-three, chief accountant at a local hospital. Slight, dark-haired, just showing my first grey streaks, which I never bothered to hide. I could do sums in my head faster than most calculators, read three books a month, and, according to neighbourly lore, made the best stew in our corner of the city. For twenty-eight years I ran the house, the family, and a full-time job without ever demanding applause; it never felt like a feat. It was simply life.
We lived in Oakbury, not big, not small, the sort of place where you know everyone in your neighbourhood, theres one decent shopping centre, and you dont need to think twice before going out to dinner. We had a three-bedroom flat on the fourth floor of a nine-storey block. It was comfortable, nicely arranged, with curtains Id sewn myself eight years ago after I couldnt find the right colour in any shop.
After Ben left, I sat in the kitchen for a while. Outside, October rain drizzled down, persistent and grey. Eventually I got up, cleared the table, washed up, and went to bed.
The first three days, I hardly thought at all. Went to work, did the accounts, replied to colleagues concerned You alright? with such finality no one dared press further. Evenings, the flat felt very quiet, and I just stared at nothing. I didnt cry; all I felt was something numb, like the ache before a bruise blooms.
On the fourth day, my friend Gillian rang.
– Linda, Ive heard Is it true?
– It is.
– Oh, love. How are you?
– Im alright.
– Linda, dont give me alright. Weve been friends thirty years. How are you really?
I paused.
– Gill, you know whats strange? I realise now I havent a clue what hes been thinking for years. We lived side by side, and I still didnt know. Thats the worst part.
Gillian was quiet for a moment before she carefully ventured:
– Maybe you two should talk it over? Maybe its not too late
– No, – I said calmly. – Theres no need. Im just saying it out loud.
What I didnt say was that when Ben announced he was going, pain hadnt been the first thing I felt. Id felt something more like relief; relief and a weariness, as if Id been lugging a heavy bag for ages, and only now someone had taken it off me. I was embarrassed to admit that even to myself.
On the fifth day, I took down our wedding photo from the lounge. There we were, me in white, him in a dark suit, both young and smiling. I didnt smash it or throw it away just quietly put it in the cupboard.
A pale spot remained on the wall.
I stared at it for a while, then picked up the phone and called Home Comforts to enquire about decorating.
***
I did most of the decorating myself. What I couldnt manage, I found tradesmen for. I stripped the lounge, choosing a light cream wallpaper instead of the tired green stripes. Got new curtains too: bold leaves and vines, which Ben would never have approved of he preferred plain, sensible colours. I re-arranged the lounge to suit myself for the first time ever, putting the sofa right by the window.
Paul rang after about two weeks, probably having heard from his dad by then.
– Mum, how are you doing?
– Im fine, love. Im redecorating.
– Decorating? He clearly hadnt expected that.
– Changed the lounge wallpaper. Thinking of doing the bedroom next.
– Mum are you sure youre alright?
– I am, darling. Really. Have you spoken to your dad?
A pause.
– I have.
– Good. Hes still your father. Stay in touch with him, it matters. Will you come home for Christmas?
– Of course I will. Mum, are you lonely there?
I took in the transformed lounge cream walls, leafy curtains, the sofa now basking in front of the bay window.
– You know, – I replied honestly, – Im surprised at how fine I am. Even I didnt expect it.
Paul lingered over the topic a bit longer, but then calmed. He was a good lad, but like most grown-up children, he half-hoped nothing was truly wrong and that adults always work things out.
In November, sorting through the top cupboard for winter things, I stumbled across a box a big cardboard one, packed away fifteen years before with all my old knitting things. Hooks, needles, bags of yarn, half-started and abandoned projects. Ben once said the half-finished yarn bits everywhere drove him mad, so Id quietly packed them away and never fished them out again.
I pulled the box out to the middle of the room and just looked at it for ages.
Then I took up my needles, went to sit on my window-side sofa, as the years first gentle snow began to dance outside.
And suddenly my fingers remembered.
***
At the start of December, my colleague Irene from planning spotted the scarf around my neck.
– Did you make that? Its lovely!
– I did. Im just getting my hands back in.
– Oh, Linda, could you do one for me? Ill pay you!
– Oh, dont be daft.
– No, really. Ill get whatever wool you need and pay for your time. Id love a beanie hat, with a brim…
Thats how it started almost by accident, as most good things do.
By January, Id knitted eight things: three hats, two scarves, a pair of mittens, and two jumpers. I charged just enough to make it worthwhile not much, but it was my money, earned over my salary with the pleasure of working with my hands, each evening by the window.
When Gillian came for tea, she surveyed my lounge, ran her hands over the new curtains, and eyed the box of wool up on the shelf.
– You really have changed, – she said.
– How do you mean?
– I dont know. Youre different. Calmer. I worried youd just go under after he left, but you
– But I didnt, – I agreed. – Im not sure why. Ive just been busy.
– Ben called?
– Once, in November. Asked where the car papers were. I told him. He hasnt called since.
– Needed you for the car, then, – Gillian snorted.
– For the car.
We sat in silence for a bit. Gill cradled her cup with both hands, just as she always did when thinking deeply.
– Do you hate him now?
I was honest.
– No. Oddly, no. There was a lot of hurt, now less so. But theres no hate. Hes just someone who made certain choices. Now hes got his own life. And Ive got mine.
– How to survive your husband cheating and not lose your head, – Gill said, wryly. – You should write a book.
– I suppose theres still time, – I laughed.
The first real laugh for months. Not polite. Not forced. Real.
***
Alice turned out to have many charms, but running a house was not among them.
Ben figured this out slowly. At first, it was restaurants, weekends away, that giddy sense of youth and possibility again. Alice gazed at him with open admiration, which did wonders for his posture. She told him he seemed years younger than his age, and he stood a little taller.
But once they moved in together, to Bens rented flat across town, some things became clear.
Alice never cooked. Not badly not at all. She saw no point, what with cafes and takeaways everywhere. It got expensive, and repetitive.
Alice didnt do cleaning. Her clothes ended up on every available surface, draped over chairs, in heaps on the floor, perched on the edge of the tub. Not filthy just how she lived. Ben, whod always enjoyed a tidy house, soon started to feel quietly irate.
Alice couldnt grasp paying the rent early or the need to save for just in case. Ben explained, she nodded, but the penny never dropped.
She also adored her friends, who dropped by often, laughed till late, and left behind lipstick-stained wineglasses. Ben would lie in bed and listen to their laughter from the other room and it was not the kind of laughter he craved.
In February, Ben rang me.
– How are you?
– Im good, Ben.
– You arent put out that I havent called for ages?
– No.
He hesitated.
– Do you remember where the fridge guarantee is? I need it for a service call.
– Green folder, third shelf of the airing cupboard.
– You didnt move it, did you?
– No, Ben nothing of yours was touched.
– Got it. Thanks, Linda.
I hung up, sat quietly, watching the thaw begin outside. The last bits of snow slipped from shed roofs, black streaks growing on the pavements. Spring wasnt far.
I picked up my needles again. A new jumper, in soft blue-grey, just for me.
***
In March, the finance chief at the hospital, Mr. Davies, announced he was finally retiring. A position was opening up. Dr. Clark, the hospital director, called me in.
– Linda, let me speak plainly. Youve been here long enough, you couldve moved up ages ago. Why havent you before now?
I thought a moment.
– It was probably the family, really. Didnt want the extra workload back then.
– And now?
– Now, – I hesitated, – things are different.
– Ive heard. Im sorry.
– Dont be. Just tell me what I need to do for the post.
Dr. Clark smiled at me.
– You already know it as well as I do. Submit your application?
– Yes, please.
I handed it in that very day. Walked home instead of taking the bus, despite it waiting. March smelt of damp pavements and that fragile scent of the coming green. I realised Id not noticed things like that in ages the scent of rain, the rainbow swirls in puddles, tree branches already swelling their buds.
Life goes on, I thought. Its a cliché, but clichés ring true for a reason.
***
In April, Ben appeared at the door. No warning, just the bell.
I answered. There he was, standing on the landing in his old jacket (the one Id bought him three years back at John Lewis), tired and with dark circles under his eyes.
– May I come in?
– Why?
Ben looked down.
– Linda, I need to talk to you.
I stepped aside. He entered, looked around, noticed the new walls, new curtains, rearranged lounge. Fell silent.
– You decorated.
– I did.
– Looks great.
I didnt reply. Headed for the kitchen, put the kettle on as if by habit.
He sat at the table. I noticed, not good or bad, just different like seeing an old place for the first time in years, familiar but with new details.
– How are you? he asked.
– Good. I got promoted at work.
– Really? Thats brilliant. You deserved it.
– Yes. For a long time.
He heard that. A beat of silence.
– Linda
– Ben, just say it straight. Whats happened?
He rubbed the bridge of his nose a gesture Id seen a thousand times when he was bothered or lost for words.
– Things with Alice arent exactly great. Not a disaster, but difficult. Shes not who I thought.
– It happens.
– I thought – he broke off then, said finally, – I thought maybe I could come back. You always understood. You always managed.
I poured tea, set a mug down for him, took one for myself, perched on a chair.
– I did manage, – I answered flatly. – Twenty-eight years I kept things together. It went unnoticed, mostly.
– I noticed.
– Not really. Or youd have called me by another name.
He was silent.
– I didnt mean to upset you. A rock, I meant
– To be your rock means you aren’t really there; its just what you fall back on. The rocks whats left when everyone else moves on the shadows at home.
– Linda…
– Ben, truly, its alright. Im not upset. Im just explaining why things cant go back.
– I want to come back.
– I hear you.
– And you wont let me?
I looked at him. Familiar face, but now showing a confusion that almost made me pity him. Hed come expecting tears, accusations, maybe fury then, eventually, forgiveness. Hed taken forgiveness for granted, because I managed. Because I was his rock.
– No, – I simply said.
– Why not?
– Because I dont want to.
He just blinked, plainly not understanding.
– But you youre by yourself.
– I am. And Im alright.
– Linda, nobodys happy alone. You just say that.
I lifted my mug, held his gaze.
– The oddest thing these months? I was afraid it would be so empty without you. I thought the silence would be scary. But really, without you, theres so much space. Space for myself.
Ben sat silent.
– Youre probably a good man, – I told him (it wasnt praise or blame, just fact). – You just always assumed Id be here. That the rock never moves. Well now Ive moved.
– So, what am I meant to do? he asked, sounding so much like a lost boy I could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
– I don’t know, Ben. Thats yours to figure out.
He finished his tea, lingered a while, then stood.
– Youll file for divorce?
– Yes. Soon. Ive already checked.
He nodded, took his jacket.
– Right then. Goodbye.
At the door he turned.
– You really have changed.
– No. Im the same. You just never noticed me.
The door closed.
I sat at the table a bit longer. The city outside bustled; cars, cheerful voices in the street. A perfectly ordinary April evening in Oakbury.
I got up, cleared the mugs, cracked open a window. The breeze brought the smell of fresh earth and sticky buds.
***
I first saw Mr. Jameson at a residents association meeting. Hed moved in that winter, into a sixth-floor flat after selling his house out in the country his children grown and gone, one to London, one further north, and he no longer needed the space.
He was fifty-eight, compact and wiry, with neatly clipped grey hair and gentle grey eyes. An engineer, he designed bridges and roundabouts. A widower for three years.
At the meeting, he spoke politely and to the point about the roof leak in our block, explaining calmly, not grandstanding. The building manager listened.
I noticed how he carried himself as people do when theyve nothing to prove.
We met properly by chance in the lift, in early May. I was carrying a huge bag of yarn from the market, which was awkward and kept jamming the lift door.
– Let me help, – he offered.
– Its alright, Ive got it.
– Clearly, but its really easier with two.
I laughed and handed it over.
We chatted in the lift, and in the corridor. He walked me to my door.
– You knit? – nodding at the bag.
– I do. Does it amuse you?
– Not at all. Im glad. My late wife left lots of good yarn, nowhere to put it. Would you like it?
I took it gratefully. It was lovely stuff, real merino, carefully wound balls.
We got in the habit of talking whenever we bumped into each other. Sometimes hed pop by for tea. Wed discuss life, work, books. He read widely, but never acted superior. He listened and said nothing when I was just thinking aloud.
In June, I knitted him a scarf. Grey merino, from his wifes wool.
– Whats this for? – he asked, surprised. – Its summer.
– For autumn. And to test the yarn.
– And, is it any good?
– Its good.
He accepted the scarf with a simple thank you, no fuss. I liked that.
***
In July, I filed for divorce. Ben didnt argue. We signed at the solicitors office, quietly. He looked tired, somewhat lost; I wore a light summer dress, bright and for once not just practical.
– Hows things? – he asked afterwards, on the pavement.
– Good, – I replied. And it was the truth.
– Alice has gone to her parents in Birmingham. Her mums unwell.
– I see.
– Im by myself now.
I looked at him, not with pity, nor triumph just looked.
– Youll manage. Youre capable.
– You think so?
– I know so. Youll have to teach yourself a few things, but its not hard if you try.
We parted ways. I strolled to the shops, bought half a kilo of cherries, the big, fat ones. Ate them right there in the sun, neatly dropping pits into a bag. The cherries were delicious.
***
Mr. Jameson asked me to the pictures in early August. No drama, no fuss.
– Theres a good film at the Odeon. Interested?
– Alright.
It was an old British comedy, screened in the parks summer cinema. We settled on wooden benches in a crowd of families with kids and retired couples. Laughed at the same bits.
We walked home through the park afterwards. The air was warm, dusk slow to settle, as only in August. I told him about my accidental foray into selling knits. He nodded.
– Keep at it, – he said seriously. – A thing with heart behind it, those are rare.
– You say that about a scarf.
– I do say it. Its true.
Then, after a beat, he added:
– Im not in any rush. I suppose youre not either.
– No, Im not.
– Well then, thats just right.
I didnt ask what was just right. I understood.
***
In September, Gillian dropped by and caught me knitting at the window. The flat smelt of coffee, balls of blue yarn lay on the table, and my laptop screen showed my new page of orders surprising how many had come in over the summer.
– Youve started a page online? – she gasped.
– The girl down the hall helped me set it up. Photos, prices, details. Ive filled twenty-three orders.
– Linda, really?
– Really. The pay isnt huge, but its mine. And I love it.
Gillian shook her head.
– A year ago, whod have thought
– No one. Especially not me.
– And this new neighbour of yours, James – she narrowed her eyes.
– What about him?
– Nothing really. Its just your face changes when you talk about him.
I was quiet for a long moment, then murmured, fingers moving on the needles:
– With him, I feel peaceful. Just peaceful. Hard to explain.
– No need, – said Gill. – I get it.
We drank coffee, gossiped about her grandchildren, the new clinic refurbishment across the street, and the autumn sale at Home Comforts. Just a normal chat between two women on a September afternoon.
Outside, Oakbury motored along. The poplars on the avenue were going golden. Someone was walking a dog outside. A boy cycled past, staring down in fierce concentration.
I took up the next ball of wool, found the end of the yarn. A new order cabled hat, to be finished in two weeks. Id make it.
My fingers moved with familiar confidence. The click of needles soothed me. Beyond the window, the first autumn rain touched the trees, setting their leaves shimmering, alive.
