I couldnt breathe either
David made the announcement on Sunday evening while Helen carefully folded freshly ironed shirts into neat piles. He walked into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and spoke as if he were reporting a dripping tap.
Helen, I cant breathe.
She didnt look up. She placed one shirt atop the pile, reached for another.
Whats suffocating you?
All of this. The routine. Every day is just the same. Wake up, eat, commute, come home, eat, sleep. Again and again.
Helen smoothed the sleeves, straightened the collar. She was fifty-one, David was fifty-three. Theyd lived for twenty-six years in this flat on Willow Lane, raised a son, Thomas, whod been living in another city for five years and phoned only on holidays.
So what are you suggesting? she asked, voice steady.
I want to leave.
Here, she paused. But not in fearjust looked at him closely, like someone hearing something long expected.
Leave to where?
Get a flat. Be on my own for a while. Just breathe.
All right, said Helen, picking up the next shirt.
David clearly expected a different response. He leaned forward.
Youre not going to say anything?
Whats there to say? Youre a grown man, David. If you want to leave, go.
Youre not going to make a scene?
She folded the shirt, placed it on the pile, and finally met his eyes.
No. But I have one condition.
What is it?
Dont call me about household questions. Where something is, how something works, what I did with this or that. If you leave, figure it out yourself.
He hesitated.
Thats it?
Thats it.
David wasnt sure what to do with that. Hed prepared himself for tears, accusations, being tugged by the sleeve whilst she told him about years together, about Thomas, about how one simply doesnt do such things. Hed mentally rehearsed his responses. But she simply carried on ironing shirts.
All right then, he said at last. Ill pack my things.
Go on.
He left for the wardrobe. He stood inside a while, gazing at the shelves. Then he packed jeans, t-shirts, socks into his bag. Took his razor, mobile charger, and a book he hadnt opened for six months. He stepped into the hallway. By then Helen was in the kitchen, making some noise.
Im off, he called towards the kitchen.
Good luck, she replied from there.
The door clicked shut behind him. He waited on the landing. Nothing. No steps behind the door, no movement. Silence.
He pressed for the lift.
***
He found a flat within two days through a frienda small one-bed in the next borough, on the fourth floor, with windows onto the courtyard. The owner, an elderly gentleman with a splendid moustache, gave him a brisk tour, took two months rent in advance, and left. There was a settee, table, two chairs, a battered fridge and a clunky old gas cooker. Heavy curtains hung at the window, the colour of tired mustard.
David set down his bag, sat on the settee, and looked around.
Total silence. No one in the next room, no TV blaring, no voice calling him for supper. He lay back, hands behind his head, and thought: here it isthe famed freedom.
The first couple of days were nearly pleasant. He woke when he wanted, ate whatever was in the house, wandered around in just socks, accountable to no one. Each night he phoned his old mate, Mike. They chatted for ages; Mike would laugh, saying, Quite right, Dave, shouldve done it ages ago.
On the third day, David discovered he was out of clean socks.
He eyed the washing machine tucked in the bathroom. Tiny, round thing. He opened the door, peered inside. Closed it. Opened it again. The owner had mentioned powder under the sink. He found a small box, read the label: For colours and whites. He measured out a guess, chucked it in what seemed the right compartment, chose a programme, and started it.
The machine rumbled.
An hour later, he retrieved sockssopping, and mysteriously pinkish. Puzzled at first, then remembered hed thrown in a brand-new red t-shirt too.
He hung the socks over the radiator. They dried by the following evening.
On the fourth day, he tried making a decent meal: bought a chicken breast, potatoes, onion. Found a frying pan with its coating flaking off. He put it on the hob, poured in oil. The sizzle was alarmingly loud, and he plonked the breast in whole; it stuck fast. He peeled the potatoes badly, losing half to the skins, and the onion made his eyes sting and water.
The resulting meal was brown-and-white, tough outside, near raw within.
He ate half, binned the rest, then ordered in from a café nearby.
A week later, he totalled up what hed spent on takeaway. Just shy of what he and Helen had jointly spent per month on groceries. He told himself to buck up. Bought groceries, made porridge. The porridge was all right, that soothed him a touch.
But in general, lifes practicalities closed in on him, gently relentless as the tide.
***
The breakthrough came on the tenth day.
David was in the shower when he noticed the water wasnt draining. He looked downmurky water slowly spreading over the floor. He shut off the tap, waited; the puddle remained. He prodded the drain with his foot. Water just stood there.
He vaguely recalled something Helen used to say: The trap needs clearing or the water will stand. Hed nod and leave the room then.
David crouched, looked under the bath. There was a pipe, then another, then a white plastic joint. He touched it. It shifted easily. Immediately, freezing, grimy water gushed out forcefully.
Leaping up, he slipped, grabbed at a towel which promptly hit the floor and soaked through. He frantically tried to screw the joint back; water wouldnt stop. It poured onto the floor, flowed to the bath mat, which was sodden in seconds.
He ran dripping into the hall, left wet footprints everywhere, grabbed his mobile, searched desperately for how to shut off water in a flat. Then he rememberedthe owner had mentioned a stopcock under the kitchen sink. He dashed there, found it, closed it off. At last, the torrent ceased.
Back in the bathroom, it looked as though a minor flood had struck. The mat, towelling, floorall a sopping mess. Water still dripped from the joint.
David just sat on the corridor floor, in soaking pants, staring blankly at the wall.
His first impulse was Helen. Not even a thought as much as a reflex: call Helenshell know. His finger was almost on her name when he heard her voice in his mind: Dont call me about the house.
He put the phone down.
Instead, he rang Mike.
Mike, do you know how to fix a U-bend?
Eh? What?
U-bend. Under the bath. Its leaking.
Dave, not a clue, mate. I always get a plumber. Ill give you a number, hes brilliant.
Next day, the plumber arrived. Took a look, tightened a few bits, replaced a washer in fifteen minutes. Charged so much David just stood and stared at him.
Thats the going rate? he finally asked.
Yeah, replied the plumber, and left.
David closed the door and thoughtHelen never called a plumber for trifles. Shed just do it herself, tweak and tighten, buy mysterious washers at the hardware. He never knew when or how she did it; it just happened, the way the weather does.
***
Around this time, he had what struck him as a good idea.
He called Laura, with whom, some twenty years back, hed had something nearly romantic before he met Helen. Laura was divorced these past seven, mutual friends had said. Occasionally theyd see each other at birthdays, make small talk, exchange smiles.
Laura, hello. Its David Clarke.
David? My word. She sounded surprised but pleasant. How many years!
Well Im on my own at the moment. Thought, maybe dinner sometime?
A little pause.
On your own from whom?
My wife.
Youve split?
Well, were in the process.
I see, she said, her tone changing, touched with caution. All right, why not.
They met at a city centre bistro. Laura wore a fine coat, looked trim with a short haircut. She looked well, he noticed. They each had a glass of wine, caught up on mutual friends, then she asked,
Tell me, what do you do?
Im still with the building firm. Head of procurement.
And where do you live now?
Rented a flat. On Elm Street.
Its nice there?
He meant to say yes but instead replied,
Its all right. Washing machines useless though. Hobs dodgy.
Laura gave him a look he recognised after a momentsympathy. Not romance, just the kindness one feels for someone whose life is a little off-kilter.
I see, she said again.
The conversation didnt really take off. She asked about Thomas, he told her, she spoke about her own grown-up daughter, now married. They had a second glass, then she said she had an early start. At the door, they parted.
He returned to the rented flat. The fridge was bare, shops were shutting, he found a packet of instant noodles and poured kettle water over them.
Laura never called. He didnt either.
***
Around then he tried meeting the lads. He phoned Mike, who said, Fridays good but only till eightSophies got a school meeting, need to be home! Called Steve, who said, Fine, but youll have to drop me off, Im not drinking, off to my wifes parents on Saturday, need to be alert.
The three of them met at a small bar by the Tube. Two pints each, some football chat, a few words about work. Then Mike asked,
Well, hows the bachelor life treating you?
Fine, said David.
Helen not calling?
No.
They exchanged glances.
She doesnt call at all? Steve pressed.
At all.
Another look passed between the two. Mike toyed with his glass.
Thats a bit weird. Mine would have rung me three times a day.
Helen doesnt call, David repeated.
Thats either a good sign, or a bad one, Steve mused.
How so?
As inmaybe shes absolutely fine without you.
David drained his pint. He didnt want to think about that. Actually, he thought of it every day, but wouldnt admit it even to himself.
At half-seven Mike checked his watch, stood up, started getting his coat. Steve too. They shook Davids hand, patted his shoulder, left. Each to their own wife, own meeting, own in-laws.
David sat alone at the table, ordered another pint, stayed until closing.
***
Meanwhile, Helen actually felt something like bewilderment at firstbut not the emptiness she expected. More a strange sense of extra space. As though the furniture had been rearranged and she couldnt yet tell if that was good or bad.
She phoned her friend Jane the next day.
Hes left, said Helen.
What do you mean, left? Where?
Rented a flat. Says he couldnt breathe.
Jane paused, sighed.
Helen. How are you?
Im honestly all right. Im surprised myself.
Been crying?
No. Odd, isnt it?
Maybe youll feel it later.
Maybe. Ill wait and see.
Another friend, Linda, rang too; theyd met years ago at an antenatal class and stayed close since. Linda was less tactful than Jane.
Thank God, Linda declared. Been telling you for years.
Telling me what?
That you live like a housemaid, only without pay.
Oh Linda, dont.
No, really. When did you last do something for you?
Helen thought. Couldnt answer at first.
I got my hair cut last year
Exactly.
Next week, Linda invited her to yoga. Helen first refused, then reconsidered. Turned up in an old tracksuit, discovered she couldnt bend at all.
No worries, said the instructor, a young woman with a ponytail. Everyone starts that way.
Two weeks later, Helen was already a bit more flexible. She went three times a week. After class, she and Linda sometimes sat in a café for an hour, chatting. Helen realised she hadnt done that in agesjust sitting and talking, not worrying about rushing home, about David needing his tea.
She read in the evenings. Books had always lain unfinished on her bedside table, sending her to sleep after twenty pages. Now she read for an hour or more, unhurried.
One day, Thomas called.
Mum, Dad says hes living by himself.
Yes, he is.
So, hows it going?
Its different. Actually, I feel good.
Thomas paused.
Mum, are you two getting divorced?
I dont know yet. I havent thought about it.
Arent you upset?
Im surprised. But not upset.
Thomas was quiet; he always took time to process things, even as a child.
Alright, he said. Ring me if you need anything.
You too, darling. Not only on holidays.
***
There was a moment when Helen stopped in the middle of the kitchen for five minutes, staring out the window.
Shed been washing her coffee mug, the usual morning one, and suddenly thought: twenty-six years. Thats a long time. More than half a lifetime. There had been everythinggood times, too. Their first flat, stripping the walls and blistering their hands to redecorate. Thomas, little, knees painted with antiseptic. The seaside trip about fifteen years ago, laughing all three daysshe couldnt recall what about, but remembered the laughter.
None of that would happen again; better say, it would stay in the past, like photographs in an album.
She waited for that feeling to fade. It passednot immediately, but after a few minutes.
Then she set the mug to dry and got ready for yoga.
***
George turned up by accident.
It began with Mrs. Jenkins from downstairs, an eighty-year-old with a sharp memory and a habit of half-hour chats on the landing. She asked Helen to change a bulb; her son wouldnt visit for another week and the corridor was dark. Helen did it, stayed for a cup of tea, and just then the son appearednot the expected one, but another, unannounced.
His name was George, about forty-eight, a beard, nice jacket, tired eyes of a hardworking man.
Mum, have you got Helen rewiring your flat again? he teased, seeing Helen with the bulb.
She offered, Mrs. Jenkins replied with dignity.
George looked at Helen.
Thank you. I wouldve come myself but didnt realise Mum was in the dark.
No trouble, said Helen.
They chatted at the door for ten minutes. Turned out he worked in construction too, but a different firm. She mentioned she was an accountant. He said his goodbyes and left.
A few days later, he called at her door himself, bringing groceries for his mum and, as he said, a box of chocolates for Helen as thanks.
You really mustnt, Helen protestedbut took them.
Would you mind if I step in a moment? he asked. Wanted to ask about your David. Mum said he used to be in procurementIve got a question about suppliers.
Helen hesitated.
David doesnt live here now. But I can give you his number.
I see, said George, his face unreadable. No need to trouble.
He left. A week later, he rang again, said hed sorted a workaround with the supplier, and asked if Helen fancied a coffee as neighbours. She considered, said yes.
They went to a café on the next street. Talked about work, his mum, how the neighbourhoods changed. He was good companylistened closely, didnt interrupt, sometimes laughed at his own stories before he even finished them.
Were you long married? he asked, not prying, just curious.
Twenty-six years, Helen replied. Or, well, I was. Its not settled now.
It happens, he said simply, without questions.
She appreciated that.
They met again, and again. He didnt rush anything, made no demandsjust called sometimes to see how she was. Helen valued that easy manner. After twenty-six years of being needed, being free to be unneeded felt like an open window in a stuffy room.
***
Meanwhile, David started to notice things about himself hed never realised.
For instance, he didnt know how to wait at all. Before, he never had to; things just happenedmeals appeared, clothes were clean, if something broke, it got mended. Now he had to wait for washing to dry, kettles to boil, the plumber to arrive. Wait out a cold he picked up in week two, sweating alone under tired sheets, sipping warm tap water with paracetamol.
Or that he couldnt eat in silence. For twenty-six years, someone was always at the tableonce Thomas, then, after Thomas left, Helen. Shed always talk, or sometimes sit quietly, but it was a living silence. This flats silence was different, hollow, not a living pause but simply absence.
He began eating with the TV on. It helped, a bit.
Around the third week, he called Thomas.
Hi, son.
Hi Dad. How are you?
Im fine. Still on Elm Street.
I know. Mum told me.
Hows your mum?
Thomas paused a heartbeat too long.
Shes good. Says shes started yoga, seeing her friends.
David took that in.
Shes not lonely?
Dad, Thomas said carefully, have you rung just to ask if Mums lonely?
No, Im just checking.
Shes fine, Dad. Youre fine too. Thats good.
David put down the phone and sat on the settee, trying to name what he felt. Not resentment. Something else. Like entering a room and forgetting what you went in for.
***
On day twenty-three, he shared the lift with a neighbour, a young woman of about thirty-five. Hed seen her before a few times. She introduced herself as Jessica.
New tenant? she asked.
Just temporary, he said.
Split from your wife?
He was startled by the bluntness.
Yes.
Happens, she said, unconcerned. Fourth floor?
Yes, where the mustard curtains are.
Oh, Mr. Daniels owns that. Always lets to single mensays families are too much bother.
They exited. Jessica lived on the first floor. She worked at the vets, owned a cat, and filled her windowsill with plants.
Once, he helped her carry shopping. She offered tea in thanks. The place was spotless, warm, smelled like cinnamon. She was clever, observant. But as he gazed around, he couldnt help thinkingher kitchen sparkled, while his sink at home held two days dirty plates.
They met now and again, chatted near the post boxes. Nothing could or did happen; he felt himself unfinished, a half-sentence, a mood not settled.
One day she asked,
Will you be here long?
I dont know, he answered honestly.
You look like someone who hasnt decided where hes headed.
I suppose so.
Happens, she said. Just dont stay stuck too long. I was stuck two years after my divorce. Then wondered why I wasted all that time.
He remembered it.
***
On the thirty-first day he went to the market and bought flowers. Not because anyone asked, not for any occasion, just because he stood staring at white chrysanthemums and remembered Helen always preferred them. Not rosesshe said they were too formal.
He bought a bouquet, paid, and headed to Willow Lane.
On the Tube he held the flowers, aware of curious glancessome smiling, some indifferent. He rehearsed what hed say. Pictured the door opening, imagined her surprise, maybe even joy. After all, twenty-six yearsit was him.
He pressed the bell at her door. A new bell, he noticed. The old one was gone.
Footsteps inside. Voiceshers, then a mans, not his own.
He froze.
The door opened slightly, chain across. Helens face. She looked at him. Glanced at the flowers. No change of expression.
David.
Helen, Ive come.
I see.
I brought these. He lifted the bouquet awkwardly.
She regarded him calmly, without tears, rage, or the wild emotion hed imagined.
David, Im not letting you in.
Why? he managed.
I changed the locks.
I can see that. But why?
Behind her someone moved, a mans silhouette. David stared past her.
Whos that?
Its not your concern, she said, matter-of-fact.
Helen, wait. I I understand things now.
What do you understand?
His mouth worked but no words came at first.
That being with you was good. I didnt appreciate it. Thisthis whole thing was a mistake.
She was quiet, watching him through the gap.
David, she said quietly, without malice, you now realise it was good with me. But you havent understood why it was good. You think you miss me. But what you miss is someone ironing your shirts.
Thats not fair, he said.
Maybe not. But its true.
Helen, twenty-six years.
I know. Her hand moved to the door. Theyve gone. There were good years, yes. But I dont want another twenty-six.
Wont you give me a chance?
She studied him a long moment. Then said,
Do you know the odd part? Im breathing too now. Turns out, I was suffocating as well. I just never said.
He stood there with the chrysanthemums dangling.
Helen.
Go, David. Ring Thomas, talk to him. Not about mejust talk.
The door closed gently. Lock clicked.
He stayed a moment. The bouquet drooped, just off the floor. The chrysanthemums were fresh, strong, unaware of any drama.
On the landing all was quiet. TV noise drifted faintly from a neighbour.
David turned and summoned the lift.
***
He pressed the button; it arrived swiftly. In the lift mirror, he saw his reflection: a man with flowers, decent coat, a bit crumpled, with the look of someone whose life had just endedor begun. Perhaps both.
He stepped into the street. Darkness had fallen, streetlights gleamed, sparse figures hurried through the night. He walked with bouquet in hand to the Tube.
Then he stopped.
Near a bench sat an old woman, scattering crumbs for pigeons. They bustled round her shoes.
David set the chrysanthemums beside the bench.
Here, if you like, he said.
She looked up at him, then at the flowers.
Nice bunch. They didnt take them?
They didnt.
Happens, said the old woman and went back to her pigeons.
David moved on. The street was unchanged, houses as they always were, life marching on as ever. Somewhere not far off, Helen had closed her door and returned to her evening, to her new life, which now seemed to suit her just fine.
Thomas was commuting across the cityDavid really ought to call, just to chat.
And back in the flat with mustard curtains, the washing-up still waited.
He pulled out his mobile.
***
Later, sitting in the Tube, David stared at the black window. Nothing visible, only his blurred, uncertain reflection.
What a peculiar thing, he thought, not thinking anything in particular.
The train rolled on. Stations came and went. People all aroundyoung, old, tired, energetic, with shopping, with books, scrolling through mobiles. No one took notice of him, or of his left flowers, or his twenty-six years, or that closed front door.
He got off at his stop and surfaced.
The air was cold, with a scent of snow about to fall.
David stopped, looked up at the sky.
Nothing specialdarkness as usual.
He walked home.
***
That night, about 2am, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The flat was unchanged, the mustard curtains shutting out the streetlights, fridge humming now and again. Everything just as it had been those thirty-one days.
Suddenly something came back.
Eight, maybe ten years ago, he and Helen had visited her parents cottage. They sat outside on the veranda in the evening, drinking tea. The woods faded into darkness at the end of the garden. Helen sat quietly, he sat quietly, and it was the best kind of quietthe kind shared, no need to fill it with words.
Hed thought to himself then: This is good.
And said nothing.
Just thought it, and let it go.
Now, lying on that rental settee, he tried to remember the last time hed thought that way. He couldnt.
Outside, soft, hesitant snow began to fallthe first of the season.
The flat was quiet.
***
In the morning he got up, put the kettle on, realised he ought to buy proper mugs. Those provided had a chip on one side, making them awkward to drink from.
He thought, I should ring Thomas.
He thought, I need to catch up with work, that quarterly report wont do itself.
He remembered Helens wordsshe was breathing now, too.
Hed never known. Or perhaps he had, but had never considered it important. Shed always been there, always doing what had to be done, and hed never asked if she wanted to or enjoyed it. Shed been part of that very routine he had felt trapped byonly maybe it had been a prison to her as well, only she kept ironing his shirts in her cell.
The kettle whistled.
He filled the chipped mug, made tea, sat at the table.
Beyond the glass, proper snow was falling at lastwhite, steady, settling on the sill.
David picked up his phone, scrolled to Thomass name.
Then set it down.
Then picked it up again.
Thomas, hi. Its Dad. Just calling, no reason at all. You busy?
No, Thomas replied, slightly surprised. Hi Dad. Not busy.
Howre you doing?
All right. At work. Is it snowing with you?
Just started.
Here too.
They paused. A good pausealive.
Dad, said Thomas. How are you, really?
David looked at the window. It was snowing for real nowclean, white, and nothing was settled.
Im figuring things out, he said.
Okay, said Thomas. Ring anytime.
I will, said David. You too. More often than just holidays.
Deal, Thomas replied.
They said their goodbyes. David set the phone down, took a sip of tea. The tea was fine.
Outside, it snowed.
***
At about the same time, at the other end of London, Helen was at her window, coffee in hand, her flat warm and peaceful. George had left; he never stayed the nighta quiet understanding between them, no need to rush.
She thought about David. Not with pain or pleasurejust as you do about someone whos been such a major part of your life. Hed stood at her door with flowers, big, a little lost, the look of a man life had given a nudge but hadnt quite taught everything.
No anger, not anymore. In those first days after he left shed been surprised to feel angryoutwardly calm, but inwardly quietly furious, at things invisible and familiar. That hed never asked how she was. That he complained about routine, but shed created it, kept it going. That he was bored; shed never had time to think if she was bored.
Eventually the anger faded. What replaced it was quieter, more solid.
She picked up her phone and texted Jane: Yoga tomorrow? Jane replied at once: I was waiting for you to ask. Yes.
Helen smiled and set the mug down.
Outside, the snow was falling too.
***
That evening, David called his landlord and asked to extend the tenancy another two months.
Thats fine, said Mr. Daniels. As long as you pay in advance.
Then David went to the housewares shop and bought decent mugs, no chipstwo. Then, after a seconds thought, grabbed a third.
He dropped by the grocersstocked up on chicken stock, onions, carrots, potatoes. Found a soup recipe, four steps. Step four: Salt to taste.
He stood over the pot, unsure what to taste meant. He tried, added salt, tried again. A touch too much, but the soup was perfectly all right.
He didnt pour it into a mugmugs for tea, realised thathe found a proper bowl, ladled in the soup, sat down.
It was quiet.
In the calm, the soup seemed all right.
***
Life moved on, as it always doessans warning, sans explanation. Helen went to yoga, sometimes met George, who was a good man and didnt pressure her. David lived on Elm Street, made soup, called Thomas sometimes, saw Mike and Steve once a weekthey came alone these days and lingered longer.
Neither filed for divorce. Not for any reasonjust because it would take effort, and both were weary of efforts, for now.
They crossed paths in the local shop, the very one on Willow Lane theyd visited together all those twenty-six years. He stood at the dairy shelf, reading the label on a carton of kefir as if it contained secrets.
She came up softly.
David.
He turned. They looked at each other. He looked well, a little slimmer, eyes a little kinder.
Hello, Helen.
Hello. You look all right.
And you.
They waited a beat.
Kefir? she asked.
Yes, just picking one.
This brands good, she pointed.
Thanks.
He took her suggestion. She collected her items and moved off. He went the other way.
At the tills, they ended up in the next queues side by side. She paid, so did he. They left at the same time.
Well, he said. Bye.
Bye, she replied.
She went right, he went left.
