Enough of Being Convenient
So, thats settled, Helen love! chirped Aunt Sylvia, dabbing her lips with a paper napkin. The napkin was from the cake Helen Smith had baked specially for her guest, and now it bore a greasy cream mark. Well meet at yours on the fifth of May. Ill bring my homemade sausagespickled, you know the onesand perhaps you could sort the hot dishes? Youre the birthday girl, after all! Therell be important guests, Dereks colleaguesproper lot, you know. We must do this right.
Helen sat opposite, cradling a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. She nodded along politely, thinking not about Aunt Sylvias rambling, but rather about the quarterly report due tomorrow, the butter theyd run out of, and how her husband, Colin, had tweaked his back again so shed need to buy another heat patch. She thought about everything except what Sylvia was actually saying. Sylvia rambled on, adjusted her purple scarf like a flag of command, and gave the living room window a look like she was already rearranging someone elses plates in her mind.
Around twenty people, at least, Aunt Sylvia rattled on. Do put in some effort, Helen. Youre the crafty one. Remember how you cooked for Olivias wedding? Not a crumb left! This will be the same. Ill help, of course. Ill just, well, oversee it all.
She laugheda short, yappy laugh, not unlike a little dogwhile Helen mustered a polite smile. Because thats what you do. Because Aunt Sylvia was Dereks auntDerek, Olivias husband, Olivia being their only daughterfamily, after all. Helen had always kept the peace, always smiled, always agreed.
All right, Helen said, its settled.
Aunt Sylvia left around half-eight, satisfied and well-fed. Helen closed the front door behind her, leaning into it for a moment. The hall still reeked of heavy, sticky perfume. The TV muttered in the lounge, some fishing show Colin was watchinghe didnt even bother to greet the guest.
She gone then? Colin called out, eyes fixed on the screen.
Shes gone, Helen replied.
What did she want?
Helen trudged to the kitchen and began washing up. The tap ran hot, nearly scalding, but she kept her hands under it, half on purpose.
Were having a do, she said, on the fifth of May. Here.
At ours? Whats the occasion?
My birthday. And some work thing for Derek, apparently.
There was a grunt from the lounge, then silence, then more fishing.
Helen dried her hands with an old towel, faded cockerel prints on the edges, the sort shed bought fifteen years ago from a market and never thrown away. Looking at it, she realised with a pinch how much like that towel shed become: faded, patterned with other peoples marks, hanging around and waiting for someone to wipe their hands on her.
She shook off the thought and went to rifle through the fridge.
In ten days, Helen Smith would be fifty. Half a century. She clearly remembered thirty-five of those years, and not one day had she done anything solely for herself. Never for herselfalways for Colin, for Olivia, for her late mum whom she used to cook for every Sunday, for the mother-in-law in the next neighbourhood who needed just as much looking after. Not once, just for herself.
Shed been a bookkeeper for a building company for twenty-two years. Everyone respected Helen at work, management valued her, but there was never a promotionwhy bother? Helen could handle it all, never complained, always sorted things out.
At home, it was the same. Colin was fifty-four, an engineer at a factorydidnt much like the job but was just holding on for retirement. At home, he called it recharging: TV, phone, sofa, sometimes his shed. Helen did the cooking, cleaning, bill-paying, shopping, entertaining. Colin didnt, on principle. It wasnt even a point of argument anymore, just background noisesomething you eventually ignore.
Olivia, their daughter, had married four years back. Derek was nice enough, hard-working, but had a complicated family. Mum long gone, dad somewhere up north. But Aunt Sylvia, Dereks auntthat woman took on the role of an entire family. Bossy, loud, and used to people listening to her. Shed never warmed to Helen. Not for any real reason; Helen was too quiet, too eager to pleasesuch people brought out the drill sergeant in Sylvia, not respect.
Olivia loved her mum, but loved Derek more, as was right. And when it came to a choice between her mums comfort and Dereks peace, Olivia always chose the latter. Quietly. No rows, just settles.
So Helen lived her life, in a three-bed on the ninth floor of an estate in Southampton, in one of those blocks where every flat, every courtyard looks the same, only the trees differ, since nobody trims them to match. She never complained. Who to? What for?
After Sylvia left, Helen sat in the kitchen for an hour, working out what shed need for twenty guests. The shopping list was terrifying. She eyed the daunting figures scribbled on the back of an old receipt: a number heavy as a brick in her chest. Not pain, just weight.
She switched off the kitchen light and went to bed.
The next nine days she called “pre-party hard labour” to herself. At first, she tried to convince herself it was finejust helping the family, it’ll be a good do, just dont let it get to you. But by Day Three shed run out of pep talks.
She rose at six, to defrost something for the next day, jot down shopping lists, ring the shop about deliveries. Worked till six, half-seven, the quarterly report still looming. Then off to buy sacks of tins, bottles, rice, meatlugging bags up nine flights, since the lift worked when it fancied. Shed cook, tidy, and flop into bed after midnight. Up again at six.
Colin saw all thiswell, sort of, being in the same flatbut it drifted past him. Once he asked, You need a hand? She said, Ill manage. He looked relieved and went straight back to his phone.
Olivia called on Wednesday. Is everything ready? Aunt Sylvia says have you sorted the hot dishes, and dont forget the starters. Helen asked, Liv, could you do the salads? Im struggling. Olivia paused just for a second, then murmured, Mum, you know Ive got work, Derek toowell come and help lay out the dishes, though. Help lay out just meant carrying things to the table.
Not a word more.
Two days before the party, Helen was up a chair washing windows because Aunt Sylvia last time made a catty remark about the dust on the sills. While up there, she wondered when she last cleaned the windows for herselfeight years ago, when she expected her mum. Even then, not for herself, but for someone. Always for someone.
Her foot slipped; she just caught the frame in time, heart thumping in her ears. She slumped down on the floor and sat there, back to the wall. Her spine ached, her legs ached, even her head ached.
She thought, If I fell and broke something now, the first thing anyone would say is: But what about the party?
The bitterness of it made her laughan ugly, coughing sound.
She got up and finished the windows.
The night before her birthday, she slept for three hours. The rest she spent boiling, frying, chopping. Shepherds pie, two types of salad, a fish terrine she never liked (Sylvias request), pasties with cabbage for Colins cousin Bill because otherwise hed sulk. Shed made the birthday cake the day beforea Victoria sponge with cherries, her own favourite. The only thing she did for herself.
At seven, she showered, put on the blue dress shed bought two years ago and never worn, kept for best. She faced the mirror. There were dark bags under her eyes, her lips dry, her hands red-raw from cleaningbut the dress really was lovely. She knew that.
Oh, all dressed up! Colin noted as he passed in the hallway. Nice one.
That was it. No you look beautiful, no happy birthday, no how are you? Just nice one and back he went.
The guests arrived by noon. Sylvia showed up first, quarter to twelve, with her promised sausages, a big jar of pickled cucumbers, and a box of chocolates, all proudly plonked on the table. She did a quick inspection of the flat and kitchen, nodded approvingly. Well done Helen, she said, exactly as Colin had. You really pulled it off.
Then she got straight on the phone, calling someone else.
By one, there were twenty-three guests. Helen counted as everyone sat down at the extended table, patched together with borrowed desks and covered in a tablecloth shed ironed until midnight. She realised she only properly knew six people. The rest were Dereks colleagues or Sylvias lot. Strangers making merry at her table, eating her food, sat on chairs scrounged from kind Mrs Taylor three floors down.
Bill, Colins cousin, started the toastsrambled on, mixed up years and stories unrelated to the birthday girl. People laughed anyway. Derek, the son-in-law, gave a brisk Congrats to Helen on her birthday, well done her! before talking for ages about his mate Tonys work promotions. Numbers, job titles, Helen didnt follow a word.
Aunt Sylvia got up. Her speech was clearly rehearsed: mostly about Tony, his career, his doggedness. Oh and lets not forget our hostess, since were at her table, she tossed in, which got a laugh round the room.
Helen smiled because she had to, sitting at the head of the table, raising her glass and murmuring thanks to clipped congratulations. But inside, a slow shift was going onlike a kettle not quite boiling until, suddenly, it bubbles over.
Helen, wheres the salt? someone shouted from the far end.
She fetched the salt.
More bread needed, called Bill.
She fetched bread.
Excuse me, no more forks! piped a woman shed never seen before in her life.
Helen got more forks.
Later, someone wanted a different cold cut, the cheese needed refilling, Sylvia requested mineral water that Olivia forgot to buyso off Helen hurried to fetch it from the fridge out on the balcony.
She never got to finish a plate; just sat for a moment and up shed get again. She attempted to give a toast oncestood up, glass in hand. Olivia, seeing this, picked up her own. But right then Sylvia launched into yet another story about Tony, loudly, and everyone turned her way. Olivia put her glass back down. So did Helen. Her speech died on her lips.
People complimented the food. This fish dish melts in your mouth! Heavenly pasties! Whats your secret with the pie, Helen? Polite as usual, Helen smiled, explained recipes, nodded. It was bittersweet: her food was praised, but not her. She was the apron, the bring the thing and top that up, not the guest of honour. The help.
The afternoon wore on. May sunshine streamed through while conversations grew boisterous, Tony bragged about his new job title, Sylvias laughter barked over everything, Colin and Bill gabbled on about fishing, unmoved by the partys point.
In the kitchen, Helen reached for the next tray of pie and felt her hands tremble from fatigue. Shed had barely three hours sleep. Everything swam slightly before her eyes. Distantly, she heard Sylvia bellow, Helen! Are you bringing it in? And grab the sour cream, its run out!
No Helen love. No please. No dont go to any trouble. Just orders, as to the housekeeper.
Helen paused, holding a serving spoon mid-air. The kitchen felt silent. Out the window, a branch of the ancient horse chestnut waved gently. On the stove, the kettle sat, empty.
Inside her, something clicked.
No drama, no explosionjust a simple, internal switch.
She set down the spoon, hung her oven mitts carefully as always, collected the meat tray and the sour cream, and calmly walked back into the lounge.
Placed them on the table.
Straightened up.
Excuse mecould I have your attention? she said softly, yet enough for the near guests to glance over.
Sylvia carried on talking at Tony. Olivia stared at her mother, surprised. Colin didnt look up.
Excuse me, please, Helen repeated, a little louder.
This time Sylvia turned. Annoyed, as if to say, How dare you interrupt.
Is something wrong? Sylvia asked, honestly unamused.
Helen scanned the table: her own family, mostly strangers, her husband finally looking over, her daughter holding her glass in mid-air. Sylvia, her wretched purple scarf, and a face flushed with well-fed pleasure.
Id like to say a few words, Helen announced. Its my birthday today. Im fifty.
A couple of people at the far end perked up, glasses raised. Happy birthday! came some cheer, but Helen cut in,
Please, just wait a second.
A hush settled. Her heartbeat, unexpectedly steady, gave her a strange strength, as if her body knew shed finally taken a decision her mind hadnt fully processed.
Ive spent the last ten days not getting ready for my birthday, but for other peoples party. Ive barely slept. I did all the shopping, got all the food in, scrubbed the windows, ironed the tablecloth, borrowed chairs. I hosted this whole event by myself, for people I hardly know, to celebrate a day thats supposed to mean something to me, though Ive barely been treated as the guest of honour. I wasnt allowed a single toast. I was interrupted, called away from the table eight times, and just now was told to fetch the sour cream like a servant.
The silence was absolutethe sort that falls when everyones finally heard something true and isnt sure what to think.
Are you all right? Colin asked, confused more than concerned.
Mum, said Olivia, softly.
Sylvia sucked in a breath, face poised to chide, but Helen met her gazecalm, directand Sylvia said nothing.
Id kindly ask you all, Helen went on, her voice rock-solidstartling to her evento take whatever you brought and continue the party elsewhere. Theres a perfectly nice little café on the cornerThe Cosy Cupplease go there for the rest of your evening, on me if necessary. But in my own home, the party is now over.
There were a few seconds of poised stillness. Then everyone started speaking at once.
Bill muttered something rude under his breath. Some of Dereks colleagues gathered their jackets. Sylvia stood, her stare icy with a message of, Youll regret this, but she said nothing. She grabbed her shopping bag and, with extra sting Helen recognised as comic, took her pickled cucumber jar away, which made Helen want to laugh.
Olivia came over. Mum, what are you doing? she hissed. Its awful. Aunt Sylvia will
Olivia, Helen cut her off quietly, love you. But please, just go for now.
Her daughter stared like she didnt recognise her, and for a split second Helen realised she really was a little different now.
Colin was last out the door. He lingered. You lost your head? he asked, curiously but without anger.
No, Helen answered. I think Ive finally found it.
He left.
Helen locked the door, then just stood there, cocooned in the thick silencethe kind that only comes very late or very early, when the world is asleepthough it was three in the afternoon and birds chirped heartily outdoors. The hush in her home was relief, one long, deep exhale after years of holding her breath.
She went back to the living room. The table was still laden: half-eaten salads, untouched pie, bread. Her own plate, uneaten. She picked it up, didnt bother reheating anything, and took it to the kitchen because, really, thats where her cake wasa cherry-sponge, fresh. She poured herself a piping hot cup of tea.
And she sat downjust her and her plate, plus the cake for herself.
First time in decades.
She didnt cry. She thought she mightsurely, thats what would happen in a film, with sad music building. But no. There was something else, a steady certainty, like bedrock, as if standing on something solid at last.
She ignored her phone for two hours. When she finally looked, she saw quite the flurry: three from Olivia (Mum, call me, Mum, I dont understand, Are you all right?), one from Colin (That was out of order), nothing from Sylvia (oddly). There were unknown numbers (guests?) and from Mrs Taylor: Helen, when will you bring my chairs back?
She replied only to Mrs Taylor: Tomorrow, sorry for any bother.
She texted Olivia: Im fine. Well talk tomorrow.
Colin? Nothing.
She cleared the table in no particular rush, stacked containers in the fridge, put crockery to soak, took out the rubbish. Folded up the tablecloth. Returned Mrs Taylors chairsshe answered the door in her dressing gown, gave Helen a inquisitive look but no questions.
Home again, Helen ran a long bathsheer luxury. Floating, she gazed up at the stain on the bathroom ceiling, years old now, Colin always promising theyd get it painted over soon. They never did. Three years a ceiling stain, three years a life on holdit all seemed much the same.
Colin got home at ten; she heard him, but when he appeared at the bedroom door as she read in bed, she didnt look up.
You realise what youve caused? he said.
Yes.
And?
Just that. I know.
SylviaDerektheyll be fuming. You realise?
I do. Colin, Im tired. Can we talk tomorrow?
He hovered, then left for the spare room sofa.
She slept ten hours straightfor the first time in ages.
Next morningsixth of Maywas perfectly ordinary: sunlight peeping between the curtains, sparrows outside, the smell of coffee (on a timer, planned ahead), toast. Colin still asleep, snoring softly in the lounge.
She flicked open her laptop, meaning only to check the weather. But an old browser tab leapt outa coach holidays website, English Heritage tours, places like York and the Lake District. Shed bookmarked it a month back, but never had time to dream beyond that.
She clicked.
A week round the Cotswolds: Bath, Oxford, Stratford-upon-Avon, small group, coach, daily breakfast, gentle walks through villages with ancient churches and stone bridges. Shed always wanted to go. Colin hated this sort of breakWhats the point? Better pop round to the allotment. Theyd spent every summer for twenty years at their plot, digging and weeding.
At nine sharp she phoned the agency.
Hello, you were interested in the Cotswolds tourseven nights? A cheerful woman answered.
Yes, said Helen, any places soon?
One left for the fourteenth of May.
Just one? Helen smiled. Thats exactly what I need.
She paid over the phone. Hung up, and gazed out of the kitchen window. She feltcalm. Not happy, not nervoussimply calm. Like a rightness that reached from her bones all the way out.
Later, Olivia rang, her voice tiptoeing as if over thin ice.
Mum, hi. How are you?
Im well, Helen said.
We need to talk. Aunt Sylvias in a right state. Dereks upset. Itwas a shock.
I know.
Could you call Sylvia and apologise? Shed calm down
No, Liv, Helen said gently.
A pause.
What do you mean No?
Im not going to say sorry for asking people to leave my home on my birthday.
But Mum!
Liv, listen, Helen said, cradling her coffee. I want you to actually listen. Not as someone worried about Derek or Aunt Sylvia. Just as my daughter.
Her daughter was quiet.
I turned fifty yesterday. Fifty, and spent the day as the help at someone else’s party. I was so tired my hands shook, and nobody thought to even wish me happy birthday properly. I was told to fetch things, no manners, and what struck me most isnot that they did it, but that I allowed it. Because for twenty years Ive lived like that, never once giving anyone reason to see me as anything but convenient.
A bus trundled by outside, a pigeon landed on the ledge, glanced in, and flew off.
Mum Olivia murmured, all the defensive edge gone, youre right, probably. Its justall so sudden
I know. Its new for me too.
Is this your new policy now?
Helen smiled. Dont know about policies. But Ive booked myself a trip.
A holiday?
A tour. The Cotswolds. Seven nights. I leave on the fourteenth.
A long silence.
By yourself?
Yes.
Mumtiny, almost a whisper.
Liv, its the first trip of my life Ive ever organised just for myself. First time in fifty years. Have to start somewhere.
Olivia didnt have an answer. Eventually, Right. Keep in touch. She hung up.
Colin found out about the trip at lunchtime. There was soup on the stove. Booked a trip, leaving on the fourteenth, gone for a week, touring round, Helen said, simply.
He stared. Didnt ask me, did you?
No.
Whats that supposed to mean then?
Up to you, Colin.
Are you okay, Helen? Should I be worried?
She tasted the soup, a pinch more salt. Im fine. Soups ready in twenty.
He said nothing more. Later, the television came onlife as usual.
The next few days, things were tense: Colin would go quiet, then snap at nothing. Youve lost it. Never used to be like this. Who does that? Helen listened, but didnt argue. No more need to apologise for things that werent her fault; she simply didnt want to.
Olivia called three days later. Aunt Sylvia vows never to step foot in your house again, she announced.
Helen replied, Thats fine.
Mum, arent you sad?
No.
But shes family
No, Liv. Shes Dereks family. Thats not the same. My family is you, and Colin, and what matters now is us learning to live differently, not Aunt Sylvia.
Olivia said okay and was quiet for a moment. Then, after a pause, she asked about the holidaywhere shed be staying, the route. A small but real change, Helen noticed, and she told her daughter.
On the thirteenth, she packed: a small case, light enough to carry herself. She packed just her own things, not for anyone elses needsthe first time in ages. She took her blue dress as well. Why not?
Colin sat on the edge of the bed, watching.
Youre really going, he said.
Yes.
For a week.
For a week.
He rubbed his forehead. There food sorted? Im rubbish at cooking
Colin, youre a grown man. The fridge will last three days. After that, heat something up or order in. Youll manage.
He looked at her, as if deciding whether to moan or sulk, but clearly changed his mind. Something was different in her that even Colin could see now.
All right, then. Off you go.
Just off you go. No have fun, no take care. But no accusations either. Progress.
She shut her case.
That evening, her friend Gail rangtheyd been mates since school but saw each other rarely these days.
Mrs Taylor told me you chucked everyone out of your birthday party, Gail said.
I asked them to leave, thats all, Helen replied.
Gail paused. Helen. Good on you.
Really?
Ive known you thirty-five years. You always put up with everything. Im glad you finally
Come on now, no need for drama, Helen laughed.
Gail grinned, then asked, Where are you going?
The Cotswolds. On my own.
On your own! Ive always wanted to!
Go then.
My Alan wouldnt let me.
Gail: Not let me? Were not eight, and hes not your mum. If you want to go, go.
Gail snorted, then sobered. Youve changed, Helen.
Maybe I have. I just got tired of being convenient for everyone else.
So do we all. Youre the first one I know who ever did anything about it.
Maybe Im not. Maybe were just too embarrassed to talk about it.
Are you embarrassed now?
Helen gazed out the window. The neighbours windows were all lit; in some flats people did the washing up, in others the TV flickered, in yet another someone paced, just the same as everywhere.
No, she answered. Not a bit.
On the fourteenth, Helen rose at half-five. Colin was still asleep. She brewed coffee, made sandwiches for the trip, grabbed her documents. She put on her blue dress at dawnbecause at fifty, you can wear a lovely dress to a coach trip if you want.
She stood in the hallway, surveying her home: the three little bedrooms, ninth floor, trees outside, ceiling stain unpainted, her old chicken-printed towel. All so familiar. But now she was leaving the flat a slightly different person than the one who entered.
The kitchen door creaked. Colin emerged, blinking, in a vest and joggers, his hair mussed. He saw the suitcase.
Youre off then.
Yestaxis outside.
He shuffled, awkward. Happy birthday, Helen. I didnt say it on the day.
She looked at himfifty-four, grey at the temples, tired. A man shed shared twenty-seven years with. She didnt know at that moment what the future heldif things would change or not. No storybook endings here; life was more uncertain than that.
Thank you, Colin, she said.
She left.
The taxi was waiting. She loaded her suitcase, slid into the back. The drivera young manasked, Train station? Yes, Helen said.
Southampton was just waking, streets quiet, air fresh. The trees outside blazed with new leavesso green, so sharp, she marvelled at how simple things could be so beautiful. She watched the rooftops roll by, thrilled simply to be noticing the world again.
The station was busy as ever: the smell of bacon rolls wafted from the café, announcements echoed, travellers bustled about. Ordinary morning chaos. She found her platform and waited.
Her train came right on time.
She found her seat by the window, lower bertha small mercy for her tired legs. Her compartment mate, a kind elderly lady, offered tea from a flask. Thank you, maybe a bit later, Helen said.
The train rumbled off, Southampton rolling by: houses, trees, then open fields. She didnt think about anything particularjust watched. Just allowed herself to be, rather than plan, list, solve, or serve.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked. A message from Olivia: Mum, are you okay? On the train yet?
She replied: Yes, all good. Dont worry.
Another, from a number she didnt know: Hi, its your tour organiser, Kate. Looking forward to meeting you at Oxford! Safe journey!
Helen replied: Thank you, see you soon.
She glanced out the window.
As the train sped along, England unfurled outside: green fields, hedgerows, that ribbon of sky. Helen Smith watched the land go by, thinking that next time someone barks, Helen, get the sour cream, shell probably just smile and say, No.
Little word. Three letters.
Yesterday was the first day she really meant it.
Time to start learning.
Its never too late to begin.
