My husbands forbidden me from speaking to you, my sister announced.
Helen calls me every Sunday. After Mum, after Dad, through divorce and house moves, through sickness and celebrations. She calls, and the world rights itself, just a little. Everything feels calmer and life moves on for another week.
Hello, her voice is rinsed clean, like a mug someone left to air dry.
Hi! Immediately I know somethings wrong, but I smile anyway. Habit.
A pause. Small, hardly noticeable. But I notice.
Listen, Helen begins. Dont take this the wrong way.
Thats never a good start. Its worse than we need to talk, worse than dont worry, but…
My Petes told me not to talk to you anymore.
Sorry, what?
He thinks youre a bad influence. On our family.
I want to say something clever. Or at least something that makes sense. My mind offers just one wordshort, punchynot suitable for polite company.
Helen, is this a joke?
No, Lizzy. Not a joke.
The old oak outside the window sways gently, as if its feeling sorry for me, or perhaps just as confused.
I remember Helen, as a child afraid of the dark, sneaking into my bed for comfort. How she came with me to the hospital when I had my first, how she made shepherds pie for me after my divorce and said wed get through it all.
And nownow Im the bad influence.
How exactly am I a bad influence? I ask, voice deliberately even, though it takes effort.
Well, Pete says you turn me against him. And, well, everything really.
Thats it then.
Helen. I quite like Pete, you know. A bit. I do.
Dont, Lizzy.
Dont what?
All of this.
I look at my phone.
All right, I say quietly. I understand.
Except, I dont.
Helen doesnt call the next week. That in itself is newsworthy.
I wait until Wednesday, then ring her myself.
Long beeps, then silence.
Thursday. Same story. On Friday I send her a message: Helen, are you all right? Two ticks immediately. Grey, then blue. Shes read it.
No reply.
I stare at those blue ticks for ages. They look back at me like a diagnosis.
I sit in the kitchen, drinking tea, thinking: well, suppose Pete really did forbid it. Is that not ridiculous? A grown woman, fifty years old, two kidssuddenly forbidden. What a word. Like shes a schoolgirl, not allowed out after dark.
I finish my tea. Set the mug down. Look out the window.
All right then, I say aloud. All right.
I ring Mrs Turner, Helens neighbour, the one we used to go to the allotment with.
Mrs Turner, have you seen Helen lately?
I have, she hesitates, saw her yesterday at Tesco. With Pete.
How did she seem?
I dont know. She doesnt speak much when he’s around.
I hang up.
Helen didnt come to my birthday in September. For the first time ever. She messaged: Happy birthday. Cant make it. That was all. No explanation, no call.
I sit at the table with two friends, pretending everythings fine. One of them asks:
Wheres your sister?
Busy, I say.
Gail leans over, whispers, Did Pete stop her?
Gail, I dont know.
Her neighbour said he checks her phone. Every evening. Scrolls through photos, texts, callsthe lot.
I say nothing.
He even goes shopping with her, Gail continues. Fifty-two years old and cant nip to a shop alone. Says she needs help with the bags. So caring.
Maybe he truly cares.
Lizzy, Gail looks hard at me, theres a difference between caring and keeping guard.
I stay quiet. Set the cake on the table. Blow out my one token candleno one puts fifty-seven candles on a cake. Make my wish. The kind you dont say aloud.
October passes quietly. November too. I message Helen twice: Helen, Im waiting for you. If you need me. The ticks go blue. No reply.
In December, Rita, another neighbour, calls.
Lizzy, sorry to ring out of the blue. But I overheard something yesterday. These walls are paper-thin, you see. He was shouting at her. Ages. Couldnt make out the words, but the tone said enough.
I keep silent.
She didnt answer back, Rita adds softly. Not a word. Sometimes silence is worse than shouting.
In my kitchen, with the phone pressed to my ear, I just watch the dark settling outside.
One Saturday, I decide to go round. No warning. I buy some clementinesDecember, after all. Stand at her building and buzz.
Yes? Petes voice.
Pete, its Lizzy. Helen’s sister.
A long, ponderous pause, as though hes making a life-or-death decision.
Helens out.
All right. Ill wait.
Youll be waiting a while. She wont be back till late.
Pete, give her the clementines. She likes them.
Ill see. Leave them by the door. Ill pop out soon.
The phone clicks off.
I stand for a minute, then stick the bag down on the step. But almost immediately pick it up again.
Because he wont give them to her. Not out of spite. He simply wont. Helen will never know her sister waited here, clementines in hand, like a fool.
I go home. Put the clementines on my kitchen table. Stare at them.
Helens loved them since childhood. Said clementines always smelled like Christmas.
I peel one. Eat it.
It does smell like Christmas.
I finish, stack the peels in a pile. Outside its pitch-blackDecember, six oclock and it feels like midnight.
The phone rings at half ten.
Im not asleep. Sat up with a book.
The phone buzzesunknown number.
Hello?
Silence. Then breathing, ragged and uneven.
Lizzy.
Its a whisper, as if shes afraid the next room might hear.
Helen?
Lizzy, open the door. Im outside.
Im already on my feet. The book falls, pages splayed. I dont notice.
Im coming.
She stands in the hallway, clutching a small overnight bag, bundled into her coat, tears brimming in her eyes.
I open the door wider.
Come in.
I say nothing else. Take the bag from her and tuck it in the hallway.
Helen stands in the kitchen, stranded. I fill the kettle.
Sit.
She does, resting her hands on the table.
He found out I called you.
When?
Three weeks ago. I used someone elses mobile at work. Thought hed never notice.
I listen as the kettle heats.
He checked the itemised bill. Saw the number. Phoned himselfSophie explained. Not her fault, she didnt know.
What happened then?
Helen hesitates.
He talked at me for three hours. Why Id betrayed him. Why youre bad for me. Why everything I decide for myself is always wrong.
I say nothing, let her speak, no interjection, no oh dears, no how could hes. She needs me to just be here.
You know whats odd? Helen looks up. He doesnt hit me. Doesnt drink. Holds down a good job, brings home the money. Doesnt shoutwell, not usually. Sure, he checks my phone, tells me what to wear, where to go. But isnt that normal? Just his way?
She looks at me, pleading for me to say: Yes, its normal. Just his manner. Youre fine, go home.
I dont reply.
Is it? she repeats quietly.
No, I say. Its not.
She stares at the mug.
When did you last make your own choice?
Helen shrugs.
When did you last do something you wanted, without having to justify it afterwards?
Snow falls steadily outside. The first of December, big and slow, with nowhere in particular to go.
I cant remember, she says.
Her voice is too calm. Worse than tears.
This evening, I stood in the hallway, pulling on my boots. He asked where I was going. I said, to yours. He said, I forbid it. Helen pauses. I put my other boot on, picked up my bag, and left.
I look at her.
He never thought I would, she adds. I didnt either.
You did the right thing.
Im not sure. She shakes her head. Not yet, anyway. But right now, I can just breathe. I can actually breathe. And thats strange.
I get up, fetch an old checked blanket of Mums, and drape it over her shoulders.
Helen smooths the fabric, slowly.
Can I stay the night?
Of course.
Hell ring.
Let him.
Hell keep ringing.
Let him ring.
Helen nods. Lizzy, she says suddenly, do you remember how we used to hide under the dining table when Mum and Dad argued?
I remember.
I always thought if you just kept hidden, it would blow over. Theyd shout, then make up. The trick was not coming out.
Silence.
Ive done the same with Pete. Kept quiet. Waited for it to pass, for him to cool off. Seven years, Lizzy. Seven years Ive been quiet.
I say nothing. Just pour the tea. Offer her a plate of oat biscuitsher favourite.
You know what he says about you? Helen asks.
That Im a bad influence.
Thats what he says out loud. But also that youre lonely and jealous, always interfering. That your opinions are poison for our family.
My eyebrows arch.
Poison?
His word.
Helen stays three days.
We share tea in the mornings, watch silly romance films in the evenings with predictable endings. Pete rings, at first relentlessly, then less frequently. The last time he calls, Helen picks up and takes the phone into the hall. I hear only scrapsher voice calm, steady, not a hint of tears. A few quiet sentences. Then silence.
She returns, sits, takes her mug.
Ill go back today.
All right, I say.
Youre not asking why?
No.
Shes quiet.
Because its my home. My life. She traces the mugs rim with her finger.
I pack up a few things for herbiscuits, clementines. Helen doesnt refuse.
In the hallway, pulling her boots on, she says,
Ill tell him everything. He can still be my husband, but I decide who I speak to and spend time with. Thats it.
I stay quiet, watching her fasten her coat.
We hug before she leaves. A long embrace.
Lizzy, she whispers into my shoulder, Im sorry I was silent so long.
Its all right.
No, its not.
I dont reply. I just hold hertightly, as I used to when we were children, hiding from things that seemed too big.
Helen leaves.
I watch from the window as she crosses the courtyard. Clementines swinging in the shopping bag.
I put the kettle on.
And I dont watch my phone with dread anymore.
