A White Tablecloth, A Grey Life
The stew was really good. Helen was sure of itshed tasted it three times while cooking and each time she was satisfied. The carrots were fresh from the Saturday market, the beef had simmered for two solid hours, and shed only added the garlic at the end, just as youre meant to. Shed set out candles and laid out her white linen tablecloththe one she saved for special occasions. Fifteen yearsnow if thats not a special occasion, what is?
It was getting dark outside. October in their part of Manchester was always like this: damp, grey, carrying the scent of rotting leaves and car exhaust. Helen straightened the fork next to the plate, tugged at the tablecloth in the cornerthough it was perfectly straight already. Then she paused in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the tick of the clock above the fridge.
Victor came in at half-past eight. She heard him fiddling with the lock, then the thud of his shopping bag on the floor, the flick of the hallway light switch.
Whatve you got then? he called, peering into the kitchen, still in his coat, nose red from the cold.
Come on in, wash your hands, sit downdinners ready. Helen smiled. Stew, roast chicken, and I made a salad.
Victor shrugged off his coat right there in the doorway, slinging it over a chair. He looked round.
Candles and all that? What for?
Oh Vic, its our anniversary, isnt it?
He said nothing, just went to the sink, gave his hands the quickest rinse, and sat down. Helen ladled out the stew and set it in front of him. The sour cream was from the market too, thick and lovely, and she put a dollop on top, just the way he liked.
Victor sniffed, picked up his spoon, tasted the stew.
Its a bit sharp, he said eventually.
Helen sat opposite. Really? I thought it was fine.
Mums stews different. ItsI dunno, richer, I guess. Hers tastes proper.
Helen took up her spoon. Eat it while its hot.
I am. Victor spun the bowl. Whyd you put a white tablecloth down? Youll get it covered in stains.
I wont.
Well see. He smirked. Mum always lays out a dark one for celebrations, burgundyyou know, practical, but still looks nice.
Helen watched the candle flames quiver each time Victor shifted.
Vic, she said quietly, its fifteen years today. Married, I mean.
I know.
You didnt say anything when you came in.
He looked at her, genuinely puzzled, almost wounded. Say what? Am I supposed to congratulate you? Its not a birthday.
I just thoughtfifteen years is
Fifteen years, he cut in. Wheres the chicken?
Helen got up for the chicken, golden and fragrant with herbs, just the way Victor liked.
Dried out, he said, cutting a piece.
I just took it out of the oven.
Well, you left it too long. Mum always wraps hers in foil, says it keeps it juicy.
Helen took a small helping for herself, chewing quietly. A cars headlights swept the ceiling as it passed outside.
Did you see your mum today? she asked.
Stopped by after work. Why?
No reason. Just wondered.
He glanced again at the tablecloth. You really shouldnt have used the white one, Helen. Honestly. Mum always sets the table nicelytheres always the right dishes, the right cloth, bread sliced thin. You he nodded at her bread have cut doorstop slices.
Helen set down her fork. Gently, not with any show, just resting it beside her plate.
Something inside her tightened and untangled, like a fist unclenching.
Victor, she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. Do you hear what youre saying?
He met her gaze, a little irritated, the way people get when interrupted at dinner.
What? Im just saying Mums better at this. I didnt mean its an insult.
You walked in without a word, started picking holes in the dinner, the tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. I cooked for three hours, Vic.
Well, you cooked. So what? Do you want applause? Its your job.
Helen paused.
My job?
Well, yeah. Youre at home, you do the dinner. I work, I earn. Simple.
And fifteen years, thatsjust nothing?
Oh, Helen, what do you want? Poetry? Mum always saidless fuss, more order. Thats what keeps a family going.
A candle flickered, as if it too had heard.
Helen stood, cleared her plate, walked to the window. She stared out at the wet rooftops, yellow-lit windows, and the nearly bare tree in the square.
She turned back.
Victor, pack your things.
He lifted his head. What?
Your thingsplease pack them and go.
He looked at her like shed suddenly started speaking Latin. Then laughedonce, short, more like a cough.
Youre serious?
I am.
Because of the stew?
Not because of the stew.
What then? Because I mentioned my mum? Seriously, Helen, its laughable.
Im not laughing.
Youre upset? Oh for gods sake. All right, sorry, okay? Sit down, eat.
No, Vic.
He stared. She stood at the window, straight, unshaken. Probably expecting tears, shouting, a slammed dooranything but this calm.
Youre not joking, he said, slowly.
No.
Silence. Ticking clock. Candlelight.
Over one little argument he began.
Not just one, Helen said, her voice even. Fifteen years of the same old argument. Go, Vic. Take what you need, get the rest later.
He stood for a minute more, then turned and left for the bedroom. She heard him rummaging through the wardrobe, bin bags rustling. She stayed in the kitchen, watching the candles burn, steady and unflickering.
When he returned with his bag, he lingered in the doorway, looked at the tablethe white cloth, the stew, the chunky bread.
Youll regret this, he said.
Maybe, Helen replied. Goodbye, Vic.
The front door shut. She listened as his footsteps faded on the stairs.
Then she snuffed out the candlesit wasnt worth wasting them any longerand cleared the plates. She popped the stew in the fridge, appetite gone.
The flat smelled of fried onions and a little damp, the usual in October, when the window in the stairways always open and the radiators havent warmed up properly.
She climbed into bed at half ten. Lay awake a while, eyes on the ceiling, listening to next doors telly. The only thing in her mind was: she wasnt crying. Imagine that.
***
Pamela opened her door before Victor had even finished the second ring. She always did, like she knew he was out there, as if shed been standing, waiting.
Vicky! she cried, hands fluttering. Then she saw the bag. Oh love, whats happened?
Shes thrown me out, he muttered.
Her? I did warn you, didn’t I? Come in! Ive done potato soup, with chicken, just the way you like.
He slipped off his shoes, headed for the kitchen. The place smelt of food and that unmistakeable old-lady scentmothballs, menthol rub, and mingled on top, the lingering aroma of stewing veg.
Mum fussed at the stove, talking the whole time.
I always knew she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, you know, cold! Thats why you didnt have kids, its nature deciding, not accident. Here, have a bit of breadI sliced it up.
The bread was thin, neat slices. For some reason Victor thought of Helen, and her chunky pieces.
Mum, not now.
What? Im just telling it straight. Fifteen years of misery, and what comes of it? No children, no proper home. Try the soup.
The soup was hot and hearty, just as shed said. Victor ate in silence.
The next few days passed in a daze. He went to work, came home, ate his mums dinners, watched TV. Pamela cooked every day, happily, digging things from the freezer, insisting, You need proper food, you look so pale these days.
On the third day shed unpacked his bag without asking, while he was out.
Youre not wearing this shirt againits a mess, I saw, she said at tea. Ill press your blue one, suits you better.
I like the grey one, Victor said.
So what if you do? Blues better, I’m telling you.
He just ate, drank his tea. Mum tidied up, launching into a story about the neighbour from downstairs whod gone off on her own, and shes fine, you know. There was a message in there about Helen, but Victor wasnt listening.
After a week, Mum declared his shoes completely knackered and insisted they shop for a new pair on Saturday.
Theyre fine, Mum.
I can see the soles coming off. Saturday, were going.
She took ages choosing, fussing, made him try on pairs she liked rather than what he wanted. He chose plain black; she bought brown ones with fancy buckles.
Arent they smart? she said.
I dont really like them.
Oh, dont be a child, Vic. These are better. End of.
The sales girl looked away. Victor glanced at his reflection, a middle-aged bloke in brown shoes with a buckle, whose face meant nothing.
He left with the brown shoes.
In the evenings Mum would reminisce about his schooldays, telling him what a good boy hed been, how shed raised him single-handed, how hard it all was, and how Helen never appreciated any of it. Victor nodded.
Sometimes he thought about the white tablecloth. The candles. Couldnt understand why shed put in that effort. Fifteen yearsfor what? What was there to celebrate?
Yet he kept thinking about it.
And of Helen, standing calm, no tears or drama, simply saying, Go. Hed expected something else.
By the end of the month, Mum had written out a schedule for him. She didnt call it that, just, Tuesdaydoctor, Ive made you an appointment, Thursdaywere having tea with Aunt Sue, be home early, FridayIm making a pie, dont keep me waiting.
One Friday, work ran late. He phoned Mum. She chattered the entire bus ride home; he clutched the phone, staring out at the rainy windows.
The pie was ready. It was nice, like everything she cooked.
Victor sat, a weight in his chestnot pain, more a low, constant pressure, like the air was thinner than it should be.
***
Three weeks drifted by hazily for Helen.
She went to work, came home, made simple meals, went to bed. The evenings were toughest; the quiet in the flat at first felt terrifying, then eventually settled into just silence.
Her friend Laura rang every other day. Helen, how are you really? Want to come over? Helen insisted she was fine, no visits necessary. Laura came anyway that first Saturday, bags of wine and biscuits in tow, and they sat up until two, Helen telling her about the candles, the stew, the perfect tablecloth at Victors mums, while Laura listened and occasionally muttered, What a pillock, which made Helen feel ever so slightly lighter.
You did the right thing, Laura told her at the end. Absolutely right.
Its scary, Helen admitted.
I know. Thatll pass.
After Laura left, Helen spent ages just staring at the heavy navy curtains in the living room. Victor had picked them out about eight years ago. Good and thickkeep the light out, practical, hed said. Theyd hung there ever since. Helen had never given them much thought.
She took them down the next day.
It took over an hourthe rail was awkward; she had to stand on the table. She folded the heavy fabric, stashed it in a cupboard. The room immediately felt different. The pale October light, while dull and chilly, was better than the darkness behind those thick curtains.
Next she moved the sofa. Not on her ownshe called Mr Evans from downstairs, a kind old gent always ready to lend a hand. Now the sofa sat against the window, catching the light in a whole new way.
It felt strange, but nice.
She slept better after the second weeknot great, but at least not staring at the ceiling till three.
Nothing changed at work; Helen was an excellent accounts managerreliable, careful, on time, always paperwork in order. The team respected her, especially Irene Scott, the head accountant. Irene wasnt someone who talked about her private life but always made sure Helens work got noticed.
End of October, Irene called her into the office.
Helen, Im leaving next yearmoving to Devon, to my daughter. The director wants to offer you my position as chief accountant.
Helen sat silent a moment.
Me? she finally saidnot because she didnt understand, just to say something.
Yes, you. Ive thought about it all year. Take the job, Helen.
Helen rode the bus home thinking about it. Chief accountant. More responsibility, more stress. Shed always been a bit hesitant about such things. Victor had once said, Why bother with a proper career? I earn enough. Shed gone along with it at the time.
Now she looked out at the street lamps whizzing by, and thoughtwhy not?
November she spent busyshe started some small renovations, repainted the bedroom a pale yellow, swapped the curtains for some light linen ones, bought a soft amber lampshade for evenings. The flat began to look like herstruly hers.
She put a few pots of geranium on the windowsill. The green, sharp scent felt just right with linen and yellow paint.
She sorted things with Victor through the solicitors. No drama. The flat was hers; he didnt contest it. It was all sensible, quiet. Maybe his mother talked him out of fighting, or maybe he was just tired.
In December, Helen accepted the chief accountants job. Irene Scott shook her hand.
Well done, she said. For the first time since theyd worked together, she smileda genuine, warm smile.
Helen spent New Year with Lauras big, noisy lotchildren, dogs, three massive bowls of potato salad. It was fun, a bit sad in that way you feel looking back at a year, but good. She sipped her prosecco, watched the fireworks, and realised: the year was over; she was alive, and, truth be told, doing okay.
***
Victors winter was miserable.
Mum decided he needed doctors. She booked him into the GP, a cardiologist and a stomach specialist, because youre looking peaky, Vic, you need checking out. He went, the doctors found nothing wrong, said he was perfectly healthy for his age, while Mum looked disappointedas if wanting there to be something so she could fret.
He was short-tempered at work; colleagues noticed. Pete from the loading bay, his usual smoke buddy, asked him once
Whats up with you, Vic, youre on edge?
Nothing.
Trouble at home?
No.
Pete shrugged and left. Victor stood staring through the grimy window at the factory yard. Grey, trampled snow sprinkled with oil stains. He didnt want to go back to work. Didnt want to go home. Didnt wantanything.
And realised: he had nowhere he wanted to go.
Mum met him each night with supper. It was caring, yes, but each meal came with a next-day itinerarywhat shirt, where to go, when to come back. If he was late, she rang his phone; if he didnt answer, she rang again. Then a message: Im worried, Vic, where are you?
One night in February he stayed late at Petes, watched the football, had a pintjust blokes stuff. Came back at half-past ten.
Mum was sat in the dark kitchen, lights off, and when he came in she turned them on and glared.
Whereve you been?
I said Id be late.
A bit latethats not specific. I didnt know where you were. I worried. My blood pressure went up.
Mum
Ive kept your supper warmhere. A plate of reheated fishcakes. And keep your phone on. I rang three times.
I didnt hear it, we were watching the match.
Football, she replied in a tone as if it were something shameful.
Victor stared at his plate. He was starting to explain himself all the timefor everything. Why he was late, why that shirt, why didnt he ring sooner, why didnt he eat, why did he eat the wrong thing.
He remembered saying, proud, to Helen: Mum always knows best. It felt odd now, awkward.
In March he looked at renting a room privatelyfound somewhere cheap, near work. Told his mum.
She cried.
Not dramatically, no nagging, just quiet tears: So youre unhappy here. Im in the way then. I get it, Vic.
He stayed put.
At night he occasionally dreamed of Helennever romantically, just mundane stuff: her in the kitchen, or driving somewhere. Hed wake, staring at the ceiling of his mums flat, just a ceiling and nothing more.
Hed wonder what she was doing. How she was.
Then hed tell himself: shes probably found someone already.
That annoyed him, for some reason.
***
February turned out unexpectedly bright. The snow shone dazzling white, and in the mornings, walking to the bus stop, the sun made Helen squintshe realised she really should finally buy a decent pair of sunglasses.
She didpink, with delicate frames. She tried them on in the shop and laughed, because it just felt that little bit ridiculous, and really rather good.
Work was going fine. The new responsibilities werent easy, but she managed. She stayed until eight some evenings, buried in spreadsheets, talking with Mr. Thomas, the directora solid, quiet man who appreciated efficiency. He was clearly pleased.
People treated her differently now. Young Daisy, her new assistant, looked at her with wide-eyed respect and sometimes brought her coffee without a word. Helen said Thank you, and Daisy blushed each time.
In March, Laura dragged her to a birthday party for her friend Natalies. Helen wasnt keen: noisy, strangers, forced small talk. Laura insisted: Helen, you need a change. Youll enjoy it.
Natalie turned out to be a warm, cheerful soul, living in a roomy flat with two cats and a towering ficus. About a dozen guests. Helen clung to Laura at first, but ended up chatting for ages with a teacher at her end of the table about books.
Alex sat across from her. She barely noticed him at the startunremarkable, a tad greying, plain grey jumper, mostly listened instead of talking. When he did smile, it was proper, crinkly-eyed, like hed found something genuinely funny.
Near the end of the night they ended up by the window together with cups of tea. He asked a question, she answered, he repliedthe conversation just happened, without effort. An engineer, he said, working at a design firm, widowed four years, cancer. He said it simply, no drama, as if it was just part of life hed learned to live with.
Youve known Natalie long? Helen asked.
Used to know her ex-husband, then stayed friends with her after he moved away. He took a sip. Youre here through Laura?
Yep, friends since university.
Youre lucky to have friends like that, he said.
I know. I really am.
They swapped numbers. No expectations. Three days later he textedcoffee? She said yes.
They met at a quiet café near her officetalked for two hours. She told him about the split. He listened, said nothing prescriptive, just listened. Then he told her his story. Afterwards, they stood outside a bit. It was cold, but nice. He asked if he could call again. She said he could.
Next time it was a walk by the riverthen the cinema, and then, one day in April, he invited her to dinner at his.
***
Alex lived on the fifth floor of an old brick block. Helen climbed the stairs, wine bottle in hand, bracing herself: shed probably walk in to a typical bachelor mess and pretend not to mind. She was nervous, habituallylike someone whos always waiting to be judged.
She knocked.
He opened the door. The flat smelt faintly of apples and something warmcinnamon, maybe.
Come on in, Alex smiled. I jumped ahead a bitput an apple tart in the oven. Hope you like apple.
I love it, Helen replied.
The flat was simple, not show-home tidy, but lived inbooks, a few tools on the hall shelf, a newspaper on the kitchen table. No fuss, no showjust a proper home.
She helped him with saladshe chopped tomatoes, he did the cheese. They talked sometimes, sometimes not, but the silence was easy.
Helen caught herself waitingfor him to comment, Better with cucumber, or Wrong dressing, or just that look shed seen for fifteen years.
He didnt. They sat together, he poured the wine, looked at the table, then at her.
Thank you for coming, he said.
Just that. No caveats.
Helen looked down to her plate and felt something inside quietly, gently releaselike all these years shed been braced for something, and now she could finally let go.
April. The sun had just set outside, streetlights glimmered, leaves just poking through on the trees. The tart puffed away in the oven, the apple scent filling the place.
They spent ages talkingchildhood memories, career twists, the dream of becoming a teacher that never happened. He told her about a restoration project he was working onold buildings, new lives. Helen thought what a lovely thing, to restore whats broken.
Walking home that night, she didnt really think about himnot exactly. She thought about the tart, about how surprising it was that you could go to someones home and not expect a blow, just dinner, and afterwards, walk out feeling lighter.
***
Summer rolled in, calm and quietly happy.
She and Alex saw each other a lot, but in their own time. He let her have space, she didnt rush. At weekends, theyd go to the marketshed buy greens and clotted cream, hed get fresh fish. Theyd cook together, which turned out to be peaceful and fun, nothing like cooking for solo meals or under scrutiny.
Once in July, she stayed over. It was late and she just didnt want to go. In the morning, he brought her coffee in bednot cinematic, no fuss, just did it, then sat next to her.
You working today? he asked.
Not till noon.
Shall we nip to the market first? Its cherry season.
Helen cupped the coffee. Outside, summer was singingfresh, bright, swifts screeching overhead. Suddenly, tears itched behind her eyesnot sadness, but something else. That feeling you get, when you realise youre actually happy.
Lets go, she said.
That autumn, Alex asked if shed like to move in. Not as a grand gesture, but one evening, while drying dishes. Helen, do you want to move in here? I think youd be happy here. Its a big flat. Id like it, you know.
Ill think about it, she said.
He nodded. Of coursetake your time.
She did, for two weeks. Then she said yes.
That November, she moved inkept her flat, just in case. She brought her books, geraniums, the amber lampshade, the linen curtains. Alex shifted his bookcase so hers would fit. They stacked their books togetherhis technical, her fictionand it looked just right.
December, they quietly signed the registryjust Laura and Alexs mate Steve as witnesses. Dinner afterwards, just the four of themfunny, delicious, Laura a bit teary, but happy tears, she insisted.
In January, Helen found out she was pregnant.
She stood in the bathroom, test in hand, staring at the two clear lines, then sat on the edge of the bath, stunned, for ten minutes.
She was forty-three. Shed thought children just werent to be. Victor hadnt wanted themor perhaps she hadnt either, but theyd never really talked about it, just gone along. No medical reasons, just something shed quietly put away: not meant to be.
Then this.
Alex was in the home office, sketching something. She stepped to the door. He sensed her, turned round.
Whats up? he asked quietly.
She handed him the test. He lookedsilent for a few seconds, then stood and hugged her, long and tight, without a word.
Then he said, Thats brilliant, Helen. Really brilliant.
She buried her face in his shoulder and finally sobbedthe long, shaking, honest kind, the sort she hadnt let herself have in years. He didnt shush her, didnt look away, just held her close, murmuring, Its okay. Its all okay.
***
Another April arrived: the city, the coffee shops, the quayonly now, Helen strolled slowly, hand on her belly, while Alex walked beside, steadying her arm.
Six months along. Everyone at work knew. Mr Thomas had congratulated her: Dont worry, your job is ready and waiting when you come back. Daisy looked at Helen with new awe, that kind young women have for those further along.
The flat, now truly theirs, gradually gathered new thingsbaby gear: cot ready to assemble, soft nightlight shaped like a crescent moon, stacks of impossibly tiny clothes. At times, Helen would open the drawer just to gaze at them, touch the fabricsthere was something real and certain in that.
In the mornings, shed have tea by the window, watching the garden come back to lifetexture of wet earth, hint of apples from the neighbours tree. It was lovely, peaceful.
But sometimes, especially late at night, with Alex asleep at her side and the baby gently nudging from within, shed remember the past. No pain now, just the way you might look at an old photograph: that was my life once, those were the people in it. A pang for something lost, though she couldnt say exactly whatmaybe for those fifteen years and what they might have brought; maybe pity for the young woman whod cooked stew and set the white cloth so carefully.
She didnt know about Victor. Laura once said shed spotted him at Sainsburys, looking older. Helen nodded but said nothing. She didnt wish him harm, but he belonged to another story nownot hers.
***
Victor sat in the kitchen with his mum.
It was April outside, but inside felt permanently wintrythick curtains blocking the spring sun, the same neat things on the shelves, the same old smells: menthol, rich soup, something old that never shifted.
Pamela bustled by the stove, talking non-stop.
You look poorly again, Vic. I keep telling you, you need seeing to, not those bodgers at the factory. Ive found a good heart doctor at the surgery. Ill make an appointment.
Mum, Im all right.
You cant know thatthey say men never feel ill until its too late. Your dad was the same, remember.
Victor stared at the table.
A blue and white checked tableclothpractical. Mum was right, no stains on this one.
She set down his bowl.
There you goeat while its hot. Beef and barley today, your favourite.
Thanks, Mum.
He tried a spoonful. The soup was good. Mum did make good soup.
Vic, she said, sitting opposite with her tea, Have you thought about what I said? About Carol across the road?
Victor looked up.
No, Mum.
You should, you know. Shes a decent woman, a widow, has her own place. Asked after you.
Mum.
What, love? Youre forty-five. No man should live alone.
Ive got someone, Victor said, surprising even himself.
Mum looked at him.
Really? Who, then?
Nowhere, he muttered. I meandont set me up, Mum. Ill manage.
How, when you just sit there and stare into space? I know youre still thinking about Helen. But why? She chucked you out. They say about women like that
Mum, he cut in, with a tone that made her stop.
They were quiet a bit. The clock ticked. A bird chirped busily outside.
Eat, or itll get cold, Mum eventually said. Who else is here to feed you, if not me?
Victor looked down.
Soup was goodcouldnt argue.
He spooned it up and ate, thinking: thinking about that night, coming home in October, battered and worn out, grumbling about the tablecloth and the stew, saying Mum knew best.
He’d thought it was all about the tablecloth. Only now, much too late, did he realise it never was. The penny had droppedslowly, as it does with people who never really look at themselves.
He was in a cage. The word floated up, surprising him. Cage. All along hed blamed Helen, her way of cooking, her personality. But no, Helen had built nothing; shed just quietly given in, year after year. The cage was his own, carried from his mums to his marriage and back again.
Tasty? Mum asked.
Yeah, Mum, it is.
There you go. She looked contented. Thats why youll be lost without me, Vic.
He said nothing.
Outside, the birds song got louder. Spring was fighting to get in, and just through the curtains a strip of electric April sunlight showed that didnt belong to him.
Victor hunched over and finished his soup.
***
That April evening, Helen stood out on the balcony of Alexs, now their, flat, watching the sunset. Her bump was big and awkward; standing wasnt easy, but she needed the fresh air. The scent of earth and something young and greensomething you only smell in springrose from below.
Inside, Alex was on the phone with someone from work, speaking calmly. On the kitchen table were two mugs, hers and his, next to the gentle, golden light of her favourite lampshade.
She put her hand on her belly. The baby wriggled, lazy and content.
Hello, you, Helen whispered into the breeze.
It was a little scary. It was good. A quiet, uneasy, honest happinessno promises, no guarantees. Just this: an April sunset, the cool air, a kitchen lamp glowing behind her, and a tiny, growing life, bumping from within, waiting for its turn.
Helen stood a moment more.
Then she went back inside.
