Reflections of Strength
Simon, what on earth are you doing? I barely recognised my own voice thin, high, wavering.
He didnt turn, not right away. Just stood at the bar, his arm resting on a tall womans waist. She was short-haired, wore a black leather jacket. She whispered something in his ear, and Simon smiled. Smiled the way he hadnt smiled at me in years.
Simon! I said, louder.
He finally turned. His face flickered with surprise, then annoyance. As if Id interrupted something terribly important.
Mary, where did you come from?
Where did I come from? You said, Meet me at half-seven. I picked up your suit from the tailor. I thought wed
The woman at his side stepped away. Not frightened, just curious. She ran her gaze up and down me, slow and measured. Suddenly I felt acutely aware of my battered old sheepskin coat, my frayed bag, the inch of grey in my roots that I kept meaning to dye.
Victoria, this is my… wife, Simon said, apologetically, almost. Mary, could we not do this here?
Not here? I didnt even know my own voice. Where, then? You come home at two a.m., leave before Im up, never answer your phone
Victoria gave a half-smile not malicious, more like she understood. That was worse than contempt.
Simon, maybe you two should have a chat? she said quietly. Ill wait.
No, stay. Simon took her hand, on purpose, right in front of me. Mary, I thought you understood. I told you last Thursday. Victoria and I
You were drunk. I didnt I thought it was just talk
I was stone cold sober. I meant every word.
I remembered that evening. He came home late. I was warming up dinner. He muttered something about feeling tired, that life was getting away from him, that he wanted something I hadnt really listened. Thought it was just another of his midlife rants. Men go through that. You wait them out.
Twenty eight years, Simon. Twenty-eight.
Exactly, he sighed. Thats why I need to start living differently.
Victoria slipped her hand onto his shoulder. She did it with complete possession, sure and unashamed. I stared at her slim wrist, the leather bracelet, short unpolished nails. Something inside me twisted over.
Go home, Mary, Simon said, tired. Tomorrow well talk properly.
No.
I surprised myself. I hadnt expected to say it, or to step forward. Or to push Victoria awkward, woman against woman.
Who even are you? You tart!
It all happened fast. Victoria caught my arm, spun me, pressed me against the bar. Not painful, just firm. Very firm. I tried to pull away, but my arm stayed pinned, shoulder throbbing.
Let her go, Simon said quietly.
Victoria released me. I backed off, rubbing my wrist. The whole bar was staring. Barman, a couple of blokes at the back, the waitress with her tray. All watching me the pathetic woman in the ancient sheepskin who couldnt even throw a decent punch.
Sorry, Victoria said, flatly. Just a reflex. Didnt mean to hurt you.
I turned and walked out, hurried, stumbling. My throat burned with tears, but I didnt cry. Not in front of them. It was only outside, in the sharp December air, once the door closed behind me, that I pressed myself against a wall and let the tears fall.
Snow was drifting down in huge, wet flakes. Christmas lights twinkled in the pub window. People were passing by, wrapped up in scarves. Nobody looked twice at a crying woman. Not in London.
I took my time getting home. Tube, then the bus, then across the estates on foot. The flat was dark. I didnt bother with lights. Undressed in the hallway and fell into bed, shoes and all.
Simon didnt come the next day. Or the day after. He rang three days later, brief and brisk. Said hed come at the weekend for his bits, said the flat was mine, said hed keep sending money. Like he was discussing some company contract.
I just listened and nodded, though he couldnt see.
A week crawled by. Then another.
My friend Sarah rang every day.
Mary, thats enough now. Come out for a walk with me.
I dont feel like it.
Have you even got anything to eat in?
Im eating.
Lie. I hardly touched food. Tea with a biscuit, sometimes a tin of soup. My stomach knotted at the thought of more.
I spent hours scrolling social media. Found Victorias profile. Gym shots, on mountains, on a motorbike. Captions short, bold. Workout. Weekend away. New challenge. In one, she stood in a boxing ring, gloves on. Everyone in her comments cheering her on.
I looked through everything, all the way back five years, searching for a flaw, some weakness to cling to. There was nothing.
One evening, I stumbled over a post about her work. She was a self-defence and MMA coach for women. I found a group photo standing next to a banner: Phoenix Martial Arts Centre. Womens Beginner Group.
I looked for a long time. Put the phone down and caught my reflection in the mirror across the room.
Puffy face, dull, greying hair, dark circles. Fifty-eight. A body that existed only to fetch shopping, do the washing up, iron shirts.
When did I last even think about my body? Not whether my back hurt or shoes pinched or if I should see a doctor. Just thought about it. How it moved, felt alive.
I couldnt remember.
Victoria hadnt beaten me because she was younger or prettier. Shed beaten me because she was physically stronger. She stopped my hand like it was nothing.
Reflex, shed said.
A reflex a body thats been trained, knows how to defend itself, isnt afraid.
I got up. Looked out at the estate from my window. A boy zipped round on a scooter, in spite of the cold, his mum shouting down from the block.
Life went on.
The Mary who waited for Simon with the dinner, who dreamt of growing old together, of grandkids one day, of travelling after retirement that Mary had ended in that bar. It all dissolved in a blink.
What now?
I didnt know. But I did know I couldnt just lie in bed anymore.
Next morning, I got up early for the first time in weeks. Made scrambled eggs, drank coffee. Sat down at the computer.
“Sports classes for beginners London.”
The list was endless. Yoga, Pilates, aqua aerobics, dance. All too gentle. I wanted something else. Something to stop me being a victim.
I typed: “Women’s self-defence London.”
An hour later I had a shortlist of five gyms in South London. One was just a twenty-minute walk. Simply called: Vitality.
The description read: Fitness, boxing, functional training. Beginner groups. Any age welcome.
Any age. That would do.
I stared at my phone, then dialled the number.
Vitality Sports Club, how can I help? said a cheery womans voice.
Hello, I wanted to ask about beginner sessions.
Of course! Are you interested in fitness, boxing, stretching?
Boxing, I said surprising myself.
Perfect. Womens group, Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven, coachs name is Irene. Come along for a taster your firsts on the house.
Are the people are they all young?
The woman paused.
Mixed. There are ladies in their forties, fifties. Dont worry. Irene isnt some teenage gym bunny she gets it.
Thank you. Ill come Thursday.
When I put the phone down, my hands were shaking. Fear, or nerves, or maybe excitement. I couldnt tell.
Simon came that Saturday to collect his things. He was alone. Packed his suits, books, paperwork into boxes in silence. I stood by the window, looking into the street, not turning around.
Ill keep sending money, he said, closing the last box. If you need anything else, call.
I wont.
Mary
Youd better go.
He left. The front door closed softly, without fuss. I felt the flat stretch out and empty around me.
Good or bad, I couldnt say.
That Thursday night, I found my old tracksuit at the back of the wardrobe, a baggy tee, cheap trainers. Took a bottle of water. Left the house half an hour early just in case.
Vitality was in a half-basement of an old brick building. Nothing fancy about the sign outside. Inside smelled of sweat and mats. At the desk was a woman in her thirties, tapping at a tablet.
Evening. Boxing?
Yes, I rang yesterday. Mary.
Go on through changing rooms down there. Irene will be along soon.
Three women changing inside. Two young, one older. Nobody spoke. I stretched my tee over my head, suddenly self-conscious and lost. What was I even doing here?
First time? the older one asked, lacing her trainers.
Yes.
Dont worry. Irene takes it steady. No army stuff.
I nodded.
The hall had maybe ten women of all kinds, standing by punch bags and pads. Some warmed up, some were stretching.
Coach Irene turned up after a few minutes. Short, sturdy, cropped hair and a scar over an eyebrow. At least fifty.
Hi, all. Any new faces?
I raised my hand.
Name?
Mary.
Irene. Good. Mary, just watch to start with, then join in when youre ready. Warm up, ladies.
The warm-up was torture. My body refused to cooperate. Couldnt lift my arms, tangled my feet, missed the punch bag three times before Irene stepped in.
Its normal, she said kindly. Everyone starts here. Try again.
I tried. My fist nudged the bag barely, but it made contact.
Exactly. Again.
I hit it again. And again. Slowly, then a bit less slowly. Sweat dripping down my back, heart hammering, limbs trembling.
Thats good. Rest now.
Exhausted, I sagged down on a bench, heart booming in my ears. My whole body shook. But inside, something flickered. Anger? Or energy?
Life.
After, getting home was an epic in itself. My muscles ached. Under the shower, hot water running, I stared at my hands red knuckles, a blooming bruise on one wrist from that night in the bar.
It was almost healed.
Will you come back? Irene asked, later, as we were both changing.
Yes, I said. I will.
And I did. Tuesday next. Then Thursday. And every week, for two months.
Slowly, my body changed. The aches faded. My step grew lighter. One day, I noticed I walked up to the fifth floor without stopping. Saw my stomach was flatter, arms firmer.
But more than anything, I was changing inside.
I stopped thinking about Simon. Or at least, I thought of him calmly, almost kindly just as someone who once belonged to my life. Who was now gone, like winter leaving or a film ending.
Sarah noticed.
Youve lost weight, she told me when we met for tea. But you look different.
Ive joined a gym.
You? She blinked. You always said you hate gyms!
I said a lot of things.
We smiled, awkward a moment. Sarah idly stirred her tea.
Have you heard from Simon?
No.
Word is hes living with that Victoria now.
I know.
And you dont care?
I paused. Did I? Pain lingered, yes. Nights sometimes I woke up disoriented by the loneliness. But it no longer cut to the bone. Like a bruise, fading.
I care. But Im all right.
Spring crept in quietly. The snow disappeared in days, the city filled with sunlight. I walked to sessions instead of the bus. Forty minutes each way. Irene nodded approval.
Walkings good. Heart without hurting the knees.
In March, after class, Irene called me over.
Youre improving. Fancy a bit of sparring?
Erwhat?
Just light. Padded. Real practice.
I was terrified, but I nodded.
My first round was against Olivia, the older woman from the group. Fifty-two and two years boxing. Accurate and calm, not harsh.
I took a few hits to the body, one to the shoulder. Defended badly at first, everything stiff with fear. But then something clicked. I saw Olivias arm move, blocked, and even tried hitting back. Landed one clean.
Olivia laughed. Well done!
After, sitting undoing my helmet, my hands shook not from fear but from delight. Id done it.
That was good, said Irene, sitting beside me. Really good.
I was scared.
Everyone is. You didnt stop, though.
I looked at her.
Why did you become a coach, Irene?
She shrugged. Long story short? My husband hit me. For years. I learned to hit back and walked out. Never wanted other women to wait as long as I did.
I kept quiet.
You, too? A story?
Not the same. My husband just left.
That hurts, too.
It does, I said honestly. But its better now.
Irene nodded, stood, squeezed my shoulder.
It gets better. Slowly, but it does.
In April, for the first time in over half a year, I went to the hairdressers. Got my hair cut and coloured. Bought myself a new jacket, jeans, and trainers. Nothing special but new. Mine.
Simons payments arrived each month, as promised. I just saved them. Didnt know for what.
One evening, after training, I popped into the little shopping centre down the road for a water bottle. Up the escalator, and there she was.
Victoria. Alone, by the window in a sports shop, looking at jackets. She looked just the same. Confident. At ease.
I froze, heart plummeting as old fear swept in, old humiliation. I wanted to turn back.
But I didnt.
I walked over. Stopped a metre off.
She looked up, recognised me. Tensed.
Mary?
Hello.
We stood awkwardly. She broke eye contact first, glancing at the window, then back at me.
How are you? Her voice was soft.
All right.
You She hesitated. You look different. Slimmer.
I joined a boxing gym.
Victoria nodded.
Thats good.
The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. I looked at her months ago, she had been my enemy, the root of all pain. Now I saw just a tired woman, with new lines at her mouth and dark under her eyes.
Hows Simon? I asked.
Victoria actually smirked.
Simon? We split up a fortnight ago.
What?
Didnt work out. He wanted me to be She gave a small wave. Never mind. It didnt work.
I said nothing. Inside, there was nothing no pleasure, no sense of victory. Just emptiness.
Im sorry, she said, unexpectedly. For that night, for everything.
You dont need to apologise.
No, I do. I didnt I didnt mean to hurt you. It just felt good, at first. Then it wasnt.
I studied her.
Youre a self-defence coach, arent you?
Victoria raised her eyebrows. Yes how did you?
I looked you up online. Afterwards.
Why?
Because I wanted to know who you were. And I realised, in the end, it wasnt about you. It was me. I didnt lose my husband to you I lost him to myself, years ago.
She stared at me, and then nodded.
Youre wise. Wiser than me.
No. Just older.
We shared a brief, awkward smile.
Well, said Victoria. I should go. Take care, Mary.
And you.
She headed for the escalator. I watched her go, then turned the other way.
It was warm outside. May in all its glory. Leaves on the trees, children yelling in the playgrounds. I walked slowly through the streets.
My phone buzzed. Sarah.
How are you? Not seen you in ages. Shall we catch up?
I typed: Cant tonight. Gym. Tomorrow?
Deal!
I pocketed the phone. Turned homewards. Looked up at the windows of my flat on the fifth floor. Light was blazing in the kitchen Id forgotten to turn it off.
Simon used to nag: Mary, youve left the light on again! I didnt care now. It was my flat, my light, my bills.
My life.
By the bench near the door, my neighbour, old Mr. Watson, was feeding the pigeons.
Evening, Mary.
Good evening, Mr. Watson.
Youre late back.
Gym class.
Good for you. At your age, I just sat in the chair. Youre doing grand.
I smiled.
I try.
Climbed to the top floor without stopping. Stripped off, showered, made tea. Sat at the kitchen window, looking out at the city and the far-off lights.
Once upon a time, I thought Id die if Simon left. That Id never cope with loneliness.
I didnt die.
I coped.
Life went on. Different. Difficult. But mine.
The phone buzzed again. Unknown number. I frowned, answered.
Hello?
Mary Brown? This is Irene, from the gym.
Oh hello.
Listen Ive got an offer. I need someone to help out with my morning groups. Not a main trainer, not yet. Just to keep an eye on form, help new starters. Bit of pay, but mostly experience. Interested?
I went quiet. Me, help others? I hardly knew enough myself.
Im not sure I could
You could. Irenes voice was certain. You know what its like starting out. You know the fear, the mistakes. Beginners need that not some perfect pro, someone who understands. Think about it?
I will.
Dont take too long. Group starts in two weeks.
I hung up, looked at my hands. They were strong, tougher than a year ago. With calluses now on the knuckles.
Hands that could defend themselves.
Maybe teach others to do the same.
Next training, I went to Irene after class.
Ill do it. Happy to try.
She smiled.
Brilliant. See you Monday.
My first morning group, five women two young, one middle-aged, two older. One of the pensioners looked particularly nervous. Shrunk in her old tracksuit, stood in the corner.
I went to her, as Irene started the others off.
Hello. Im Mary, I help Irene.
Jean, she muttered, eyes down.
First time?
Yes. My daughter talked me into it. Says I need to get out more, move more, or Ill shrivel up completely.
I get it. My friend did the same to me. Its hard, isnt it?
Very. Im sure Ill make a fool of myself.
I looked at her saw my own reflection, months back.
No ones here to laugh, I promised. Weve all been where you are. We got through it. So will you.
She looked up, hope flickering.
Really?
Really.
Afterwards, as I was packing mats away, Jean came up.
Thank you for not making me feel silly.
My pleasure.
You seem so calm, so confident. Have you always done boxing?
I laughed.
No. I started six months ago. Came in trembling, just like you.
Jeans eyes widened.
Really? Why did you?
I paused. Why? My marriage blew apart, sure but really, Id lost myself long before that. Long before Simon left.
I lost myself, I admitted. Decided I wanted to try and find me again.
And did you?
I glanced outside at the sun and crowds.
Im getting there. Slowly.
Jean nodded.
I hope I can, too.
You can. Just dont give up.
That evening, sorting old photos, I found my wedding album. Young faces, white dress, happy smiles. Simon by my side, hand in mine. I looked at it for a long time. Not with pain, not nostalgia just calmly. As if watching a life not quite my own.
That Mary was gone. And so was that Simon.
Just me, now. Fifty-eight, single, tired. Strong.
My phone rang. Simon.
I blinked at the number. He hadnt called in four months. Just sent the transfers.
Hello?
Hi. Mary you all right?
Im fine. Is something wrong?
No, just wanted to talk. Feels like ages. I keep wondering Should we meet up? Just talk?
About what?
Us, maybe. I think maybe we rushed things
I listened, feeling remote, as if his words were a refrain from some old, beloved song I couldnt love anymore.
I dont want to, I said quietly.
Why not? Mary, I made a mistake. Victoria… it didnt work out. I keep thinking about us. Maybe we could start again?
Once, Id have cried, or hoped, or raged. Now there was just exhaustion.
No, Simon. I cant.
Why not?
Because Im not the same. I dont want to go back.
But we were happy
Maybe you were. I honestly dont know if I was. I just existed. Ran your life.
Mary, thats not fair
Maybe not. But its true. For me, anyway.
He paused, then asked softly, Do you hate me?
No. Not at all. But I dont love you anymore. I almost smiled. You were my life. That life is finished.
So this is it?
It is.
I hung up, shutting the old album in a cupboard. Let it be a memory, not an anchor.
In June, I went to our old cottage near the Chilterns. Simon told me it was mine now, he didnt want it. I hadnt been in years too many memories. Barbecues, fires under the stars.
But I went.
It was overgrown, paint peeling, air musty. I threw the windows wide, scrubbed, mowed, fixed the gate, repaired the porch. By night my body ached a good ache, alive.
Second night, I sat on the step with a cup of tea. Sun dipping behind the woods, birds in the hedges, a dog barking far off.
Quiet. Lonely.
Not frightening.
A voice called over the fence.
Blimey, didnt know you were out.
I turned. Mr. Peters, the old chap in the cottage next door.
Hello, Mr. Peters.
Havent seen you in a while. On your own?
Yes.
Wheres Simon?
Were divorced.
He shook his head. You young ones, cant stick at anything these days.
Sometimes you cant, I said.
He nodded, looking at me long and hard. Its not easy alone, but theres worse things. Ive been by myself since Marjorie went fifteen years now. Gets easier.
You get used to it?
He smiled crookedly. Not really. Just find new ways. Theres freedom in it, you know. No ones business but yours. Happiness comes in quiet clothes, sometimes.
I thought about that.
I suppose youre right.
He left me, and I drank my tea, went to bed early. Slept without dreams for the first time in months.
Next day, the sun beamed down. Cold water from the well, stretches on the grass, breakfast in the porch.
I wandered the woods, picking wild strawberries, thinking back. Six months back Id gone from despair, to acceptance, to strength. The real story hadnt been about Simon, not really. About me, forgetting who I once was, letting myself vanish behind someone else.
I was brave, once. I wanted to learn, to travel, to work. Then I met Simon, fell in love, married him. Wouldve had children, maybe, but it never happened. I ended up just trying to be a good wife.
A good wife, but lost to myself.
So, now what? I stopped in a sunlit glade, digging out my phone. Sarahs texts from last year: Mary, youre a star. Dont talk nonsense! Id believed it, back then. But now I knew: it wasnt enough to be good for somebody else. Needed to be good for myself.
A message from Irene:
Hows the break? Jeans missing your encouragement. Coming back soon?
I smiled. Replied: Its great here. Ill be back in a couple of days miss the gym.
I set off back.
A fortnight after returning, I ran into Victoria again, this time at the supermarket. She was queuing ahead of me at the till. Looked round and recognised me.
We meet again!
So it seems.
We walked outside together.
How are things? she asked.
All right. You?
Fine. Working, coaching Life.
I nodded.
Simon rang me, I said. Last month. Wanting to get back together.
Victoria grimaced.
Seriously? What did you say?
I said no.
Good. Hes nice enough, but weak, really. Needs someone to prop him up. You were, then I was now, well. Not my job any more.
No. Mine neither.
She checked the time. Anyway, must dash. Session soon.
She took a step, and then turned back. Mary I mean it. Well done. Most women wouldnt have coped so well.
Thank you.
No, really. You were shattered, back then. Now look at you. Strong.
I took her in.
Back then I hated you.
I know.
But now Im grateful.
She blinked.
Why?
Because you broke my illusion. If it hadnt been you itd have been someone but Id have gone on and on, sleepwalking, for ever.
She gave a sad, real smile. Glad I did some good, then, if by accident.
You were just living. So was I. Im just starting to live my life now.
She nodded, and we parted.
Autumn came softly. Leaves yellowed, days grew short. I kept going to sessions, helping Irene with the new groups. Jean kept coming, grew steadier, slimmer, happier.
You saved me, she said once.
No, I replied. You did that yourself. I was just nearby.
By October, Irene suggested a coaching course.
Youre brilliant. People trust you. Why not make it official?
I hesitated. It cost money and took time. But I agreed.
The course was hard. Theory, practice, exams. Still, I managed.
In January, a full year after that bar, I got my Level 2 Boxing and Fitness Coaching certificate. Irene hugged me.
Im so proud!
I smiled, holding the certificate in both hands, staring at my own name, all neat and bold:
Mary Brown, Coach.
A year ago, I was nothing. Dumped wife. Fading, afraid.
Now I was a coach. Helping women find something in themselves, as Id found it in me.
My phone rang. Mary, are you home? Sarahs voice.
I am.
Im coming over. Were celebrating!
Celebrating what?
Your new job! Irene just told me. Im so proud!
She arrived with cake and fizz. We talked, laughed.
Sometimes I hardly recognise you, Sarah said, serious. You’re so whole.
I am, I said.
She smiled. And Simon, have you forgotten him?
No. But Ive let go. Its not the same.
You miss him?
Sometimes. Not him, really just how life was. My youth, maybe. But I dont want to go back anymore.
Good. She raised her glass. To your new life.
To a new life.
We drank. I looked out at winter, snow drifting, the lights beyond.
Simon was somewhere out there, living his own story. Victoria too.
But here was me fifty-nine, single, free. Strong.
And it was enough.
A week later, after the morning session, I sat in the park nearby, coffee from my flask. Watching joggers, dog walkers, kids with sledges.
An elderly woman sat beside me, seventy or so, coat buttoned up, walking stick.
Mind if I?
Not at all.
We sat in silence. After a while, she sighed.
Worn myself out. Still, got to get home somehow.
Rest up.
She peered at me. You local?
Yes.
Im here for the grandkids. Daughters working, so I do the lot. Hard graft at my age, but what choice?
Mine left me too, I admitted. Last year.
She nodded, knowing. Men, eh? My Reg died thirty years back. Thought Id never manage. But you do, dont you? Just get on.
I agreed. It gets better, doesnt it?
Oh, it does. Just dont lie down and give up. Thats all. Life carries on. You just have to join in.
I smiled.
Wise words.
Not wise. True. She pushed herself up. Granddaughters waiting. Good luck to you, love.
And to you.
She hobbled away. I sat sipping, then set off home.
Irene rang as I was leaving the park.
Mary, quick favour. Theres a new lady called, wants to join but says shes fifty-five and terrified. I told her youd ring. Can you?
Course, I said, and copied the number, dialling.
Hello? came a timid voice.
Hi, Im Mary, Irene said you wanted to ask about sessions?
I Im scared. Ive never done anything sporty. And at my age
How old are you?
Fifty-five.
Im fifty-nine. I started just a year ago, from nothing.
A pause.
Really?
Really. Im telling you, it was the best thing I ever did. Not just for my health. For me. I found myself again.
You?
Yes. I hope youll find yourself, too. Join us. Just try. If you dont like it, stop. But try.
Im frightened.
Everyone is. I was. But I didnt regret it.
Ill come Thursday, then.
Ill be here. See you then.
I hung up, smiling, and went home.
Cooked lunch, settled at the window to read. Night came. I got up and stood in front of my mirror.
Same old face, older, lines and grey. But my eyes were alive again.
A year ago, Id thought Id reached the end. Thought life was over.
But life wasnt over. It was just becoming something new harder, yes, lonelier, but mine.
And that was not the end.
It was the beginning.
Well done, Mary, I said quietly to my reflection.
And my reflection smiled back.
