Im not here
Have you bought that stuff again? John put the shopping bag down with a thud, making something inside rattle. I told you, Juneno more Velvet Touch. Its expensive and pointless.
June was standing by the window, watching the courtyard. Outside, the neighbours little girl, must have been about seven, was chasing pigeons. Theyd rise up together in a flurry of wings, scatter, then gather on the tarmac again as if nothing had happened. June watched and tried to remember the last time she bought something just for herself, simply because she wanted it.
Its only hand cream, John. Three pounds eighty.
Three pounds eighty is three pounds eighty. Forgotten how to count?
She didnt answer. She turned and fetched the bag, took out a small jar with a golden lid, and set it on the windowsill next to the geranium. The geranium hadnt flowered in ages. June always meant to sort it out but never got round to it.
June. Im talking to you.
I can hear you, John.
She wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge, trying to think about dinner. Behind her, she heard his heavy, even steps, then the study door closing with a firm click. She let out the breath shed been holding.
She was fifty-eight, living in Manchester in a three-bedroom flat on Victory Street, married to John Parker for twenty-nine years now. They had one grown son, Tom, who lived in Birmingham and rang on Sundays if he remembered. There was a family cottage about twenty-five miles out, a car that John drove, and her job at the city library, where shed been senior librarian for eighteen years.
Life had been. No one could take that away.
She pulled out a chicken breast, set it on the chopping board, picked up her knife. Through the window, the little girl had disappeared; the pigeons too. The courtyard looked lonely, grey, and from the cracks in the tarmac, stray blades of last years grass poked through.
June found herself standing there, knife in hand, not cutting, just standing.
She put the knife down, returned to the windowsill, unscrewed the jar. The scent was subtle, with something floral hidden in it. She smoothed a bit over the back of her hand, rubbing it in. Her skin drank it up, and what lingered was an odd comfort, as if someone had held her hand for a moment.
She closed the lid and went back to the chicken.
That night was ordinary. John ate in silence, watched the news, and went to bed. June sat in the kitchen long after, with a cup of tea gone cold, leafing absently through an old gardening magazine. She didnt really read. Just sat.
At work the next morning, June found Lynne Cross in tears behind the periodicals shelf.
Lynne, whats wrong?
Lynne Cross was three years older than June, been at the library the longest, knew every books place by heart, and June had never seen her cry.
Its nothing, Lynne waved it off, dabbing her eyes. Sorry, its personal.
If you want to talk
Nothing to tell. She blew her nose and tucked away her tissue. My daughter rang last night. Says, Mum, youre out of date. Just like that. Out of date.
How do you mean?
Literally. I gave her some advice, like I always doabout talking to her husband, in my own way, you know, decently. She said, Mum, your advice is from the last century. You dont get how people live now. Lynne straightened a pile of magazines. Maybe shes right.
Shes not right, said June.
How would you know?
June didnt have an answer. They just stood there in the softly rustling air, which smelled of paper and old wood, until they drifted off to their separate corners.
At lunch, June went out for a walk. April was chilly but full of sun; she walked to the park, sat on a bench, closed her eyes. There was orange light through her eyelids. She thought about Lynne, about out of date.
Then she thought about herself.
June Parker, née Dawes, born in Stockport in 1966. Graduated from the teacher training college, did English and literature. Shed married at 29late for those days. John was an engineer. Serious, seemed reliable. Tom was born a year later. She took maternity leave, then part-time, then moved her mother in until she passed, went back to work. Life worked out. Neat, nothing in excess.
Somewhere in the neatness, June had lost something she couldnt name. She could feel itit had been there. Long gone now.
She opened her eyes. Opposite, the plum tree was in blossomtiny white flowers, impossibly delicate. June realised she hadnt drawn in about thirty years. At college, she used to sketch. Just for herself, with pastels. Then no time. Then felt silly. Then forgot.
She pulled out her phone and rang Tom. He picked up on the third ring, sounding busy.
Hi Mum, okay?
Fine, love. Just calling.
Actually, about to head into a meeting. Can I ring later?
Of course. Ring later.
He didnt. That was normal, too.
At six, June clocked out, bought a loaf at the bakery, and walked her familiar way home, thinking how shed taken this route every working day for eighteen years. She knew every crack in the pavement, every corner.
John was home first. At the computer, reading something. She hung up her coat and went to the kitchen.
Do you want dinner?
Later.
She put on a pan, found the leftover soup in the fridge. While the microwave hummed, she looked at the cream on the sill. Small, pretty jar. She thought John was right. Three pounds eighty. Why bother.
But then she rememberedit smelled nice.
So she left it there.
A couple of weeks went by. Nothing special, just the same routine. Then one day at the library, a woman came inher name was Fiona.
June noticed her straight away. Maybe forty-five, in a cherry-red coat, hair cropped short, standing straight. Fiona asked to join, said she was after some psychology books and something about watercolour painting, if possible.
Watercolours? June repeated.
Yes. Tried it a bit as a child. Id like to pick it up again.
June made her a library card and pointed her to the right shelves. Fiona wandered confidently, browsing, swapping books in and out. June kept an eye on her, thinking there was something about this woman she couldnt place. Some kind of self-possession. As though she was enough for herself.
Half an hour later, Fiona came to the desk with two books.
Do you read any of this yourself? she nodded at the psychology section.
Sometimes.
Have you worked here long?
Eighteen years.
Fiona looked at her, not judging, just listening.
Thats a long time, she said.
It is.
Do you like it?
June paused. The question was simple; the answer wasnt.
I do. I like the books. I like the people. Im used to it.
Used to it, Fiona echoed, testing how it felt. I see.
She took the books and left.
Next week, Fiona came back, returned one book, and asked about more watercolours. June found a slim album of reproductions and suggested it. Fiona took it and, almost as an afterthought, asked, Would you like to join me?
Join you?
Painting. I go to a Saturday watercolour class, small group, very easy-going. Come along?
June wanted to say no. She nearly did. But instead, she asked, Where is it?
Fiona jotted down an addressBright Space Studio, on Piccadilly Road, Saturday at eleven.
That evening, June stared a long time at the note, kept tucked in her apron, then set beside the hand cream. John didnt ask about it. These days, he only asked about money or errands.
On Friday night, she said over dinner, Im going to a painting workshop tomorrow. In the morning.
John looked up from his plate.
Where?
Piccadilly Road. Watercolours. A friend from the library invited me.
What friend?
New reader.
He ate, then put his fork down.
How much is it?
I havent checked.
I see. He sliced himself some bread. Go if youve nothing better to do.
Twenty-nine years of that. Again. What for. How much. Nothing better to do.
Alright, she said. Ill go.
The next morning, June got up at eight, washed, put on a grey jumper and navy trousers. She stopped, properly looked at herself in the mirrornot her usual quick glance. Her faceolder, but not bad. Grey eyes, still bright. Hair grey at the temples, but thick. She swept it back, tried it a new way. Put some hand cream on, a dab along her neck.
She left at nine, to give herself time.
The Bright Space Studio was on the first floor of an old buildingnothing special outside, but inside restored with white walls, wooden floors, big windows. June climbed the stairs and pushed open the door.
Fiona was already there, along with four other women, all ages, and one stocky man in a checked shirt. They sat at a long table, each with a sheet of paper and a water glass.
June! Fiona waved. You came!
June sat beside her. The tutor, a young woman named Zoe, said theyd be painting a lilac branch today. June took up a brush, and her hand tremblednot with nerves, just from being unused.
Dont aim for perfect, Zoe said. Think about the water and the colour. Nothing else.
June made her first stroke. The purple spread over the wet paper, mixing with blue. She tried a second, a third. She watched the paint flow, sometimes not quite where she meant, oddly beautiful. Beside her, Fiona frowned in concentration while the man used the tiniest brush and looked frustrated.
After an hour, June looked at her sheet. It didnt much look like lilac. Really, it was just a blur of purple and blue. But there was something alive there. Something shed made.
Thats lovely, said the older lady opposite, Grace.
Im not sure, June laughed.
I am. It has feeling.
Maybe. Maybe it did.
After, Fiona suggested coffee at a little café round the corner. June agreed. They sat by the window, drinks in hand, when Fiona said,
Did you enjoy it?
Surprisingly, yes.
I thought you might, Fiona smiled. You get a look in your eyeslike theres something you see but dont dare face.
June grew quiet for a moment, then asked, You been in Manchester long?
Three years. Moved from York after my divorce.
Oh.
It was hard, at first. Then better. Then interesting.
Interesting?
Being on my own. I found out all sorts about myself. She smiled warmly. Are you married?
Twenty-nine years.
Is it good?
June stirred her coffee, unnecessarily.
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
Fiona nodded, not pushing. That was nice.
At home, John was watching football, didnt ask how it went. June reheated her soup, ate alone in the kitchen. She pinned her blurry lilac beside the geranium.
The geranium seemed a bit livelier than last week. She looked more closelythere was a little red bud on one stem. June hadnt noticed before.
The next Saturday, she went to the art class again. Then the next. Fiona was always there. Soon, tea together after was expectedtheyd talk for half an hour, then longer. June talked about the library and favourite books. Fiona told of her job (she was an accountant at a small construction firm), about York, and her daughter who was still in York, learning French.
One day, June asked, Do you ever feel lonely here?
Sometimes. But its a different kind now, not like before.
How do you mean?
Fiona thought, lacing her fingers. Before, Id be next to someone, yet feel alone. Thats the worst kind. Now, Im alone, but not lonely. You see the difference?
June nodded. She didnt say it aloud, but inside she shifted, like ice on a river in springslow, heavy, but inevitable.
In May, the library was tasked with a community event. The head librarian, Margaret, gathered everyone.
We need ideas. Any suggestions?
Silence. June was quiet, but something was already sparking away.
How about a literary evening? Lynne offered. Reading aloud, discussing
We do that every year. Maybe something new.
What if it was about women? June said.
Everyone turned.
In what way? asked Margaret.
Their stories. Not fictional onesreal. We invite women from the community, all ages, and they talkabout whats changed in their lives or how things have gone. No fuss, just honestly. Maybe have their crafts on display if they do anything creativepainting, knitting, pottery, whatever.
Silence.
Different, Margaret said.
But lively.
And wholl run it?
I will, June answeredsurprising even herself.
Margaret eyed her thoughtfully. Alright, June. Lets try it.
June left the meeting and called Fiona straight away. Fiona laughed.
Well, well. You?
Me. Not sure why. It just came out.
Thats the best kind of decision. Count me in. Ask Grace too, from our class? She makes lovely pottery birds.
Grace was sixty-two, retired three years, now shaped little birds from clay and sometimes sold them at fairs. June rang her, and Grace agreed at once, though she did say, So long as I dont have to talk for agesI bumble my words.
June started planning. She did it in the evenings while John was in the study. Sat at the kitchen table with her notebook, scribbled and crossed out and scribbled again. Something was new about itshe was creating, not just maintaining.
One night, John came into the kitchen for some water, saw her at the table.
What are you writing?
Work. Event planning.
More library stuff.
Yes, library stuff.
He poured his water, standing over her.
Youre always busy these days.
Is that a problem?
He shrugged. Dinner was cold.
Sorry. Ill reheat it next time.
He left. June stared after him. Hed noticed cold dinner, not that shed come alive. Not that she was interested, excited. Just cold dinner.
She went back to her notebook.
The gathering was scheduled for the third Saturday in June. June recruited four womenFiona, Grace, an ex-geography teacher who wrote poetry, and Zoe the art tutor, the youngest of the group.
She made a flyer, pinned it up, sent a bit to the local paper. She worried no one would come. But on the day, the room was fullover thirty people, mostly women, all ages, some very young, one very old with her daughter.
June hosted herself. No long speechjust a few words, the main thing was to listen. Grace talked about retirement, the aimlessness at first, then how she found clay. I realisedmy hands still know what to do. Everyone laughed, gently.
Fiona described moving, starting from scratch at forty-six. The fear, and how it faded. Turns out, it wasnt newness I feared, but the familiar. June wanted to remember that line.
The poet, Christine, read two of her poems. Voice shaky at first, soon steady. Afterwards, everyone clapped.
While cleaning up with Lynne, who smiled and said, That went well, June. Really did.
Unexpectedly well.
Not unexpectedlyyouve always been good with people. You just never let yourself see it.
Really?
I know. Eighteen years working alongside you.
June found someones scarf, hung it up. Maybe Lynne was right. It was nice and stung a bitis this really the first time in eighteen years?
At home, John was already in bed. June changed quietly, poured herself water in the kitchen. The cream jar and her lilac painting stood on the sill. The geranium now had four red blooms.
June massaged the cream into her hands, slowly. She thought about Fionas line: I wasnt afraid of new, but of the routine.
In the morning, John asked, How did your night go?
Good. Lots of people turned out.
Did you even eat?
There was tea.
Tea isnt food. He was buried in his phone.
June poured coffee, stepped onto the balcony. Early morning, the courtyard was empty, scented with poplars. She stood there, thinkingJohn asked if shed eaten. That was care, perhaps, in his way. For twenty-nine years, shed mistaken that form for substance, never noticed that the substance had long since slipped away.
She didnt know. She was only just learning to look straight at things.
In July, Tom callednot on Sunday, but Wednesday, which was unusual.
Mum, hi. How are you?
Good, Tom. Is everything alright?
All fine. Thing isFiona messaged me. Found me through social media, said you did a wonderful job running an event, big success. I had no idea.
You never asked.
Silence.
Sorry, Mum. I really didnt ask. Tell me about it?
So June told him: about the art class, about Grace and her birds, about Christines poems, how the room had filled up. Tom listened; didnt interrupt. Then he said,
You know, youre brilliant. Seriously.
Thanks.
Have you been doing this long?
No, first time.
Should have, years ago.
Youre right, she agreed.
They were quiet. Then Tom asked, Mum, are you and Dad alright?
June looked out the window. The courtyard was overflowing with July light, two boys with a football.
Same as ever, she said.
And is that good or bad?
Im not sure yet.
Tom didnt ask more. Said hed come in August. They made plans. June waited a long time by the window afterward.
In August, Tom stayed four days. He looked like his dad but something gentlerhe listened, really listened. He brought cheese and nuts, sat at the table, took her in when she spoke.
One morning, when John was at the cottage, Tom said, Mum, youve changed.
How so?
Cant say exactly. Like youre more. Sorry, sounds weird.
No, it makes sense.
Are you happy?
June wrapped her hands round her mug. Coffee hot between her palms.
Yes. But its a bit scary.
How so?
When you start seeing yourself clearly, you start seeing everything clearly. Its not always comfortable.
Tom nodded.
Does Dad notice?
Dad notices cold dinners, June said quickly, and instantly wished she hadnt. Sorry, thats not fair.
No, its honest. Tom held her gaze. Have you told him what you need?
Not really.
Try.
Tom left. June changed the bedding, thinking about what hed saidtry. For twenty-nine years shed never really tried, not with her whole heart. Shed said things, but never about the important stuff. That, she kept quiet. Because it was easier. Because it was safe. Because John had a way of closing things down.
In September, Margaret called her inthe council wanted the event repeated, even bigger, for the whole library network. They would upgrade her pay too.
I accept.
Margaret smiled slightly. Youve changed this summer, June. Dont mind me saying.
I dont.
Its for the better. Youre more alive.
June went back to the desk. Greeted a regular who wanted detective novels, stamped books, made a note in the log. She stood in the reading room, looking at the shelves, tables, the big window spilling September light.
Eighteen years. Only now did she look at it as if she belonged. Not just a place she turned up. A place that was hers.
That autumn, things shifted at home. June couldn’t tell what came first. It all changed together, gently.
John noticed she came home later, went out on Saturday mornings, met up with women hed never met.
Whos this Fiona then?
My friend.
Since when do you have a friend?
Since February. She joined the library.
And nowevery week?
Nearly.
John looked at her. Something new therenot annoyance, not old dismissal. Something June hadnt seen before. She tried to work it out and suddenly recognised ituncertainty.
Im not stopping you, he said. Its just strange, you being so busy.
June sat opposite. For the first time in ages, she looked at him without her usual shield. She saw him as someone almost unfamiliar, though theyd lived side by side for thirty years.
John, are you pleased Im doing things outside work and home?
He was quiet.
I dont know. Maybe.
Maybe?
I saidits not what Im used to. He went to the window. You used to always be here. Now youre always off somewhere.
Im still here.
You are, but youre different.
She watched his backbroad, a bit stooped with age. Sixty-one. Hed gotten older and she hadnt noticed.
John, when did we last actually talkabout anything, not dinner, not the car? Just talked?
He turned.
We talk, dont we?
What about?
No answer. He watched something past her shoulder.
Exactly, June said, softly.
November brought cold and the big event. June spent three weeks preppingrounded up eight women this time, got a local artist to put on a little exhibition in the library. Fiona helped in everythingthey met nearly daily, be it at a café, in the library, or on walks by the canals when the weather allowed.
During a walk, June said,
I cant figure out how I lived before.
You just did, Fiona replied.
No, I meanI was locked deep inside, never stepped out. Why?
Its not about why, June. Thats just how it went.
But I couldve done things differently.
Fiona stopped, gazing out at the canalgrey, beautiful in its November starkness. Different only begins when it begins. Not before.
Im fifty-eight.
And?
Its a lot.
June. Fiona faced her. You serious?
Very.
Then Ill be serious too. Some women at thirty-five have shut up shop, convinced their lifes donemuseum pieces under glass. Youre just beginning at fifty-eight. I reckon thats exactly the right time.
June watched the water, a slow barge far off.
You know, she said, Ive painted every week for nine months now.
I know.
This morning I wrote my own speech for the event. In my own words. Not from a template.
You read it to me.
And its good.
Its alive. Thats better than good.
The event went ahead in November, a Friday. Over seventy people turned up. Standing room only. June opened with her speechher voice was steady, hands hardly trembling. She spoke about how inside every woman something waits, sometimes for years, to be noticed. That age doesnt lock doors; sometimes it opens ones we never knew were there. Not as a lessonjust saying what shed just figured out herself.
After, the oldest participantEvelyncame up. She was eighty-three.
Love, said Evelyn, were you talking about me?
All of us, June replied.
No, no. Me. I could feel it. I used to embroider when I was young. Gave it up, thought it was silly. Today I wondered, maybe Ill try again. Eighty-three! Ridiculous, isnt it?
Not at all.
Really?
Really.
Evelyn left, her daughter supporting her, going slowbut they were leaving with something more.
December drifted in quietly. June started leading her own little literary circle at the library, every Wednesday. Six, seven regulars, lively debates, sometimes so fierce she barely joined in herself.
At home, it was tense. Not angry, just stiff. John more silent than usual. She could tell he was thinking, but he didnt say.
Mid-December, Sunday night, she came into his study.
John, I need a proper chat.
Well, talk then.
No. Lets really talk. She pulled a chair by his seat.
He closed his book, face wary.
Ive lived for ages as if I almost wasnt here, June began. I mean, I was heresoup, work, the cottage, everythingthat was me. But deep down, I didnt exist. I know thats partly on me. I allowed it. But its also ushow weve been together.
John stared at the table.
Do you want to split up?
I dont know. I do know I need us to talk. Properly. I need you to see me. Not dinner, not clean shirtsme.
There was a long, long silence. It was snowing outside.
I dont know how, June, he said finally, softly. I wasnt taught.
I understand. She looked at his hands on his knees. Im not blaming you. I just want to tryto do things differently. And I need to know if you do too.
He was silent, watching the snow. Eventually he looked at her, and again, she saw that uncertaintyreal, unsteady.
Youve changed so much this year, he said.
I have.
I dont always understand you.
I know.
But I dont want I dont want you to go. From here. He meant the house. Everywhere.
June looked at himsixty-one, stooped shoulders, lost. Used to how things wereno clue about how theyd be.
Lets try, then, she said. No promises. But well try.
January came with cold and clear light. June went to the library, led her circle, painted on Saturdays. There were plenty of paintings now; Fionad taken a few; others hung on the kitchen wall near the geranium. The plant was flourishing now; shed finally repotted it right.
She saw Fiona lesswork troublebut they kept in touch.
One day, Fiona asked, June, have you thought about doing something bigger in the spring?
I have. I want an actual festival this time. A few days worth.
Thats a huge job.
I know. June paused. But I like big jobs.
Fiona laughed. Whod have guessed a year ago?
Who indeed.
With John, it stayed difficultbut now they spoke more often, honestly. Sometimes they got somewhere; sometimes he retreated and she let him, getting on with her own life.
In February, one night over dinner, John said, I went to the doctor last week. Had some checks done.
Were you worried?
Just standard. My blood pressure, sometimes. Tablets, nothing else.
Im glad you went.
Youre not going to ask why I didnt tell you sooner?
June set down her fork.
Why didnt you?
Didnt want to worry you. He looked up. Habit.
Youre in the habit of not worrying me?
Yes. Youre always busy these days.
June watched him, realising his words mattered somehow.
John. I want to know when youre not well. When you go to the doctor. I want to know. Do you understand?
I do. He nodded. Ill tell you.
And Ill tell you.
They fell quiet. Outside, February tossed snow and wind against the windows. Inside was warm, full of food smells. On the windowsill, the cream and a new little painting: a white apple blossom.
Thats nice, John said. Yours?
Mine.
He looked again. Youre good.
Im still learning.
Late FebruaryLynne rang, after nine on a weeknight.
Junesorry its late. My daughters here.
All okay?
Yes. Weve made up. Lynne was clearly smiling. She said she was wrong. Shouldnt have said I was out of date.
Are you happy?
Very. June, listencould I try your Saturday class? Watercolours?
Of course. Eleven oclock.
Im scared Ill be rubbish.
Everyone is at first. Thats the point.
Lynne came on Saturday. Held her brush the wrong way, first stroke too dark, second too waterlogged. She groaned.
June, look at this mess.
I am. I like it.
Its not a branch, its a splodge.
Its your first one.
You arent just cheering me up?
Lynne, Im serious. Next time itll be different.
Lynne looked at her paper, then burst out laughing.
Alright. Next time.
March brought the first hint of spring. June applied for the festival; the library bosses gave it the thumbs-up. Tom messagedhed be in town in April, wanted to see the event.
One night, John asleep, June sat at the kitchen table, jotting ideas in a notebook. Outside, snow was melting; the roof dripped. On the sill, the geranium was proudly in bloomthree red clusters and a bud about to open.
She looked at the cream jarempty now, but shed left it there. Bought a new one, same brand, same price. John didnt say anything.
She opened her notebook to a clean page and wrote at the top: What I know now that I didnt know a year ago. She looked at the heading, thought, then closed it. There was no need to write it down. Shed already absorbed it.
The phone ranglate, nearly eleven. June checked the screen. Fiona.
Everything alright? June asked straight off.
Alls well. Better, even. Fiona sounded differentbrighter, breathless. June, I have to tell you. Ive been offered a job in York. Good job, good pay. My daughters there. Im thinking about it.
June hesitated.
Do you want to go?
Im not sure yet. Thats why Im ringing. Say something.
About what?
What do you think?
June stared out at Aprils dark, rain-washed night.
I think you already know. Youve made up your mindyou just havent said it aloud.
Pause.
Probably, Fiona admitted. Yes.
So whats stopping you?
Leaving here. The art group. You. Grace with her birds. Christine and her poems.
Were not going anywhere.
Manchesters a long way from York, June.
Fiona, June toyed with her pen, remember what you said that day by the canal, in November?
What did I say?
Different begins when it begins.
Fiona laughed, softly. Smart, wasnt I?
Very. Still are.
Junecan I ask you something? Honestly?
Go on.
Are you happy?
June looked at her geranium, the cream, the sketches on the wall, her closed notebook.
Ive become myself, she said. I think that matters more.
Thats your answer?
It is.
Fiona was quiet.
Im glad for you then.
And I for you.
June
Yes?
What will you do if I go?
June looked at her clean notebook page.
Ill keep going, she said.
