No Going Back
Hope set her teacup on the table and looked over at her husband. He was standing in the hallway in front of the mirror, fiddling with the collar of his brand-new shirt. It was one of those fitted, checked ones youd expect on a 25-year-old just out of university, not on a man whod be fifty in a months time.
George, are you off to work or?
Work. Where else? he called over his shoulder.
Just asking. Its not what you usually wear, is all.
He turned around. Something about his look was different these daysjust slightly detached, just a bit impatient. Like he was in a rush and she happened to be in the way.
People refresh their wardrobes, Hope. Perfectly normal.
Im not saying anything
Exactly. Youre not saying anything. But youre looking.
He grabbed his coatnot the familiar grey one that had occupied the peg for seven years, but a new, short, navy one. She watched him go, then collected her cup and went into the kitchen. Outside, early March sulked on in its trademark wet and grey. On the windowsill sat her geraniumthe one she watered every Tuesday. Its leaves were thick and evenly shaped, smelling sharply, if comfortingly, like home. Hope leaned her forehead against the glass. The last time she and George had done anything together was back in Octoberoff to the theatre for a play shed loved, but hed been silent the whole way home.
Twenty-five years. Shed stopped counting in days a very long time ago.
Hope worked as a bookkeeper for a small construction firm on the edge of Leeds. It was a quiet, predictable jobsame faces, same jokes, comfortable as a well-worn slipper. She was well-thought-of; even people older than her called her Miss Hope. She was neat, dependable, never late, never left early. Her flat was just as orderly: the linen tablecloth changed every Sunday, always striped and freshly ironed; her housecoat, a milky cream, three years old but still cherished; her evenings spent with a book and a mug of tea with blackcurrant jam shed made that August. Life, well-stitched as a favourite dress: nothing out of place, not too tight, not too loose.
Georges transformation started somewhere around February. He joined a gym, which would have been fine if not for the way he announced it at dinner. Not, Ive decided to get healthier, but, Im fed up of being in bits. Hope brushed it offmen turning fifty all buy running trainers, she reckoned. Shed read about itmen in midlife crisis. All those dumbbells and diets, the need to prove the fun wasn’t over yet. Let him get on with it. Might do him some good.
But then, the aftershave appearedsharp, sickly sweet, synthetic. Not at all like what hed always worn. He used to smell of subtle woods and soap; this one lingered in the hall long after he’d left. Hope once picked up the bottle in the bathroom to check the name. Made-up something, in a black and silver bottle. She put it back without comment.
Then came a new shirt. Then another. Then jeanstight and distressed at the knees, spotted when she was tidying the wardrobe. Fancy brand, not cheap. She hung them back and quietly closed the door.
By March he was home latefirst once a week, then more. Ordinary excuses: a meeting, having to stay late on a project, stopping by a mates. Hope listened and nodded. Trust was just a habit after twenty-five years; what would be the point otherwise?
But something tugged at her, quietly, persistently. Not loudly, just there like an old scar under cold water.
In April, she noticed he treated his phone differently. Before, hed leave it lying about. Now, it never left his pocket, and any time it rang, he slipped into the hallway. Once, she walked into the kitchen and he flipped it over, face down, and offered to help her with dinner (hed never offered to help with dinner before).
Her friend Susan, from uni days, gave it to her straight.
Hope, dont you see it? Classic. Mens midlife crisis. My Paul bought a motorbike at forty-eight, wore a leather jacket everywhere for three months. Got bored, then flogged the lot.
George isnt like that.
Theyre all not like thatuntil they are.
Susan, dont get me going.
Im not. Justkeep your eyes open.
Hope watched. And the more she watched, the less she understood what she was supposed to see. He was there, eating, sleeping, talking about leaky taps and work. Everything seemed normal. Yet nothing was. He felt foreign now, not cold, not crueljust absent. As if he spoke only for politeness sake, while his mind wandered elsewhere.
One evening she asked, as they sat in the kitchen with tea. Shed poured his first, as always, set out a plate of biscuits.
George, are you alright?
Fine.
You seemdistant lately.
He looked up from his mug.
Im tired, works a nightmare at the moment.
I see. Just checking in.
All fine, he repeated, grabbing a biscuit.
May was warm. Hope bought her usual petunias from the old lady at the market. Red and white ones, lined up along the balcony. She watered them every morning, checked how they bloomed. It was her quiet pleasure, asking nothing, telling no tales.
George came in around midnight several times that May, blaming work dinners. Hope didnt argue. She lay awake, listening to him bumbling around the bathroom and the creak of the bedroom floorboard. Getting back to sleep wasnt easy.
One night, she couldnt help herself.
George, is there someone else?
He went quiet. Too quiet for a plain, No.
Why do you think that?
Just asking.
Dont be silly, Hope.
Alright, she said. And stopped asking.
But inside, things shifted. Not snapped, not broken, just moved, like a dresser nudged out of placemaking everything a little off.
Summer came and George started spending nights at a friends now and again. First once, then again. Hope packed his shirts in a carrier bag and didnt say a word. Perhaps Susan was right, and this was just a phase. Men at this age can get lost then eventually find their way back. You dont just toss away twenty-five years.
Mid-July, he sat opposite her at their kitchen table, wearing the checked shirt shed first noticed back in March. He interlocked his fingers, stared out the window. The geranium sat on the sill; Hope sat with her tea, waiting. Maybe shed known what hed say for a while now.
Hope, we need to talk.
Im listening.
Im leaving.
She lowered her cup. The tea was still hot, warming her palms.
For someone?
He hesitated.
Her names Amelia. Shes twenty-two. We met six months back.
On the balcony next door, someone watered flowers, drops falling with steady rhythm.
So, since February, Hope said.
Roughly.
When you started buying new shirts.
Hope
Im not blaming you. Merely putting pieces together.
He looked sheepish, surprisedmaybe expecting tears or shouting, something thatd make him feel justified.
You dont understand, he said. I want to feel alive again. I need to believe I still have something ahead. Look at us, Hope. Were like old fogeys.
Youre forty-nine, George.
Exactly.
I dont get what you mean, exactly.
He stood. Wandered about, put his empty cup in the sinka pointless action, avoiding her gaze.
Were like housemates, you know? Same old, every day. Tablecloth, geranium, tea at the same hour. Its just dull, Hope. Its not living, its stagnating.
Its home, she said, very quietly. Its what I built over twenty-five years.
I know. Im gratefulhonestly I am. But I cant do it anymore.
She stared, realising she didnt really know this mannot because hed changed, but maybe because hed always been like this and shed only ever seen what she wanted to see.
Will you take your things today?
He blinked, not expecting that.
No, Ill do it over the week.
Fine.
She poured out the rest of her tea, put her cup next to his. Picked up a towel, dried her hands, and left the kitchen. She opened the window in the front room. Outside was warm, smelled of sun-warmed tarmac and just a hint of lime from the nearby park. She breathed in, thinking shed water the petunias tomorrow. That the butter was nearly out in the fridge.
Sometimes, little practical thoughts save you better than any grand words.
The first few weeks after he left felt strange. Not heavy as suchshe still got up, ate, went to work, watered the flowers. But something in the flat had shifted, the noise of everyday life muted. No more his things cluttering the bathroom; the hall coat peg looked bare. Hope bought an extra hook and hung her tote bag so there wouldnt be a gap.
Susan showed up that first weekend with a cabbage pie and stayed till dusk.
How are you actually doing?
Im fine.
Hope, be serious.
I am. Itsbad, but fine. Does that make sense?
It does, Susan said. Did he even give you a decent explanation?
The usual. Claimed wed become old fogeys and lived in a swamp.
A swamp?
A swamp.
It was his own swamp, not yours.
Hope topped up her tea. It was getting dark. The kitchen lamp glowed warmly, pie on a wooden board, cosy and homely. She thought, well, she certainly knows how to make things snug. She still had it, that gift, even if now sharing wasnt necessary.
Susan, shes twenty-two.
I heard.
Im not jealousits just odd maths. When I was twenty-two, George was already a grown-up. Now hes with someone the same age as I was back then.
He wants his youth back. Men always do.
Time doesnt rewind.
No. But hell learn that the hard way.
Hope stayed silent. There was something she too needed to learn, but she didnt yet know what. Just a sense that everything inside was slightly offlike that shifted dresser. The room was the same, but moving around felt awkward.
She told no one at work. Colleagues noticed she was quieter, but shed never been a chatterbox; no one questioned it. The young assistant Katie once asked if she was alright. Hope said she was just tired. Katie brought her a coffee from the machine, unexpectedly kind.
August drifted by in a kind of stuporneither good nor bad, just stunned. Hope made jam as usual. The scum went into its own jar, later eaten with white bread. The blackcurrants this year were fat and sweet. The jars stood in orderly rows in the pantrya strange reassurance. Life went on, regardless.
Once, George phoned to arrange picking up his things. He came on a Saturday morning. Gathered up books, tools, a folder of paperwork. Stood in the kitchen for a moment, glanced at the table and the geranium.
How are you?
Im fine.
Dont be cross with me.
Im not, George. Im just living.
He nodded and left. She heard his steps fade on the stairwell. Then she went to the kitchen and cooked herself scrambled eggsthree eggs, bit of parsley. Ate, washed up. Checked the petunias, already fadingSeptember was coming quickly.
The divorce was dealt with in October. No drama, barely a flicker. She hired a good solicitor, a brisk young woman with tired eyes and swift hands, who sorted it all quickly. The flat had been in Hopes name since before the marriagenothing much to divvy up. George didnt contest. Maybe the new life didnt allow time to haggle over the old one.
Hope left the court, stood on the steps. It was grey out, a drizzle falling. She turned up her collar and walked to the bus stop. On the way, she bought a plaited poppy-seed loaf. At home she brewed tea, sliced the bread. Sat eating, watching leaves drift past the window as autumn did its thing.
Relationship psychology suggests the true end comes long before official separation, she later read somewhere online. Seemed about right. The real break came back whenever shed noticed his silences after the theatre, the phone turned face-down. She just hadnt wanted to admit it.
November brought the cold and a new routine. Hope joined a watercolour groupsomething shed wanted for years but never got round to. Every Wednesday shed go to a small local studio that smelt of paint and paper, where nobody knew her story. Her pictures were dreadfulblotches and odd-shaped treesbut she loved it, the calm of mixing blue and water.
Her tutor, an old woman in silver earrings, once said, Youre far too careful with your colours. Be bold. The paper can take it.
Hope thought you could say that about most things.
Susan phoned weekly, popped round sometimes. They talked work, books, the world. Gradually, talk of George fadedshorter every time. Hope noticed this with quiet satisfaction. Not because she didnt care, but because her life was re-filling, claiming the space his leaving had left.
Sometimes she caught herself pondering that age-old questionwhat did I do wrong?when husbands go off with someone young. But every time, she never came up with an honest answer. Shed kept a good home, been loyal, never made a fuss, did her job, never asked for too much. Maybe that was the troubleshed thought it was enough.
But then the question would slip away. Because, if she was honest, she didnt know what shed want to do differently.
Winter was snowy. Hope bought new bootsdark burgundy, low-heeled, comfortable. A colleague complimented them. Just a throwaway comment, but it warmed her all day.
In January, Susan rang, her voice tight, anxious.
Hope, are you sitting down?
Im making supperwhats up?
Heard anything from George?
No, we dont talk.
Hes not well. Heart attack. Some club, apparently.
Hope turned off the hob.
Really?
Really. Tamara from his office rang me. Collapsed on the dance floor. Ambulence had to come.
Is he alive?
Alive, yes. In hospital. Was a heavy one, though.
Hope said nothing for a while. Outside, snow was drifting slowly.
Hows he even been living these months?
Well, by all accounts, actively. The girlAmeliaout every night. Clubs, parties, no proper sleep. Still in the gym, overdoing it. His heart wasnt built for that, was it?
No, not really.
Hope, are you going to
I dont know yet.
She hung up and stood by the window. Children were building a snowman in the courtyard. She watched, trying to untangle her feelings. There was unease, a deep tiredness, andsomewhere at the bottoma tiny, awkward relief that she was here, not there.
Next day she phoned the hospital, doubled checked the wardvisiting hours allowed.
That evening she packed a bag: plain mineral water, some apples, a few home baked biscuits shed made for herself. She zipped up her coat and set off.
The hospital smelled like all hospitalsbleach, something institutional, a suggestion of worry that hung above the corridors. Hope found the ward and was shown in by a tired young nurse.
She entered quietly. Four beds, three empty, George by the window. Hed changed in these monthsor maybe shed only just started to really look. Thinner, sallow-skinned, dark bags under the eyes. Not an older man back to life, but an older man whose adventure had worn him out.
He blinked as he recognised her.
Hope
Hello, George.
She placed the bag on his table, pulled up a chair.
I didnt think youd come.
Well, I have.
He watched her closely. There was a lot in his eyes but she didnt bother unpacking it.
Howre you feeling?
Better. Yesterday was grim. Another week here, apparently.
Thats good. Best stay put.
Hope he hesitated, fiddled with the blanket, Amelia hasnt come. I rang her when I got here. She said shed come. But nothing.
Hope looked at the apples, then at him.
I know.
How?
I guessed.
He closed his eyes. Silence again.
I was an idiot, Hope.
Sounds about right.
Not just probably. Definitely. I dont know what came over me. Looking at that girlmade me think I was young again. Do you get it?
I do.
Turns out, I was just an old fool, pitied till the money ran out.
Hope said nothing. Outside, the winter sky was bright. Snow on the sill, neat as linen.
Hope, I want to say sorry.
No need for big speeches. Youre ill, rest.
No, listenI need you to know. I kept comparing you to her. Should have been grateful instead. You made a home; I called it a swamp. Unfair, wasnt it?
She watched his hands on the blanket. Those she knew by heart. Twenty-five years, and hands dont change nearly as much as faces.
Hope. I want to come home.
The silence was thick.
Did you hear me?
I heard.
I want to come back. I realise nowwithout you, that was actually life. What I went looking for wasnt real.
Hope walked to the window, stared at a bare tree where a grey pigeon sat. She wondered: what did she feel for him now? She searched that space, and found only calm. Not icy, not unkind. Just calmthe kind that comes after something hurts for so long it finally stops.
George, she said, still facing away, youll be alright. Theyll patch you up, youll get stronger. Youll be fine.
Thats not what I mean
I know what you mean. She turned. Im glad you called. But I wont come back.
He watched her. His face almost caved in.
Why not?
She thought how to be honest without being cruel.
Because I feel sorry for you now. I care about you, I do. But not in the way it takes to live together. Do you see?
But you might, in time
No. Some things dont come back, George. Not because I dont want them, but because they’re not there. Water doesnt return to a dried-up well.
Hope, please.
I came because I still care. I brought you apples and water. Thats realI feel that. But I cant resurrect whats dead. Its not about resentment. It just isnt there anymore.
He closed his eyes. Lay quiet a long time. Then, softly:
I understand.
Good.
She fetched her coat, straightened her collar.
Ill let the nurse know to look out for you. Ring your son. He should hear from you.
He and I arent close.
Call him. Hes your son.
She picked up her bag. At the door, she glanced back:
The apples are Jonagoldgood ones. Eat up.
She left, shutting the door quietly.
The corridor smelt of hospital and heat. Hope nodded to the nurse, took the stairs. Outside, the air was brisk, cold. She set off for the bus stop, snow crackling under her boots. She began to wonder what she’d say to Susan. Perhaps nothing, not yet. Shed sit with it a while.
The bus arrived swiftly, she found a seat by the window. The city rolled bybare trees, streetlamps, people with shopping bags. Life carrying on, as it always does.
She thought: when your husband runs off with someone young, the hardest part isnt the going. The hardest part is what comes afternot surviving, but figuring out what to actually do. Not getting revenge, not looking back, not waiting. Making something for yourself. Thats much harder than anyone thinks.
She watched the streetlamps flicker past in the falling dusk. Wednesday was watercolour class. The tutor had said theyd be painting snow scenes this week. Hope still struggled with getting blue and grey to blend properly in the shadows. Shed just keep having a go.
Her stop arrived. She got off, shivered, buttoned her coat right to the neck. Headed for home. The streets were as familiar as her own handshere a pharmacist, there a bakery, there the block with the playground. The swing creaked, though no kids were on it.
Hope walked upstairs, let herself in. It was warm and still smelled of home, faint but unmistakable. She took off her boots, slid into her slippers. In the kitchen she put the kettle on, glanced at her linen-striped tablecloth, straightened a corner.
While the kettle boiled, she peered out the window. The geranium stood steady. Leaves a bit dusty; she brushed one gently. Needs a wipe.
The kettle clicked.
Hope poured her tea, cupped her hands around the mug for warmth.
Outside, the lights began to glow one by one; January nights always came early, reluctant and grey.
She sipped her tea and thought that she ought to stop by market on Friday for milk and eggs. Maybe pick up Jonagolds, while they were still around. Bake an apple cakeSusan had been after her recipe for ages.
Thats what shed do on Friday.
And on Wednesday shed paint snow.
***
Outside, the city grumbled on as alwaysnoisy and aimless. But in the kitchen with its geranium, all was still. And it was Hopes stillness. She had no intention of giving it up.
Her phone lay on the table. He could ring. Could ask again. She knew shed answer, ask how he was, remind him to take his medicine. She didnt know how to do it any other way.
But going back? Not a chance.
You know what, Hope Smith? she told herself, aloud, her voice firmer than expected in the empty kitchen, That was never a swamp. It was a life. Just not his.
She drained her tea, washed the cup, turned on the lamp in the lounge, as it was already chilly by the window and she hated reading by ceiling light.
Her book lay waiting. She opened to her marked page and picked up where shed stopped. Outside, snow drifted down. The geranium held its spot; the tablecloth was just so.
Everything was as it should be.
