Im washing up when my husband bursts in, shouting. His mother again. The distrust, again. Enough.
Why did you tell my mum all that stuff about our money?!
Helen Brown is standing by the sink, rinsing the last plate, when James explodes into the kitchen not walks, not pokes his head in, but absolutely storms through the door, fists clenched at his sides, face twisted. She jumps, nearly dropping the plate back into the suds.
What? James, whats wrong?
Dont what me! Explain! Whats going on?!
He stops in the middle of the kitchen. His shirt is rumpled, which is odd since Helen ironed it this morning. He always gets like this when hes angry: twitchy, sharp, pacing for no reason.
Your mum just called. Told me: James, your wifes moved the money youve been saving for the car. Where is it? Whats she talking about? Are you going to explain, or not?
Helen turns the tap off, removes her yellow rubber gloves slowly and sets them on the edge of the sink. Her heart is pounding not in her chest, but in her throat.
James, wait. What money? What are you actually talking about?
Dont act like you dont know! Mum said you withdrew a big sum. What was it for and where did it go?
From which account?
Our joint account!
James. Calm down and listen.
I am calm!
He says it so forcefully that the glasses in the dishwasher almost rattle. Helen looks at him red in the face, his eyes that cold, panicky kind of angry. She knows this look. Its rare, but she hates it every time.
I havent withdrawn anything from our account, James. Thats the first thing.
Then whats Mum talking about?
Helen leans back against the sink. Outside, its a sunny, normal Sunday afternoon; she was only an hour ago thinking about buying new wallpaper and finally moving that bedside table to the window. Now this.
James, I think your mums misunderstood something.
My mum doesnt get these things wrong!
Everyone gets things wrong sometimes, James.
Dont you have a go at her! She said she saw a statement, saw the actual figures!
What statement? Did you show her our account?
The words slip out before she can stop them. Its a sore topic. Cynthia Brown has been used to knowing everything about their lives for years, and James thinks thats perfectly fine. Shes family, after all.
I didnt show her. She asked, and I mightve told her a bit.
A bit.
Helen! Dont change the subject! Why are there transfers from your name on Dads phone?
Then she gets it. The penny drops. Helen sighs, walks over to the table, sits on the kitchen stool.
Sit down, please. Lets just talk properly.
Im standing.
Fine. James, listen. Dad bought a car last month. You knew about this.
What car?
Oh, come on, James. I told you. Dad wanted a secondhand Ford, for going to the allotment. Hes on his own down there, only one bus a day and sometimes not even that. No car’s a nightmare.
And what?
Dad cant use the apps. He barely trusts cards, you know what older folks are like. Says: I prefer cash, scared of getting scammed. I explained the seller takes transfers. So he gave me the money in cash, I put it on my card, transferred it to the seller. Thats all. That’s the big secret.
James stays silent.
It was his money, James. I havent touched whats ours. He handed me the cash, I did the transfer for him. Nothings wrong here.
Why didnt you tell me?
Because its Dads business. Am I supposed to report every move my father makes to you?
If its going through our account, yes!
Hes my Dad, not a stranger.
Still! Am I your husband or not?! What am I to you?
That what am I just hangs between them. Helen gazes at him, long and hard. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, less red now but still worked up, and suddenly, she just feels exhausted. Not just from this, but all of it, for a long time.
Youre my husband, James. But youve just barged in and started on me without even asking. You believed everything she said. And here I am, explaining myself.
I didnt start on you.
James.
Maybe I raised my voice a bit…
You were shouting.
He looks away, eyes falling on that old holiday photo on the fridge the two of them, younger, mid-laugh. Then out the window.
Alright. Maybe a little.
A little, she repeats quietly. Not mocking, just echoing.
Helen, look, Mum rang and started making out like… I just lost my head.
What exactly did she say?
That you’d transferred loads of money. Just out of our account.
Does she know how much Dads car cost?
How would I know.
Exactly. Neither do I. But somehow, she knows, or at least thinks she does. And off she trots to you. And you come and have a go at me, rather than ask.
I was only trying to sort it…
Helen stands up, goes to the window. Out there, the birch trees are that bright, lime spring-green, the air probably feels fresh. Next doors cat is perched on the fence, staring at something only cats can see.
James, I have to say this, dont get upset.
Go on.
Im not happy that your mother knows nearly as much about our finances as we do. I understand you trust her shes your mum. But weve got our own life. She calls you about my supposed bank transfers, and you come running; thats… thats not normal, James.
You just dont like her.
Its not about that at all.
It is, though. You always blame Mum the minute anything happens.
Helen closes her eyes, lets out a long breath.
Three years ago, your mum rang you up about my food shop, said I was spending too much. Remember?
Vaguely…
She took all the Tesco receipts, sat and added up every single thing. Said I was buying wasteful stuff. Then you came to me and said, Helen, maybe you could spend a bit less on food? You remember that?
She was only trying to help…
She wanted to know exactly what we spent. Thats what it was.
Youre being unfair.
Fine. Last year. I was late back from work, finishing the end-of-quarter figures. Got home half nine. Your mum called you and hinted, Whats Helen doing so late, eh? Remember what you said to me?
James grimaces.
Well…
You said, Helen, you sure you were just working late? First time youd ever asked like that, after all these years.
Just checking…
You never used to just check. You trusted me. Now, your mum whispers something and you think twice.
Helen…
And then, your mum once saw me walking with Tom Wilkins. He helped me back from Co-Op when I couldnt carry all the bags. Hes our neighbour, weve lived in the same block for fifteen years. Do you remember what she told you?
James just nods.
She said I was with some bloke, made a point of calling him some man. You barely even spoke to me for three whole days. Over nothing. Because a neighbour helped me home.
I didnt think the worst…
You did. You just didnt say it out loud.
He turns to her, meets her eyes. Theres something new there not anger, but confusion.
Helen…
I dont want to argue, James, honestly I dont. But this isnt the first or even the second time. Every time, you listen to her, come at me with it. No questions, no hesitation, just straight at me.
She doesnt mean any harm.
Maybe not. But every time, the result is you looking at me with suspicion. I end up proving myself, again. Im tired, James. Honestly.
So what are you asking for? Dont talk to my mum anymore?
No. Just talk to me first, thats all.
She says it plainly, no tears, no shouting. Just says it, and for that it lands heavy, like a paperweight on the table.
James stares at her, then at the floor, then at her again.
Helen, I didnt know about your dad…
You couldve just asked. Just come in and say, Helen, Mum said this, whats really going on? Thats it, thats all it would take.
Well…
But you barged in, shouting. Like I was already guilty.
He falls silent. The kitchen is suddenly quiet, the fridge humming, sun striping the linoleum, as if it couldnt care less about their row.
Helen looks at James, thinks how shes been with him nearly twenty-six years. Theyve raised a son, lost his dad, moved house again and again, struggled for money, for health, all sorts. She knows every line on his face, knows how he snores, how he drinks his tea with both hands, how hes genuinely kind, and how he loves her. Knows it all.
And even so, here they are.
Please leave, James.
He flinches.
What?
I just need you to leave the kitchen. I need some time alone.
Helen, dont…
Please.
He stands there a second longer. Then quietly slips out. She hears him walk down the hallway. The living room door creaks shut.
She turns back to the sink. Picks up the dish, starts scrubbing again. Her hands work automatically while she stares out the window, thinking shell call Emma Emma Smith, her friend from college, always willing to listen, never quick with advice.
Or maybe she wont. Maybe shell just pack a bag and go. Sit for a while, catch her breath. Because right now, in this bright kitchen with the fridge humming and the sun streaming in, she feels she just cant take any more.
She packs slowly. Her hands feel clumsy. Opens the wardrobe, stares absently, pulls out a jumper and puts it in her bag. Then takes it out and finds the grey one Emma always likes. Then she remembers: her phone chargers still in the kitchen.
Going to the kitchen feels awkward. Not because James is there she hears the TV flick on in the lounge, then off just because talking, or not talking, both feel equally heavy now.
She steps quickly into the kitchen, grabs her charger, turns to go.
Where are you off to? James stands in the living room doorway.
Emmas.
Why?
I just need to.
Helen, hang on. Youre upset…
Yes, Im upset. Exactly.
Cant we talk?
We just did. For half an hour. Ive said everything.
I mean, talk properly.
She looks at him. The bags in her hand, shes still in her jumper, standing in the hall.
Now you want to talk, after you barged in screaming.
I wasnt screaming!
James.
He closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead.
Okay. Maybe… Dont leave, Helen. Its childish.
Is it just children who go for walks? Remember our Sam, when we told him off, hed lock himself in the bathroom for hours. Proper child, he was.
Sam was different.
Of course. James, Ill be back soon. I just need some space.
Youll go, be angry, and Ill just sit and stew?
Watch TV if you like.
Helen!
She zips up her coat.
You dont trust me. After twenty-six years, you dont trust me. Thats what really stings. Not the shouting. This.
He says nothing.
I’ll be home later. Or tomorrow. I dont know yet.
Shes already got her hand on the latch. Hes standing there, lost. She hasnt seen him look like this in years, probably a decade. Hes bigger these days, a bit grey at the temples, just standing in the hall, not sure what to do.
Helen, he says softly. Helen.
She goes.
The door closes behind her. James stands in the hall. Then he goes into the lounge, sits, stands, then sits again.
His phone is on the table. He stares at it. Two unread messages from his mother: Well? Talked to her? and James, call me.
He picks up the phone, holds it, then suddenly gets up, goes to the kitchen, stands looking out. Birch trees gently sway, the sunny day sliding into early evening, still bright. Next doors little terrier is darting around the garden.
He dials another number.
Peter Smith? Its James. Afternoon.
Oh! Jimmy, mate! Her dads voice sounds hearty, a little surprised. You all right? Everything okay?
Just wanted to check. You bought a car last week?
Yup her dad laughs, sharp and dry. Picked up a secondhand five-year-old Ford for nothing much, bloke was decent. Feel like a lord now, all set. Helen sorted the payment for me cant be doing with these bank apps, you know me.
James stays silent.
Jimmy? Lost the signal?
No, Im here. Peter, so that was all your money?
Of course, son! Whose else? Helen did me the favour handled it all, quick as a flash. Good girl, your wife. Swing by some time, I baked some apple turnovers, dont tell Helen or shell moan Ive put too much sugar in. He chuckles.
I will. Thanks, Peter.
No worries. See you soon, lad.
James hangs up, sets the phone on the table, pauses, then sits and buries his face in his hands.
Idiot.
Thats what he is a prize idiot.
Mum rings, puts ideas in his head, and then he storms at Helen, whod done nothing wrong. Who only helped her dad, because thats what she always does helps everyone who cant manage.
And him, too.
He sits there, remembering her standing at the sink in those rubber gloves, calmly peeling them off, talking in that flat, measured way but with eyes he hadnt seen that look before, but now its clear. She wasnt angry. She was done. Just exhausted.
She was right about the receipts.
And right about Tom Wilkins. Three days of the silent treatment, and he told himself it was just a mood, but if hes honest, Mum had talked on and on about Tom, no smoke without fire and all that, and something sour coiled up in his gut.
Helen came in, put her shopping down, said she was tired, and he just kept quiet. Next day too. And the next.
She never even asked what was wrong. Shed just understood.
He picks up the phone. Calls his mum.
James! Finally! So? You talked to her? She explained herself?
Yeah, Mum. She did.
And?
They were Peters savings for a car. His, not ours. Helen just helped with the transfer Peter told me straight just now. All fine.
Silence.
That doesnt change anything, Mum says tightly. You should still know whats going through your bank.
Mum.
No, listen. I worry about you. What if shes…
Mum, wait, he says quietly, firmer than he expects. Listen to me. I need to say something important, just hear me out.
Go on then.
You were out of order. You called me up with half the facts, and then I went and took it out on Helen. Now shes left the house. Because I was a fool.
James, I didnt…
Mum. He stops her again, softly, but certain. This isnt the first time. You ring and say things about Helen, and I end up questioning her. And it always turns out not to be how you said. I cant live like this. I have to live with Helen, you get that? With her.
Im just looking out for you…
I know, Mum, I love you, but its got to stop. If you ever spot something, if youre worried, just say: James, can you check? Just ask me to check. Dont go off at me with facts and evidence.
So youre picking her over me now.
Its not about sides, Mum. Its about me and Helen. Thats it.
Theres a pause. He can hear her breathing.
Thats it, Mum. Ive said my bit. Love you. Speak to you soon.
He hangs up before she can reply. Sits there, the phone staring back. Shell phone back, or not, but shell be hurt she does proper sulks, long slow ones. But hell say it again if he has to. Shouldve said it years ago. Thats his fault, not just hers.
He calls Helen.
Long beeps. Then voicemail.
He turns the phone off. Walks to the window. The birches stand still now winds dropped, pale green against a blue and clear sky.
He drums his fingers, paces the hallway. Grabs his coat and heads for the door.
Emma Smith opens the door, surprised for a second, then takes one look at Helen and just nods.
Come on in she says, putting the kettle on without fuss.
Emmas kitchen is always warm, floral curtains, her old tabby Max curled in a patch of sun, the rich, homely smell of baking. Helen sips tea in silence, Emma doesnt press, just waits.
Im so tired, Em Helen says at last.
I can see.
Not from the argument itself. Its not just a fight. Arguments pass. This is something else.
Whats that, then?
Helen wraps her hands around her mug, soaking in the warmth.
He doesnt trust me. Just plain doesnt, after all these years. His mum says a word, and Im guilty before I open my mouth.
He does trust you, love, Emma tries gently. His mums just well, you know what Cynthias like.
I do. But its his choice, Em. Not hers. Every time, he decides do I go to her, or to Helen? And every time, its her first.
Emma sighs.
Im not asking him to cut off his mum. Im not a monster. He can love her, visit, help out. I just want our house to be normal. For me to hear his concerns first, not get told off for something I havent even done.
Did you tell him that?
I did.
And?
I left.
Emma tops up her tea.
Probably right. Let him think for a bit.
Im scared, though.
Of what?
Helen hesitates.
That nothing will really change. Hell say sorry, promise, but next time she calls round we go again. I cant do this forever.
People can change, Helen.
Slowly. Or not at all. How do you know?
Emma has no answer. Some questions just hang in the air forever, and you have to learn to live with them.
Max rolls over on the windowsill. A car goes by outside.
Right, Helen says, setting down her cup. Time to go.
Where to? Home?
Home. Can’t hide here, can I? Got plenty to do.
Has he called?
Helen checks her phone. One missed call, James.
He has.
There you go.
Doesnt mean anything says Helen, but she stands up and gets her coat.
She rides the tram, staring out the window. The city is muddy from winter, but alive: people with shopping bags, kids on bikes, an old chap feeding pigeons on a bench.
She thinks about her dad. Must visit next week, see how hes coping. Now hes got the car, maybe more independent just hope his health holds up.
She thinks about Sam, her son, who lives in another town, rarely phones but when he does its always a bright spot. Grown into a good lad, lovely wife, a grandchild possibly on the way.
She thinks about wallpaper. Pale yellow or beige? Probably beige cosier.
The tram arrives. Her stop.
She gets off.
The door to the flat isnt locked.
Helen pauses on the doorstep. Odd James always locks up. She steps inside, hangs her coat.
James?
In here his voice comes from the living room, quieter than usual.
She heads in. Hes on the sofa, no telly on, just sitting, hands on his knees. Two mugs sit on the table. Tea or coffee, she cant tell yet.
He looks up at her.
Youre back, he says.
Im back.
She lingers in the doorway. He gets up, sits back down, flounders a moment.
Helen, I called your dad.
I know. He texted me.
Hes a good man.
He is.
Offered me pies.
He would.
An awkward silence stretches between them. She sits at the far end of the sofa, picks up a mug. Coffee.
Did you call your mum? she asks.
He hesitates.
I did.
And?
Said this has to stop well sort things ourselves.
Helen looks at him.
Really?
Really. Shes upset, of course. Didnt hang up, but… you know her tone.
I do.
Itll blow over he says, not quite sure, but not afraid either. Shouldve said it long ago.
Helen cups the warm coffee, watches him. Hes hunched, rumpled, real. Not heroic, but there, not running away.
Im sorry, Helen, he says. I was an idiot. Didnt think. Mum called, and off I went. It was stupid.
It was.
I know. He sighs. Fancy a bit of decorating? You talked about wallpaper today.
James…
No, really. Pick whatever colour you like, well do the lot. And lets book a holiday youve been saying you want by the sea for years.
James, its not a holiday I need.
I know, he sighs again. I just… I dunno what to offer. My heads all over.
Helen sets her cup down.
I dont want much. She speaks slowly. I just need you to trust me. Thats it. It really isnt hard.
I do trust you.
Today you trusted your mum.
Hes silent.
Today, you got it wrong.
Once, alright. But its not the first time, and I worry it wont be the last.
It wont happen again.
Wait, James. You say it wont. But youve said that before, if youd thought. I dont want empty promises. I want us to make a deal.
He frowns.
What deal?
She turns slightly.
Next time your mum says anything about me, just come and ask: Helen, is this true? Thats all. One question. Ill answer. Deal?
Hes quiet, thinking.
Yeah, he says. Deal.
Really?
Really.
They sit, side by side. The distance is small now, twenty centimetres, maybe less. Not touching, but no longer distant.
Outside, dusk falls. Birches stand quiet in the deepening blue.
You know she wont stop says Helen quietly. Cynthia. She’ll sulk for a month, then phone again.
I know, he agrees.
Every time?
Yeah.
How will you deal with it?
He doesnt answer at first, thinking. She likes that he doesnt blurt, just sits with it.
I dont know he admits. I love my mum, but you’re right: she pokes her nose in. Ill need to see her. Sit down, talk not just phone.
Shell cry.
She will, he agrees. Doesnt mean Im wrong.
Helen studies him, looks away.
You realise this isnt going away quick?
I do.
And shell always think Im at fault?
She might says James, tired but steady. But Im living my life with you. Not her.
She nods.
Her coffees grown cold. She sips it anyway.
Wallpaper, she says, out of nowhere.
Sorry?
Beige maybe. Or pale yellow. Havent decided.
He glances at her, cracks a half-smile.
Both nice.
We should go to the shop, look at samples.
Lets go he says. When you like.
She nods again. They sit, darkness pressing against the glass, but the lamp is warm, the room filled with a worn, everyday comfort.
Things arent fixed. She knows storms will come again, the same rows, the same defences, and James will have to prove new words with actions, not just promises.
But right now, here they are, side by side on the old sofa. And thats something.
James she says.
Yes?
Top up my coffee. Hot, please.
He rises wordlessly, picked up her mug, heads for the kitchen. She hears him out there, the kettle burbling, the sound of the machine.
She sits and gazes out at the night, thinking: life is exactly this not all joy, but not all hardship, either. Its tiredness, unfinished sentences, silly and not-so-silly resentments. But youre still together. Still holding on.
Hes back, two steaming mugs in hand, sits down, hands her one.
Thanks, she says.
Youre welcome.
Theyre quiet. Then James, tentatively, lays his hand over hers. She doesnt pull away.
About that deal, Helen. You said: just come and ask directly. That simple, yeah?
Just come and ask.
And youll answer?
I will.
He nods slowly.
Not hard, is it? he murmurs, almost as if testing the idea.
No she agrees. Not hard at all.
A car drifts by, headlights glancing off the glass. The coffee is hot and sweet. Tomorrow shell call Dad about the car, see how its running.
And on Sunday, theyll go pick out wallpaper.
