Eight Years of Nothings
The phone rang at half past seven in the morning, right as I was stood at the cooker, watching water begin to simmer in the saucepan. The stove was an old gas one, iron grates caked with someone elses greasy residue that Id never quite managed to scrub away. Each morning that grease reminded me the flat wasnt really minethat other people had made their own breakfasts here, lived their own lives, had their own little rituals.
I glanced at the screen: Emily.
I picked up.
You havent replied to his messageagain, my daughter said, skipping any sort of greeting.
Good morning, Em.
Dad, Im serious. He texted me last night, saying youre ignoring him.
The water rolled to a boil. I turned the ring off and dropped a cheap teabag into the panEnglish Breakfast, forty for a pound. I used to drink only loose-leaf, some fancy Ceylon blend Margaret got from that shop in Covent Garden.
He can say what he likes, I said.
Dad, do you realise what youre doing? You live in some dump in Finsbury Park, probably full of mice, youre on your own, youll be sixty soon
Im fifty-eight.
Thats almost sixty! And you left a perfectly decent bloke, a flat in the centre, a normal life. And for what?
I looked out the window. The sky was sagging grey with clouds, a leafless plane tree stood outside, a battered corner of the next block with its crumbling yellow plaster. A bus rattled by below. The roadworks were old, the bus clattered past so loudly I couldnt sleep the first few nights.
Now I was used to it.
Em, Im running late for work.
You never want to talk about this properly!
I want to, just not now and not like this. Come over on Saturday? Ill cook something.
Im not coming to that hovel.
Hovel. Now even Emily was using that word. Mustve heard it from Caroline.
All right, I said quietly. Well talk later then.
Dad
I love you, Emily. Bye.
I set the phone down on the table. Took the saucepan, poured the tea into an old dimpled glass Id found in the cupboard, alongside an assortment of battered pans that werent mine either. Proper heavy, the kind I hadnt seen in thirty years. I took a sipit was hot, faintly bitter, with that cardboardy taste from the cheap bag.
I drank it standing by the window, staring at the tree.
I dressed, and went out.
***
The entryway reeked of damp and cat. Somewhere on the third floor lived a cat Id never seen but often heard yowling through the night. No lift. Four flights down past battered postboxes, one or two with doors hanging off, old sledge in the cornerleft there since last winter, probably.
Outside it could barely have been forty degrees. I did my coat up and headed for the Tube. I still didnt know Finsbury Park well after six months; sometimes I still got lost in the backstreets. Hornsey, Hampstead, Crouch Hill. The roads here werent like the centrequieter, wider, lined with trees. People moved quickly, not looking at each other, same as anywhere in London, but there wasnt that hurried centre-of-town irritation that always used to get to me.
I popped into the corner shop for a pint of milk and half a granary loaf. The girl at the till, green eyeshadow, didnt so much as glance up. I counted my change into my palm, bagged my shopping and left.
The Tube was warm, noisy. I rode standing, gripping the pole, mulling over my project. Yesterday Michael and I had finished measuring up the first section, so today was for tackling the basement supportslooked like theyd lasted by little more than miracle and Victorian hopefulness.
The site was an old manor in Hackney. Small, late eighteenth-century, main house plus two wings, and what must once have been a coachhouse, rebuilt goodness knows how many times since then. Ownership had changed hands; the Council had used it as a warehouse for decades, then abandoned it. The building stood empty almost twenty years. Now there was backing, some notion of turning it into a cultural centre, and a project team in place. I was appointed lead architect for the restorationMichael was my structural man.
It was a proper job. Not pointless little flat conversions Id taken on in the last few years with Philip, purely to keep my hands busy. This was a project with bones, with a history that needed rescuing.
***
Michael was already on site when I arrived. He was there in his usual grey coat, tape measure in hand, peering up at the ceiling.
Morning, I called, walking in.
Have a look at this, he said, motioning to the corner where plaster had peeled away in a huge chunk, revealing the old brickwork. I think Ive figured out why that ceiling sags. Theres a joist up there, the whole lengths cracked. This isnt restoration, mate. Its near enough replacement.
Cracked, or split with age?
Come and see.
We went up the stairscreaky still, though wed shored them up a bit. I kept a firm grip on the rail, breathing in that scent of old boards: dry, slightly sweetened with dust and something else, unnameable. Maybe it was the smell of time, of all those past lives soaked into the walls.
Id always loved that smell.
Michael pointed out the beam. I crouched, drew out the torch and ran the light along the crack.
Not split, I said, not along the growth rings. Thats mechanical damage. Something heavy rested here, once.
Machine tools, maybe.
Or more than one. It used to be a warehouse.
He knelt beside me. We stared at the joist. The window panes above had all been smashed out; the wind rustled through.
So, we replace it, Michael said.
Yesbut with the same method. I checked the archives yesterday. Theres a timber list. Looks like local pine originally, but good quality.
Good luck sourcing that now.
I know a supplier in OxfordshireI worked with them on the Marylebone restoration. Ill call.
He nodded, dusted his knees. Tall chap, a bit stooped, with a habit of listening with his head down, as if deep in private thought. A misleading impressionhe listened intently, answered precisely, never interrupted. Id come to value it over four months working together.
Fancy a cuppa? he asked. Ive brought the thermos.
Gladly.
We stepped into the corridor. He fetched out two plastic beakers and poured.
Youre a bit he said, without finishing, eyeing me sidelong.
A bit what?
Together. More than usual.
I grinned.
That means Ive had a call from Emily or my sister this morning.
Michael asked no further questions, just passed me the beaker.
Real tea, not from a bag.
***
Id seen Caroline just last Sunday. She turned up on the doorstep unannounced, rang up from the street, Open up, Ive baked a pie. I let her in.
Caroline, three years my senior, lived in Clapham with her husband Graham, an accountant for a construction firm, set in her ways and downright immovable about most things. She bustled into the flat, gave the place that look Id known since childhooda blend of pity and triumph.
Good grief, she said. Is this a bathroom, or a storage cupboard?
Bathroom.
Tiles are cracked.
You brought pie, did you?
I did, she set it on the table, took in the kitchen again. Richard, just tell me this: there you had a central London flat, three rooms, parquet floors, a man with money. Did he hit you?
No.
Cheat on you?
I dont know. Maybe he did. Didnt matter by then.
Then why? What on earth possessed you? Honestly, youre making a fool of yourself at your age.
I set the plates out.
Caroline, please, lets not.
Not what? Im your sister! Shall I just not mention it? Emily calls me in tears. Your ex calls, asks if I know whats going on with you. Hes not a bad chap, you know.
Hes probably fine. For someone else. Lets have the pie.
Youre always like this. Lets have the pie. Never want to talk.
We are talking. Ive told you before.
You never explained anything! I was unhappy. Who isnt? Do you think its always perfect for me and Graham? But I dont run off to a bedsit in my fifties.
Its not a bedsit. I have it to myself.
Alone! Caroline flapped her hands. Fifty-eight, alone in this dump, working for pennies and you say youre happy?
I looked at her. She was sat opposite, warm and solid in that endless beige jumper, her face full of bafflementa kind you simply couldnt be cross with, not really.
Youd waste away without me, she said.
I shook my head, I might, but Id waste away on my own terms.
She stared.
What does that mean?
Nothing. I took up the knife to cut the pie. Whats in it?
Cabbage, she said warily. Richard, are you really all right? You seeing anyone, a doctor?
Yes.
And they say?
That I make the right decisions.
Of course they do, youre paying them!
We drank tea, ate pie. Caroline filled me in on Grahams bad back, the neighbours new barking dog. I listened, the evening sky purpling behind the tree.
When she left, Caroline paused at the door.
You ought to at least reply to him, she said. Hes worried.
All right.
I knew I wouldnt.
***
Philip and I had spent eight years together. Not marriedhe refused to ever put pen to paper, as he put it, which should have told me plenty.
The first two years were differentor so I thought. He was attentive; took me to West End restaurants, theatres, we even holidayed in Italy, Prague. He told me I was clever, said I had good taste. Then it started to change, slowly, like a hairline crack in a wall.
It was in the little things. Once, I wore a green dress to his work functiona favourite of mine. He looked at me in the hall and said, Are you sure? Nothing more. I changed into black instead.
Then came the comments about my cooking. About how I spoke to his friends. About how my work took too much time for someone with so little to show for ithis voice always soft, reasoning, as if doing me a favour by pointing out the obvious.
Rich, you do realise restoration isnt exactly a career for the ambitious. Its for people happy to muddle along.
I have ambition.
He smiled. Youre a good specialist. Just average. Thats not badno need for everyone to be brilliant.
I had nothing to say. I went to the other room, stared at the wall for an hour, trying to understand why words delivered so kindly could make me feel so hideously small.
He never shouted, never hit me. He just chipped away, methodically teaching me I was nothing without him. My job was trivial, my friends boring, my tastes provincial. I owed him my place at his side.
Id make a stew and fret over the salt. Id ring a mate and worry I did it too often. Go to a site meeting and second-guess whether I seemed overconfident. My own voice, constantly doubting, always asking for permission, became his voice in my head.
And then there was that evening.
We were at his friends’Oliver and Paulain their smart flat off Marylebone. Conversation turned to a new development nearby; I remarked about the shoddy design, the developer clearly pinching pennies on the architect. Calm, factual.
Philip looked over, smiled that special little smile.
Richard heres a specialist, he said to Oliver. But you know, there are those who do and those who teach. Richards more the academic type these dayshasnt really tackled anything big in a while.
The table went silent for a second. Paula looked at me, Oliver took a drink.
I smiled.
I finished dinner. Had a glass of wine. Stayed in the conversation. Got a minicab. On the way home, Philip was cheerful, nattering about Olivers business. I watched Londons lights slide by and thought one clear thought: I cant do this anymore.
Not hes a bad man, not Im miserable. Just: I cant do this anymore. Like hitting a solid wall.
I left three months later. Found this flat in Finsbury Park. Hired two vans to shift my things. Philip was away for work that day. I left the keys and a note in the kitchen, saying nothing but: Sorry.
To this day I dont know why I apologised. I just did.
***
November in Finsbury Park was peculiar. The park was close, so now and then Id detour through it on my way home, wandering among sodden paths under empty trees. The leaves had all dropped, the ground squelchedbut there was quiet, and Id breathe in that musty, woody smell as if it were medicine.
At home it was chilly. The heating in these old Victorian buildings was touch and go; the cast-iron radiators either roasted you or stayed stone-cold. The tap in the kitchen dripped. Id called the landlord a few timeshe kept promising a plumber. Never showed.
I bought a washer at the local B&Q and fixed it myself. Took forty minutes, two broken nails, and more than one curse when I banged my elbow on the pipes. But when I turned the tap, no more drips.
I felt something like pride. Silly, but real.
Evenings I worked at the kitchen table, spread out my site plans under the small desk lamp Id brought from the old flata battered thing with a faded green shade, bought at a car boot sale in 96. Philip loathed it, said it ruined his décor. At the old place it lived in a cupboard. Here, it had pride of place.
Restoring the manor took time, as big jobs always did: measuring, researching the archives, condition assessments, then a proposal. I liked how you couldnt shortcut the process. A building either stood or collapsed; brick cant be bullshitted. History was either there, or it wasnt.
Id dug out a few documents in the city archives, tracked the propertys whole storyonce owned by a merchant family, then bequeathed to a daughter, who turned it into a private school for girls. Then the war, then storage. The merchants daughter was called Hope. In one old photo I found, she was about fifty, straight-backed, looking at the lens as if she knew something the photographer never would.
I stared at that picture a long time.
Then put it aside, and picked up my plans again.
***
Once, Michael asked how Id come into restoration.
We were sat in his car, warming up the engine before heading for the council records. Outside, first flurries of snow.
In the nineties, I did new builds, I said. Residential, offices. Good money, tons of work. Then one day, out of the blue, I tagged along with a friend to see a church they were restoring out near Reading. That was it.
That was what?
When I knew what I needed to do. That it mattered.
He paused.
Thats rare, he said. Knowing what you really want.
You did, too?
Not straight away. Took yearsdoing what youre meant to, not what you want. Then you stop.
I looked across. He stared out ahead, snow pasting the windscreen.
And then?
Then this, he nodded, vaguely towards the invisible old manor. And that suits me.
The car smelled of leather and his morning coffee.
We drove to the archives.
***
Philip showed up on Wednesday.
I didnt expect him. Doorbell rang at eight, while I was sat at the table with my plans, eating Greek yoghurt from the pot. The bell was electric and shrilla sound every doorstep in this block shared.
I opened the door, expecting the landlord or maybe a neighbour.
Philip stood on the landing, dressed for town in his wool overcoat, a small bunch of chrysanthemums in hand. Ive never liked chrysanthemums. In eight years, hed never remembered.
Hello, he said.
It took me a few seconds to answer. I just stared.
How did you get the address?
Emily told me.
So Emily. I logged that away for later.
What do you want? I asked.
To talk. He gave a half smile. The smile. You wont invite me in?
I considered a moment. Then stepped aside.
He came in, looked around. I saw him take in my poky hallway, the peeling wallpaper, the wonky coat hook, my boots by the door.
You live here, he remarked, not a question but a verdict.
Yes.
Richard He took my hand. I drew it away. He just switched the flowers to his other hand. Listen. I know you needed time. But its been six months. Surely thats enough?
Enough for what?
For… being by yourself. Taking a break. Whatever it is. ” He drifted into the kitchen, took in the plans on the table. Still working?
Yes.
Project?
Restoring a manor in Hackney.
He nodded, patronising as ever. Thats probably good for you.
Good for the manor, too. Eighteenth-century.
He put the flowers downright atop the plans. I moved them aside.
Richard, he said. Do you realise what youre doing? Living here. A gesture. In… this.
I know where I live.
I want you to come back.
I looked at him. Philip was, objectively, a smart-looking man. Sixty-five, but youthful with it, well-groomed. The coat suited him.
Why? I asked.
He looked wrong-footed by that.
What do you mean, why?
You want me back. Why?
I… I miss you.
What exactly do you miss?
Richard, what is this conversation?
A normal one. You said you miss me. I want to know what, specifically.
He gazed at me. That familiar maskmild annoyance passed off as patience.
You, as a person. We were together for eight years.
I remember.
So thats it? Just like that?
I didnt leave just like that. I folded my arms; I was in my old jumper and jeans. Not the Richard he was used to. It took me eight years to leave. You just didnt see it.
I dont understand.
I know.
Explain it.
I have. Remember that night at Oliver and Paulas?
What night?
The night you called me an academic, said I hadnt done anything big, with them there.
He thought.
I was joking. Cant recall exactly, but probably a joke.
Maybe it was. But it was one in a long line. I remember every single one.
Richard, youre too sensitive.
Maybe.
It wasnt meant to humiliate.
All right. But it still hurt.
Over nothing.
Over eight years of little nothings.
He was quiet. Looked round the kitchen again. Spotted the old glass by the cooker, the green-shaded lamp.
And youre happy here? He was sceptical.
I thoughtnot for him, for me.
It depends. Sometimes its hard. Sometimes Im lonely. The radiators dont work. But its still better than before.
Thats an illusion.
Maybe. But its mine.
He picked up his coat, looked at me, and something in him shifted. For a moment, he was just himself. Something almost real.
Richard, Im not a stranger to you.
No, I said. But youre not mine, eithernot anymore. Go home, Philip.
He hesitated, then walked out. Got dressed, opened the door.
Youll regret it, he said.
It wasnt a threat. Almost sounded sorry.
Maybe, I agreed.
The door clicked shut. I stood in the hall, staring at the scuffed leatherette, the little spyhole. Then back to the kitchen, set the chrysanthemums in an empty jar with watercouldnt bring myself to bin them.
I returned to my plans.
A bus rumbled past. Once, then again, then faded.
I realised the sound no longer grated on me.
***
The design review was set for the second week of December. Just a preliminary phasethe client wanted to see the overall concept: what wed preserve, what wed restore, what wed rebuild, and why. Id taken it seriously. Michael too. Evenings, wed phone back and forth, argue over details.
Once, we clashed about those basement supportsargued for forty minutes before realising we were both right in our own ways: I thought about the looks, he thought about strength.
Youre tough, he said after.
In work, anyway.
Thats where it counts.
That was that. No sentimental add-ons.
I hung up, realising I was smiling.
***
Three days before the review, Emily rangnot in the morning, in the evening.
Dad, she said, voice softer than Id heard in months. Can I come round?
Of course.
Emily arrived with a bottle of red, looking like someone whod made up her mind about something but couldnt phrase it yet. She took after methe same cheekbones, the same hands. She was thirty-two, worked as a designer, lived in Southwark with her boyfriend.
We sat in the kitchen. I poured wine into ordinary tumblersonly one wineglass in the flat, kept for best, but Emily said a glass didnt matter.
Did he call after coming here? she asked.
No. Still texts sometimes.
What about?
Bits and pieces. I dont always reply.
She rolled the glass between her palms.
Dad, I gave him your address. Are you angry with me?
No.
I just thought… I dont even know what I thought. That maybe youd talk and
We talked.
And?
And nothing. He left.
She was quiet for a while. Then, looking into her wine, she said,
Dad, all this time I was on his sideyou know that?
I do.
I kept telling myself youd lost it, that you just needed to get back to normal. I felt sorry for him. He seemed so… alone, confused.
Hes good at that, I said.
She looked at me.
I only realised recently. He called after leaving here. And he said… he said youd always been a bit… odd. That hed put up with you. That hed done you a favour, for eight years.
I nodded.
Thats the kind of thing he says, yes.
Dad. For the first time in months, she looked at me, really looked, with nothing patronising in her gaze. Were you unhappy?
Terribly.
Why didnt you tell me?
I thought about it.
Hard to put into words. When no one hits you, cheats, or chucks you out, its hard to explain why you feel so low. Especially to a daughter who only saw him on his best behaviour.
She got up, came round and hugged mesudden, tight. I just sat there for a second, then hugged her back. Her hair smelled of her old shampoothe pear scented one shed loved since she was a teen.
Youre not an idiot, said Emily into my shoulder. Auntie Carolines wrong.
I actually laughed.
Thats good to hear.
We finished the wine, Emily leafing through the plans on the table, asking about the manor. I showed her Hopes photo. She said, She looks like you. I looked at the photo again. Maybe.
She left at half eleven, promising to visit next weekend.
I washed the glasses. Cleared away the plans. Stood by the window.
No buses this late. The courtyard below was quiet, tinged blue from the old streetlamp. Only one light in the next block; someones silhouette moved behind the curtains.
I made a mental note I ought to call Michael about that basement support. Too late nowtomorrow.
***
The review happened in the clients conference room: team of lawyers, one stern heritage adviser, all asking tricky questions. I answered, Michael covered the technical stuff. They pressed on the timeline for replacing the floor beamsI didnt sugarcoat it: if we could get the right timber on time, wed keep to schedule. If notthree weeks delay. The adviser frowned. I added, Better I say so now, than explain later why were behind.
He nodded. I think he respected that more than anything.
Afterwards, Michael and I waited in the hallway; he held the folder tight in his hands.
I reckon well get the nod, he said.
So do I.
He glanced at me. The place was humming, people everywhere with their own stacks of paperwork.
Care for some dinner? he asked. Theres a decent spot nearbyfeel like celebrating?
I looked at him.
Id like that.
We walked through Decembers London eveningHackney lights shining, soft snow dusting the sills and cornices. Michael walked beside me, head dipped. We chatted about nothing in particular. About the timber, about the heritage adviser being fussy (and that it was a good thing), about how the nights close in way too early in December.
The restaurant was small and quiet, heavy curtains, wooden tables. We ordered hot food, a glass of red each. Talked for agesnot just work. About London, how it keeps changing, books wed read. I noticed I never checked the time.
When we left, Michael paused a momentheld my coat as I put it on. A simple gesture, ordinarybut maybe not.
Outside, he said: Im glad were working together.
So am I, I replied.
We parted at the Tube.
***
So, I sit here, writing at the kitchen table, plans open and bus rumbling below. Eight years spent slipping under, one small nothing at a time. And now, here in my own freezing flat, the heater clanking, theres nobody to tell me if the salt is right, or where my taste should be.
Some days its lonely. Some days its hard. But these days, even the cracks and the greasy grates are mine. Everything is complicated, and none of it is nothing.
If theres one thing Ive learned: you can survive a lot of nothingbut it might take you eight years to notice, and a handful of cold, ordinary evenings to feel you belong to yourself again.
