Enough of being convenient
Well, thats settled then, Eleanor! chirped Aunt Sylvia, dabbing her lips with a paper napkin. The napkin was from the cake that Eleanor Smith had baked for her guest’s arrival, and a greasy patch of buttercream remained on it. We’ll all meet at yours on the fifth of May. I’ll bring my own homemade sausagesthe marinated ones from my secret recipeand you, darling, would you be a dear and sort out the hot dish? You know, as the birthday girl! Therell be important guests: Olivers colleagues, proper grown-up types. We have to host them properly.
Eleanor sat opposite, holding a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. She watched Aunt Sylvia and nodded along. Nodded, thinking about the quarterly report due tomorrow, that theyd run out of butter, that her husband Christophers back was playing up again so shed need to buy more heat plasters. She thought about everything except what Aunt Sylvia was saying. Aunt Sylvia, meanwhile, talked and rearranged her lavender scarf, glancing towards the window as if picturing a table shed soon setin someone elses home.
Twenty people, at least, the guest went on. Best make an effort, Eleanor. Youre so clever at these things. Remember how marvellous you were at Olivias wedding? Not a crumb left! Same again this time, please. Ill help of courseI’ll run things.
She laughed. Her laugh was short, sharp, almost like a little dogs bark.
Eleanor smiled too. Because it was expected. Because Aunt Sylvia was Olivers auntOliver, her son-in-law, married to her only daughter. Because family drama was best avoided. Because she always did this. Smiled and agreed.
All right, she said. Agreed.
Aunt Sylvia left at half past eight, content and well-fed. Eleanor shut the door behind her, leaned back against it and stayed there a moment. The hallway smelt of someone elses heavy, cloying perfume. Through the wall, the television babbled on. Christopher was watching another fishing show; he hadnt even come to greet the guest.
She gone? he called, eyes fixed on the telly.
Shes gone.
What did she want?
Eleanor went into the kitchen and started doing the cups. The water ran almost scaldingly hot, but she didnt pull her hands away.
Were having a party, she said. Fifth of May. Here.
A party? What for?
My birthday. And something or other for Olivers work.
A vague noise came from the living room. Silence. Then fishing resumed.
Eleanor dried her hands. The towel was old, faded, with little cockerels on the trim. Shed bought it at a market fifteen years ago and couldnt bring herself to throw it away. Looking at it now, she thoughtshe was the same. Faded, with cockerels round the edge, hanging up waiting for someone to come along and wipe their hands on her.
She shook this thought away and went to check the fridge.
In ten days, Eleanor Smith would turn fifty. A milestone. Half a century, of which she could clearly recall thirty-five. And in all that time, she couldnt remember a single day shed done something just for herself. Not for Christopher, not for Olivia, not for her mumwhod died five years before and whom shed travelled to see every weekend to make stew. Not for her late mother-in-law, who used to live in the next neighbourhood and always demanded attention like a child. For herself. Not once.
She worked as an accountant at a building firm. Twenty-two years in the same place. Her colleagues respected her, her boss valued herbut she was overlooked for promotion. Why bother, they reasonedEleanor would just handle it. She never complained. She’d sort things out.
At home, the same. Christopher was fifty-four. He worked as an engineer at the factory. He never liked his job but stuck with it; retirement was close now. At home, he relaxed. That meant telly, phone, sofa, and sometimes the garage. Eleanor cooked. Eleanor cleaned. Eleanor paid the billsshe was better with paperwork. Eleanor shopped. Eleanor hosted guests. Christopher made a point of not getting involved. After all these years, it wasnt even a point of contention. It was background noiselike tinnitus, something you stopped noticing.
Their daughter Olivia got married four years ago. Oliver, her husband, was a good man, hard-working, but came with a complicated family. His mother had died ages ago; his father lived up north. Aunt Sylvia, his dads sister, became the family matriarch: bossy, outspoken, convinced her opinion was law. She disliked Eleanor instantlynot for anything in particular, but because Eleanor was too quiet, too accommodating. Bossy people dont respect that; it just makes them want to take control.
Olivia loved her mumbut loved Oliver more. As she should; thats how things go. But when it came to a choice between her mums comfort and Olivers peace, shed quietly choose the latter. No drama. Just quietly.
So Eleanor Smiths life ticked along. In a three-bed on the top floor of a block in Reading, in a neighbourhood where all the estates and gardens blurred into each other, only the trees were different; no one ever pruned them into uniformity. Life went on. She didnt complain. Who would listen? And why would they care?
After Aunt Sylvia left, she sat in the kitchen for another hour, scribbling lists of what shed need to buy and make for twenty people. The list grew long. The expenses looked frightening. Scrawled on the back of an old receipt, the figures squeezed her chest. Not painjust a heavy pressure, as if someone had laid a brick on her sternum and forgotten to take it off.
She turned out the light and went to bed.
For the next nine days, she worked flat outher pre-party drudgery mode, as she privately called it. At first, she told herself it was normal, just helping family, the party would be a good oneshe just had to keep it together. But by the third day, those mantras rang hollow.
She woke at six to defrost something for the next day, start the shopping list, ring the shop about the delivery. She worked till six, sometimes laterthe quarterly report had no patience for her birthday. Then the supermarket: tins, bottles, bags of rice, joints of meatlugged up to the ninth floor, as the lift only worked some days. She came home, set something boiling, blitzed through a quick tidy-up. Shed get to bed at one or two, back up at six.
Christopher saw it all. Physically, at least. But he seemed to see straight through her. He offered to help once: Need a hand? Shed replied, Ill manage, and hed nodded, relief evident, returning to his phone.
Olivia rang on Wednesday. Asked if everything was ready. Aunt Sylvia wanted to check about the hot dishes and send a reminder about starters. Eleanor ventured, Olivia, could you at least handle the salads? Im so tired. A small pause. Mum, come on, you know were both swamped at workwere coming round to help lay the table, thats something, isnt it? Lay the table meant dishing up, nothing more. Eleanor realised thatand said nothing.
Two days before the party, she washed the windowsAunt Sylvia had mentioned the dusty sills last time. Standing on a chair, cloth in hand, she realised the last time shed cleaned the windows for herself was about eight years ago, when she was expecting her mum to visit. Back then, that wasnt really for herself, either. That had always been for someone else.
Her foot slipped on the chair. She nearly fellcaught herself at the last second. Her heart pounded, twice, hard. She stood for a minute to catch her breath. Then she climbed down, sat on the kitchen floor, and just sat, her back against the wall. Her back ached. Her legs ached. Her head buzzed.
She thought: If I fell and broke something, the first thing everyone would ask would be, But what about the party?
The thought was so bitter it made her laugha cough-laced, ugly laugh.
She got up, picked up her cloth, and finished the job.
The night before her birthday, she managed three hours of sleep. The rest was spent boiling, roasting, chopping, plating. Shepherds pie, two salads, poached salmon (she never cared for it, but Aunt Sylvia had requested it), cabbage pasties because Christophers cousin Alan would comeand Alan didnt consider it a proper party without them. The only thing she made for herself was the cakespongy, with cherries, her favourite.
At seven, she had a shower, put on her best blue dressthe one bought two years ago, worn never, always saved for some special moment. She looked in the mirror: shadows under her eyes that no foundation could hide, dry lips, hands red from scrubbing and cooking. But the dress was lovely. That, at least, she knew.
Oooh, got dressed up, have we? Christopher remarked, passing by in the hallway. Well done.
That was it. No you look lovely, no happy birthday, no how are you? Just well done, and gone.
The first guest arrived at midday; Aunt Sylvia, of course, before anyone else, arms laden with her signature sausages, a jar of homemade pickled onions, and a box of chocolates. She set them down with pride. Then she inspected the placekitchen includednodded approvingly.
Well done, Eleanor, she said, just like Christopher. Pulled it off.
Then her phone came outstraight onto her next call.
By one oclock, everyone had arrived. Twenty-three guests. Eleanor counted as they squeezed around the long tablemade up of the dining table and two desksdraped with the tablecloth shed ironed till midnight.
Looking at the group, she realised she properly knew maybe six of them. The rest were Olivers colleagues or Aunt Sylvias friends. Strangers, eating her food, sitting on chairs shed borrowed from Mrs Thompson two floors down, because they simply didnt have enough.
The toasts began. Alan, Christophers cousin, went firstrambling through a 1990s story none of them could follow, but people laughed all the same. Then Oliver, her son-in-lawCongratulations to Eleanor on her fiftieth; shes done brilliantly! Short and to the point. The rest of his speech was about his friend Stevens work achievementsnumbers and job titles Eleanor didnt understand.
Aunt Sylvia got up, her speech obviously rehearsedabout Stevens hard work and determination, what a star he was. Then a quick nod to Eleanor: And lets not forget our hostess, seeing as weve all gathered at her home! Everyone laughed. Another round of drinks.
Eleanor smiled. She sat at the head of the table, as the birthday girl should, and raised her glass with the others, answering brief congratulations with thank you. But inside, something was turning overslowly, quietly. Like a kettle warming gently to a simmer.
Eleanor, no salt on the table! someone called from the far end.
She got up and fetched the salt.
Could use more bread, Alan requested.
She brought out more bread.
Excuse me, Eleanor, not enough forks over here, said a woman shed never seen in her life.
She fetched more forks.
Someone else wanted a different meat platter. Someone nudged for extra plates. Then Aunt Sylvia asked for sparkling water, which Olivia had forgotten to bringso Eleanor fetched it from the balcony fridge.
Back and forth she went. In the rare moments she sat down, her plate stayed fullno time to eat.
She once tried to offer a toast. Stood up, glass in hand. Olivia, beside her, rose too. But at the same time, Aunt Sylvia launched into another Steven anecdoteloud and oblivious. Everyone turned to her. Olivia lowered her glass. Eleanor sat back down. There was no toast from her.
People complimented the foodThe salmon just melts! These pastiesamazing! How do you get your pies so tender? Eleanor nodded and explained her recipe. It pleased her, and yet tasted slightly bitter. They praised the food, not her. She was the kitchen, the apron, the hands ferrying extras about. Not the birthday girl. Just the help.
Time ticked away. Outside, the May sun shone, blithely indifferent. The gathering grew redder-cheeked, noisier. Steven bragged about his promotion; Aunt Sylvia boomed with laughter. Christopher chattered with Alan about fishing or cars.
Eleanor slipped out for the fourth round of hot food. Oven gloves on, she took the meat from the oven. Her hands trembled from exhaustion. Three hours’ sleep had caught up with her; things felt floaty, unfocused. She set the tray down and dished up.
From the living room, Aunt Sylvia barked, Eleanor! Are you coming with that? And bring the sour cream as well, weve run out!
No diminutives. No please. No dont trouble yourself. Just bring the sour cream, like a domestic servant.
Eleanor froze, spoon in hand, over the meat. The kitchen fell silent. Outside, the wind rustled the branch of the old lime tree. The kettle sat cold.
Something clicked inside her.
It wasnt loud. It didnt hurt. It just switched.
She put down the spoon, took off the oven gloves, hung them in their usual spot beside the oven. Then she picked up the dish of meat, took the sour cream from the fridge, and carried them both into the living room.
She set them on the table.
And straightened.
Excuse me, she saidnot loudly, but with enough firmness that a few heads turned. Excuse me, everyone.
Aunt Sylvia kept chattering to Steven. Olivia stared at her mother, confused. Christopher didnt look up.
Excuse me, Eleanor repeatedclearer.
This time Aunt Sylvia turned. Her expression was pinched, affronted, as if shed been rudely interrupted.
Is something the matter? she demanded irritably.
Eleanor took in the table. Her guests, and strangers. Her husband, finally paying attention. Her daughter, glass mid-air, plainly not understanding. Aunt Sylvia, purple scarf, contented grin.
Id just like a few words, Eleanor said. Today is my fiftieth birthday.
Yes, we know, congratulations! someone cheered from the other end, glasses held high.
Just a moment, Eleanor stopped them. Please.
A hush settled. Her heartbeat was steady. Oddly steady, as if her body had accepted a decision before her mind, and was already at peace.
Ive spent the last ten days, lets call it, getting someone elses party ready. Ive slept three, maybe four hours a night. I did all the shopping. All the cooking. I cleaned the windows. Ironed the cloth. Borrowed chairs from Mrs Thompson. I did it alone. Today, Im sitting at a table I personally set for a houseful of strangers, in honour of an event thatfor mecould have been just my birthday. I havent said a single toast. Ive been interrupted three times. Ive got up eight times to fetch things, while you sat and ate. Just now, I was asked to fetch the sour cream as if Im the hired help.
The silence was dense, the sort that falls when people have no idea how to respond.
Eleanor, what are you doing? Christopher murmured, awkward.
Mum whispered Olivia.
Aunt Sylvia drew breath, no doubt ready with some retort, but Eleanor met her eyedirectly. And Aunt Sylvia let the breath go, speechless.
Id like to ask you all,” Eleanor continued, calm and unwavering, “please take your things and continue the party at the café on the High StreetThe Cozy Nook, its quite nice. Ill even pay for you to keep the party going. But here, in this home, todays party is over.
It hung there, three seconds of absolute pause. Then a storm of voices.
Alan muttered something under his breath; Eleanor ignored him. Some of Olivers colleagues started gathering jackets. Aunt Sylvia stood, poise stiff, fixing Eleanor with a look that said, Youll regret this. But she said nothing. She took up her handbag. Scooped the jar of pickled onions. A petty little humiliation that, oddly, made Eleanor feel like laughing.
Olivia approached her.
Mum, what are you doingthis is dreadful, you know? Aunt Sylvia is going to
Olivia, Eleanor interrupted gently, I love you very much. But I need you to go now, please.
Her daughter looked at her as if she were a stranger. Which made sense. Because the woman standing at her own table, saying please go, was a little different to the one Olivia had always known.
Christopher lingered in the doorway.
You’ve lost your mind? he said. No malice. A thread of curiosity.
No, said Eleanor. I think Ive just come to my senses.
He found nothing to add, and left.
She shut the door. Turned the lock. Stood, listening to the thick, weighty silence of three oclock on a bright May day. Sparrows chattered outside. Below, the front door slammed shut in the stairwell. She was alone. And it felt like exhaling after holding your breath for ages.
In the kitchen, she looked at the leftovers on the tabledish of meat, untouched salads, bread, glasses. Her plate still full; she hadn’t eaten.
She carried her plate into the kitchendidnt bother to warm it up. Got the cake, placed it on the counter. Brewed herself some fresh tea.
Sat down.
The lime tree outside swayed in the spring breeze. Its leaves were sticky and new, just uncurling. Eleanor sat and ate her mealgood food, after all. Aunt Sylvia hadnt lied about that.
Afterwards, she had some cake. The sponge was light, the cherries tart, the icing soft. She ate slowly. No one to call, Eleanor, fetch this! or look right through her. Just her, and the cake she’d made for herself.
For the first time inhow many years?
She didnt cry. Shed imagined she might; if this were a film, the soundtrack would swell, the tears would come. But they didnt. What came instead was something peaceful and unyielding, like solid earth underfoot. As though shed finally found something real inside herself.
She left her phone for a few hours. When she checked, there were messages: Olivia had written threeMum, ring me, Mum, I dont understand whats happened,” and Are you at least alright? Christopher sent one: That wasn’t fair. Nothing from Aunt Sylvia, surprisingly. Some unknown numbersprobably guests wanting something. Mrs Thompson: Eleanor, when can I get my chairs back?
She only replied to Mrs Thompson: Ill return them tomorrow, sorry for the hassle.
She wrote to Olivia: Im fine, dont worry. Well talk tomorrow.
To Christophernothing.
She cleared up. Calmly, not with anger. Boxed up leftovers, stacked plates in water. Took out the rubbish. Folded the cloth. Returned the chairsMrs Thompson opened in her dressing gown, didnt ask any questions. Sensible woman.
Back home, she ran a bath. Long, with bubbles and hot water. She lay there staring at the ceiling, saw the water stain from an old leak that she and Christopher promised to paint over for three years. Never got round to it. Three years putting off painting the ceiling and three years putting off your own lifeit was, in truth, exactly the same.
Christopher came in at ten. She heard him open the lock, take off his shoes. He stood in the doorway; she was already in bed, reading.
Do you realise what youve done? he asked.
I do, she said.
And?
And thats all. I know.
Aunt Sylvia Oliver therell be hell to pay, you know.
I know, said Eleanor. Christopher, Im very tired. Lets talk tomorrow.
He hesitated then left, bedding down on the living room sofa as he did when they quarrelled. She heard him and didnt call him back.
Turned off her lamp. Lay quietly in the dark.
She slept for ten hours. The first time in forever.
The morning of the sixth was ordinary: sunlight through the curtains, sparrows outside, the scent of coffee shed pre-set on the timer. She got up, drank her coffee, ate toast. Christopher still slept, his steady breathing coming from the lounge.
She opened her laptop.
It started simplya look at the weeks forecast. Beside it was a travel site shed browsed a month ago, then forgotten. Coach holidays round EnglandThe Cotswold Trail, Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, the Lake District. She remembered skimming it, dreaming a little, then closing it againtoo busy.
She clicked back on the site.
Oxford, Bath, Stratford-upon-Avon, Cambridge. Eight days. Small group, guided. She gazed at the photoschurch spires beside rivers, winding lanes, ancient markets glowing in spring light. Shed never been. Shed always wanted to. Christopher was never keenWhats the point of traipsing around? The cottage is fine for us. For twenty years every summer: the same cottage, vegetable patch, and lawnmower.
She rang the travel company as soon as they opened at nine.
Hello, yes, you looked at the England Historic Towns tour, eight days? said a cheerful woman.
I did, said Eleanor. Are there any places left for the closest departure?
One left, for the fourteenth of May.
One is perfect, said Eleanor. Just for me.
She paid over the phone with her card. Then she sat, looking out the window, feeling only calm. Not happiness, not nerves. Just rightness, as if her entire body had agreed: this decision is sound.
Olivia called mid-morning. Her voice was careful, as if she were treading on thin ice.
Mum, hi. You okay?
Im fine, said Eleanor.
We need to talk. Aunt Sylvia was very offended. Olivers in bits. This this was a shock.
I understand.
Could you just call Aunt Sylvia and apologise? That would settle her down, and
No, Olivia, said Eleanor.
A pause.
No?
Im not going to apologise for asking people to leave my house on my own birthday.
But Mum
Olivia, hold on. Eleanor paused, warming her hands on her mug. Let me say something, and Id like you to actually listen. Not as a daughter worried about Oliver and Aunt Sylvia, but just listen to me.
Olivia fell silent.
I turned fifty yesterday. Fifty. I spent the day like a maid at someone elses celebration. I was so tired my hands shook. I didn’t eat all day. No one congratulated me. I was ordered to fetch sour creamno ‘please’, no ‘thank you’, not even a glance my way. And you know what really hurts? I allowed it. I set that table, put those people in those seats. I lived twenty years so quietly that no one bothered to ask how I was. Because I showed them it never mattered.
A bus rumbled past outside. A pigeon landed on the windowsill and flew off again.
Mum, Olivias voice trembled, no longer defensive but uncertain, youre probably right. But its such a shock
I know. It is for me too.
Are you going to be like thisalways?
Eleanor smiled. I dont know about always. But I booked a trip.
A trip?”
Eight days, around some historic towns. I leave the fourteenth.
A long silence.
On your own?
On my own.
Mum Olivia whispered.
Its my first ever trip Ive planned just for me. First in fifty years. Maybe its about time.
Olivia didnt answer. Then, Alright. Ring me? and she hung up.
Christopher heard about the booking over lunch. She was making soup; she told him simply: shed booked a tour, leaving the fourteenth, eight days through historic towns.
He looked at her, slowly. And you didnt think to ask me.
No.
Whats that supposed to mean?
Whatever you want it to, Christopher.
Are you really alright? Maybe you should see someone?
She salted the soup, tasted, added a pinch more. Im fine. Soup needs another twenty minutes.
He left the kitchen. She heard him pacing. Then the television. Life resumed.
The next few days were unsettled. Christopher would go silent, then snap. Youve changed, hed say. People dont act like this. She listened, but didnt argue, didnt apologise. It was newshe had always apologised, even for things that werent her fault. This time, she simply wouldnt.
Olivia called again three days later. Aunt Sylvia had declared shed never set foot in that house again. Eleanor replied, Alright. Olivia had expected another reaction, and lost her footing.
Mum, arent you sad about it?
No.
But shes family
No, Olivia. Aunt Sylvia is Olivers relative. Thats different. My family is you. And Christopher. And Im thinking about how the three of us might learn to live differentlynot about Aunt Sylvia.
Olivia said mm, paused, then asked about the trip. Which towns? Which hotels? It was only small, but it was a step. Eleanor noticed, and answered all the questions.
The day before she left, she packed her suitcase. Small, light, easy to carry alone. She packed her best blue dress toowhy not? It deserved an outing.
Christopher came in, eyed the suitcase, perched on the bed.
Youre really going, he said. Not a question, a fact.
I am.
Eight days.
Eight days.
He rubbed his brow. Sighed.
Is there any food to heat? Im not great with the hob
Christopher, she said softly, Youre a grown man. Theres food enough for three days in the fridge, all cooked. Afterwards, you can make something simple, or order takeaway. Youll manage.
He looked at her. She could see he wanted to say something, annoyed or hurt, but something held him back. Maybe it was her expression. Something had changed in herand it was obvious even to him.
Fine, he said. Go on, then.
Just go on, then. No have a nice time, no take care. But also, none of the are you mad? And that was something.
She finished her packing.
That evening, her old friend Sally calledfrom school days, though they rarely met now. Sally was in another part of town, but they rang each other when things happened.
Heard from Mrs Thompson you chucked everyone out on your birthday, Sally said.
Asked them to leave, Eleanor corrected.
Eleanor. Good for you.
A pause.
Really?
Ive known you thirty-five years. Youve carried everyone for as long as I can remember. Good for you, finally
Sally, dont go soft on me, Eleanor laughed.
Alright, alright, enough of that. So, where are you off then?
On a tour. On my own.
On your own! Sally went quiet. I always wanted to go on one.
So go.
My husband wouldnt let me.
Sallyyoure not eight years old, being kept in. If you dont go, its because you decide against it.
Sally laughed, then turned serious.
You really have changed.
Maybe, Eleanor said. Im just tired of being accommodating.
Everyone gets tired. Youre just the first whos actually done something.
Maybe not the first. Maybe no one talks about itbecause we’re embarrassed.
Are you embarrassed?
Eleanor looked out at the night, windows lit in neighbouring flats: in one, a woman did the dishes; in another, a TV glowed; someone else just paced to and fro.
No, she said. Im not.
The fourteenth of May arrived. Eleanor woke before six. Christopher still slept. She made herself coffee, packed a sandwich, double-checked her passport. She slipped into the blue dressthe one usually reserved for special occasions. Why not? At fifty, you can wear a lovely dress before dawn if it feels right.
Standing in her hallway, suitcase at her side, she studied her flat: three rooms, ninth floor, a view of the lime trees. The ceiling stain theyd never painted. The towel with faded cockerels. All so familiar, and yet she was leaving just a little changed. And that was real.
Sound from the kitchenChristopher, up in his dressing gown, hair askew.
Off already? he asked.
Yesmy taxis here.
He hesitated. Shifted. Then said, Happy birthday, Eleanor. I didn’t say it properly before.
She looked at him: fifty-four, grey and tired, a man she’d lived with for twenty-seven years. She didnt know what would happen nowwhether things would change between them, whether theyd rebuild anything new. Life isnt a series where eight days away fixes everything.
Thank you, Christopher, she said. Simply.
She left, closing the door behind her.
The taxi awaited outside. She loaded her suitcase, took the back seat. The driver, a young lad, said, Reading station? She answered, Yes, the station.
Reading was waking up. Streets were quiet, little traffic. The morning was bright and slightly cool. The trees in full spring leafbrilliant, almost too green. Eleanor stared out the window and realised she hadnt noticed such simple things in agesthe leaves, the sky, the very act of dawn.
At the station, the crush of people, the scent of pasties from the platform café, loudspeaker announcements, suitcases and trolleys clattering. She found her platform, her place.
The train arrived, on time.
She located her seatwindow, lower, perfect. Her neighbours, two older women, greeted her nicely. The lady across the aisle produced a flask of tea and offered some. Eleanor smiled, Thank youmaybe later.
The train set off.
Reading slipped awayblocks of flats, gardens, garages, rooftops. Open land unrolled into meadows, woodlands, a sky bigger than windows could show. She watched. Not thinking. Just allowing herselfthis, just watching without planning, calculating, worrying about anyones needs but her own.
Her phone rested in her pocket. It stayed silentor, perhaps, it didnt, but she wasnt checking.
She thought about how shed never seen Oxford, never walked Cambridgeshires waterways, never stood spellbound by castles in the sun. For years, shed wanted to. Now, she was going.
Across the aisle, the lady asked, Going far?
Eleanor smiled. On a coach tour round Englands towns.
Lovely. On your own?
On my own.
Thats brave, her companion nodded.
I dont knowit just feels overdue, said Eleanor.
The train picked up speed. Fields whipped by, copses of trees, a high, even sky. Eleanor leaned back, shut her eyesnot to sleep, just to rest. Just to be.
Her phone buzzed gently. A message. She looked: OliviaMum, are you okay? Are you on the train?
Eleanor replied: On the train. All fine. Dont worry.
Then another message, from an unfamiliar number: Hello, this is Catherine, your tour manager. Ill be meeting you at Oxford station with a sign. Safe travels!
She wrote: Thank you. On my way.
Put her phone away. Looked out.
The countryside of England spread out: old churches, green fields, bright new leaves and, here and there, a village spire. Eleanor Smith gazed from the window and thoughtnext time someone tells her to fetch the sour cream like that, shed likely just smile, polite, and say, No.
That little word. Just two letters. Yesterday, shed said itproperlyfor the first time in her life.
Its never too late to start learning. Its never too late to begin living your own life.
