You didnt hurt me. You betrayed me. Thats not the same, she said to her husband.
The phone started ringing at half past seven in the morning, just as Anne Campbell was still at the cooker stirring the porridge. She glanced at the screen, saw her daughters name, and for some reason immediately sensed trouble. Sarah never called this early unless it was important.
Hello, love, are you at home?
I am. Where else would I be? Im making breakfast. Has something happened?
There was a pause. Anne turned the heat down under the porridge.
Mum, is Dad with you?
No. He went out last night, said he was staying late at David’s. They were working on the car in the garage.
Another pause. Longer this time, thick like treacle.
Mum, hes not at Davids. He rang me about an hour ago. He said hes not coming back. That he well, hes been living a different life for some time. I dont know how to tell you this.
Anne set the spoon on the stand. Carefully, so it wouldnt stain the tablecloth. Shed always done thatold habits.
What do you mean, not coming back?
Mum, he told me hes with another woman. Has been for two years. He wants a divorce.
The porridge was starting to bubble. Anne stared at the little craters forming on the surface, thinking she ought to turn the hob off before it stuck to the pot. She switched it off. Then picked her phone up once more.
Sarah, love, are you sure you understood him properly?
Mum.
What do you mean, Mum? Maybe hes just you know what your father’s like, sometimes he says things in the heat of the moment.
He was calm. Very calm. He said hed already got a flaton Broad Street, you know that area. Hes been living there since November.
November. It was March now. Four months.
Anne went to the window and looked outside at the street, all grey and wet like only Manchester could be at the start of March, when the snow had gone but the warmth hadnt arrived. Opposite, outside the bakery, a woman with a pushchair was standing. Anne watched the pram and thought about how Peter had always loved spring. Hed said he could breathe easier in the spring.
Mum, are you listening?
I am, darling.
Ill come over tonight, shall I?
No, dont. Youve got work.
Work can wait.
I said dont, Sarah. Im alright.
That was a lie. But Anne spoke with such certainty she almost believed it herself.
She stood by the window for a few minutes after hanging up. Then, she went to the bedroom, looked at the bed, and at Peters side where his pillow was still creased and untouched since hed dashed out the night before. She picked up the pillow, held it in her hands, then put it back where it was. Returning to the kitchen, she poured the porridge down the sink and switched the kettle on.
Thirty-seven years. They had been together for thirty-seven years.
Anne had worked as head accountant at a building company for twenty-two years, and in that time shed learned an important rule: if you dont know what to do, start with the thing you know has to be done. Make a list. Set priorities. She probably would have tried to make a list now, but her mind was empty and silent, like the office after closing time.
Her cat Molly wandered in from the hallway, rubbed against her legs, and meowed plaintively. Anne poured out some food.
There you go, Molly. Thats how it is.
Molly buried her nose in the dish. Anne looked at her and thought about how it was Peter whod given her the cat, five years ago for her birthday. Hed said a cat made a house cosier. Molly was ginger and lazy and always slept on his side of the sofa.
Well, now what to make of that.
Sarah ended up coming that evening anyway. No warning, just rang the doorbell. Anne opened it and saw her daughter, those eyes like Peters, cheekbones like her owna mixture that now, for some reason, stung all the more.
I told you not to come.
Mum, let me in.
They sat in the kitchen. Anne brewed tea, set out a jar of gooseberry jam shed made the previous August. Sarah looked at her mother, clearly unsure how to begin.
Mum, are you alright?
Im fine. Ate today, havent fainted, not dizzy.
Im being serious.
So am I. What do you want me to say, Sarah? That Im in tears? Im not. Not yet, anyway.
Sarah cupped her mug with both hands, just like she had as a child.
Hell probably ring you himself. He wants to talk.
Let him call.
Dont you want to know who she is?
Anne gazed at her daughter.
I do. Just not now. Right now, I cant pretend it wouldnt make it worse.
Mum, hes a bastard.
Sarah.
Well? He is. Thirty-seven years and he tells you by phone, through his daughter.
He probably didnt know what else to do. You know your father, can never say anything hard to someones face. Always been like that.
Sarah fell silent. Then, in a quiet voice:
Mum, youre defending him.
Im explaining him. Thats not the same.
They sat for a while longer. The jam went untouched. The cat came, hopped up on a stool, and stared out the window.
Will you live on your own?
Mollys with me.
Mum, Im serious.
And so am I. Sarah, Im fifty-eight, not thirty. Ill manage. I know every pipe and switch in this flat, lived here thirty years. Ill be fine.
Sarah left late that night. Anne washed the mugs, wiped the table, fed Molly her supper, and went to bed. She lay staring at the ceiling, hearing, through the wall, the television muffled in Mrs Hendersons flat next door. Mrs Henderson had lived alone eight years now after burying her husband, and always kept the telly on, said it made things less quiet. Anne understood her a bit differently now.
Peter rang two days later. In the morning, while Anne was sorting documents shed brought home from work, still employed until the end of April, finalising a few reports. She saw his name on the display, stared at it for a few seconds, then answered.
Anne.
Yes?
How are you?
Peter, are you ringing just to ask that, or to say something specific?
Pause.
I wanted to explain.
Go on, then.
Anne, weve been well, weve just been living like neighbours for ages, you know that yourself. Nothing to talk about, we shuffle about like on rails. I dont blame you. I dont blame myself either. It just happened.
She looked at the pile of papers in front of herall neat, little tabs.
Whats her name?
Anne
Whats her name, Peter?
Julia. Julia Williams. Shes forty-four. A widow, two children.
I see.
Anne, I never meant to hurt you.
You didnt hurt me. You betrayed me. Thats different.
She surprised herself at how steady she sounded. As if she was reading something rehearsed aloud.
Anne, I understand
No, Peter, you dont. But never mind. For the paperwork, speak to the solicitor or whatever way you want to handle it. The flats legally mine, you know that. Ill have my pension, small as it is. Ill get by.
Anne, I
Thats enough, Peter. Im busy.
She hung up, laying the phone gently on the table. Then she stood, went over to the cooker, and put the kettle on. Her hands didnt shake. That surprised her.
A week later, heading out for bread, she bumped into Mrs Henderson by the entrance, fresh from the pharmacy with a big carrier bag.
Anne! You look pale, love. Are you feeling alright?
Im fine, Mrs Henderson. Just one of those days.
Mrs Henderson was three years older than Anne, round and cheerful, flame-red hair that she dyed religiously, even at sixty-onesaid going grey wasnt for her. Theyd been neighbours for twenty years, exchanged words on the stairs, sometimes had a cuppa together, but hadnt ever been close friends.
Pop round, Ive a cabbage pie left from yesterday, Mrs Henderson said, giving her a long, knowing lookthe look of someone whos been through plenty herself.
I couldnt.
Anne, dont be silly. Come on.
They sat in Mrs Hendersons kitchen, very different from Annescrowded, colourful, with photos, little figurines, and three pots of geraniums on the sill. Anne never liked that sort of clutter, but today, she found it oddly cosy.
Peters gone, she said, straight out. Just said it, because it felt too heavy to keep inside.
Mrs Henderson didnt gasp or throw up her hands. She poured tea and cut her a thick slice of pie.
How long?
Since November, turns out.
And you didnt know?
No. Out at the garage, mates houses, business tripshe was works director before retiring, always something. I trusted him.
It happens, Mrs Henderson said, without judgement.
How did you when you were first alone, how did you manage?
First month, I cried. Second, I was angry. Third, cant recall. Then, just got used to it. Not better, just different.
I dont feel like crying.
Thats normal, too. Maybe it hasnt sunk in yet. It will.
Im scared for when it does.
Mrs Henderson looked at her.
Youre fifty-eight?
Fifty-eight.
I was fifty-nine when it happened to me and thought it was the end. Turns out, it wasnt. Not saying Im glad, just not the end.
Anne ate the pie. It was good, with a golden crust.
What do you do when you just dont know what to do with yourself?
I go to the market. Theres always people, noise, life. Watching strangers helps.
I never liked the market. In and out of the supermarket and home, that was enough for me.
Time to try something new, then.
It was said lightly, just a throwaway. But Anne remembered it anyway.
In April she officially retired. It coincided with the divorce hearing, set for early May. The solicitor recommended by one of Sarahs friends said it would all be straightforwardthe flat was in Annes name since the nineties, little shared property, Peter didnt contest anything, just wanted it over quickly.
Hes in a rush to settle down somewhere new, Sarah remarked over the phone.
Dont, Sarah.
Mum, youre defending him again.
I just dont want to waste fury on things I cant change.
So you are angry?
Probably. I dont know. It all blurs together.
Retirement proved difficultnot for lack of money (her state pension was just under £800 a month, not much, but with a full pantry and careful counting, shed make do), but because her routine vanished. All her life, shed had to be at work by eight. Now, shed wake, see the clock, and know there was nowhere to go. Unsettling somehow, as if the floor was suddenly soft and unreliable.
She tried to make herself a new schedule. Wrote: 8:00 breakfast. 9:00 walk. 10:00 reading or chores. Then re-wrote it, when she failed to stick to it. Shed sit with a book, and twenty minutes in realise she was just staring out the window, still wondering where Peter had really been that November night he said he was at a meeting.
Sarah called one day.
Mum, you need something to do. Join a class or something.
What, love?
I dont know. Yoga?
Sarah.
What? Women go. Youd meet people.
Youre joking? Me, yoga?
Or some course. Or volunteer at the libraryyou always loved books.
Ill think about it.
She didnt. What she did do, one rainy afternoon, was sort out the cupboards and find an old box of photographs. Prints from film, with whitened borders. Peter, young, laughing at twenty-five, his hair thick and dark. Both of them at some holiday camp, 89 or 90. Little Sarah, age three, sitting in Peters lap, reaching for an ice cream. Anne looked at the photographs for ages. Then closed the box and put it on the highest shelf.
She only realised she was angry when she broke a saucer. Not on purposejust put it too close to the edge, it fell, shattered. She thought she should have bought sturdier china. Bending to sweep up the shards, she suddenly found herself squatting there, breathing quickly, throat tight. She didnt cry. Just stayed like that for a few minutes, then straightened up, binned the pieces, washed her hands, and went out for buckwheat and olive oil.
The divorce hearing in May went as quickly as the solicitor had said it would. Peter turned up in the blue jacket Anne had bought him for his sixtieth. They didnt talk. Only as they left did he linger and mutter, low:
Anne, I never meant to hurt you.
I know, she replied.
That was true. Hed never meant her harm, just wanted something else for himself. Not the same. She understood this in her head, but that didnt make anything easier inside.
Afterwards, she stopped in a small café. Alone, which was new for hershed always found it odd to eat out alone. She ordered coffee with double cream and a slice of honey cake, and sat by the window. At the next table, two older women were chatting about the price of prescriptions; one grumbled about her blood pressure and a new pill the GP had given her.
Try a different chemist, love. My friend got it for £8 there.
Wheres that?
On Market Street, you know the one. Little independent, not fancy, but good prices.
Anne listened, thinking: this is what real life is made of, when all the rest drops away. The price of medicines, where the cheaper chemist is.
She finished her cake, sipped her coffee, went out. The sun was warm on her backit was May, proper English spring now. She walked home rather than catch the bus, walked slowly, watching shop windows, trees, people. In the park an old man was feeding pigeons. A woman passed by with a little dog on a lead. Life going on, which suddenly felt right somehow.
In June Vera called. Vera Simons, her school friendhadnt seen her in five years, though they phoned now and again. Vera lived in another part of the city, her own life, husband, grandchildren, a cottage near Stockport.
Annie! Are you alright? Lucy from work told me Peters left?
Vera, news gets around, eh?
How are you, really?
Same as everyone asks. Im managing.
Managing isnt an answer. Managing means youre enduring.
So I am enduring. What else can you do?
Look, I mean it, come to mine, to the cottage. Its lovely nowgarden, fresh air, itd do you good.
Oh Vera, you know I never liked gardening. Peter loved it, I just put up with it.
Fine, dont garden. Just come and sit and natter. Weve a perfect veranda out the back. Ill make cold souplike you like it.
Cold soup.
With kefir, your favourite. Stop moping at home.
Anne looked at the cat, spread out on the sofa, gazing at her in expectation.
Ill come, then.
She went that Saturday, took the train and a small overnight bag and the book shed always meant to read. Vera met her at the gate, older, but with the same huge smile shed worn since they were girls.
You havent changed a bit, Annie.
Dont lie. Ive lost weight.
But your eyes are the same.
They sat on the veranda eating cold soup, then drinking tea with cherry jam. Veras husband, known as Mr Simons, was busy in the garden and left them alone, recognising womens talk was needed.
Tell me everything, Vera said.
And Anne did. She told the whole storyfor the first time, not short and business-like as with Sarah, but the whole lot: about Peters cough in November, when shed brought tea to his room, when hed stayed late at work or out with friends, about his odd improvements in dress, which shed thought was just him taking care of himself. How, for the past two years, dinner had been a silent affair and shed thought that was just how things went after a long marriage.
Thats not how it goes for everyone, Vera said.
Oh? You and Mr Simons must
Oh, we bicker all the timeover what to watch, what he records. But at least thats life.
We hardly ever argued. Never really did.
Maybe you should have.
Anne considered that.
Vera, do you really think it would have made a difference?
I dont know. But at least youd know something real was happening. All that silence, then one day, poofnothing left.
I thought wed grown out of all thatgrown-up love, no rows, no drama. Mature, I thought.
Thats not maturity. Thats being so used to each other you cant even see each other anymore.
Anne looked out at the garden beyond the verandastrawberries, courgettes, something else green and useful.
Vera, tell me honestly. Was it my fault?
Oh, Annie You both were and you both werent. Lifes like thatthe couple works at it together, or they fall apart together. Neither of you worked at it. He chose to leave quietly; you never wanted it to end that way.
I I just never realised there was anything to fix. Thought all was as it should be.
I know. We were taught that as girlsdont argue, dont drink, go to work, thats it. The rest sorts itself.
It doesnt, though.
No, it doesnt.
Anne went home on Sunday night, slightly sunburned and clutching a jar of Veras jam. The flat was quiet. Molly glared at her for having been left with the automatic feeder all weekenda clear grievance.
You managed, then? Good, Anne told the cat, stroking her.
July arrived and brought something unexpected. Anne was walking by the community centre and spotted a noticeboard. There was a slightly lopsided A4 flyer with a typo in classes: Watercolour Club. Classes on Fridays 5pm. Open to all. Materials provided. Anne stopped, read it twice. Walked on. Walked back, and took a photo of the flyer.
At home, she showed Sarah on a video call.
Mum, thats brilliant! Go!
I cant even draw a stick man, Sarah.
It says open to all.
Yeah, all who have a clue.
Mum, just go. What have you got to lose?
She wanted to protest, but stopped. What did she really have to lose?
That first Friday, she found the room upstairs, seven people, all her age or older, water jars and paint sets on each table. The teacher, a friendly woman in her thirties called Emily, smiled and said,
Welcome! Tonight well paint apples.
Anne sat down, picked up a brush, stared at the blank sheet. The lady next to her, older and wearing specs, leaned over and whispered,
First time? So was I three weeks ago. Youll be fine.
Im Anne.
Brenda Howell. Worked in a factory for thirty yearsnow Im a free artist, as you see.
She smiled. Anne smiled back. Brendas hands, sturdy and confident, were already at work.
Annes apple came out lumpy and a bit too dark on one side. Emily came by, took a look.
A very good start! Try more water heresee how the colour softens?
Anne added water, watched the shade go translucentunexpectedly, it was lovely.
Afterwards, she walked out with Brenda. Brenda asked which bus she caught; Anne told her, and together they walked part of the way, Brenda sharing stories about her lifea widow, lived alone, childless. A niece in Bristol phoned now and then, but otherwise, she was fine. She said it all without self-pity.
Dont you get lonely?
I miss my Dave. The loneliness that used to scare medoesnt anymore. Found things to do. Watercolours, the book club on Wednesdays, my neighbours beagleI walk him when shes poorly. Life goes on.
Do you ever feel like you missed something? That things couldve been different?
Oh, sure. I havent been to the seaside in donkeys yearslife, work, Dave was poorly, always something. Maybe Ill go. Thinking about it slowly.
Alone?
Why not?
They went their separate ways at the crossroads, promising to see each other next week.
Anne thought about the seaside all the way home. She and Peter had gone oncewith little Sarah, back in 93. Never sincethe time was never right, or too expensive, or Peter wanted to go elsewhere. Anne, truthfully, hardly ever insisted.
August, Sarah called:
Mum, please come over! Its Arthurs fifth birthday next Saturday.
Arthur was Sarahs son, Annes grandsona mischievous child with big grey eyes. Anne adored him but saw him less than shed have liked; Sarah lived across town in a new estate with her husband, James, a builder.
Of course, love. What should I get?
Hes into construction sets. Anything with cars.
Sorted. Listen, Sarah, is Dad coming?
Pause.
Ive invited him. Hes his grandad. Is that alright?
Yes. Im not going to pretend he isnt there. Arthur needs his grandad.
Mum, are you sure?
Sarah, enough times passed. Im not going to make a scene at a childs party.
And shes not coming with him?
I know. And thats for the best.
The party was noisy and fun. Anne brought a construction set and a homemade honey cakeArthurs favourite. Peter was already there, chatting with James. They nodded at each other, civil. Anne went to help Sarah in the kitchen, and the afternoon passed peacefully.
Peter sat opposite her at the table. Anne noticed he looked thinner; a bit lost, though she didnt take pleasure in it, merely observed. Arthur ripped open the box and started building. James joined in, Sarah fussed over the food, and the flat was full of life.
When it went quieterPeter, leaning over, said softly,
You look well, Anne.
Thank you.
No, really somethings different.
Ive taken up painting. Watercolours. Every Friday.
He stared at her, genuinely surprised.
Thats brilliant.
I know, she replied simply.
It wasnt smugness. It was just true. She liked knowing it for herself, without needing his approvalthough it was still nice he had noticed.
In September, she joined the book club Brenda had mentioned, at the local library Wednesdays. There were about twelve regularsdifferent ages, two men among them, both retired; one a history teacher, another a GP, both gentle souls.
They discussed books. Anne found she had opinions, and people listened. In accounting, it was just numbers, right or wrong. Here she could say I think and perhaps and nobody sneered.
Anne, your take on this is fascinating, said the history teacher, Mr Barnes, thin and tidy. You see the story quite differently.
Im not sure if its right.
In literature, theres no right or wrong. Just what resonates.
Afterwards she and Brenda and sometimes others would pop into a little café on the cornercoffee, chat about life, health, groceries, families as much as books.
One day Brenda said,
Anne, youve changed a great deal these past months.
How so?
In a good way. Youre much more yourself. You used to always be waiting for something, someone. Now you just live.
Youre a philosopher, Brenda.
Im a technician. We think differently, thats all.
Anne laughed properlyan easy sort of laugh. Funny, thats just how I feel too. I go to my classes, the club, read, walkdont get bored. I thought Id be lost without work or a husband. Im not.
Youve found your own space, Anne.
I never realised I didnt have it. I thought my lifehome, job, marriagewas mine, but it wasnt. It was just the part I played.
Exactly.
Strange to grasp it only at fifty-eight.
Better at fifty-eight than never.
In October, Emily, the art teacher, announced there would be a little exhibition of students watercolours in December, in the community centre foyer. Nothing formal, just a few on show.
If youd like to take part, bring your favourite piece by November, Emily said. No pressure, but it would be lovely.
Anne had plenty by thenapples, pears, still lifes, even a view from her own window with an old silver birch and a play frame, which hadnt turned out too bad. Emily said she had a real sense of space.
Anne, your window view must go in the exhibition, Brenda insisted.
Do you think so?
Its got life in it. Not a practice piece, a real moment.
Anne thought a long time, but then brought the picture.
November, she went to the seasideBrighton, for a week, just herself. Sarah was surprised.
Mum, on your own? In November?
Why not?
Itll be freezing!
Im not there to swim. I just want to see it. I havent been in twenty years, Sarah.
Mum
Yes?
Youve changed.
Is that good or bad?
Another pause.
Its good. Just strange. You used to always ask me before doing things.
Im thinking for myself now. Its different.
She booked a ticket, packed a small bag, and set off. In her train compartment were a family with a toddler and a lady with knitting. Anne watched fields and villages flash by, feeling she hadnt done this in years. Life had always seemed too urgent for trips; now, nothing felt more urgent than this.
Brighton was windswept and quiet. Long walks by the sea, salty air, a woollen scarf clutched tight. She ate fish soup at a harbour café, the landladya leathery, cheerful womanasked,
On your own, then?
I am. First time.
Hows that feel?
Odd, but good. I answer to myself.
Quite right. My mate goes abroad alone now and swears by it.
I believe her.
On the pier she bought three amateur watercolour postcards of the seaone for Brenda, one for Mrs Henderson, one for herself. She felt proud to be part of this peculiar tribe of painters after all.
She came home on the Sunday, tired but calm. Molly met her with that slight, grudging relief only a cat manages.
Missed me? she asked.
Molly said nothing, but curled onto her lap while she unpacked.
Decemberthe exhibition opened. Anne arrived with Brenda, Mrs Henderson, and Sarah with Arthur in tow. Arthur made a beeline round the hall, poking at pictures, gleefully shouting, This ones pretty!everyone smiling.
Annes painting of her viewsilver birch and play framewas centrepiece. Sarah gazed at it for a long time.
Mum, this is our old courtyard?
Yes.
You painted it?
Thats the climbing frame you were scared of when you were little.
Sarah smiled. Mum, its honestly good.
Emily says I have potential. Who knows, but I like the doing.
It suits you, painting.
What suits, suits.
Mrs Henderson nudged her. Is this yours, Anne?
It is.
Who knew, eh! Well, youre full of surprises.
So am I.
Later, they drank tea in the café, Arthur devoured two eclairs, Sarah pretended to scold him but was laughing. Brenda chatted about the book club, Mrs Henderson interjected with observations of her own. Anne, in this cheerful bustle, thoughtif someone had told her last March, standing at the hob with porridge and a spoon, that by December shed feel this way, shed have never believed them. How would she describe itgood, content, or just right.
Before New Year, Vera called.
How are you, Annie? Heard about your exhibition. Sarah told the old classmates WhatsApp.
Oh, youve a WhatsApp group. I didnt know.
Its everyone we could find from schoolpop in sometime.
I just might. Listen, is your winter invite still open?
For you, of course! Come after New Year, stay a week. Its peaceful, and lovely with snow.
I will. Honestly.
Thats the spirit!
New Years, she was at Sarahs. The four of themSarah, James, Arthur, and herself. Peter celebrated elsewhere, with Julia, no doubt. It was his life now. Arthur stayed up till midnight, watching the fireworks, shouting Hurrah! until he collapsed asleep on the sofa. Sarah tucked him in, came back.
Mum, honestly, what was this year like for you?
To be honest? All sorts. Plenty of bad, but good as well.
What good?
The exhibition. The sea trip. Brenda and the book club. Mrs Hendersons cabbage pie. And you, and Arthur, of course.
And the bad?
No point listing it. It was, and now its done.
Sarah watched her.
Mum, do you miss Dad?
Anne thought for a moment before replying.
I miss the Peter I knew years ago. When we were young, or just starting out as a familywhen you were a little girl. That was real. The last few yearsno, there was nothing left, Sarah. I honestly see that now.
Does that hurt to say?
A bit. But better a little pain from the truth than comfort from a lie.
James brought champagne, and they toasted to the new year.
In January, Anne visited Vera. They sat on the veranda wrapped in throwsVera said the cold air was good for youdrank hot tea with Veras homemade raspberry jam.
Vera, I always had a plan, Anne said, looking at the snowy garden. Work, retire, grow old with Peter. All set out.
And now?
Now theres no plan. And its not as frightening as I thought. Almost interesting. Whats next.
Thats wonderful, Annie.
Im not sure if it is. Maybe I just dont know I should be scared.
No, honestly, thats good. Fear means youre clinging to the pastyouve let go.
I still cling, a bit. Cant part with the photos
Dont throw those away. That was your life. No need to pretend it didnt happen.
Do you think hes happy? With her?
Ive no idea. Does it matter?
Anne considered.
It would have once. Wouldve made me angry. Now if he is, good luck to him. Him being miserable wouldnt help me.
Youve grown up, Annie.
At fifty-eight! A bit late.
Growing up isnt about age.
They both laughed. Vera’s husband stuck his head round, asked if they were cold. Vera said no, he shook his head, and left them to it.
Vera, do you ever regret not taking a different path? Something you missed out on?
Oh, yes. I wanted to study architecturedidnt get in, ended up teaching, married, time slipped by. Do I regret it? Sure, a bit. But not enough to eat me up. Now, look at us drawing and painting togethermaybe theres an architect in me after all.
A bit late now.
Annie, dont start with late. Its only too late if youre gone. And were still here.
Anne watched the snow settle on a little marker in the garden, hand-painted, courgettessomething cheerful grew there in summer.
What baffles me most, she said, is how content I am right now. Just chatting here, in a strangers garden, in January, under a throw. I wouldnt have understood it a year ago.
Well, now you do.
Yes.
Silence, but a comforting sort.
Annie, have you thought what youll do nextlong-term?
I have. Emily asked if I wanted to help with beginners art group. Show the ropes a bit. She says I explain things well.
Seriously?
Well, not teaching, but lending a hand.
Thats fantastic!
Ive not said yes yet.
But youre thinking about it?
Yes.
Thats enough.
Back in February, Anne returned home and found a new face at the watercolour club. A woman of about sixty-three, named Iristall, straight-backed, with the slightly lost look of someone in unfamiliar territory.
Anne remembered her own first class and sat next to her.
Your first time?
Yes. My daughter made me come, said I needed something to do. So here I am.
Daughters are often right about these things.
Did she make you come, too?
No, I spotted the flyer. But she did encourage me.
Iris seemed to relax, looking at the blank paper in front of her.
Ive never drawn, never. Always thought it was for other people, those with a gift.
I thought that, too. But it doesnt work that way.
Emily began the class. Anne showed Iris how to hold the brush, how to thin out colour, reassured her not to be scared of mistakes. Sometimes in watercolour, mistakes are the best part.
Afterwards, Iris said,
You explain well. Ever taught before?
No, Im an accountant. Well, was.
You come across as a teacher.
Thank you, thats lovely.
They walked through the February dusk.
How long you been coming here? Iris asked.
Since last July.
You like it?
I do. So will you.
Iris looked at her a bit doubtfully, yet there was a spark of hope.
You think its not too late to start, dont you? Anne smiled.
I do.
So did I, once. I stopped worrying about that and just got on. It makes less of a difference than you think.
They parted at the junction, promising to see each other next Friday.
Anne walked home. Snow fell in slow flakes, street lamps glowing soft. She thought shed ring Sarah tomorrow, check on Arthurs cold, maybe drop in on Mrs Henderson for that cabbage pie recipe. And say yes to Emily about helping the beginners’ group. It was time.
At home, Molly was waiting, seated at the kitchen door with her about time look. Anne fed her, put the kettle on, fetched a mug.
On the fridge, under a magnet, was Arthurs picture a big-headed stick figure labelled “Granny Anne.” The stick figure smiled. Anne looked at it, smiled too, and texted Sarah:
Ring when you can. I want a chat.
Sarah called back fifteen minutes later.
Mum, is everything alright?
All good, love. Listen, would you and James like to take Arthur somewhere for his spring break? I was looking at YorkArthur would love the museums there. I could come, too.
Pause, and Anne imagined she could hear Sarah smiling.
Mum, youre different these days.
Im the same.
No, youre finally yourself.
Anne looked outside. Snow was still falling. Beneath the birch out front, the lamplight made a little circle of brightness and calm.
Think it over, love, about York. Three or four days, some history, a bit of fun, Arthur would be in his element.
Well think about it, Mum. Most likely, yes.
Good.
Mum?
Yes?
Im glad to see you like this truly.
So am I, love.
She ended the call. Molly hopped up on the nearest chair, curled up tightly. The kettle whistled. Anne poured tea, fetched her latest book, and opened to her place, ready for next weeks club.
Outside her window, the snow kept falling.
