The Late Rebellion
Do you really understand what youre doing? Margarets voice was even, almost devoid of inflection, and that calm was somehow more unsettling than any shouting. Do you understand what this means for all of us?
Evelyn stood by the window looking out into the street. A fine autumn drizzle blurred the view and passers-by scurried beneath umbrellas, their faces turned away.
I understand what it means for me, she said at length.
For you. Margaret repeated the words as if weighing them in her hand. Thats always it: for you. But what about us?
Youre all grown adults.
Mother, youre sixty-one.
I know how old I am.
Margaret sank onto the sofa an old thing, from the old flat, from another life. Evelyn glanced at it, thinking how many times shed considered throwing it out, but she never did. Out of habit. Out of misplaced fondness. Out of the sense that throwing out the sofa would be like discarding something alive.
Did it even cross your mind what people might say? her daughter pressed.
No, Evelyn answered. It didnt.
And that was the truth.
***
It had all started back in March, when Evelyn Florence Wren, once a teacher of English language and literature and now a pensioner with a small job running the childrens group at the local library, travelled down for a weekend to see her old friend in Bath.
Her friend, Dorothy Jane, had lived there for the past eight years. Shed moved after being widowed, bought herself a cottage at the citys edge, started a little garden and, by her own account, finally learned to breathe. Evelyn used to visit once a year, usually in the summer, but this time something inside her shifted. It told her: go now. Not in June. Now.
March in Bath was damp and subdued. Drifts of snow still lingered in dips; on the higher ground, the soil showed black. The spires of old churches glimmered against a washed-out sky. Walking the narrow streets, Evelyn realised she hadnt felt such silence in years. Not emptiness, but silence the difference only became clear here.
Dorothy met her on the step in old slippers and an outworn coat.
At last, she said, Ive just warmed the pies.
They sat in the kitchen with their tea, and Dorothy told stories about her neighbours, her garden, her plans to buy a goat.
A goat? Evelyn raised her eyebrows.
Why not? My own milk, and you can make cheese. I read up; not really that tricky.
Dorothy, youve never seen a goat up close in your life.
All the more fun, then, Dorothy grinned, topping up the tea. What about you? Honestly, youve gone a bit grey. Im sorry, but you have.
Evelyn looked at her hands ordinary hands, now streaked with veins and age.
Im fine.
Fine isnt an answer. Has something happened?
Nothings happened. Everythings just the same.
Well, thats the worst of it, said Dorothy. When everything is just the same, thats the very problem.
Evelyn fell silent. Outside, dusk was already coming on blue and gentle, and further up the street the first lamp began to glow.
The next morning Dorothy hauled her to the market not the big Sainsburys, but a real one, ramshackle, where old women sold pickled cabbage and crocheted socks. By the stall of dried mushrooms, Evelyn saw him.
She didnt recognise him at first it had been thirty-five years, and he had changed a lot. But something in the angle of his head, in the way he tucked his hands in his coat pockets, was familiar. She paused.
He paused too.
Evie? he said, not quite sure.
Colin.
That was all they said for a full minute. Then Dorothy quietly drifted off to look at socks, and they were left, market scents of mushrooms and cold earth hanging around them.
Do you live here now? Evelyn asked.
Second year, yes. And you?
Visiting. Staying with Dorothy.
Right.
Silence again, but not awkward more like a kind of understanding, that there was no real rush.
You havent changed, he remarked.
Thats not true.
Well, not much. Just a little perhaps.
Evelyn actually laughed, which surprised her.
***
Colin Bernard was an old university mate. Not a friend, not a boyfriend, simply someone shed sat in English lectures with for five years. Then theyd gone their separate ways, the way people do. He went to one city, she stayed in another, got married, raised her children. Heard once or twice through mutuals that hed married too, had a daughter. Nothing more.
And now there he was, buying mushrooms and watching her.
They agreed to meet in the evening at a small café on the high street. Dorothy was quite unfazed.
Go, of course, she said. Ill be watching my show anyway. And dont give me that look Im not scheming.
I dont think you are.
You do, Dorothy grinned. Just go.
The café was nearly empty. Wooden tables, yellow lamps, sepia photos of old Bath on the walls. They ordered tea and an apple tart, and talked for hours about mutual acquaintances, university days, laughing at the things they once thought so important.
Then he said, My wife died three years ago.
Im sorry, said Evelyn.
Its all right. Not sure I even grieve anymore. Its not really about getting used to it, more that you simply live another kind of way.
I understand.
What about you?
Evelyn considered. Her husband, Peter, had left her nine years back for another woman. No real explanation just told her one day that it had happened. For months shed asked herself what shed done wrong, counting the years like rosary beads. Then she just stopped thinking and started living again. Children, grandchildren, the library group, Dorothy in Bath in summer.
It varies, she said.
He nodded and pressed no further. That, too, was somehow pleasant.
***
She returned home to Oxford, telling herself it had been just a nice, odd encounter. Ran into an old classmate, caught up, nothing more.
But, a week later, he found her via Dorothy and wrote on Facebook, Hello. How was your trip back?
She replied. Gradually, they began writing at first rarely, then daily. It was bizarre, because Evelyn wasnt one to text. Margaret always told her off for not replying, for leaving messages unread half the day. Yet here she was, catching herself waiting for his reply.
His notes were simple, unadorned. About Bath, about restoring old things for the National Trust, about working on church woodwork, about her book group and the children. Sometimes he sent a photo: a whitewashed chapel, a cat on a windowsill, tea in a mug on a battered old table.
Margaret noticed after a month.
Mum youre always on your phone.
Im reading.
You used to say screens would ruin everyones eyesight.
I must have been wrong.
Margaret studied her, but said no more.
In April, Colin suggested a visit to Oxford.
I have business at a restoration workshop near you, he wrote. If you dont mind, could we meet?
Evelyn smiled at the message. He was so cautious, so serious.
Of course, she replied.
They met at the Botanic Gardens, where the Cherwell flows by the meadows. Aprils cold wind blew, but springs brightness had already arrived. Evelyn wore her good grey coat shed bought two years before and almost never worn.
He stood by the railings, staring out at the water. She approached, and he turned a little weather-worn, hands in pockets, just like at the market.
Hello, he said.
Hello.
They walked the towpath, chatting about restoration, her library group. She told him how an eight-year-old boy had written an essay comparing books to windows, but backwards, because you look in, not out. Colin stopped.
Thats remarkably observant hes eight, you said?
Eight. Clever child.
Youre clearly good with children. I can tell.
How can you tell? You havent seen me teach.
The way you talk about him. Thats how people talk about things that matter.
Evelyn regarded him, but he just looked at the water.
Later, over coffee in riverside café, she realised she hadnt talked with someone like this, unrushed, unburdened, in years and it was a nearly forgotten comfort.
As they parted, he said, Id like to come again. If I may?
You may.
***
Margaret found out in May. Not because Evelyn confessed, but simply because she rang at a strange hour, when Evelyn was out and didnt answer, and then, when she finally called back sounding distracted, Margaret cottoned on.
Where were you?
Out for a walk.
Alone?
A pause. Short, but Margaret always heard pauses.
No.
That was the start of the talk. At first tentative, then increasingly fierce.
Who is he? Margaret asked.
An old mate from university. I told you met him in Bath.
You said you bumped into someone.
Thats who.
Mum, you
I know how old I am, Margaret.
Silence.
So what is this, really? Youre just strolling about together?
For now, yes. Just walks.
For now, Margaret echoed.
Evelyn didnt elaborate. There were some things impossible to explain, not because you have nothing to say, but because words fail. Anything she said would seem either too heavy or too trivial.
Her son, Jonathan, reacted differently. Living in London with his wife and two children, he rang every fortnight, and when Evelyn told him (as casually as she could), he went quiet a second and then asked, Is he all right?
Hes a decent fellow.
All right then, he said.
That was it. Evelyn spent days pondering which response was better Jonathans or Margarets. She could never decide.
***
Summer unfurled in a strange new rhythm. Colin came to Oxford, she visited Bath. They went to markets, museums, tea shops. He showed her the small restoration workshop where he worked high windows, the smell of old wood and linseed oil. Carved wood lay along the walls: some pieces dark with centuries, others already half-gleaming under careful hands.
Dont you worry, handling something so old? she asked.
No. I rather like knowing it was here before me and will stay after.
Do you believe in all that?
He pondered.
I wouldnt call it belief. I just feel it matters, not because someone said so.
Evelyn gazed at a panel he was working on. The face in the carving was nearly clear, calm, almost gentle.
My husband said I was wasting my time with the library group, she blurted out. Said the pay wasnt worth it.
And you?
I… dont know. I got used to thinking he was right. That habit lasted nearly till retirement.
Colin said nothing, just looked at her. It was enough.
That evening, over tea in his little house, she felt an unusual sense of peace. Not because there were no problems Margaret barely called when Evelyn headed for Bath now, deploying a demonstrative silence, while her granddaughter Sophie, aged eight, had once asked by phone, Nana, are you coming home soon? There was guilt in the question, sharp and sadly familiar.
But there in that kitchen, it all retreated. Not gone, simply lessened.
Have you ever thought of moving? Colin asked suddenly.
Evelyn looked up.
Where?
Here, to Bath. Or anywhere, really. Just… moving.
He was cautious, eyes on his cup.
Are you asking me to?
Im not asking concretely. Just wondering if its crossed your mind… ever.
Evelyn hesitated.
No, she said, truthfully. Not really. I did, once, years ago. But it always seemed impossible.
Why impossible?
My children, my grandchildren, my flat, and my little job everythings here.
The children are grown.
That changes nothing.
He nodded. Youre right. I just wanted to ask.
That question now lodged inside her, stubborn and unshaken. Some questions never leave.
***
In August, Margaret came to stay a weekend. Not for any real purpose just arrived on the Saturday train, overnight bag tight in hand, lips pressed thin.
They drank tea while Margaret looked out the window before suddenly turning.
Are you serious?
About what?
Him. All of it.
I dont know, Evelyn said, honestly.
Mum. Dont you think this is… a bit odd? At your age?
At your age or mine?
Both. At the age of our family. Dads still alive, and
Your fathers lived with another woman for nine years.
That doesnt change the fact that you were married thirty years.
It changes everything, said Evelyn.
Margaret pushed aside her cup.
What about Sophie? What will she think? What will she understand?
Shes eight.
Exactly. Shell understand everything.
Shell understand what we explain.
And what will we explain?
Evelyn stared at her daughter. Margaret looked so much like her father: the same resolute mouth, the same dark eyebrows. It used to make her tender. Now, the resemblance stirred something else, though she wasnt sure what.
Well explain Nanas met someone lovely, she said. Thats enough.
And after?
Well see.
Well see you always say that when you dont want to talk.
No, Evelyn replied, I say well see when its the honest truth. When I really dont know what happens next.
Margaret stood a long time at the window before finally murmuring, Im scared youll regret it.
I might also regret not doing anything at all.
Her daughter turned.
Thats philosophy. It doesnt help me sleep.
It doesnt always help me, either, Evelyn said gently. But I live with it.
Margaret left that evening. They hugged at the station, fiercely, as always. Evelyn felt in the embrace something both warm and taut, as if both women were holding on, afraid something in this closeness might snap.
***
September came in crisp and raw. Six years retired, but the library group became her tempo. The children came Tuesdays and Fridays, reading, staging scenes from books, drawing. A cosy room with low shelves, scatter cushions for seats.
The librarian, Mrs Wilkes, sixty-five, had worked Evelyn out. Not from anything Evelyn said, but by observing a subtle inwardness about her not selfish, but a new attention to herself.
Youve got something going on, Mrs Wilkes observed one day, without a trace of curiosity.
I have, Evelyn agreed.
Is it good?
Im not sure yet.
Thats fine. Mrs Wilkes nodded. At least somethings happening. The pair of us, were old rivers flowing along, never quite knowing our direction.
Evelyn laughed.
In September, Colin proposed a trip to Winchester. An exhibition on old manuscripts he wanted to see. Evelyn agreed. They booked separate rooms at a small B&B, wandered round museums, walked the city in the evenings. One night over dinner by the Itchen, Colin said:
I want you to know something.
What?
Im not in a hurry. And I wont push. If you ever feel pressured, its not from me.
Evelyn studied him.
I know.
I dont mean this as politeness. I mean it truthfully. Im sixty-three. Im not a young man hoping for something Ill sulk over if it doesnt happen. I just Im glad you exist.
She didnt answer straightaway. Outside, the river was a black ribbon, the far bank studded with lights.
Thats hard to take in, she finally said.
Why?
I got used to words always hiding something. Expectations. Conditions.
There are no conditions here.
I do believe you. Im just used to the opposite.
He nodded. They finished the wine and walked along the bank, springing their collars against the cold. He didnt take her arm, just walked beside her, and it was, she thought, just right.
***
October brought the talk Evelyn had dreaded and awaited alike.
She called Margaret herself, and before her daughter could interject, announced, I need to tell you something. Colins asked me to move to Bath. To live with him. Im thinking about it.
There was a very long pause.
Youre serious.
Yes.
Youve known each other seven months.
Eight.
Mum! Eight months! Do you even realise
I do. Its eight months.
Thats nothing! You dont know anything about him!
I know enough.
Whats that supposed to mean? That hes nice? People change, Mum. Things change!
Margaret
What?
Your father changed. We were married thirty years.
Silence.
Thats not fair, Margaret said quietly.
Im not trying to be unfair. Im trying to be honest. With you, with myself.
There followed a similar conversation with Jonathan. He called in the evening Margaret must have rung him first.
Mum, are you really going to move?
Im thinking about it.
Are things decent there? Does he seem all right?
Hes a good man. He works, keeps a tidy house. Rather small, but nice.
Will you sell your flat?
No, just let it out.
And if you want to come back?
Jonathan.
What? Im being practical.
If it doesnt work out, Ill revert. But let me try, please, without always thinking about what might go wrong.
A pause.
All right, he said. Just call often.
I will.
Afterwards, Evelyn sat by the window for hours. The rain beat down, autumn-thin. The lamp outside rocked in the breeze. She was sixty-one, and for the very first time was about to make a decision wholly hers. Not because someone left, not because circumstance forced her hand just because she wanted to.
It was a strange feeling, nearly foreign.
She opened her messenger and wrote to Colin: Im thinking. Give me a little more time.
He replied minutes later: Take all the time you need.
***
Dorothy called weekly, stubbornly neutral. She never advised moving, nor stalling. Just asked after Evelyns health, updated her on the goat (which shed finally bought).
Whats her name? Evelyn enquired.
Prudence.
Seriously?
Why not? Shes dreadfully self-important, so it seemed apt.
Dorothy, youre a mystery.
Ill take that.
After a while, Dorothy mused, Do you suppose, if you were thirty, youd dither this long?
Whats age got to do with it?
Nothing or perhaps everything. Ive noticed that the older we get, the longer we ponder and weigh sometimes its wisdom, sometimes just fear hiding behind it.
Youre as much a philosopher as Mrs Wilkes.
Ill take that as a compliment.
Just the facts.
Evelyn, after the call, concluded Dorothy was right. Fear cloaked as wisdom yes, an apt phrase. Thered been years shed feared deciding, fearing mistakes. Later, she feared not deciding, for that too was a kind of decision.
But this fear now wasnt about Colin, but about herself. Shed spent her life as someones wife, someones mum, someones teacher, and when all that faded to second, third, fourth place, she wasnt sure who she was as just herself.
The library group that shed chosen. The first thing in a long while shed done only for Evelyn.
And now, this.
***
Late October brought the most unexpected event. Her former mother-in-law, Peters mother Mrs. Agnes Wren, rang. Eighty-two, living alone in Oxford, Evelyn still visited out of old habit, a sense of decency.
Margaret told me, said Mrs. Wren, without preamble.
About what?
About your friend. That you may move.
Evelyn waited.
And what do you think?
I think youve earned it, said the old woman, matter-of-fact. My son didnt value you. I saw it even then. Never said anything, but nows the time. Move, if you want it. The grandchildrenll be fine. Margarets just frightened of losing you but thats not your job, staying where youre not really seen.
I am seen.
As a grandmother. A mother. As someone always there. But as a person?
Evelyn had no answer.
Right then, said Mrs. Wren. Go on. And ring me now and then Ill be glad.
Evelyn stood long by her own kitchen window afterwards, watching the bare branches dance. Leaves all down, everything stark and winter-quiet.
She thought about how people see each other. Margaret a mother who ought to be close by. Jonathan a parent needing comfort and security. Mrs Wilkes a colleague for the library. Mrs. Wren, unexpectedly, saw Evelyn simply as a person.
And Colin? What did he see?
She wasnt sure. But something told her he saw her not a role, not a job, but her. Perhaps because he had no prior claims or resentments. They met at the Bath market no script, only the present.
***
November brought the seasons first snow and a peculiar call from Sophie.
The granddaughter phoned rare, for Margaret usually passed her the phone at the end. But this Sunday morning came a ring from an unknown number.
Nana, its me.
Sophie? Where are you ringing from?
Mums iPad. Are you going away?
Evelyn sat down.
Did you hear adults talking?
A bit. Mum chatting with Uncle Jonathan. Are you?
I dont know yet, Sophie.
If you do, will you visit?
Of course.
Promise?
I promise.
A pause. Then Sophie said:
Nana, is it pretty there?
Where?
Where you might go.
Its beautiful. White churches, snow in winter, a river.
Like ours?
A bit. But smaller.
Okay. Pause. Nana?
Yes.
Mums worried youll be ill, and we wont get there in time.
Evelyns heart pinched.
Tell her Im well and intend to stay that way.
She knows. Shes just scared.
I know. So am I.
What of?
A silence. Many things, darling. But everyones scared sometimes.
You said even brave people get scared, but do things anyway.
I did say that. You remembered.
I remember everything, Sophie said, proud.
All right, Id better go or Mum will notice.
Sophie
What?
I love you.
Love you too. Bye.
***
Mid-November, Evelyn headed to Bath for a full week not just a weekend. Told Mrs Wilkes, asked a neighbour to keep an eye on her post.
Colin met her at the train. He talked about refurbishing a church spire, while she looked out at the snow-sprinkled fields, thinking how shed gone down this same road in March how much had come around.
They settled together into his modest house with its old wooden floors and draughty frames. Sometimes she cooked; he tidied. Over morning coffee at his kitchen window, snow drifted sideways on a light wind.
One night she asked, Does living with someone again feel cramped to you?
He considered.
I felt cramped only when I wasnt living as I wanted. This isnt that.
How did you not live as you wanted?
Worked building sites for years needed to, for the family. Then something snapped, and I started retraining as a restorer. Late I was past forty. People called it daft.
And you?
I did it anyway. He smiled. My wife supported me. She was always someone who supported.
Tell me about her, Evelyn said softly.
He paused.
Anne. Gentle, but not silent she just had a calming way. When she entered a room, everything eased.
You miss her.
I do. He said it plainly. But that doesnt mean I cant keep going. Do you see?
I do.
What about you?
Evelyn thought of Peter how often shed felt uneasy, not peaceful. Shed missed an idea of him, maybe one that never truly existed.
Its different, she said, but I understand.
They sat together in contented quiet.
***
Thursday, day five, Margaret rang.
Evelyn stepped onto the porch. The snow had stopped; the sky, comfortingly dark.
Are you there? Margaret asked.
Yes.
For how long?
Until Sunday.
A long silence.
Mum, can I ask something really honestly?
Of course.
Are you doing this to prove something? To us? Yourself?
Evelyn gazed at the stars.
No. Its not that.
Then what?
I just… want to live. Differently than before.
Were you unhappy before?
Not really. But not quite how I wanted.
What did you lack?
Evelyn mulled it over. Shed had much a home, children, a job she liked, friends. No great tragedy.
But there was also something else: a sense of living slightly beside herself, executing a neat, sensible plan that left her somehow outside the centre.
Myself, she answered at last.
Myself? What does that mean?
It means what it means.
Margaret was silent for ages.
Will you be happy? she suddenly asked, neither snide nor scornful.
I dont know, Evelyn replied, But I want to try.
All right, Margaret said. All right.
It wasnt approval, but it wasnt war.
***
On Sunday, with her bag packed, standing in Colins hall, he asked:
Have you decided?
Almost.
Almost good or bad?
It means I need a little more time.
He nodded.
Youre afraid of making the wrong call.
I am.
May I say something?
Please.
Some mistakes you make, and you realise it wasnt right thats unpleasant, but clear. But the mistakes you dont make are the ones youll never know about. For me, those are worse.
She looked at him.
Are you doing this on purpose?
What do you mean?
Saying the very things Im thinking, but never dare say out loud.
He laughed. He had a kind, crinkled face when he laughed.
No, not on purpose. It just happens.
Back in Oxford, late that evening, Evelyns flat greeted her with its familiar hush and the reliable glow from across the lane. She unpacked, set the kettle, and sat at her table.
A paperback lay there, half-read. She opened to her bookmark: a line about carrying ones solitude, not as a curse, but as a simple fact that can be handled in many ways.
She shut the book.
Then she messaged Colin: Ill be coming in January. For a proper stay. Well see.
He replied: Ill be waiting.
***
December glided by in its own peculiar lightness. Evelyn continued her rounds: the library, visits to Mrs. Wren, all the old habits. Nothing outwardly different, but everything calm within. Something was resolved, something else wasnt. Not anxiety, not ease just in-between.
Margaret rang early December.
Changed your mind yet?
No.
Will you let the flat?
Yes, the agents already looking.
All right. One thing Mum, do you ever wonder if perhaps new things just look better, and?
Margaret.
What?
Im sixty-one, not some eighteen-year-old easily swept up in dreams. Ive endured plenty. I have my comparisons.
That doesnt shield you from illusions.
No, but it does thin them.
What if hes not as he seems?
Maybe. Theres always maybe, Margaret. When you got married, you hadnt any guarantees.
I was twenty-seven.
And?
Silence.
All right, Mum, Margaret said. Do you want help packing?
A long pause.
Yes. Of course.
***
Evelyn spent New Years with Margaret, Sophie, and her son-in-law David. Jonathan visited in from London with his wife and children. The house was crowded and hectic, children shrieking, adults all talking at once.
Sophie parked herself beside Nana and whispered culinary secrets.
Mummy made this salad herself. That ones from Tesco but shes pretending.
You neednt keep me briefed on all this.
Im not briefing, Im just saying.
At midnight, as the adults sat tired with glasses in hand, Margaret suddenly spoke up:
Mums moving to Bath in January.
It sounded factual, nothing else.
David nodded. Jonathan looked at Evelyn.
For long? he asked.
Well see, she said.
Jonathan gave a half-smile.
Sophie blinked sleepily.
Nana, are you going? she mumbled.
Yes, sweetheart.
You promised youd visit.
I promised.
All right then, Sophie sighed and dozed off.
Evelyn watched her, thinking: heres life. A sleeping child. Grown children with their glasses. The old sofa she never did cast out. And, somewhere in another town, a man whod written only, Waiting.
***
On the fifteenth of January, Evelyn rang Mrs Wilkes.
Mrs Wilkes, Im stepping down from the group.
A pause.
When?
February. Enough time to hand over.
Youre leaving town?
I am.
Where, if you dont mind me asking?
Bath.
Ah. For him?
For him, and for myself.
Thats well put, said Mrs Wilkes. Well find someone else. Itll be hard you were wonderful. But well manage.
Thanks.
Good luck, Evelyn. The proper sort.
On her last day, the children presented her with a giant card. Each drew something special. The boy who wrote about window-books drew a curtained window with Look inside scrawled underneath.
She folded the card and placed it in her bag.
***
On the twenty-third of January, she arrived in Bath. Colin carried in her suitcase. He set it in a small room hed cleared for her; a pot of geraniums stood on the sill.
Wheres that from? she asked.
I bought it. Decided there should be a plant.
A very wise decision.
She approached the window. The garden lay snowy and still, then someone elses plot, and more rooftops beyond.
Well? he asked.
Im not sure yet. Ask in a month.
I will.
She turned.
Colin.
Yes?
Thank you for not rushing me.
He hesitated.
Thank you for coming.
***
Three months passed. Evelyn adjusted slowly. Bath was a small town, which was both blessing and challenge. Blessing for its calm; challenge because everyone knew each other, and she was the newcomer, eyed with careful curiosity.
Dorothy introduced her to some ladies whod settled there ages past. One, Mrs Nixon, invited her to help run the local book club. Only ten or so folk they read and discussed together.
Im not sure Im up to it, Evelyn said.
Oh, whats to it, Mrs Nixon waved her off. Drop by, see how you fancy it. If not, no loss.
Evelyn went. She liked it.
Her chats with Margaret grew steady once a week, sometimes more. Margarets cautious routine gave way to asking after Colin, after the book club, after what her mother was reading. It was as if her vision slowly adjusted to the new light.
Sophie wrote a real letter, in a stamped envelope. Two churches and a river drawn on the front, with, Nana, Ill visit you soon. Mummy says in the Easter holidays, and, Prudence is the goat? Dorothy told me.
Evelyn wrote back.
***
One April evening, Margaret finally visited alone, without Sophie. She wandered the rooms, noticing the wooden floors and geranium, the small kitchen table.
Colin brewed tea and discreetly retreated to his workshop.
Mother and daughter sat together.
Its nice here, Margaret said, more as surprise than fact.
Yes.
Tiny, though.
But quiet.
Dont you miss Oxford?
I do. I miss you lot, Mrs Wilkes, the riverside.
And yet?
And yet.
Margaret fiddled with her mug.
Is he decent? she asked, not doubting, just asking.
He is.
Are you happy?
Evelyn thought.
Im not certain. Happy is a hard word. But I am well. Really well.
Margaret nodded.
Good.
What does good mean?
It just means good. She looked up. Im still scared for you. I probably always will be.
I know.
But Im trying. To understand.
Thats plenty.
They talked about Sophie, work, Davids dream of a new car. Ordinary talk, without subtext.
Later, as Margaret made ready to go, Evelyn saw her out.
April air was damp and loaded with the scent of earth. The trees shivered in tender new green.
Mum, Margaret called at the gate.
Yes?
I dont think I get this. Maybe I never will.
I know.
But you should know something.
Whats that?
Margaret hesitated. Then she looked up those same dark eyes, her fathers eyes.
Youve always been there. Always. Im used to you being you know at the end of the phone.
I still am. Always.
I know. Its just different distance now. I have to get used to it.
You will.
Do you think?
Evelyn studied her. That dear, familiar face shed known since the very beginning, from those first frightened days cradling a newborn in the hospital.
I do, she said. You always do, Margaret. Youre strong.
Not as strong as you.
Just the same.
Margaret gave a small smile and squeezed her. They embraced tightly, as ever, and stood that way in silence.
Then Margaret grabbed her bag and left.
Ill call when Im home.
Ill be waiting.
She walked down the lane her stride brisk and upright, just like her fathers.
At the turn, Margaret called back, Mum!
Yes?
Your geraniums flowering. I saw.
It is, Evelyn called.
Good, said Margaret, before heading away.
***
Back inside, Colin was warming soup. Evelyn stood by the window, watching as Margaret disappeared. Down the lane, an old woman shuffled home with her grocery bag, leisurely.
The geranium bloomed, tiny pink petals bright against the glass.
All right? Colin asked over his shoulder.
All right, Evelyn replied.
She paused.
Shes good. Just afraid.
Thats perfectly fair. Not easy for her either.
No.
She joined him at the table, taking plates from the cupboard. Already, in three months, it had all become habit.
Colin, she said at last.
Yes?
Do you think I did the right thing?
He turned, looked her in the eye.
What do you think?
Evelyn was quiet.
I think its mine. For the first time, all mine.
There you are, he said gently. Youve answered yourself.
They ate together. Outside, Bath glowed pale and white with the last snow, green spearing through beneath.
Evelyn watched it all and thought: there it is. Not happiness as a word, nor a final decision, but simply a meal, a window, this man across from her. The sufficiency of the ordinary, for now.
Would it be enough? She didnt know.
But the soup was hot, the geranium thriving, and in her bag the card from an eight-year-old, whod drawn a window so you could look inside.
***
Evening. Sophie called.
Nana, Mummy said she came to visit you.
She did, love.
How was it?
We talked. It was good.
Did she cry?
No, darling, why?
She sometimes does when she thinks I cant hear about you. Because of you.
Evelyn closed her eyes.
Sophie.
Yes?
Tell Mum Im coming to visit soon. Very soon.
All right. Nana?
Yes?
Is it spring there yet?
Almost. Still a little snow, though.
Weve got proper warm weather now. Odd, isnt it? Same country, different weather.
Not odd at all.
Nana, do you miss us?
Evelyn gazed out at the dark, where the first stars trembled.
I do. Every day.
Thats good. Missing means you love, right?
Evelyn had no reply.
Bye, Nana.
Goodbye, darling.
She put down the phone. Colin at the sink, humming softly, the geranium in silhouette. In a nearby garden, a dog barked, already familiar, part of this new brand of peace.
Evelyn sat and thought that Sophie was right: if you miss, you love. And perhaps loving means you ache a little too. Its all part of living not perfect, not storybook, just life, with its distances and closeness; with right and wrong decisions that, over time, simply become your own.
She got up to join Colin at the sink.
