Lifelong Neighbours
You got in late last night, said Richard, his eyes never leaving the pages of The Times.
Margaret froze, kettle in hand. Water splashed into his mug, releasing a swirl of rising steam. Shed expected this question, rehearsed her answer for a week, a montheven for years, perhaps her whole life. Hed ask her, now, and shed look up and find his gaze, searching. Hed say, Where were you? Who with? Why that secret smile on your lips? She steeled for shouting, for tears, for a crisis. But Richard simply turned to the next page.
Got stuck on the 281, she replied, placing the mug before him.
Hmm, he grunted, scanning the business headlines.
That was that. Conversation over. Margaret sat opposite, cupping her tea between her palms. Hotalmost scorching. But she welcomed it, any sensation at all. The kitchen smelt of yesterdays stew and faded wallpaper. Outside, in this corner of Croydon where theyd made their home for thirty-four years, the bin lorry rattled down the road. Another ordinary October morninggrey as ever.
Richard, she began quietly.
Hmm?
Are you listening?
He put aside the paper, peering over his glasses with the calm, subdued weariness of someone long used to not noticing.
Im listening. What is it?
Nothing. Margaret exhaled. Just asking.
Richard returned to his newspaper. She sat and thought: this was the moment. She could tell the truth nowabout the library, about Alfred Hobson, about two months of post-shift tea, their talks of books, life, and what they longed for. About how, a week ago, hed taken her hand, and for once she didn’t pull away. Because she couldnt remember when shed last been touched like thatdeliberately, with longing.
But Richard was reading about hikes in council tax and missed his wife crumbling before him, as he had for at least a decade. Maybe longer.
***
Margaret was fifty-eight, and she didnt understand quite how shed reached that age. Not because of bad health or troublejust that the years seemed stolen. One day she was a young woman in a blue dress, marrying Richard, dashing with his degree in engineering. Then there was baby Emma, then prams and nappy chats with neighbours in the square. There was the clerking job at the local factory, which she kept until retirement. Emmas school-leaving, university, marriage, her moving up north to York. Grandson Oliver, whose voice she mostly saw via a screen, once a week. Then pension. And here she was, in their semi on a quiet Croydon street, realising that life had passed and shed almost missed being in it.
Richard had been a good husband, Margaret reminded herselfher mantra through the years. He didnt drink, hed never raised a hand, he brought his wages home. Helped when prompted. Didnt chase other women, at least as far as she knew. He was steady, reliablelike a well-used family sofa: familiar, but unfeeling. The last time theyd made love? Three, four years ago after a boozy evening at a friends sixtieth. That, too, had been automatic, without gentleness.
And proper conversations? When did they last talk about anything but bills, what to buy for tea, GP appointments? Margaret couldnt recall; perhaps thered been nothing of the sort. Maybe theyd always lived parallel, resigned lives.
He spent mornings in his shed tinkering with an ancient Vauxhall Astra that belonged in a scrap yard. Evenings brought news, football, quiz shows. Margaret tidied, cooked, readsometimes popping down the road to Tesco, where even the checkout girls now greeted her by name. After retiring, she began volunteering Tuesdays and Thursdays at South End Library: shelving, manning the desk, chatting to readers. It was her window to another world, a haven of calm and the scent of paper, safely away from Richards indifference.
And that was where she met Alfred Hobson.
***
Margaret Edwards, have you read McEwan? hed asked one day as they stacked fresh books.
Alfred was a few years older, once taught English, always in rumpled shirts and knitted vests, his humour gentle, his eyes sad. A widowerMargaret had learned from Vera, the librarian. His wife had passed five years back, no children.
Cant say I have, not really, Margaret replied. Always meant to, but
Here you go, he offered a slim paperback. Atonement. Give it a tryI think youll enjoy it.
She did. She read it that very evening while Richard snoozed in front of the TV. She read and cried and didnt quite know why. Maybe because the story was so true, so gently bruising, and shed never managed to be honest with her own heart.
The next Tuesday, she returned the book.
Well? Alfred asked, smiling.
Beautiful, she said. Sad though.
The best things are always a bit sad, he agreed, because they end.
And that was how real conversation began. Books, film, music, those rose-tinted years when the future still beckoned. Turns out, Alfred too loved Joan Baez, hated loud parties, and felt just as lost in the citys crowd.
And your husband, he doesnt mind you being here so late? Alfred asked over tea one Thursday. Vera brewed for them and would vanish to the front desk.
Margaret laughed softly. He doesnt notice. I could stay out three days and hed just wonder where his stew has gone.
Alfred nodded. I understand. My late wife spent her last years on another planet. Ill, but even beforewed become flatmates, really. Living together, but not together.
Yes, whispered Margaret. Neighbours.
That word summed up her marriage to Richardthirty-four years of neighbourly indifference.
***
She hadnt set out to fall in love. Not at nearly sixtyabsurd, really! But gradually, something changed. She caught herself fussing before the library, choosing her best skirtEmmas birthday present, not her usual faded jumperapplying a pink lipstick. As she stared in the mirror, she thought, There you are, silly old girl, acting like youre seventeen.
Alfred was attentive. He remembered her stories; he asked about her cough, her bad back, how shed slept. He brought her apples from his garden. One day, hed gifted her a tiny vintage brooch. It was my mothers, but Ive no one to give it to now. Pleasewear it.
Margaret tried to demur, but he pressed it into her hands.
Later, she kept that brooch hidden in her jewellery box. At home, Richard didnt notice the new skirt, the lipstick, or that Margaret seemed to shimmer, lit from within.
A week ago, theyd stayed late in the library, sorting archives. Vera left early, trusting Margaret with the keys. Outside, Croydons evening was already ink-dark, streetlamps flickering on. Alfred brewed their tea, broke out some chocolate.
Margaret, he said quietly, resting his mug aside. I always enjoy these evenings with you.
She froze.
So do I.
I’m not a fool, he stumbled, I know were notyoung. But Id like you to know: you mean something to me.
He took her hand, covering it with his. Not squeezing, not urgentjust holding. Warmth bloomed inside her, almost unbearable. She didnt cry, but her eyes shimmered with tears.
Alfred she whispered. Im married.
I know.
And Im fifty-eight.
Im sixty-one. So what?
She didnt know what to say. They sat there, hand in handlike teens at their first dance. Alfred released her, eyes soft.
Forgive me. I didnt mean to fluster you.
You didnt, Margaret said. You woke me up.
***
She walked home, though it was late and cold. Her mind raced: What next? Was she cheating? Nothered been nothing, only hands, only words. But is infidelity only bodies, or is it in the soul, too? Is it when your thoughts turn, daily, to someone who is not your husband?
She reached home near ten. Richard was glued to Sky Sports.
Whereve you been? he called, not looking round.
Held up at the library.
Hmm. Dinners on the hob?
Heat it up yourself, Margaret answered, surprised at the weary bite in her voice.
Richard glanced over, faintly surprised. He still saw nothing.
Alright, Ill do it myself.
He ate, washed up, came to bed. Margaret lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Waiting for him to come and ask what was wrong. But he didnt. He just slept. And she felt the gulf wideneach breath marking the distance.
She longed to shout, Look at me! Im here, alive, drowningI need you! But Richard was already gently snoring, and Margaret said nothing.
***
Margarets days became restless. At home, she watched Richard, looking for any anchor, any reason at all to stay. All she saw was habit.
One dinner, she cracked.
Richard, lets go out somewhere.
He looked up from his lasagne. Where to?
I dont know. The theatre, a film, or a walk through the city. We havent been out together in years.
Richard frowned, as if shed suggested a trip to the moon.
What for? Its freezing. Besides, tickets cost a fortune, places are crowded.
For the soul, just for us, she persisted. Like when we were young.
Margaret, were not young! Leave that to the kids. For us, the best thing is a nice quiet evening in.
She fell silent. He wanted quiet, routine, hot food. She, Margaret, was a comfortable part of his peace. No more.
***
Emma rang, her voice rushed and tired.
Mum, how are you?
Fine, love. And you?
Oh, the usual. Olivers caught a coldwere housebound. Listen, could you and Dad come up for a week? Im away with work and theres no one else for Oliver.
Margaret looked at Richard, who was poring over his iPad.
Rich, Emma wants us in York for a week to watch Oliver.
He didnt raise his head. I cant. Got to finish sorting the shed. You go if you like.
Emma sighed on the phone. Mum, would you? Just let me know. Love to you both.
Margaret hung up and sat down opposite her husband.
Why did you say no? Our daughter needs us.
I told you, Richard replied, Im busy. You go if you want.
Dont you care that its Emma and Oliver?
For a moment, Richard actually looked at her, really looked.
Margaret, dont start. You want an argument out of nothing? Ive work to do. Garage is a mess.
Youre always working, she said faintly. Or watching telly. When do we really live, Richard?
He raised his eyebrows. We are living! We have a house, plenty to eat, bills are paid.
Were just neighbours, Richard. Sharing a house.
He looked blankly confused. Neighbours? Were married thirty-four years!
Together, she echoed. But are we happy?
Richard was at a loss. This wasnt something in his vocabulary.
Margaret, is this menopause talking? Go take a tablet if youre feeling odd.
She got up and went into the spare room, hugging her knees on the bed. Menopause. That was diagnosis enough. Not a suffocating soul, just hormones.
***
The following Tuesday, Margaret turned up early at the library. Alfred was already there, dusting shelves.
Morning, Margaret, he smiled.
Morning. She stopped beside him. Alfred, can I ask you something?
Of course.
Will you go out with me? An exhibition, a museum, or just a walk. I needsome air.
He put the cloth down, his look serious.
Are you sure?
No, Margaret admitted. But I need to. Desperately.
So they met on Saturday, when Richard was off to a friends allotment. Alfred brought a small bunch of chrysanthemums. She wore the brooch.
They wandered autumnal London, ducking into alleys Margaret had never noticed. They had coffee in a cafe. Alfred told her stories about teaching, his favourite students, reading aloud to his wife through illness.
You know, he said, stirring sugar, I thought life ended after my wife died. That the rest was just waiting. Then I met you, and nowwell, life still goes on. Its not what it was, but it carries on.
Margaret wept because, for the first time in years, someone spoke to her of livingnot just soup and bills.
Alfred, I feelI mean, Im married, yet Margaret could barely speak.
Were just walking, said Alfred gently. Talking. Nothing criminal.
But I think about you. A lot. That feels like cheating, doesnt it?
Alfred covered her hand with his. Margaret, cheating is betrayal. But are you betraying Richard, who hardly sees you? Or yourself, by staying?
She had no answer. Eventually, he walked her to the station, kissed her cheek. She went home knowing she couldnt go back to before.
***
Richard came home from his allotment, muddy and cheerful, bags of potatoes in tow.
Decent crop this year, he said, washing his hands.
Hmm, Margaret set the table.
You alright?
Just tired.
Right, if you’re going to Tesco tomorrow, pick me some socks. All mine have holes.
Of course.
They ate in silence. Later, he watched telly. She went upstairs, lying in the gloom, thinking of Alfreds warm hand and sincere eyes.
She realised she was waitingfor Richard to notice, to challenge her, to demand an explanation, to feel, finally, something. Even anger would do.
But nothing changed. She started coming home late; he never asked. She stopped cooking suppers; he microwaved leftovers. She stayed silent for days; he didnt notice. The indifference was worse than any row.
***
Her neighbour, Mrs Finch, ranginvited her for a cuppa. Margaret went, because her own house now stifled her.
Sit yourself down, dear, fussed Mrs Finch, Hows life?
Margaret sighed. The same as always.
And Richard?
Fine.
Mrs Finch watched her, pouring tea, appraising kindly.
You look worn out. You sure youre not ill?
Not ill. Exhausted, maybe.
From what? Youre retired!
Margaret gave a little laugh. Mrs Finch, are you happy?
The older woman was caught off guard. Happy? Who is, these days? We keep going, health and a bit more moneythats all.
Do you love your husband?
A pause. I suppose. Im used to him, after forty years. He can be dull but hes mine.
If you could start again?
Mrs Finch laughed. A bit late for that at my age! Were nearly theregrandkids and all.
Margaret nodded; she understood. Her whole generation was taught to endure: to make do, be grateful, not complain. Marriage was duty, not contentment.
But life is one and precious. And so much of hers had already slipped away.
***
October blurred into November. The drizzle deepened, daylight shrank. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Margaret cherished the library, and Alfred. Theyd walk together if the weather allowed. Once, he invited her round to his flata one-bed, shabby but full of warmth and books. They drank tea and talked.
Margaret, he said. I dont want to pressure you. But Id be happy if youd be with me.
Her heart thumped painfully.
Together, Alfred? You realise what that means?
I do. It means youd have to leave Richard. And I have no right to ask that. But the choice is yours.
She was silent. When she left that night, Richard was snoring in front of Match of the Day.
She looked at him, the man shed lived with half her life. Did she ever love him? Or just marry sensiblyno bad habits, steady job, wanted a family
Richard opened his eyes sleepily.
Oh, home are you? Late again?
Yes. Library.
Night thenIm off to bed.
He padded away. Margaret stood in the hall for a long time, before something within her quietly burned out.
***
The next week, Margaret felt numb. She cooked, cleaned, answered Emmas calls. But inside, there was only emptiness. She looked at Richardwho was he? What did she know about him, really?
One evening, she asked, Richardare you happy?
He actually looked startled.
What?
Are you happy? Do you like our life?
Richard thought, as if hed never been asked such a thing.
Its alright. Why, are you unhappy?
We have nothing to talk about, no laughter, no closeness. Just existence, side by side.
He shrugged. Thats life at our age. Were not teenagers.
So whats left for us? Just silence?
Again, he shrugged. Youre being odd lately. Maybe see a doctor?
And she realised there was no point talking. He didnt, or wouldnt, listen.
***
On Saturday, she and Alfred walked in the park. Wet snow fell, the world colourless and sodden. They sheltered in a bandstand.
Ive thought about your offer, Margaret said.
And?
Im frightened. Im nearly sixtywhat will people say? Emma, our neighbours? I would look a fool.
Alfred put a gentle arm around her. Who are you living for? Your neighbours, or yourself?
All my life, for others, she admitted. Never for me. And now nothings left.
He held her, not possessively, just present. Theres still time for you, Margaret. Ten, maybe twenty years. Live them as you wish.
She closed her eyes against his chest, clinging to that quiet warmth.
Ill think about it, she whispered.
***
Back home, Richard grunted chores from the kitchen. Hold this spanner, will you?
She did. They fixed a leaking tap side by side, the air thick with things unspoken.
Done, he declared at last.
Richardwe need to talk.
He glanced at the clock. Later? Footballs on.
This matters.
Five minutes till kick-off, Margaret! Wait.
He left, and as she stood in the kitchen, she thought: thats it. She couldnt, wouldnt, fade away into silence.
She sat, took her phone. Texted Alfred: May I come round?
He replied at once: Yes. Ill put the kettle on.
Margaret packed a few essentials: her papers, spare knickers, a cardigan. Her hands shook. She heard the TV blaring from the lounge.
She zipped up her bag, pulled on her coat. As she passed the sitting-room, she lingered. Richard barely glanced up.
Where you off to?
Shops.
Get some bread.
Yes.
She stepped out, closing the front door behind her. Listened for sounds from insidebut there was only the television, and Richards voice, cheering a goal.
***
Alfred answered the door, anxious. Margaret? Are you alright?
She sank onto his kitchen chair. I dont know what Im doing, but I cant stay there.
He took her hands. Have you left?
Yes. No. I told him I was going shopping. I just neededto breathe.
Stay here. For as long as you need. Ill make up the sofa.
What if this is a mistake? What if Im mad, Alfred? Im nearly sixty!
So? Dont you deserve a life of your own?
He just sat with her, made her tea. Margaret, for the first time in years, didnt feel alone.
***
Richard phoned a couple of hours later.
Where are you? Its latethe shops are shut.
Margaret squared her shoulders.
Im not coming home tonight.
A long pause.
What do you mean? Where are you?
At a friends.
What the hell is going on?
Nothing happened. I just can’t come back tonight.
Another thick silence.
Margaret, whats wrong with you? Come home. I want to sleep.
Richard, Im not happy. And I havent been happy for a long, long time.
Wheres this coming from?
Not suddenly. Ten years, more. Were strangers, Richard. Housemates, not husband and wife.
Dont be ridiculous. Get home and well talk in the morning.
No, Richard. Maybe not ever.
Even over the phone, she finally heard confusion, perhaps regret.
Is someone else there? his voice faltered.
There is.
He sighed. So youve been cheating, then.
No. But Alfred sees me. Really sees me.
And what do you want from me?
Nothing. I want a divorce.
Silence over the line. That one bold word, divorce. At almost sixty. After thirty-four years.
Fine, Richard said after a while, cold but resigned. Come round. Well sort the papers.
***
They met a week later. Margaret came in the day, when she knew hed be in. Richard sat in his kitchen, pale, drawn.
Sit, he said. They did, in silence.
So. A divorce. Are you going to split the house?
If you want to.
And what will Emma say?
Ill tell her the truth.
He gave a wry bark of laughter. The truth. That her mother ran off with an old man at nearly sixty.
That her mother chose to be alive. Before it was too late.
I don’t get it, Margaret. It was all fine, wasnt it? What more did you want?
You, she said simply. Youreal, present. When did you last ask me about me?
I always asked, How are you?
You never waited for an answer.
Richard was silent. Then, softer, Did you ever really want me? Or did you just marry me, because thats what you were meant to do?
She considered. I think I did, when we were young. Then I became used to things. Then I stopped feeling. And so did you. We both fell asleep; I just happened to wake up.
He nodded. Perhaps. I liked things how they were. Thought you did too.
Thats it, Richardcomfortable. But I want more than comfort. I want life.
***
Margaret moved her things to Alfreds small flat. Richard didnt object, even helped her pack. He stood in the bedroom doorway, older, frailer than she remembered.
Margaretsorry. If I made you unhappy.
She met his eyes. Im sorry too, for not saying things sooner.
Well, I wouldnt have heard.
Perhaps not.
They hugged, awkward, old friends parting. Margaret left, carrying her whole life in two bags.
***
Emma rang that evening, her voice distant.
Mum, Dad told me everything. Tell me its not true.
Its true, love.
So you just left him? Now?
Yes. Because now, while I still can.
What about Dad? Hes miserable, you know.
I thought about him for thirty-four years. Now, Im thinking about me.
Thats selfish.
Maybe. But Im done being convenient.
Emma was silent, then sighed.
Are you happy, then?
Margaret looked at Alfred bustling to make soup, at the street below, lit for Christmas. The world seemed wider, suddenly.
Im alive, love. Ask me in a year if Im happy. But Im alive.
Do you love this other man?
Again she considered.
Im not sure if its love. But he sees me. He hears me. Thats enough.
Emma softened. I dont approve, butlook after yourself, alright?
I will. You too.
Margaret hung up, heart pounding. Shed done it. Finally. Chosen herself.
***
Time passed. Together, Margaret and Alfred created a gentle routine. They cooked and laughed and read aloud by the fire. They walked. They shared silences, even their worries.
One evening, Alfred asked, Do you regret it?
She thought earnestly. Only that I didnt do it sooner. I regret wasting years in silence.
And if Richard begged you to return?
He wont. I was always invisible, useful, but not needed. Now, I want to be seen.
Did you love him?
She hesitated. Once, perhaps. But love without attention wilts. We stopped trying. Both of us.
Alfred nodded. Do you love me?
She looked at himhis gentle lines and steady hands.
Yes, I do. Not like beforethis is older, deeper. And its real.
Alfred smiled, squeezing her hand. In our age, finding this is a gift.
***
At Christmas, Emma visited with Oliver. They met in a café, tense at first, but as Alfred recited silly poems and Oliver giggled, Emma relaxed.
Later, Emma said, Mum, hes decentI can see that. But I cant help feeling sorry for Dad. He didnt even put up a tree this year.
Margaret nodded. I know. But I cant go back from pity. Thats not right for anyone.
Emma gave her a quick hug. You seem more alive. Its strange, but you do.
Thats all I wanted. To live.
***
New Years EveMargaret and Alfred dined, watched fireworks from the balcony, wrapped up together against the chill.
In all my years, Alfred whispered, I never thought Id be here. Thank you.
Thank you for waking me, Margaret replied. They clinked glasses to a new year, knowing finally they had chosen their own happiness.
***
Spring came to Croydon in April, early and bright. Margaret took the part-time job in the library; routine, yes, but meaningful. She and Alfred walked home through the park, the heady scent of daffodils in the air.
One afternoon, she met Mrs Finch again at the corner shop.
Well, Margaret, how are things? Mrs Finch asked.
Margaret smiled. Better than ever.
Richards taken up fishing with some lady from the allotments. Hes changed, you know.
Im glad, Margaret said sincerely. We both needed it.
You were brave, Mrs Finch said finally. I couldnt have done it.
You still could, Margaret replied.
No, love. Im too old.
Never too old to start living differently.
Margaret walked home, content. Life wasnt what shed imagined, but it was hers at last.
***
By her sixtieth birthday, Margaret had found peace. She and Alfred marked it with a walk in Kew Gardens. Later, sipping tea at the kitchen table, she watched raindrops pelting the windows and thought how quickly years can pass unnoticed.
If you could do it againwould you? Alfred asked.
She took his hand. Yes. The hardest step was out the door. But now, each day, I choose to truly live.
He kissed her, and Margaret knew it was true.
***
Sometimes, she thought of Richard. She hoped he found someone, someone who saw him as Alfred saw her. She hoped Emma understood, in time, that it was never too late to make a different choice.
She looked out over Croydon, golden in spring sun, and realised her story wasnt about regret or romance, but about wakingfor the first time, really.
Because sometimes, the bravest act is simply to claim your own life, no matter when.
And its never, ever too late to begin.
