Fifteen Years of Silence
“Have you bought that stuff again?”
Helen Parker placed the shopping bag on the kitchen table and didnt turn round. She could picture it perfectly: Victor sitting by the window with his newspaper, not really reading, peering over his glasses at her. Over the glasses, the way a headmaster looks at a cheeky pupil caught copying.
“Its just cottage cheese, Vic.”
“I can see its cottage cheese. Why have you bought this one in the blue tub again? Its always too tart.”
“It isnt tart, just doesnt have as much cream as the sort you like.”
“So you bought the one you like, not the one I like.”
Helen started unpacking the rest of the goods: apples in the fruit bowl, bread in the wooden box, milk in the fridge. Thirty-eight years in this house, her hands knew their rhythm, everything falling into place without a thought.
“I got both types,” she said, “Check the bag if you dont believe me.”
Victor didnt even glance at the bag. He went back to silently considering the newspaper.
“Next time, you might warn me youre getting two. Then I wouldnt be wondering.”
Helen wanted to ask what exactly had him so concerned, but she knew betterthose sorts of questions always turned loud if spoken out loud, echoing into three days of chilly silence. And three days of silence are far harder to endure when youre sixty-two than when youre thirty.
She was sixty-two now, Victor was sixty-five. They lived in Oxford, in a three-bed flat on the fifth floor of a lift-less 1960s block. For the last decade, Helen had counted the stairs every time she descendednever going up, always down. Down was easier.
Her daughter, Emily, called that same evening, as if she knew. Emily lived in London, worked for a logistics company, had her husband Sam, their seven-year-old son Harry, and a well-meaning habit of phoning her mother every Tuesday by eight.
“How are you both?”
“Were fine, love. Your fathers reading, Ive tidied up, its all peaceful here.”
“Mum, you always say, all peaceful. That alone is enough to worry me.”
“Dont be silly.”
“Its not silly, its just the truth. Other people say things are great or a bit tired or had a barney about nothing. Youre always peaceful.”
Helen moved from the sofa to the armchair by the hall. From there, if Victor put the TV on, she wouldnt hear.
“We had a bit of a disagreement about cottage cheese,” she ventured, almost laughing.
“Cottage cheese?”
“I picked up the blue tub. He swears its sour.”
There was a pause. Helen imagined Emily, sitting in her cluttered little London kitchen with Harrys pictures covering the fridge, thinking of something shed never say outright.
“Mum, this isnt really about cottage cheese, is it?”
“Emily”
“No, let me. Ive wanted to say this for three years. Dad wears you out. Anyone can see it. When I come up, you walk round the flat like youre afraid of stepping the wrong way.”
“Youre exaggerating.”
“Im not. Remember in January when you dropped a cup? You were so nervous your hands were shaking. Most people would swear or laugh it off, but you froze, looking at Dad.”
Helen was quiet for a long time.
“It was an old cup. Shame to smash it,” she said finally.
“Mum.”
“Emily, isnt it Harrys bedtime?”
Emily sighedthe sort of sigh Helen had been hearing more and more. Not annoyed or judging, just tired, as though explanation after explanation still wasnt reaching the person she loved.
“Hes asleep. Alright, Mum. Ill call Thursday then.”
“Of course. Ring when you can.”
Helen sat in the armchair after hanging up. In the hall a little old lamp glowed yellowthe kind with glass shade shed bought when Emily was still just a plan, and it had survived three house moves and one fall off the shelf when they were stripping wallpaper.
In the kitchen, the kettle rumbled to life. That would be Victor.
She stood and went through.
He was staring out at the night through the window. The only things out there: a street lamp, and the bare dark skeleton of the poplar tree that the council had threatened to fell every spring since 93 but still hadnt. Victor wore that green dressing gown Helen had got him for his fiftietha faded old thing, stressed around the collar and cuffs. Every year shed say he should buy a new one. Every year he hadnt.
“Cant sleep?” she asked.
“Fine. Just wanted tea.”
She pulled out two mugs: his large, blue oneWorlds Best Dad printed on it by a seven-year-old Emilyhers, small and plain white.
“Sit down, I’ll make it.”
He sat. She brewed up. For a while, they drank in silencetheir nighttime hush felt different than the one they kept in the day. In the day, there was always something prickly about it. At night, it was just still.
“Did Emily call?” asked Victor.
“She did. All fine.”
“Harry well?”
“Yesschool soon.”
“Already?”
“In September.”
Victor nodded. He picked up his mug, considered it, set it down.
“Youre cross with me about the cottage cheese,” he said. Not a question; a fact.
“Im not.”
“You are. I see it.”
Helen looked at him. There was something in his eyes she hadnt seen, or hadnt noticed, in yearsa sort of effort.
“Vic, Im not angry. Im just tired of explaining that buying both kinds is completely normal.”
“I wasnt after an explanation. I was only asking.”
“You asked in a way that makes it seem Ive done something wrong.”
“Did I?”
“You do sometimes. With your tone.”
He sipped his tea, then said, “You always pick on something now. Used to just stay quiet.”
That was that. Helen covered her mug with her hands, warming her knuckles, and said nothing more. Their conversations always ended here, in recognition that there was no point continuing.
A week later, Helen went down to London.
Not because shed finally agreed to Emilys invitations, though Emily had been asking for months. Shed booked an appointment with Zena Saunders, an old friend still running a few clinics in South London, and thought she might as well stay with Emily a few days. Victor didnt protesthe rarely did, these days. Said he needed some quiet, though what that meant Helen never quite figured out.
London greeted her with its relentless shuffle and the tang of the Underground. Emily met her at Paddington with Harry, who immediately made off with her suitcase toward the escalator.
“It moves on its own, Granny!” he announced, certain shed never seen one before.
“I know, sweetheart,” Helen smiled, taking his little hand.
Emily walked beside them, watching her mother in that careful, appraising, but entirely gentle waylike a GP checking symptoms.
“Youve lost weight,” Emily pointed out in the car.
“Nonsense.”
“Mum, I can see your cheekbones.”
“Blame the lighting.”
“Tube lighting flatters no one, Mum. I can still tell.”
Harry sat in the back, pretending his fists were pistols, picking off pedestrians. Helen watched her grandson and marvelled at how quickly they grew. Last time shed seen him was February, and somehow, hed seemed smaller then.
“Hows Dad?”
“Fine. Bit high blood pressurethey keep an eye on him at our local.”
“I didnt mean the health, Mum. I meant how are youtogether?”
“Emily, lets not do this now.”
“Alright. Ill drop it.”
Of course, she started that very evening, after Harry passed out and Sam had retreated to the office to watch football or something. Just the two of them in Emilys kitchen, bright and cluttered with Harrys artworks lining the fridge. In one, Harry had drawn their family. Helen stared at the picture, trying to guess which was meant to be her.
“Mum, can I say somethingjust let me get it out, dont fob me off.”
“Im listening.”
“Ive been reading about emotional pressure in families. Not for want of things to do, but because I worry. I see you justifying yourself. Even when theres no need. Today, I say you look thinner, you explain the light. Im not accusing, Im noticing.”
“And?”
“Thats called defence. When you live with constant criticism or expectation, you start justifying yourself instinctivelyeven when no ones accusing you.”
Helen brushed a handful of poppy seeds from her biscuit onto a side-plate.
“Emily, your dad and Ithirty-eight years. Every marriage is a bit of everything.”
“I know. Sams no dream at times, Im not easy myself. But I dont tiptoe round my own kitchen.”
“Like how?”
“Like youre waiting for someone to tell you off,” Emily said quietly.
Helen looked again at the picture. An orange stick figure, missing a neck, drawn in the centre. That must be her.
“Vics not a bad man,” she said softly.
“I know bad people. Bad people want to hurt. Sometimes good people can, and dont see they do. That doesnt make it much easier for you.”
“You sound like a book.”
“I do read books! But this is about you, not books. Mum, when did you last do something just because you felt like it? Not out of need, or expectationjust because you wanted to?”
Helen had to thinkfar longer than expected.
“Last year at the allotment,” she said. “I planted phlox. Just for me. Victor said nobody cared about phlox, said we needed more strawberries. But I planted them anyway.”
“And?”
“And they grew. Beautifully.”
Emily squeezed her hand.
“Good. That means youre still there.”
Helen didnt ask what that meant, but she lay awake for ages in Emilys little spare room, listening to her grandsons sleepy breathing through the wall, the shy sounds of the city. Strange how persistently she thought about phloxpink, shaggyand how theyd survived, just because shed wanted them.
The next day she kept her appointment with Zena Saunders.
Zena was eight years older, retired now but still seeing a few patients. Theyd known each other for twenty-odd years, since Zena was practising in Oxford.
“Let me take a look,” Zena said, fixing her with the same over-the-glasses stare Victor usedbut gentle, not critical.
“A bit thinner,” Helen admitted.
“Have you been checking your blood pressure?”
“Yesall fine.”
“Sleeping?”
“Mostly, but it takes a while.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, a year now. Or more.”
Zena scribbled something in her paper notebookold, brown leather, well worn.
“What runs through your head, when you cant sleep?”
Helen was surprised. Shed expected a question about blood or cholesterol, not about thoughts.
“All sorts,” she said, cautiously.
“All sorts how? Do you fret about the future, or go over the past?”
“More the day just gone. I replay conversations what I said, what I couldve said differently.”
Zena set the notebook aside.
“Helen, Ive known you long enough. Be honest: whats happening?”
Helen found herself simply talking. Not the way she did with Emily, hedged and softened, just talking. About the cottage cheese, the nighttime silences, the habit of apologising. About phlox.
Zena listened quietly.
“Have you ever thought this isnt right?” she asked as Helen wound down. “Not morally, just that its not good for you?”
“I always thoughtthats just life.”
“All lives are different,” Zena said, picking up her notebook. “Listen, Im giving you a name. This psychologistshes in Oxford, younger than us, but shes sharp. Give her a try, eh?”
“Zena, Im sixty-two. Going to a psychologist at my age”
“Exactly why you should. At thirty, you can hope things work themselves out by magic. At sixty-twothey dont, unless you do something.”
Helen Parker. Always Helen, never just Hel or Nell, her mother believed short names made small people, and Helen was meant to count. Born in Reading, grew up there, moved to Oxford for marriage. Taught English at a comprehensive for thirty years. Retired five years agono fuss, just one last day, flowers from Year 8, done.
Shed loved teaching. She loved the moments when a child properly understood a book, and you realised it was really themselves they were describing.
She thought about that on the train back to Oxford. Zenas small folded note lay in the pocket of her raincoat. The psychologists name was Anna Kirkwood.
Victor greeted her quietly at home. Hed reheated soupoddly thick, with pearl barley, which hed never cooked before.
“Whats in this?” asked Helen.
“Soup.”
“Of what?”
“Whatever was left.”
She tasted it. Honestly, not bad.
“Its nice,” she admitted.
Victor eyed her with suspicionwas she teasing him?then returned to his paper.
“Hows Emily?”
“Alright. Harrys getting big now.”
“Starting school soon.”
“In September.”
“I know. You said.”
“You asked again.”
He didnt answer. Helen finished up, did the washing up, and went to their room. She unfolded the note: Anna Kirkwood. Her mobile written out in a tidy, crisp doctorly hand.
She called three days later, phone in hand, feeling daft until she just dialled.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Zena Saunders gave me your number, Id like to make an appointment?”
“Of course! Whats your name?”
“Helen Parker.”
“Lovely, Helen. Are you clear about what youd like help with, or just want to chat?”
“I suppose to see,” Helen said. Then, surprising herself, “Im sixty-two. If that matters.”
“It matters if it matters to you,” said Anna. “I have a slot Wednesday at four?”
The office was in central Oxford, an old red-brick close to the Ashmolean. Helen walked there considering what shed say if she ran into anyone from church. In the end, she decidedif she did, shed tell the truth: she was seeing someone. She was sixty-two; she had a right.
Anna Kirkwood was about forty, gentle, short-haired, with a seeing sort of gaze. Two chairs, a low table with a jug of water, nothing more.
“Go ahead,” Anna said.
And Helen talked. Longer, differently than before. Annas quiet questions shone light where Helen had only felt the dark.
“When Victor looks at you over his glasses, what do you feel?” Anna asked.
“Embarrassed.”
“Can you be more precise? Like youve?”
“Made a mistake.”
“Always?”
“Nearly always.”
“Have you done something wrong?”
“No Just brought home food.”
“So the feeling doesnt belong to what actually happened.”
Helen paused here. It was so simple it was dizzyingwhy hadnt she seen it before?
“When did that start?” Anna asked. “When did you begin feeling that way?”
“Not at first. In the beginning it was different.”
“How?”
“It was lighter. Or maybe just more exciting. He was so sure, and I liked that. I wasnt sure myself, I thought hed know what to do.”
“And now?”
“Now I see he just always says he knows. But its not always true.”
“And when did you realise that?”
“A long time ago. But knowing and accepting are different things.”
Anna nodded.
“Helen, this isnt just a tricky personality or a bad patch. What youre describing is devaluingthe drip, drip of signals that what you feel and think counts a little less. You start to believe them.”
“But he doesnt mean to.”
“Maybe not. But your wellbeing is the main question, not his intention.”
Helen stared out the window. Oxford in April; the poplars outside had fresh green tips.
“What do I do with that, then?”
“For now, just know. Awareness is a beginningnot everything, but real.”
She walked home instead of catching the bus, thinking on the word devaluing. Shed heard of devalued money, devalued work. Not, until now, devalued people.
Or perhaps she hadshed lived it, just hadnt had a name.
Helen started going fortnightly, then as often as she could. By summer, her sessions gave her an odd sense of claritynot happier or sadder, just more honest.
In June, Emily came to visit with HarrySam stayed behind for work. They stayed ten days, which felt odd and bright. Harry played football in the car park, Victor and Emily chatted on the balcony, sometimes quietly and at length. Helen didnt listen in.
One evening, Emily found her sorting through old photos. Not for any reasonjust because. She opened an album, started looking.
“Whens this one?” Emily settled beside her, picking up a photo.
“Cant saysomewhere near the start. Before you.”
They stood by a lake; Victor was laughing, Helen too, but her gaze was off to the side, fixed on something unseen.
“You were beautiful, Mum,” Emily said.
“Were?”
“You still arejust you were so young. Twenty-four?”
“Yes. Wed been married a year.”
“He laughed back then.”
“Used to laugh more, yes.”
Emily tucked the photo back.
“How are youreally?”
“Ive been seeing a psychologist,” Helen said, surprising herself.
Emily froze.
“How long?”
“Since April.”
“And?”
“Strange, but helpful.”
“Helpful how?”
“I understand things betterabout myself, about why Ive lived this way.”
Emily watched her.
“Does Dad know?”
“No.”
“Will you tell him?”
“I dont know. Probably not.”
“Why?”
“Hed say its a waste of money, that sensible people sort themselves out without help.”
“And youd say?”
Helen replaced the album.
“I havent decided. But at least now, I think about what I might say. Before, Id just agree.”
That July, something happened she often thought about later. She and Victor went to their little cottage, twenty miles out, with its shambolic patch that he called neglected every year, and she tidied every year. The phlox shed planted last season had survivedpink and white, shaggy, just as shed wanted.
Victor passed by.
“Youll have to weed those along the fence,” he remarked. “Gone wild.”
“Those arent weeds. Those are phlox.”
“They take up space.”
“Theres enough space.”
He stopped. Looked from her to the flowers and back, frowning.
“Whats with you lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Youve changedyou argue back.”
“I always argued.”
“No,” he shook his head. “You used to state your bit and go silent when I answered. Now, you carry on.”
Helen felt something settle insidenot anxiety. More like a new-found steadiness.
“Maybe Ive just got things to say,” she replied.
“Emilys filled your head with things?”
“No ones filled my head. Im just thinking for myself.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then went indoors. Helen stayed by the fence and gently touched one flowerpetals damp with morning dew, alive beneath her fingers.
The August session with Anna was different.
“Youve changed something,” Anna said. “I can hear it in how youre speaking.”
“Ive stopped always agreeing straightaway. Not making a scene, just not backing down.”
“And what happens?”
“Hes surprised. Gets a bit cross, but not muchmostly, he just seems lost.”
“And you?”
“I want to back down at first. But I hold on.”
“Is it hard?”
“Very. Its like walking into the wind after years of letting it push you from behind. You get used to the winds direction. Then one day you walk across it.”
Anna smiled. “Nice metaphor.”
“I was an English teacher. It comes with the job,” Helen managed a laugh, surprised at herselfshe laughed so rarely these days.
“Helen, do you knowwhat do you want from life now? Not marriage, not Victorjust you. What do you need to feel alive?”
Alive it was a heavy word.
“I want to write,” Helen said. “When I taught, I sometimes wrote stories. Not for anyone, just for me. Then I stopped. Victor read one, called it amateurish. So, I put the notebook away.”
“And that was?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“Is it still around?”
“It must besomewhere in the wardrobe.”
“Find it,” said Anna.
Helen found the notebook in October, clearing the top shelf. It was just an ordinary exercise book, blue cover, thick. The first line read: “Autumn came suddenly this year, as always.”
Helen laughed, then shed a few tears, then made tea and sat down to read again.
In November, she wrote a short storyjust for herself. About a woman planting flowers, told it was pointless. The woman wasnt Helen, but wasnt not.
Emily phoned that week.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Writing.”
“What?”
“A storya small one.”
A pause.
“Really?”
“Really. Dont laugh.”
“Im not. Im glad. Will you show me?”
“Well see.”
“Does Dad know?”
“No.”
“Will you tell him?”
Helen looked outsideNovembers sky achingly white behind the bare poplar and shivering sparrows.
“Ill tell him Im writing. I wont show him. Not yet.”
“And what will he say?”
“Something, Im sure. But Im not as frightened of what hell say as I used to be.”
“Thats huge, Mum.”
“I know.”
In December, Helen did tell Victor.
They were sitting after supper, he with his paper, she with her notebook. He eventually broke off.
“Whats that?”
“Just some writing.”
“What kind?”
“Stories.”
He lowered his paper, for once not peering at her, but just looking.
“Long?”
“Since autumn.”
“Why not mention it?”
“I wasnt sure if I should.”
“Why not?”
“Once, you said it was amateur stuff.”
Victor frowned.
“When?”
“Fifteen years ago. You read a story and called it amateurish.”
He was silentplainly, he didnt remember. Helen could see it unsettled him.
“I dont think I wanted to hurt you,” he said.
“I know.”
“So you didnt write for fifteen years, because of one comment?”
“Lots of comments. One just sticks.”
He folded his paper, laid it downthat in itself was unusual.
“Will you show me sometime?”
“Maybe.”
“Alright,” he said, standing. “Fancy a cup of tea?”
“Yes.”
He went to the kitchen. Helen watched him, thinking that perhaps all life is just a string of tiny turning points, not speeches or big gesturesjust little moments, barely noticed, that shift the direction.
If change had begun, she couldnt say.
January opened with a call from Emily.
“Mum, Sam and I thoughtmaybe next Christmas, you and Dad should come down. Harrys old enough now, and hed love Christmas with Grandpa.”
“Ill ask your dad.”
“And you?”
“Id love to, love.”
“Convince Dad then.”
Helen laughed.
“Emily, about that drawing on your fridgethe one with the orange person, no neck?”
“Yes, thats you, obviously.”
“I thought so. Hes the smallest.”
“Mum, hes not. Hes just drawn in the middle. Harry says the middle is the most important. He holds everyone else together.”
Helen was silent awhile.
“The middle?”
“Yep. Thats what he says. The one in the middle is the one who holds everyone.”
“So wise at seven?”
“Seven-year-olds know more than most grown-ups, Mum. Actually, I wanted to say something to you.”
“Go on.”
“Im proud of you. You didnt have to change a thing. At your age, most people would just keep going. But you didnt. Thats brave, Mum.”
Helen was silent for a long time. Outside, January snow buried the poplars and fluffed up the sparrows again.
“I still dont know how itll turn out,” she managed at last.
“Nobody knows. Thats alright.”
“And are you happy, Emily? Yourself?”
“Me? Actuallyyes, most days. There are hard ones. Sam doesnt always get it. Harrys exhausting. The jobs a pain. But mostlyyes.”
“Good. Im glad.”
“And you, Mum? Are you happy?”
Helen thought carefully.
“I dont think happiness is one solid thing. I used to think I knew. Now I think it comes in bitsshort spells.”
“And do you have them?”
“I do. When I write. When I read something good. When I think of phlox.”
“Phlox!” Emily repeated, “You have to plant more this year.”
“I will.”
“Loads.”
“Loads.”
They sat quietly with the phone between them, a mother and daughter who had already said so much, and left a lot that didnt need saying.
Then Emily said, lightly:
“Can I ask a silly question?”
“Go on.”
“If youd known, at twenty-four, all you know nowwould you still have married Dad?”
Helen thought again, honestly.
“I dont know,” she said at last. “Maybe its the wrong questionbecause if I hadnt, thered be no you. But youre here, and so is Harry. And the phlox.”
“And what now?”
“Ill live. Ill write. Ill keep going to Anna. I wont be afraid of the word amateur.”
“Mum.”
“Yes?”
“Will you ever let me read the story?”
Helen glanced at the blue notebook on the windowsill, sunlight on it.
“I will,” she replied, “When its ready.”
“And whens that?”
“Thats for me to decide, Em. Me.”
In February, Helen enrolled on a coursenot anything worthy or sensible, just creative writing at the community centre, Thursday evenings, small group of older writers. First time, she just listened, not reading hers aloud. On the way home, she half-wondered if she was mad, starting afresh at sixty-two.
Then realisednot mad. Just unfamiliar. And unfamiliar is not the same as foolish. She saw that distinction now.
Victor noticed, the night she got in.
“Another session with your therapist?”
“No, its a writing course.”
He looked at herthe look she could finally read: not anger, but confusion.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Why bother?”
“Because I like it.”
He nodded, slowly, absorbing an idea hed never considered.
“Good,” he said at last. “Eat? Ive done potatoes.”
“Ill eat.”
She hung up her coat and joined him in the kitchen. Potatoes boiled well, not like that odd barley soup. Victor sat across, staring at his plate.
“Is the group far?”
“Half an hours walk.”
“Out in the dark?”
“February, it is. There are street lamps.”
“You could catch a bus.”
“I could. I prefer walking. I like to think as I go.”
He nodded again, silent, but something had shifted; not the old silent pressure, but something tentative, as if hunting for words.
“Helen,” he said, softly.
“Yes?”
“I I must get hard sometimes.”
Helen put down her fork.
“You do.”
“I dont mean to.”
“I know.”
“I just always thought things had to go a certain way. If they didnt, it bothered me.”
“A certain way is just your way, Vic. Not everyones.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Im beginning.”
He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Is that why you saw someone?”
“In part.”
“What did she say?”
“Shes teaching me to listen to myself. What I feel, what I want, whats important for me.”
“And before?”
“I heard itbut didnt think it mattered much.”
He was silent a long time. He cleared his plate and spoke while rinsing up, back turned.
“Maybe we should talk. Properly.” He stared out the dark window. “But I dont know how to to do all that.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“You know how?”
“Im learning.”
He turned round, studied her.
“Maybe we could learn, together?”
Helen didnt answer right away. She looked at him, and thought about the old lake photo where he was laughing, and shed been distracted by something off-frame. About the blue exercise book. About the phlox that dared to grow. About Harrys artwork, orange figure in the middle, holding the line.
How Anna had said: change yourself, and sometimes things around you shift. Not always. But sometimes.
She didnt know which this would be.
Victor was waiting.
“We could try,” she said at last.
He nodded, sat down, and reached for the kettle.
“Tea?”
“Please.”
He poured. His blue mug. Her white one. Set out a tin of the poppy seed biscuits shed bought yesterday.
Helen wrapped her hands round her cup.
Outside, Februarys snow settled on the poplars. Beneath the frozen plot, bulbs of phlox slept, pink and white, a little unkempt. In spring, theyd come back. That, at least, she knew for sure.
Victor opened his mouth, hesitated, then asked, quietly,
“Will you ever tell me what youre writing?”
“When Im ready.”
“And whens that?”
She looked back over the rim of her little white cup.
“Ill decide, Vic.”
He blinked, then, quietly,
“Alright.”
And so they sat in silence. But it was a different kind of silence.
