A White Cloth, a Grey Life
The soup was good. Helen knew this for certain, having tasted it three times as she simmered it, and each time she felt pleased. The beetroots were fresh, from the market, and the beef on the bone had been quietly bubbling away for two hours. Shed added the garlic at the last moment, just as it should be. Candles stood on the table, illuminating the white linen tableclothher special one, which shed saved for important occasions. Fifteen years. That was an important occasion, surely.
It was growing dark outside. October in their cathedral city was always like this: grey, wet, the air heavy with the scent of decaying leaves and distant car exhausts. Helen nudged the fork on the right of the plate, tugged the tablecloth straight at one corneralthough it already lay perfectly smooth. She stopped in the middle of the kitchen, standing quietly, listening to the ticking of the clock above the fridge.
Victor arrived half past eight. She heard the key in the lock, a bag thumping to the floor, and then the hall light flicking on.
What have you got there? he called, poking his head into the kitchen, still bundled in his coat, nose red from the chilly air.
Come in, wash your hands, and sit down, Helen replied with a smile. Soup, roast chicken, and I made a salad.
Victor shrugged off his coat right there, throwing it onto a chair. He glanced around.
What are the candles for?
What do you think, Vic? It’s our anniversary.
He said nothing, just headed to the sink to rinse his hands, then sat. Helen ladled out the soup and placed it in front of him. The cream was from the farmers market too. She put a spoonful on top, just the way he liked.
Victor sniffed, took a spoonful, chewed, swallowed.
Bit sour.
Helen sat opposite.
Is it? I thought it tasted fine.
Mum makes her soup differently. Hers is better more flavour or something. Just proper, you know?
Helen picked up her spoon.
Eat while its still hot.
I am. Victor turned his bowl. Why lay out the nice white tablecloth? Youll only stain it.
I wont.
Well see. He snorted. Mum always sets a dark one for special meals. Burgundy, mostly. Looks good and hides the spills.
Helen watched the candles. Their gentle flames flickered each time Victor shifted at the table.
Vic, she said, quietly, its our fifteenth wedding anniversary.
I know.
You didnt say anything when you came in.
He looked up at her, puzzled, almost offended.
What should I say? Greet you? We’ve been together ages, its not a birthday.
Well, perhaps. But fifteen years is
Its fifteen years, he interrupted. Wheres the chicken?
Helen stood and brought the roast chicken from the oven, golden brown with herbs as Victor preferred.
Dried out, he said, cutting a piece.
I just took it out.
Probably in too long. Mum covers hers with foil. Hers is always moist.
Helen took some chicken. She chewed, watching as a car swept by outside, its headlights glancing across the ceiling.
Did you see your mother today? she asked.
Stopped by after work. Why?
No reason. Just wondered.
Victor eyed the tablecloth again.
The white ones a poor choice, Helen. Its just not serious. Mum knows how to lay a tablealways coordinated plates, the right cloth, bread sliced thin. And you He nodded at the bread. Yours is cut like doorstops.
Helen put down her fork. Not abruptly, just quietly, beside her plate.
Inside her, something tightened and eased, like a fist.
Victor, she said, her voice levela surprise even to herself, do you hear what youre saying?
He looked at her, a touch annoyed at being distracted from his food.
What? Im just saying Mum does it better. Thats not an insult.
You came in the door, said nothing, and started criticising dinner, the tablecloth, the bread, everything. I was cooking for three hours, Vic.
Well, you cooked. And? I’m supposed to give you applause? Its your job.
Helen was silent for a moment.
My job, she repeated, as if tasting it.
Yes. Youre at home, youre in charge of cooking. I earn the money at work. Its simple.
So, fifteen years together is just something to acknowledge?
Come on, Helen, what do you wanta poem? Mum always said, less romance, more order in the home. Thats what makes a family.
The candle flickered, once, as if it too had heard something.
Helen stood, cleared her plate, and went over to the window. She paused, looking out at the sodden rooftops, the yellow-lit windows, the bare tree in the courtyard stripped by autumn winds.
She turned.
Victor, pack your things.
He looked up.
What?
Pack and go. Please.
He stared at her as if shed begun speaking in a foreign tongue, then laughed shortly, like a cough.
Youre serious?
I am.
Over soup?
Not over soup.
What then? Because I mentioned Mum again? Thats ridiculous, Helen.
It isnt to me.
Youre really upset? He stood, folding his arms. Look, fine, Im sorry, alright? Sit, eat.
No, Vic.
He stared at her. She stood by the window, spine straight and calm. Perhaps he expected tears, raised voices, a slammed dooranything but this composure.
Youre not joking, he said, slowly.
Im not.
Silence. The clock ticked. The candles burned.
All over a row, he began.
Not over one row, Helen said quietly. Over fifteen years of the same row. Go, Vic. Take what you need now. Collect the rest another time.
Victor stood for a minute, then turned, heading to the bedroom. She heard the wardrobe opening, a plastic bag rustling. She stayed in the kitchen, gazing at the candles, which now burned steady and undisturbed.
When he came out with a bag, he paused in the doorway, looking at the table. The white cloth, the soup, the thick-cut bread.
Youll regret this, he said.
Perhaps, Helen replied. Goodbye, Vic.
The door closed. The lock clicked. She sat and listened as his footsteps faded away down the stairs.
Then she rose, blew out the candlesno more point having them alightand washed up. She put the soup away in the fridge. She couldnt eat a thing.
The flat smelled of fried onions and damp, as flats in English autumns always do, when the stairwell windows are propped open but the radiators still havent quite warmed the place up.
Helen went to bed at half past ten. She didnt fall asleep right away, just lay staring at the ceiling, listening to next doors television murmuring through the walls. She thought only this: she wasnt crying. Imagine.
***
Mrs. Priscilla opened the door even before Victor rang the bell a second time. She always did, as if she knew, always waiting for him.
Victor, darling! She fluttered her hands, glancing down at his bag. Good heavens, whats happened?
She threw me out, he said flatly.
Who? That Helen? I told you, Ive always told you, Victor! Come in, come in, Ive just made soup. Potato and chicken, just how you like it.
He kicked off his shoes, went into the kitchen, sat at the table. The place smelled of food and of that subtle scent every old English flat hasa hint of mothballs, a little lavender water, and over all, cooking.
His mother busied herself at the stove, talking non-stop.
I knew it from the first, she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, Vicdo you see? Cold women never have children, thats no accident. Nature knows best. Eatsee, look, Ive sliced the bread.
It was sliced thin, neat. Victor stared at it, remembering that Helen always cut bread thickly.
Mum, please, not now.
What do you mean, not now? Im only telling you the truth! Fifteen years she put you through and what was it all for? No children, no decent home to speak of. Have your soup.
The soup was hot, hearty, just as advertised. Victor ate in silence.
The first days passed in a fog. He went to work, came home, dined with his mother, watched the telly. Priscilla cooked each morning with vigour. She pulled out cutlets from the fridge, set his plate, and said, “You must look after yourself, youre going grey, you know.
On the third day she unpacked his bag while he was out.
Dont put that shirt on again, its creased, I saw it, she said over supper. Ill iron the blue one for you, it suits you better.
I like the grey one, Victor muttered.
Well, the blues best, Im telling you.
He kept quiet, ate his cutlets, drank his tea. His mother tidied and regaled stories of the lady on the fourth floor who, Well, went her own way and is quite content with it, and there was a sting in it about Helen, though Victor barely listened.
After a week his mother remarked that his shoes were absolutely done for and insisted theyd go to the shops Saturday for a new pair.
Mum, theres nothing wrong with them.
Victor, I see it. The soles are going.
They arent.
They are. Were going, Saturday.
They went. She was choosy, fussing, tried different pairs that she liked, not him. He wanted black, plain and flat. She picked brown, with a decorative buckle.
Look, how smart, she said.
I dont like them.
Dont be a child, Victor. These are best.
The saleswoman looked away. Victor caught his reflection at the tilla middle-aged man in brown shoes with a buckle, blank-faced.
He bought the brown.
Evenings, his mother would sit opposite, telling him how good hed been as a little boy, how she brought him up alone, how hard it was, how Helen had never appreciated it all. Victor simply nodded.
Sometimes he thought about the white tablecloth, the candles. He couldnt understand why shed bothered with them, why shed done any of it. Fifteen years, so what?
But he thought of it.
And of how she hadnt cried. Hadnt shouted. Shed just stood there, calm at the window, and asked him to go. He couldnt imagine where that calm had come fromhe was used to other things, expected something else.
By the end of the first month, his mother had made him a schedule. She didnt call it that, she would just say, Tuesday youre at the doctor, Ive booked it, Thursday, were round to Aunt Ginnys, shes invited us, Friday dont be late, Ill bake a pie, I dont like waiting.
Victor ran late that Friday because of a meeting at work. He rang to let her know. She talked all through his bus ride home, and he just held the phone, looking out of the rain-splattered window.
The pie was ready. It was good. Everything she made was.
Victor sat at the table and felt this tightness in his chest. Not pain, but a pressureconstant, gentle, as though there was just a bit less air than he needed.
***
The first three weeks, Helen drifted in a daze.
She went to work, came home, cooked something plain, ate, then tried to sleep. Evenings were the hardesther flat was so quiet, at first frighteningly so, then simply silent.
Her friend Alice rang every other day. Helen, how are you, come round, perhaps? Helen would insist she was fine, no need. Alice came anyway the first Saturday, wine and biscuits in hand, and they sat in the kitchen until two a.m., Helen talking about the candles, the soup, the mother-in-law with her appropriate tablecloth, and Alice listening, sometimes murmuring, What a sod, under her breath, which helped a little.
You did right, said Alice at the end of the evening. You really did, Helen.
Im scared, Helen admitted.
I know. Itll pass.
After Alice left, Helen stood in her sitting room and looked at the heavy navy curtains. Victor had chosen them himself, years ago. Thick, blocks the light, sensible, hed said. Theyd been up ever since; Helen hadnt truly noticed them before, just another thing.
She took them down next day.
It took her the best part of an hour to wrangle the heavy pole down, climbing cautiously onto a chair. Once the curtains were gone and put away, the room changed instantly. The grey October daylight, colourless and cool, was still better than the darkness behind blue velvet.
Then she moved the sofa. Not aloneshe fetched Mr. Paul, the gentle, elderly neighbour, to help out. Moved, the sofa caught the window light differently.
A strange thing, but pleasant.
She slept better from the second week. Not perfectly, but she no longer gazed at the ceiling until three a.m. most nights.
Nothing changed at work. Helen was a good accountant, steady and thorough. Never late, her paperwork always immaculate. Her colleagues respected her, especially Mrs. Irene, the chief accountant, a tidy, stern woman with her endless pearl earringsnever personal, but clearly quietly approving of Helen.
At end of October, Mrs. Irene called her into her office.
Helen, she said, Im leaving next year. Going to my daughters. The director wants to offer you my post. Chief accountant.
Helen sat in silence for a few seconds.
Me? she managed. Only to say something.
You. I’ve thought about it for a year. Say yes.
Helen rode the bus home, thinking about itchief accountant, more responsibility. Shed always been a bit wary of that. Victor had once said, Why bother with a career, youre not single, I earn the money. Shed agreed back then.
Now, light bouncing past, she thought: why not?
November was busy. She decorated, modestly and within means: painted her bedroom a soft primrose yellow, replaced the curtains with thin linen ones. Bought a new orange-tinged lampshade for evenings. The flat gradually changed. It was becoming hers.
She bought pots of geraniums for the sills. Their scent, fresh and green, was just right with the linen and the yellow wall.
Business with Victor was sorted through a solicitor. All went smoothly. The flat was hers. No rows, no fuss. Perhaps his mother persuaded him, or perhaps he was tired.
December, Helen agreed to become chief accountant. Mrs. Irene shook her hand.
Well done, she said. And for the first time in their years together, smiled warmly.
Helen spent New Years at Alices, in a noisy crowdchildren, dogs, mountains of salad. It was merry and a little sad, the kind of sadness that always sneaks up at holidays when you look back. She sipped champagne, watched the fireworks, and thought: another year gone. She was alive, and, oddly enough, all right.
***
Winter didnt turn out well for Victor.
His mother decided he needed a doctor, made appointments with the GP, the cardiologist, the gastro specialist: Youre looking peaky, Vic, lets get you checked. He went. The doctors all declared he was fine, age considered, his mother disappointed, almost as though she wished something would turn up for her to fret about.
He grew irritable at work. Colleagues noticed. Peters, who had a smoke with him on the stairwell, asked once:
Whats got your back up?
Nothing, Victor snapped.
Something at home?
No.
Peters smoked and left. Victor stayed, staring out a grubby window into the factory yard, the snow there churned grey and patchy with oil. He didnt want to go back to work. Nor home. Nor anywhere.
He wondered: where did he want to go, then?
No answer came.
His mother met him nightly with supper. That was good, she caredhe understood. But there was always the plan for tomorrow, what to wear, appointments to keep. If he came in late, she rang. If he didnt answer, she rang again. Then a message: Im worried, Vic, where are you?
One February night he stayed late at Peterss, watching football and having a pint. He got home half past ten.
His mother sat alone in the dark kitchen, switching on the light as he arrived, her eyes filled with reproach.
Where have you been?
I told you Id be late.
Late isnt specific. I had no idea where you were, I worried, my blood pressures up.
Mum
Eat, theres some left for you. She set reheated cutlets before him. And dont keep turning your phone off; I called you three times.
I didntI just didnt hear, we were watching the match.
Football, she repeated, as if the very word were something indecent.
Victor ate in silence.
He noticed then how he was always justifying himselfabout being late, about his shirt, about eating or not eating, calling or not calling.
He remembered telling Helen, Mum knows best, and saying it with pride. The memory was peculiar now, foolish.
In March he tried looking for a room to rent. Found a few listings, not too dear, close to work. Mentioned it to his mother.
She cried.
Not loud or accusing, just quietly, saying, So youre unhappy here, Im in your way, I see, Vic.
He didnt rent a room.
Often at night, he dreamt of Helennot romantically, just small memories: her bustling in the kitchen, or the two of them driving somewhere. Nothing special. Hed wake and stare at his mothers ceiling, empty of anything but plaster and shadow.
He wondered what she was doing. How she was.
Then quickly thought: never mind, shes probably found someone already.
That, strangely, made him angry.
***
February was brighter than anyone expecteda proper white snow, sunlight bouncing off each drift, and as Helen walked to the bus stop in the mornings, she squinted and thought it was high time she bought sunglasses. She did, pink with thin gold frames, and laughed at her reflection in the shop mirror, feeling almost silly and utterly delighted.
Work continued. New responsibilities came hard, but she managed. Sometimes she stayed late, wrestling with reports, conferring with the director, Mr. Timothy Evansa solid, taciturn sort who appreciated precision. He approved of her; she could feel it.
Her colleagues were kind. The youngest, Daisy, looked up to her and sometimes left a cup of coffee on Helens desk without a word. Helen would thank her; Daisy would blush.
In March, Alice cajoled her to a birthday party at her friend Natashas. Helen was reluctant: unfamiliar faces, noise, the trials of socialising. Helen, stop sitting in, youll enjoy it, Alice insisted.
Natasha was a jolly, generous woman with a sprawling flat, two cats, and a colossal rubber plant. There must have been a dozen guests. Helen stuck close to Alice at first, but soon fell into easy conversation with a schoolteacher at her tablethey spent most of the evening discussing novels.
Across the table from her sat Alex. She only noticed him later; the kind of man youd miss at firstaverage height, a hint of silver at his temples, plain grey jumper. He spoke little, listened closely, and smiled every now and then at something quietly amusing.
Towards evenings end, they found themselves by the window, drinking tea side by side. He asked a question, she answered, then he repliedconversation flowed effortlessly. He was an engineer, working at a local firm, widowed four years since, lost his wife to cancer. He spoke simply, as one whos made peace with sorrow.
You know Natasha well? Helen asked.
Knew her ex-husband, mostly, but stayed friendly. And youthrough Alice?
Yes. Alice and I go back to uni.
Lucky to have such a friend, Alex said.
Very, Helen agreed.
They exchanged numbers, just so, no expectations. He messaged in three days, inviting her for coffee. She said yes.
They met in a little café near her work, talking for two hours. She spoke of her divorce; he listened without interrupting, offering neither pity nor advice. Then he told his story. Outside, they lingered. It was cold, but nice. He asked if he could call again. She said he could.
There was a walk by the riverbank soon after. Then a film. Then, one April night, she went round for dinner.
***
Alex lived in a flat on the fifth floor of an old brick building. Helen climbed the stairs, bottle of wine in hand, thinking shed walk in to find chaosstag-night disorder, and shed have to pretend not to notice. She was a little nervous, automatically, like someone long-used to being found at fault.
She rang.
The door opened. The flat smelled of applesfaint, warm, with a tinge of cinnamon.
Come through, Alex smiled. Pies in the oven. Hope you like apple?
I love it, Helen grinned.
The flat was unpretentiousneither spotless nor messy, but lived-in. Books and tools jostled for space in the corridors shelf; a newspaper lay open on the kitchen table. No decorative arrangements, nothing for showjust a person’s home.
She helped make the salad, slicing tomatoes while he cut cheese. They spoke sometimes, worked in comfortable silence too. The quiet wasnt heavy.
Helen found herself waiting. Any minute now, hed say, Shouldve used cucumbers,” or Thats not the right dressing, or just look at the table a certain way, the way shed learned to dread for fifteen years.
But he said nothing like that. Instead, as they sat down, he poured wine, looked at her, then at the table.
Thank you for coming, he said.
Three plain words. That was all. No criticism, no caveats.
Helen dropped her gaze to her plate and felt something in her gently, almost imperceptibly, let go. As if shed been bracing for yearsand now, at last, she could stand down.
Outside, dusk was falling, lamplight flickering, a spray of fresh leaves on the tree opposite. In the oven the pie sighed gently, fragrant apple drifting through the whole kitchen.
They spoke for hours. She told him about childhood, how shed once studied to be a teacher but ended up an accountant. He told her about his projectrestoring old buildings. She listened, thinking what good work it was, mending things that had been worn out.
When it was time to go, he walked her to the stairs and said, Im glad we met.
On her way home, Helen thought not about Alex, not reallynot only about him. She thought about the pie, about how it could be like thisthat you could come to someones home without dread, just eat, and afterwards leave lighter.
***
Summer passed softly and well.
She and Alex met regularly, unhurried. He pressed nothing; nor did she. On Saturdays theyd go to the market togethershed buy herbs and cream, hed get fish. They cooked side by side, and it was a different kind of pleasure from cooking aloneor cooking in anticipation of critique.
One night in July, she stayed at his. It was late, she didnt fancy heading home, so she didnt. In the morning, Alex made coffee, brought it to her in bednot ceremoniously, nothing like a film, just did it, and sat at her side.
Are you working today? he asked.
From noon.
How about the market in the morning? Therell be cherries by now.
Helen cradled the mug in both hands. Outside, the summer morning was deep blue and sharp with the cries of swifts. Suddenly, she wanted to crynot out of sadness, but something else, something you feel when you realise youre suddenly, unexpectedly well.
Id like that, she said.
In the autumn, Alex suggested she move in. No fanfare, no flowers or ringjust one evening, while they were washing up, he said:
Helen, maybe youd be happier here with me? It’s a big flat, youd be welcomeand Id much prefer it.
I need to think, she replied.
Of course, he nodded. Take your time.
She thought for two weeks. Then she agreed.
In November, she moved in. She kept her flat, renting it out for now, not selling. She brought her books, the geraniums, the orange lampshade, the linen curtains. Alex shifted the bookcase to make room for hers; together they put their books side by side, fiction and engineering manuals jumbled upa good look.
December, they officially registered as a couplequietly, no fuss, just Alice and Alexs mate George as witnesses. Then dinner for four in a restaurant, everyone laughing, Alice in tears saying, Its happiness, dont worry.
In January, Helen discovered she was pregnant.
She stood in the bathroom with the test for a long time, staring at the two lines. Eventually she sank onto the edge of the bath and sat motionless for ten minutes, not moving at all.
She was forty-three. Shed always thought shed have no children. Victor hadnt wanted them, nor had she, not reallytheyd never discussed it properly, then time simply slipped away. The doctors never said she couldnt, but shed accepted her fate long ago.
Yet, here it was.
Alex was in his study, sketching. She came to the doorway; he turned at her presence.
He saw her face.
What is it? he asked gently.
She handed over the test. He examined it, silent for several seconds. Then got up and hugged her tightly, saying nothing, just held her fast.
Then said, quietly:
Thats wonderful, Helen. Truly wonderful.
She buried her face in his shoulder and, at last, criedfor real, no restraint. He wasnt afraid, didnt say stop now, just held her murmuring: Its all right. All is well.
***
Spring arrived again. The riverbank, the cafés, but now Helen wandered the promenade slowly, turned a little sideways by her pregnancy, Alex steadying her with a gentle hand.
She was six months gone. Everyone at work knew. Mr. Evans said, Congratulations, Mrs. Andrewyour roles safe, dont worry a bit. Daisy looked at her with a new, gentle respect, the kind younger women reserve for those who know how to live.
Their flatwhich they now called ‘ours’was filling with new things: a cot in pieces, a moon-shaped nightlight, a little stash of baby clothes in a drawer. Helen sometimes opened it just to touch them. Something about it all felt reassuring, real.
She sipped tea by the window these mornings, eyes on the budding grass below. The scent of the damp earth drifted up, tinged with apples from the gardens next door. It was peaceful, and good.
Yet sometimes, particularly at night when Alex was asleep, Helen would feel the baby moving and find herself thinking of the past. Not with pain or regret, but as if leafing through an old photograph. That had been her life once, and those peoplewell, you couldnt help feeling sorry, in a way. Pity for the fifteen years lost, perhaps, or maybe for her younger self, whod so carefully cooked soup and laid out a white tablecloth.
She didnt know what Victor was doing. Alice said shed glimpsed him at Sainsburys, looking older. Helen just nodded, said nothing. She wished him no harm; he was simply another story now, nothing to do with her.
***
Victor sat in his mothers kitchen.
Spring outside, but indoors it was always winter: heavy curtains shut out even April sun, the mantel crowded with old knickknacks, the air thick with liniment and stewing meat.
Priscilla stood by the stove, tending soupalways talking, when she cooked.
You look peaky again, Vic. I keep saying, see that doctorits not like those clowns at work, a proper cardiologist, Ive got the number. Ill make you an appointment.
Mum, Im all right.
You never notice these things, dearmen never do, not until its too late. Your father insisted he was fine, then look how he ended up.
Victor stared at the table.
A blue and white check tablecloth now covered itpractical, you wouldnt spill on that. She was right.
She put soup before him.
Eat up while its hot. Buckwheat and beef today. Your favourite.
I like it, Mum.
He took a spoonful. The soup was good. His mother could cook, no doubt.
Victor, she said, sitting opposite with her tea, have you thought about what I said? About Linda?
Victor looked up.
I havent.
Well, you should. Shes a proper lady, a widow, her own place and all. Asked about you.
Mum.
What, Mum? Forty-five years old, you cant go on alone, thats no life.
I dont need fixing up, Victor muttered, surprised by the force of it.
Priscilla studied him.
Then what? You just sit here staring into space. Youre still hung up on that Helen, aren’t you? But why? She threw you out. You know what they say about women like that
Mum, he interrupted, something strange in his voice, and she stopped.
They sat in silence. The clock ticked on the wall, birds chirping insistently outside.
Eat, or itll go cold, his mother urged. No onell feed you like I do.
Victor stared at his bowl.
The soup was good. Genuinely so. His mothers skill could not be denied.
He ate, thinking back to that evening in Octobercoming home tired, grumpy, grumbling about the tablecloth, about the soup, about how Mum knew best.
He hadnt realised thenit wasnt about the tablecloth. Only now did he start to understand. Far too late, as so many men do.
He was caged. The word snuck up, and he nearly paused, startled by it. Caged. Hed always thought Helen made a cage for himher food wrong, her nature lacking. But in truth, shed only ever given way. The cage had been his all along; he’d dragged it from childhood, from his mothers home, into his marriage, and back again.
Tasty? his mother asked.
Very, Mum, he said.
There you are. She beamed, content. Without me, youd be lost, Victor.
He didnt answer.
Outside, the spring birds sang louder, and in the crack between the curtains, a thin band of bright, intrusive April sunlight managed to sneak, unwanted.
Victor hunched over, finishing his soup.
***
That April evening Helen stood out on the balcony of what she now shared with Alex, watching the sunset. Her belly was large, awkward, but she stood anyway to catch the spring air. Below, the scent of thawing earth and something young drifted upwardssomething unnamed, but found only in spring.
Inside, Alex was taking a work call, his voice calm behind her. The kitchen table bore two mugshis and herswith the warm orange glow of her old lampshade soft across the room.
Helen laid her hand on her stomach. The baby kicked, lazy, content.
Hello there, she whispered.
She was nervous. She was happy. There was a quiet, honest happinessunsteady, no promises, but there it was: an April sunset, the smell of the earth, the promise of new life, the warmth of home behind her and a small being tumbling gently from within, awaiting its time.
Helen stayed for a moment longer.
Then she went inside.
