Slippers Between My Teeth
“Bring me my slippers,” said Gareth, not looking up from his phone.
I was at the stove, stirring some soup. Simple vegetable broth, the sort Gareth loved since he was a kid. Id sliced the bread already, laid out the plates, and taken the butter out of the fridge.
“Theyre by the door,” I replied calmly. “You just walked past them.”
“I said: bring them.” He finally raised his gaze from the screen, and I noticed something new in his eyes. Not anger, exactly. Something colder, alien. “Bring them in your teeth.”
I was certain Id misheard him. Or perhaps it was one of Gareths latest attempts at humour, which had become increasingly odd lately.
“Sorry?” I turned to him, wooden spoon in hand.
“You heard me. Bring my slippers in your teeth, like a dog would. So I know you respect me.”
I placed the spoon on the rest, slowly. I felt something clamp inside my chestnot pain or fear, but something heavier and stranger, yet strangely stilling.
“Gareth,” I said quietly, “are you being serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“For three years youve been my husband. Youve eaten my food, slept in my bed, lived in my flat. Now you sit there and demand I bring your slippers in my teeth.”
“Its a test. Mum says a real wife”
“Stop.” I held up a hand. “Dont start quoting your mum to me. I know exactly where this idea came from.”
Gareth narrowed his eyes.
“See, thats just it. You cant even do a simple thing like this. Mums right: you dont respect me. You wear the trousers here, and Im nothing to you.”
“Youre my husband. Or, you were…” I returned the butter to the fridge. “Soups on the stove. Help yourself.”
I walked out of the kitchen, and Gareth watched me go with a look that said Id just done something unforgivable.
Maybe I had. But I knew something irreparable had happened long before tonight.
My name is Alice Turner, née Ellis. I married Gareth Fletcher when I was twenty-five, after knowing him three years. Wed met at a mutual friends birthday party, swapped messages for ages, then started dating properly before he proposed. The whole thing felt very much by the book, which I welcomed after wild student relationships and a particularly painful breakup. I craved something steady: a reliable man who made sense.
Gareth seemed reliable. Calm, a little introverted, loved football and a barbecue, worked as a mechanic at a local garage. He didnt earn all that much, admitted as much with a sheepish smilesoon well have our own business, soon things would be looking up. I believed him. Those days, I believed a lot of things.
The flat came from my gran, Edna, whod passed away a year before our wedding. Two beds, fifth floor, in a terraced block in Enfieldnot posh, but cosy, nice big windows, friendly neighbours. Gran had always kept it pristine, with new pipes and a tidy little kitchen. Id painted the walls, bought a new sofa for the lounge. Gareth helped carry furniture, put up shelves; back then, building our nest felt genuinely shared.
Brenda, Gareths mum, didnt swoop into our lives right away. She seemed to bide her time. At first, shed pop over every now and then, bearing jars of chutney or a casserole, smiling at me with cautious cheer. I thoughthow lucky, a normal mother-in-law. My mate Claire was secretly jealous; her own mother-in-law had moved in after the second month and never budged.
But then, little by little, it changed. Like the nights suddenly drawing in after Septemberyou wake one evening and realise its pitch dark at six. Brenda called more and more. First once a day, then several times. She rang Gareth each morning: had he caught a chill, had he eaten, was he warm enough for work? Shed ring at lunchtime: what did he have, did I cook it, or was it shop-bought, was it too fatty (he had high blood pressure). Shed ring after work, too: how was his day, was he tired, sounded a bit off didnt he?
At first, I didnt mind. I told myself, shes lonely; Gareths her only son. But gradually, I started to see a change after every call. Gareth would grow tense and picky. Hed come into the kitchen and say, “Mum says you shouldnt put tinned tomatoes in stewfresh only.” Or, “Mum thinks youre spending too much on makeup.” Or, “Mum says the floors need mopping every day, not every other day.”
“Gareth,” I asked once, “what do you think? Or havent you got your own opinion?”
He took offence, claimed I was disrespecting his mum. I apologised. I shouldnt have, as I realised later. Never give ground with Brenda. Shell take a mile.
Brenda herself was a formidable 62, with tight permed hair and the sort of voice thats used to being obeyed. Shed run a council department for two decadesher word was law, and retirement hadnt changed that, or she didnt want it to. Gareths dad had died when he was seven, so Brenda poured everything into her son. He was her pride, her project, her heartache, and her full-time occupation.
That her boy now had a wife to share him with, Brenda took as an affront. For a while she tried to hide it, but the mask soon slipped. Underneath, she was like a general whod lost a battle, with only guerrilla warfare left.
Unannounced visits started in our second year. I might be lounging in my dressing gown or just out the shower, hair dripping, when the bell would ring and Brenda would barge in carrying bags of shopping and a look that said she was doing a spot check for the council.
“Theres a lot of dust on these shelves,” shed say, pushing into the hallway. “Alice, do you actually clean?”
“Hello, Brenda,” I would reply mildly. “We werent expecting you today.”
“Why should I have to warn anyone? Im visiting my son, not reporting to anyone.”
And Gareth would just stand there, silent, guilty, never speaking up or defending me. That silence was the hardest thing. If hed just once said, “Mum, phone ahead,” it mightve helped. But he never did, and in each silence, I could hear the real answer to all my questions about where we were headed.
I didnt keep silent. I talked to Gareth many times, evenings after his mum left, sitting beside him, calmly explaining we really needed to set boundaries, that I deserved respect in my own home.
“You just dont love her,” hed say.
“I dont have to love her, but I do have to respect her. But respect works both ways.”
“Shes an old lady.”
“Shes sixty-two, Gareth. Shes healthy and active. You say it yourself.”
“But shes my mum.”
“And Im your wife. Or am I not?”
That was usually where it ended. Gareth would stomp onto the balcony for a fag, busy himself with his phone, or say something like “You overthink everything” and go off to bed. Id sit alone with cold tea, feeling like Id spent half an hour barking at a wall.
I confided in Claire. She just shook her head and sighed, “Alice, this is textbook. Proper mummys boy. They dont change.” I didnt want to see Gareth like that. He wasnt cruelnot really. He fixed Mrs Evanss tap when she asked. He helped my mum figure out her new phone. He didnt drink, never cheated. He was biddable. I came across that word much later, and it fit: biddable. Like a boat drifting with the currentwherever Brendas current happened to flow.
By the third year, Brenda was dropping by almost daily. Shed bring foodnot so much to help but to underline how my cooking didnt measure up. Shed rearrange ornaments, mutter about the curtains, hint the rug needed cleaning. Once, I caught her in our bedroom, stuffing my knickers in one corner of the wardrobe for ‘proper storage.’
“Brenda, please dont touch our things,” I said quietly but firmly.
“I only wanted to help,” she huffed.
“Thats not the sort of help I want.”
Later I overheard her in the kitchen, muttering to Gareth, “Your wifes got quite the mouth on her, hasnt she? Cocky, right to my face. You blind or just henpecked now?”
And Gareth said nothing. Later that same evening, hed look at me differently, heavier, as if testing out some words Brenda had left behind.
Thats when the weird stuff about respect started. Who was in charge. How a wife ought to know her place. I could hear Brendas voice in Gareths words, see her gestures as he beefed up at the dining table, playing the big mana role that didnt suit him, but he wore it anyway.
The slippers werent Gareths ideathey sounded like some story Brendas bingo pals had shared, about a husband making his wife prove obedience. Maybe Brenda made it up. Ive no doubt the idea was hers.
After the night of the slipper demand, life changed in the flat. Gareth staged a cold war. Wouldnt answer me, turned away at supper, wouldnt touch what Id prepared. Mostly, he only ate what Brenda brought round in her ever-expanding Tupperware. He passed me in the hallway as if I was invisible.
For days, I felt as though I’d been hitnot with a fist, but with frost. Indifference. Youre there, but youre not. You speak, but youre not heard. I tried a few times to talk, to clear the air, to at least get him to say what he wanted. Gareth either kept up the silent treatment or muttered “You know perfectly well” and disappeared. Once, when I finally broke and cried, he glanced at me with an odd satisfaction. No pitysomething closer to gloating.
“Now I see,” I thought, and some window in me slammed shut. Not brokenjust closed, hard, by a gust that had been building for years.
Brenda started coming over every morning now. Shed sit with a cuppa, watching me rush about for work, always managing a little jab”Wearing that jumper again? Makes you look frumpy.” Or, “Did you buy instant coffee? Gareth shouldnt have that with his heart.” Or, “You look tired, Alice. Sleeping badly?”
It was a slow-burn destructionso measured and quiet you almost had to admire it.
One evening, when Gareth was in the shower, Brenda scooted closer and murmured as if sharing a secret: “Alice, youre a clever girl. Just swallow your pride, dear. Bring the slippers, hell settle down, and all will be well.”
I looked straight at her.
“Brenda, do you realise what youre asking your daughter-in-law to do?”
“Im asking for peace in the family.”
“No, youre asking me to humiliate myself just to give your son his sense of superiority. That isnt peace. Thats surrender.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, live with your pride then. See how that works for you.”
After shed gone, I sat in the quiet kitchen. Through the window, the lights of other blocks blinked, a dog barked somewhere, and a car went by. An ordinary autumn night in a London estate. I thought back to the day I moved inwith hope and flowers. Now, three years later, I felt a stranger in my own home. The flat my gran gave me. The rooms Id painted with my own hands.
I thought for hours. At some point, the fog in my mind cleared and I saw a way ahead.
I took out my phone and messaged Elaine FletcherGareths dads only sisterElaine, feared and respected by all the Fletchers.
Elaine Fletcher was sixty-eight, big, booming, says-what-she-thinks. She lived in the next street. We got along well; from the start, shed been blunt but warm with me. I remembered her once, after a bit too much rum at a family dinner, saying, “Youre a good’un, Alice. But Brenda wont leave you alone, trust me. She ruined Gareth growing upnow shell come after you.”
Back then I laughed it off. Now it hit home.
My message: “Elaine, please can I call you tomorrow? Id be grateful for your advice.”
Almost instantly: “Any time, love. Im always about.”
We talked for nearly an hour next day. I told her everythingabout the slippers, the boycott, the daily visits, the subtle digs. She listened all the way through. Then said:
“You know, Alice, Brenda always did this. When Gareth was little, if he so much as looked at her funny, hed get a weeks silent treatment. The kid would end up begging on his knees for forgiveness. She trained him to think coldness and punishment were how women showed power, and men had to earn back love. Hes not acting out of malice, he just doesnt know any different.”
“It explains things,” I said slowly, “but it doesnt excuse them.”
“Course not. Im just saying, you cant beat her while shes involved. Shes a pro at this.”
“Elaine,” I asked, “I need your help.”
I told her my plan. She gave a short, approving laugh. “Brilliant, love. Ill come. Whenever you say, Ill be there.”
It took several days to set things up. I didnt cry. Didnt yell. I cooked, cleaned, went to work; Gareth, seeing me placid, thawed a littlegiving short answers, not shoving his food away. He even managed a “thank you” for dinner one night.
“See,” Brenda whispered to Gareth, thinking Id left the room, “told youjust give her time. Shell come round.”
I leaned in, bit my tongue, and strolled calmly back into the kitchen.
“Brenda,” I said, sitting opposite, “I want to suggest something.”
She steeled herselfready for accusations, tears, anything but this.
“I think we should settle things properly. Family style. Lets hold a dinner, invite everyone. Get it all out in the openlike adults.”
She traded glances with Gareth, triumphant. “Shes surrendered,” said her look. “She wants a truceon our terms.”
“Shall we invite Elaine too?” I asked. “She is the matriarch, after all. Its only right shes there to bear witness.”
Brenda stiffened. She didnt like Elaineno one could outmanoeuvre her. But to block her meant admitting she had something to hide. Brenda never could do that.
“Fine, invite her,” she said, just a fraction too late.
Gareth was baffled, but hopefulmaybe I was coming round at last?
We picked the following Saturday for our “family summit.” I spent the week preparingnot food, but my words. Every morning and night, I rehearsed what Id say, out loud, in the bathroom mirror.
I didnt want tears or shouting. I wanted clarity. I wanted the truth, told calmly, in full view.
Meanwhile, I gathered documents: the deed to the flat (still tucked in top drawer), confirmation from works solicitorwhat happens in divorce if the home is the wifes inheritance? “Anything inherited is excluded from the marital split unless theres a pre-nup,” he explained. I thanked him, hung up.
On Friday, I phoned my mumJill Ellis, who lived across the city and only knew what Id told her. Id kept most pains to myself, not wanting to worry her. But now, I came clean.
Mum was silent a long time. Then: “Alice, are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You know Im with you, whatever you decide?”
“I know, Mum.”
“Then do it, love. Im proud of you.”
Saturday arrived. I rose early, made coffee, sipped it at the window while the caretaker swept leaves into slow piles. Mid-October. Gold sycamores, low grey skyan ordinary London autumn.
I wore deep bluea plain, neat dress that suited me. Hair pulled back, a dab of lipstick. When I glanced in the mirror, I looked steady. Which was the truth.
By two, the table was set. Crockery polished, bread sliced, a simple casserole warming. Nothing fancya proper family meal.
At 2:15, Elaine arrived, big bear-hug, whispering in my ear: “Hold your nerve, girl.” She took the head of the table, as wed planned. That, I felt, mattered a lot.
At half past two, Gareth and his mum showed up. Gareth, perfectly pressed; Brenda in a pearl-grey cardigan, hair still smelling faintly of Elnett. She swept in, trying to take charge, but Elaines short, firm “Afternoon” clipped her wings.
We sat. I ladled out soup, offered bread. Brenda pursed her lips, about to comment. I headed her off.
“Hold on, please, before we eat. Theres something important I have to say. Its why we’re here.”
Gareth looked wary, as if Id started speaking Greek.
“Alice, all this again?” Brenda tried, but Elaine patted her wrist.
“Lets let Alice speak, Brenda. Please.”
So I stooddidnt intend to, just felt right. I looked at the three of them. Gareth, Brenda, Elaine. And me.
“Several weeks ago, Gareth demanded I fetch his slippers for him with my teethnot as a joke, but as some kind of test for respect.”
Elaines eyebrows shot up. Brenda gripped her spoon.
“I refused. Since then, Gareth has been giving me the silent treatment, wont eat my food, wont talk. Its been weeks. Brenda now comes every day, criticising the way I clean, cook, dress. She calls me rude for asking her not to rearrange my things in my own wardrobe.”
“Youre making it sound worse than it is,” Gareth started, but Elaine hushed him.
“I just want to put a few things straight,” I continued. “First. This flat was left to me by my grandmother. Ive put my money and effort into making it a home. Its mineby law and in fact. Over three years, Gareth has never paid all the bills himself, and its me who does most of the food shopping. Every major appliance bought lately was on my card.”
Gareth turned crimson.
“Thats not fair” he began.
“You dont have consistent work,” I said, without heat. “I never shoved that in your face before, but its true. Now, Im setting out the actual state of play, not the one your mum spins for her friends.”
Brenda gathered herself to pounce, but Elaine squeezed her wrist, stopping her.
“Second,” I told Brenda steadily, “you have spent three years undermining this marriage. Your motives may be your own, but the result is clear. You taught your son that a wife with her own mind is a bad wife; that a man shouldnt stand up for his partner, shouldnt make his own decisions. Thats your doing, Brenda. Your legacy. Are you proud?”
Silence. Even the outside rattle of traffic seemed to hush for a moment.
“And third.” I turned to Gareth. “Im filing for divorce. Final decision. Please collect your things within two weeks. You can stay for now as long as you dont make life difficult.”
Back to Brenda.
“Brenda, I ask you never to come to this flat again. Ever.”
Brenda exploded at last, upending her chair. “How dare you! Youre tearing this family apart! You”
“Brenda,” Elaine said quietly. Just her name. Brenda fell silent instantly. Elaine stood, using the table for support. “You heard what Alice said. So did I. And Ill tell you thisshes right about everything.”
“But Elaine”
“Listen,” Elaines voice brooked no argument. “Ive known you forty years, Brenda. Youre clever. But youve hobbled your son. Not his body, his heart. You made him more scared of you than anyone, so he has no idea how to love anyone else. Thats not motherly love. Thats control.”
Gareth stared at the table, chalk-white.
“Alice,” Elaine said, turning to me, “well done. Now go live, love.”
With that, she grabbed her bag, nodded farewell and left.
Brenda stood for several seconds, then grabbed her coat and muttered something as she left. Door closed.
Gareth looked at meconfusion, hurt, perhaps reliefsomething complicated and unfinished.
“Alice,” he said, “You cant do thiscant we talk?”
“Ive been talking for three years,” I replied. “Im done now.”
I started clearing the table. The soup sat untouched. So be it.
The paperwork took two monthsno fights, no courts. Not much to argue over: no car, no kids. Gareth came for his belongings twiceclothes and tools first, then bits of inherited furniture Brenda brought that first year. I helped pack up, no tears, no harsh words. When he paused at the door for the last time, I just nodded. He did too.
For the first few days, the flat felt oddhushed, but not in that dead, bitter way after an argument. This was a live, open silence. Space to fill as I chose.
I rearranged the furniturenot because I had to, but because I wanted a change. Moved the sofa under the window, hung new ochre curtains Id been eyeing for ages (Brenda wouldve called them tasteless, no doubt). But they warmed the room, softening the autumn gloom.
I rang Claire: “Claire, Im divorced.”
“I know, darlingyou told me.”
“No, its real. Got the decree yesterday.”
“Well? How do you feel?”
“I feel good,” I said, laughing. “Strangely good.”
That evening, we met at a little café on Baker Street, had tea and cake, talking for hours. Claire told me her news, and for once, I could just listenno need to dash home for Gareth, no dread of walking in to find Brenda camped in the living room. Just me and some cake.
“You look lighter somehow,” said Claire. “Not thinnerjust, lighter.”
“I know what you mean.”
It was hard at first, not for missing Gareth, but because three years is three yearshabits, routines. In the mornings, I occasionally lay in bed a few seconds extra, reacquainting myself with being the only person in my bed. Sometimes I felt a pangnot for Gareth, but for the idea of what we should have been: dinners together, evenings on the sofa, shared plans. It had never been real, and yet I grieved for it.
Still, morning would come, Id brew a strong coffee, and the pang would dissolve quietly like a spoonful of sugar.
I signed up for knitting classesa long-held wish from my uni days. The teacher was Mrs. Newton, an old lady whose hands seemed to fly, and the group was a lively mixyoung mums, retirees, one lady nearly eighty. “My grandchildren will get hand-knitted socks for Christmas,” she winked, “not Tescos rubbish.” I felt comfortable there, in the circle of chat, needles, and the smell of tea.
I stood out more at work now, too. No more shrinking in meetings; I spoke up, shared ideas, and one day my manager, Mrs. Hall, remarked, “You seem changed lately, Alice. In a good way.” I nodded. “I feel that too.”
I started saving for a car, even signed up for driving lessons. My instructor, Mr. Baker, was patient and quiet, helping me lose my nerveswithin a few months, I was behind the wheel and almost confident.
Meanwhile, Gareth was back with Brenda.
Elaine kept me updated, ringing now and then. “Shes unpacked Gareths bags, tucked him in his old room, fusses over him like hes eight. Checks his pockets, irons his shirts, times his comings and goings. He told his cousin its worse than National Service.”
“I almost feel sorry for him,” I saidand I did.
“Hell have to learn to feel sorry for himself, love. Dont waste pityyouve your own life to live now.”
I thought about that often: pity, forgiveness. Not as Gareths ex, but as a woman who could see what damaged him. I could let it be, and let it go.
In December, Gareth rang, asking to collect the last of his things from the flat. “Of course,” I told him.
He turned up Sunday morning, looking gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, his coat crumpled. I let him in and stood aside.
“Hi,” he said, quietly.
“Hi.”
He loaded up the box of odds and ends. Before he went, he looked at me: “Alice, I”
“I dont want a long talk, Gareth.”
He rubbed his brow. “I only wanted to say I was wrong. About everything.”
“I know.”
“Can I have another chance? Im renting a room now”
“No,” I said, gentle but resolute. “No. Thats finished.”
He looked at me a long time, nodded as if accepting a truth.
“Shall I help you with the boxes?” he asked.
“Ill give you a hand.”
Together we carried the boxes down. Gareths cousin Tom waited by the car, and we loaded updone.
Gareth was about to get in when a voice rang out behind us:
“Wait!” Brenda marched up, draped in her winter coat, clutching her bag like it was a shield. “Wait, Gareth! I came too!”
She reached the steps and blocked my path.
“Youve ruined his life, you hear me? Ill go to court, Ill call the press, Ill”
“Brenda,” I said gently, “youre on about children and custody. Gareth and I dont have children.”
“So? Ill find something! Dont think youre smarter than me!”
“Im not.” I pulled out my phone and held it where she could see. Not threatening, just deliberate. “But perhaps you forgot the row two winters agoabout those debts Gareth supposedly owed me? You came over screaming, in front of our neighbour, Pauline. I have a record of what was said.”
This was only partly true. Some of it did happen; the rest I made up, holding Brendas gaze. She didnt know what I might have.
“And besides,” I went on, “Elaine told me some stories about your council days. About rather shady contracts. Im not sure of the details. But she is.”
It was a bluff, but Brenda blanched deeply.
“Elaine, she”
“She hasnt told me anything yet,” I said, slipping my phone away. “But if you want a fight, Ill bring it up. Is that fair?”
She looked at me, uncertain at last.
“One more thing,” I added. “Last week I bumped into your neighbour, Mrs. Blake. She mentioned its harder to get along with you these days. At Noreens birthday last month, said you fell out with half the guests. Nobody calls you any more.”
That was strictly the truthMrs. Blake did say it, with some concern.
Brenda didnt answer. For a moment, she looked more lost than fierce.
Gareth had been watching, silent, from beside the car. He saw his mother pale by a strangers front steps, saw mecalm, steady, with my hands in my coat pockets. Something in him seemed finally to slot quietly into place.
“Mum,” he said, “lets go.”
“Gareth, did you hear what she”
“Lets go, Mum.”
“So youre with her? Against me?”
“Im not against you. I just want to go home. My home.” He nodded to Tom, “Hang on a minute, mate.”
Tom nodded from the car.
Gareth came closer, looking me in the eye.
“Im sorry. For everything. The slippers everything.”
“I forgave you,” I said, “a long time ago.”
He nodded, went back to his mum.
“Im renting a room tomorrow, Mum. My own place. Not yours. Not Alices. Mine.”
“What? Where will you go? How”
“Mum, Im thirty-two. Its time.”
He helped her into the car. She was quieter now, less sure.
I watched them go, then went back inside.
Up the stairs to the fifth floor, through my own front door. Off with my boots. Into the kitchen. On with the kettle. Sunday noon, snow fresh outside. I sat at the kitchen table, listening for the boil.
I felt sadgenuinely, unashamedly so. Three years, not all of them bad. Plenty of warmth and good days, once. But it was over.
I brewed tea, picked up my knitting. I was making a sockjust the second of a pair. I made a mental note to pick up some warm gloves, because Claire and I were planning a weekend away in York in February. Claires idea: “Lets eat Yorkshire pudding, see the sights!” Why not?
My phone buzzedfrom an unknown number, then the name popped up. Nick, the neighbour from the allotments. Wed met last summer, when I went to water Grans blackcurrants and the tap broke. Hed noticed, offered to fix it, and wed chatted. Turned out quite nicea serious sort, big hands, a smile that only showed when he meant it.
“Hello,” hed written. “I pop down the allotments sometimes in winter to chop firewood. Mind if I check your greenhouse? The polythene might’ve torn under the snow.”
I smiled at his message.
“Thatd be lovelythank you.”
Pause.
“Will you be coming down yourself? Its nice weather, not too cold yet.”
“Maybe next weekend,” I replied.
“Great. If you do, Ill be around Saturday.”
I put my phone aside, picked up my needles again. The sock grew, stitch by stitch. Outside, snow was falling, hushed and clean. I thought of Nicks big hands, the way hed quietly explained how to fix the tap, standing straight, listeningnever talking over me. He was widowed, Id learned, his wife gone three years; his children grown and gone.
I didnt know what it meant. Nothing grand, nothing certainjust a neighbour who cared about my greenhouse. For now, that was more than enough.
On Saturday I went to the allotment. Thick coat, woolly hat, flask of tea. The train wasnt long; the carriage smelled faintly of cold and someones sandwich. Out the window, fields dusted white, hedgerows, garden sheds with smoking chimneys.
As I tramped up the snowy lane, I remembered doing this three years agomarried, but with an anxiety I couldnt yet name. Back then, I told myself, things will get better, you just have to keep trying. Now, I didnt need to tell myself anything at all.
The plot was the third from the road, ringed with tall pines. The greenhouse was intact, the sheeting taut. Along the fence, someone was splitting firewood.
“Hello,” said Nick, lowering his axe.
“Hello,” I replied.
No hat, in a battered padded jacket, cheeks pink from the cold; his smile built up slowly, the way it always did.
“You came after all.”
“I did.”
“Brought any tea?”
“I have.”
We sat on the porch of his shed, on a wooden bench with an old blanket. I poured tea into two cups. I looked out at Grans old patchsnowy beds, scraggy currants, the old weathercock spinning lazily.
“Been here long?” he asked.
“Only since summer. Dachas always been in the family, but its the first time, in years, Im actually coming here.”
“Its a good place in winter,” he said, simply.
“Yes. Peaceful.”
We sat in silencea companionable, easy silence.
“Everything all right with you?” he asked, with real concern.
I weighed my answer, honestly.
“Yes. I think it is.”
“Good,” he replied, content, not prying.
I watched the yellow weathercock, painted by Gran Edna twenty years ago. Paint peeling, still turning, all through the years. Steady.
Somewhere out there, Brenda returned to her flat alone; Gareth combed listings for bedsit rentals, finding starting over at thirty-two odd and daunting.
And I sat under the sky with a cup of tea and watched a world blanketed in new snow, listening to the quietbroken only by the crunch of Nicks boots in neighbouring paths, a trains far-off whistle, and the comfort of someone quietly warming his hands beside me.
