The One Who Said No
Friday, 20th October
Susan Margaret Shaw sat delicately on the edge of a kitchen chair, slicing bread with meticulous care, as she knew he liked. Eight even, thin slices. She arranged them on a plate, placed it on the table, then moved to stir the vegetable stew gently simmering on the hob. The guests were expected at six, but it was already ten to.
Richard lounged in the armchair, idly flicking through TV channels. He didnt ask if she needed a hand. He never did. No need to ask itd get done anyway.
Susan was fifty-four. She worked as an accounts clerk at Northdown Vocational College. A quiet, unobtrusive job. Ledgers, payroll, numbers. Shed been there twenty-two years. Colleagues respected her, the head was content. At home, it was never discussed.
The guests arrived half past six. Richards sister Corrine and her husband George, Richards brother Peter and his wife Lizzie. Cheery, self-satisfied, full of themselves. They sat, filled the room with their lively babble. Susan fetched plates, doled out servings, cleared away, brought new dishes.
They talked about prices in the shops, about a neighbours new car, and about the newly opened farmers market in the next district. Susan listened, silent at the table as usual.
Later, Corrine started on about the new NHS surgery they were promising on Kings Road.
Well, perhaps itll be easier to get an appointment there, she said, adjusting her cardigan, Its impossible nowadays to see a GP.
There’s always going to be a wait, grumbled George. Never enough doctors.
I read, Susan began quietly, theyre sending a batch of new doctors there. Council scheme. I saw it in the paper.
Richard set his glass down. Not loud, not hard but in a way everyone felt the pause.
Susan, bring out the pickles, he said.
I will, just a tick, I was just saying
I said, bring the pickles. Who asked for your newspaper wisdom?
Corrine coughed and studied the tablecloth. Lizzie glanced up and hastily looked back down. Peter reached for more bread.
Susan got up. She fetched the jar of gherkins from the fridge, set it on the table, sat back down.
Inside, she felt calm. Not burning or boiling only a deep, gentle quiet, like the empty hush of a house when everyones left and you have no idea why you walked in the room.
She looked at her hands resting in her lap. Hands no longer young, knuckles a little swollen, nails neatly trimmed. Hands that had worked for thirty years. Cooking, scrubbing, ironing, cutting, carrying, cleaning. Thirty years work.
Here was the plate of pickles. Shed pickled those herself, sweating over sterilising jars in August heat. No one had asked if it was heavy going. No one said thank you. The pickles were simply there to be eaten.
The conversation rambled on, unfazed. George boasted about a mate who’d bagged a car off some website and couldn’t be happier. Corrine cackled. Richard nodded, topped up everyone’s drinks.
Susan sat and thought about her hands.
She remembered, twenty years ago, sewing the living room curtains herself. Shed bought the fabric with her wages when Richard said there wasnt money for that. Shed sewed late at night because daytime was for cleaning. The curtains still hung there. Hed probably never even noticed.
After pudding, Richard said, Susan, come on, clear up. What are you waiting for?
And theresomething switched. Not all at once, not with a bang. Just a soft click, like a light switch in a dark hallway, except darkness ended instead of beginning.
No, Susan said.
Richard turned.
What?
No. Im tired. Im going to sit.
The table went silent. Corrine stiffened. Lizzie stopped chewing.
Have you lost your mind? Richard hissed, with that quietly dangerous tone she knew so well.
No. Im not mad. Im just tired and I want to sit.
She rosenot to the sink or the table, but to the door. She left for the hall, entered the bedroom, and turned the key in the lock. The key had always been there, never useduntil now.
From behind the door, she heard Richards low, embarrassed explanations, the clatter of plates as Lizzie started clearing up. Kind Lizzie, who always understood without a word.
Susan perched on her bed and stared out the window at the October darkness. The street lamp glowed, and beyond, leafless branches stuck out stark against the evening sky. Unlovely, but honest branches.
She sat for ages. She heard their guests leave, the front door slam, then Richard crashing about the flat, banging things in the kitchen, finally standing by the door to their room.
Open up.
She didnt reply.
Susan, I said, lets talk.
Tomorrow, she said. Im sleeping tonight.
He lingered. She could hear his breathing outside the door. Then he left.
Susan lay on her bed, still in her day clothes, gazing at the ceiling. She realised, oddly, she wasnt afraid. That was new. Normally when she went against him shed feel a cold, plumbing-like shudder of fear inside. Now, only stillness.
Maybe because, at last, shed done something right.
In the morning, Richard left for work at eight, coughing and muttering in the hallway before quietly closing the door. She waited until his footsteps faded on the stairs.
Then she got up, washed, and opened the wardrobe.
She owned just one battered suitcase, brown with metal corners, which she pulled from under the bed and placed atop the blanket. She opened itthe scent of dust mingled with reminiscence.
She packed neither in haste nor idle dawdling. Underwear, jumpers, trousers, a warm woollen sweater. Documents from the top drawer: passport, pension book, her old savings account book. In a small box were her mums earrings and an old ring from her grandmother. She packed her work shoes and a pair of slippers.
She paused, surveying the room.
Nothing here really belonged to her. Hed chosen the wardrobe, and the sofa. The rug on the floor theyd bought together, but shed wanted another. Hed insisted this one fit the flat better. She’d sewn the curtains herself, but they felt part of his life now.
She zipped up the suitcase.
She poured herself a cup of tea and drank it standing in the kitchen. She glanced at yesterdays stew on the stove. She left it.
She dressed, picked up her suitcase and a bag of documents, and closed the flat door softly behind her. She left the keys on the mat. Hed find them.
It was cold and damp in the street, the air heavy with the scent of matted leaves. Susan paused, her suitcase at her side, just breathing for a minute while people bustled past on their way to work, not sparing her a glance.
She hefted her old suitcase and walked to the bus stop.
On Rose Lane, Mrs. Dorothy Bailey lived alone in a third-floor flat. She also worked at the college, teaching economics, eight years Susans senior. Theyd become companions, if friendship is the termdrinking tea together at lunch, sometimes walking part of the way home, chatting aimlessly. Dorothy was a widow, her life contentedly solitary.
Susan rang her doorbell at half past ten.
Dorothy, in her dressing gown, hair tousled, mug of coffee in hand, opened the door and peered at Susan, then the suitcase, and waited a moment. Come in.
That was all. No questions on the threshold. Just, Come in.
Susan entered. Dorothys flat was warm and smelled of coffee and old books. Shelves lined the hall, cats pattered about, one pausing to sniff Susans suitcase before slipping away.
Take a seat, Dorothy said, putting on more coffee.
They sat in the kitchen. Susan told her bits and pieceslast night, the pickles, the sharp who asked you? and the curtains shed sewn herself. Thirty years in fragments.
Dorothy just listened, never interrupting. She excelled at that.
I understand, she said softly at last. And Im not going to ask you if it was the right move. Thats yours to know. You can stay here as long as you need, until you decide whats next.
I dont want to be a burden, said Susan. I can do the chores, cooking, cleaning
No, Dorothy replied, another gentle firmness in her voice. Youre not the help. Its just my home, and Im glad youre in it.
Susan stared into her coffee, something tight in her throatnot tears, but the feeling when you finally unclench after holding something heavy too long.
Dorothy let her have the little studywith a folding sofa, a desk, and, of course, bookshelves. Susan unpacked, stowing away her clothes in the slim wardrobe and making up her own bed.
She lay down, thinking: this is my room.
For the first time in years, she had a space that was hers alone.
Of course, she cooked and tidiednot out of duty, but habit, and the wish to say thank you. Dorothy tried at first to object, but soon gave in, accepting help with a grateful nod. Theyd drink coffee together in the mornings, sometimes talking, sometimes just reading quietly in companionable silence.
This, too, was new: silence without tension, where no words were needed to explain your presence.
On Monday, Susan was back at work. The accounts office was tinyshe and two young girls, both cautious and kind. Perhaps they sensed something had changed, but asked nothing. Susan carried on as always, neat, accurate, steady.
The head, Mr. Bernard Chambers, called her in one afternoon.
All ok, Susan? He asked with real, uncomplicated concern.
Yes, Mr. Chambers. My situations changed Ive moved. But it wont affect my job.
I wasn’t talking about your work, he said quietly. I meant you.
Thank you, Susan replied. Im getting by.
And she was. Somehow, she found she could breathe more easily. As though some invisible weight had shifted from her chest.
The students at the college ranged from sixteen to nineteenlively, sometimes boisterous, but honest in their way. Susan only saw them in passing, but she dealt with all their bursaries and knew their names. Sometimes, on her way to another office, shed hear their laughter in the hall, and it would please her quietly. So much ahead of them.
She found herself marvellingshe, too, still had pieces of future left. It felt awkward at first, like wearing new shoes, but she was adjusting.
The calls from Richard started the third day.
First, he called her mobile. She answered once, saying, Richard, Im alive. Im well. I need time. Please dont ring.
He kept calling. She ignored him.
Eventually, he called the college office. The young junior, Emma, took the call and nervously relayed the message. Miss Shaw, your husbands on the line.
Tell him Im not available, said Susan with calm finality.
Emma eyed her in surprise, but complied.
The weather turned colder in November. Dorothy fetched an old heater for Susans room. In the evenings they watched TV together, sipped tea with wafer biscuits, or chatted quietly.
Dorothy shared stories of her late husband and how shed found herself, after he died, learning that loneliness and freedom could sometimes be the same thing.
Im not urging you to be alone, shed say, stirring her tea, but its not the end of the world, is it? You see how youre living nowfrightened?
No, Susan said.
There we are, then.
Susan thought about it. Richard always insisted shed be lost without him. That she’d never cope on her meagre clerks wage. That she was no spring chicken anymore, whod want her? These words had lived inside her for years, like squatters she couldnt evict.
Now she was living. And she wasnt lost.
Her wage was modest, but Dorothy refused rent. Susan did the food shop and cooking, which suited them both. She even managed to squirrel away a few pounds each monthnot for anything specific. Just, a little future.
December came; Christmas lights flickered in the high street. He turned up.
Susan was heading home from work, Friday late afternoon, already dark at four-thirty. She turned the corner towards Dorothys building and there he was. Richard. His brown jacket looked too big. Hed aged. She realised she hadnt looked properly at him in years.
Susan, he said.
She stopped, three paces away.
How did you find me?
People know, say. Its a small place.
She nodded. Of course.
We need to talk, he muttered.
Say what you want.
He shifted, clearly awkward in the icy street.
Cant we go in somewhere? Im freezing.
Wear a hat next time, then, said Susan. Talk here.
He was silent a moment.
Well, what have you done? The flats empty without you. Nothing to eat, everywhere a mess. I cant manage on my own.
Youll learn.
Easy for you to say. He shuffled. Look, I never meant any harm. Im blunt, but you know that. Its no reason to tear up a marriage.
Thirty years, Richard. Thirty years I listened. Did as you said. Cooked, cleaned, hosted, kept quiet when you cut me down in front of others. Thirty years.
There were times, maybe I said too much
You told me, in front of them, Who asked you? Not for the first time. You always did thatshut me up when I spoke out of turn. I was your unpaid maid. Not a person.
Oh, dont exaggerate, he said, voice slipping to irritation she knew well.
Stop, Susan said.
He gasped, surprised at the finality in her voice.
I won’t hear any more about a wifes duties. Ive heard it for thirty years. Tell me, Richarddid I mean anything to you besides housekeeping? Do you know the books I read, the films I like, what I think about while washing up?
He stared blankly.
There you go. You never asked. You didnt want me, just a woman to run your home. Its not the same thing.
Youve got strange ideas now, he muttered, unsettled. All that from Dorothy, I suppose.
Theyre my own ideas. Ive had them a long timejust never said them before.
She buttoned up her coat, as snow began to whirl.
Im not coming back. This isnt drama. Not a row Ill forget. Im leaving because I was unhappy. And Im only now realising just how much.
Youll end up alone, Susan. Alone in your old age. Ever thought of that? Wholl want you then?
I want myself. Thats enough.
She walked away.
Susanwait!
She didnt turn. She pushed the code into the entry system, opened the door. Snow was already dotting her shoulders.
Upstairs, Dorothy must have been watchingshe had the door open before Susan knocked.
I saw.
Yes. Thats it.
Fancy a cuppa?
Yes. Please.
They made for the kitchen.
Susan poured herself tea, cupping it in trembling hands. Not from cold or fearjust that odd release when somethings truly over. The body feels it before the mind.
How are you? Dorothy asked gently.
Im alright. Actuallygood. Its like Ive finally given him something I owed him years ago.
A debt?
No. The waiting. I kept waiting for him to change, to say something human. And today he just wanted dinner.
Dorothy smiled. Thats honest, in its way.
Yes. Honest.
The winter passed. Susan handled her affairs, called on a solicitoran elderly woman who quietly did her part. There wasnt much to fight overthe flat was his before their marriage, formally his. Susan took what shed earned herself.
Naturally there were hard eveningslying on the narrow bed with fifty-four years behind her, wondering what the future held. A real, bone-deep anxiety. She let herself feel it, then drifted off.
In the morning, she felt fine and set off to work.
One evening in January, it dawned on her that her headaches had disappeared. For years, near-nightly migrainesshed blamed age and blood pressure. Theyd simply faded away.
A quiet, but important, discovery.
In February, a new teacher arrived at the college. The previous instructor retired, and Andrew Philip Foster, forty-eight, arrived from a college in a neighbouring town. He taught mechanical engineering. Came in quietly, no fuss.
Susan first saw him in the canteen. Sat alone in the corner, reading a slim paperback and eating methodically.
As she collected her tray and passed, he looked up and nodded politely.
Next week, they met in the corridor. Susan was carrying files for signature.
Excuse me, do you know anywhere I could print these? The staffroom printers on the blink.
Weve a printer in accounts. If youre in a rush, feel free.
He appeared the next day, USB stick in hand. Susan printed his three pages, saying it was nothing. He thanked her.
Been here long? he asked.
Twenty-two years. Long enough.
You know everything, then.
She smiled. Where to find things, yes. The rest is the same everywhere.
He chuckled quietly.
After that, theyd chat in the canteen. At first, only a few minutes, then longer. He always asked what she thoughtsomething new, someone actually interested in her opinions.
Once, they talked about books. Susan admitted shed always loved reading, though lately hadnt much time.
And now?
Im getting back into it. My friend Dorothys got shelves full and Im working my way through.
What are you reading?
A little embarrassed, she confessed it was a rather old English rural novel shed picked at random.
Great choice, he said, without a hint of condescension. Those writers saw people very clearly.
Thats exactly it, Susan replied. It’s just very true.
Next day, he left another book on her desk, a collection of short stories, saying she might find it interesting. No great fuss, just a book slid over and off he went.
Susan held it, looked at the cover, then at the door hed gone throughwith a gently hopeful warmth, like the feeling on the first real day of spring. She didnt push it. Shed learned not to push anything.
Life had demonstrated to her, lately, that taking things slowly usually led to better outcomes. Slow, but right.
Spring came in a surge at the end of March. The snow vanished in days, revealing thawed earth and buds swelling on the park bushes. Susan paused, marvelling at their delicate greenness.
She remembered this time last year, trudging home to Richard, thinking only of shopping lists and chores and his complaints. Shed not noticed the buds then.
Now she stopped to admire them.
Andrew met her at the gate, by coincidence. They walked to the bus stop together.
Lovely today, he said.
Gorgeous, Susan replied.
He hesitatedsomething she liked in him. Would you like to visit the local museum on Sunday? Theyve got a new display about the railway workshop. Im fascinated by the old machinery, but its dull on your own.
Susan thought.
The museum?
They say the new sections worth seeing.
Alright, she said. Lets go.
She didnt shrink from her answer or try to justify it. She just said yes.
That Sunday, the day was crisp and bright. They wandered halls, Andrew explaining the machine displays; Susan listened and asked questions. Later, they shared watery coffee in the little café.
Do I bore you with all the technical talk? he asked suddenly.
Susan looked at him. Why do you think that?
People sometimes say I’m a bit much.
Who says?
Oh, you knowsome.
Im interested, Susan replied honestly. Ill say if Im not.
He smiled, visibly reassured.
She understood. It wasnt technical detailsit was being listened to, and having the right to speak your mind.
So, quietly and without label, something knitted between themtwo adults, comfortable together.
Susan thought, perhaps, this was English happiness. Not the sort in films, with swelling music, but the kind where you wake and actually feel like getting up.
When someone asks your opinion, and genuinely waits for your answer.
When nobody ever says, Who asked you?
In early May, Susan visited the market for greens and radishes. The air was thick with the scent of spring vegetables. Amidst the bustle, she spotted Richard near the butchers.
Hed lost weight. His coat hung loose, cheeks hollowed, eyes grey with tiredness as he fumbled with his change.
Susan pausednot out of fear, only curiosity.
She waited for old emotionspity, anger, memories. None came.
He was just a man at the meat counter. Her partner once, for thirty years. That was her past, her lifebut not all of it.
She detoured, bought her shopping, took a bunch of dill for Dorothy. She stepped into the warm May sunlight.
She thought: this is what starting over at fifty looks like. Not one dramatic moment, but a series of days: the morning with her suitcase, cups of tea in Dorothys kitchen, the job that now offered some gentle pleasure, an unread book, a slow Sunday in the museum, the warm crush of spring.
Leaving an overbearing husband was just the beginning. Life came after. She was learning again to notice the world, and to distinguish between bearing and leaving. That lesson was hard-won, but true.
Psychological realism, she mused with a smile. Shed seen that phrase in a book, never fully grasped it. Now, she understood. Life, with no embellishments: she lived one way, it became unbearable, she left, and things changed. It was frightening, and difficult, and lonely sometimesbut good, also.
Every womans story is different. Susan did not think hers a warning or heroicbut hers, uniquely.
Susan rounded the corner onto Rose Lane. She climbed to the third floor, rang the bell. Dorothy, wearing an apron and clutching a bowl, opened the door.
Ah, youre in. Im just making cold soup.
I got you some dill, Susan said.
Clever girl. Wash up, then.
Susan hung her coat, entered the kitchen, watched the water streaming over her hands.
That Sunday, she and Andrew had arranged a countryside walkhe wanted to show her an old dam, an engineering feat from the 1950s. He explained all about it, and she listened, genuinely wanting to hear.
It felt strange, and wonderful.
She wiped her hands and went to the kitchen.
Need a hand?
Chop the eggs, would you?
Susan sliced the eggs into even cubes. Familiar workher hands remembered how.
But now, she was doing it for herself, for Dorothy, out of care and not obligation. An important difference, one you carried with you all dayhard to describe, but unmistakable.
Sun poured through the window. Children played outside, the air rich with spring and the sharp scent of dill.
Dorothy, said Susan suddenly, do you ever regret living alone after your husband died?
Dorothy paused, thinking as she did.
Yes, sometimes. He was a good man. I did miss him. But Ive never regretted not filling the house with someone just because I was lonely. Ive told you that already.
You have, Susan agreed.
And youare you alone now?
Susan smiled, dicing eggs.
Not really.
Dorothy looked at her, then nodded and turned back to her soup.
There was no moral to any of it. Only life. Ordinary, wrinkled, enduring life of Susan Margaret Shaw, accounts clerk, fifty-four, who one day declined to clear the tableand surprised herself at how easy it was.
And how much that one, quiet no truly meant.
