Im not handing over his flat
What have you come for?
Margaret stood, arms braced on the doorframe as if she were blocking entry to her own world, not simply a room.
Hello, Mrs. Chambers.
I asked you, why are you here?
Caroline hesitated, gazing down at the doormata blue one with a white border, a relic of one of her discount shop hunts from another era. It was still there, frayed at the edges but by no means outstaying its welcome.
Can I come in?
There was a pauselong enough that it nearly became an answer. Margaret stood still. Then, with a sigh, she turned and made for the kitchen. Clearly, this counted as an invitation.
Caroline slipped off her shoes and closed the door. The hallway smelt familiar, though not quite as she remembered. The whiff of stale tobacco, courtesy of Geoffs Barbour jacket that used to hang on the left-hand peg, was goneleft behind was only a bobbly dressing gown and a knitted bobble hat clinging for dear life to a hook.
In the kitchen, Margaret bustled about with the kettle. She had no intention of offering anythingshe simply needed the distraction.
I saw the light on, Caroline offered. Was just passing.
At ten at night?
The bus was delayed. I waited at the stop.
Margaret set the kettle and turned around, looking at Caroline as if she were an Amazon package she hadnt ordered, one just past the threshold of being sent back.
Well, take off your coat then, since youre in.
Caroline hung her coat on the left-hand peg, under the bobble hat. Then she reconsidered, moved it to the right.
They sat at the formica table, staring at each other. Margaret poured two mugs of tea without ceremony, slid the sugar bowl over without looking up. Movements made by muscle memory; guest or not, the English know their rituals, even when their minds rebel.
How are you? Caroline ventured.
Im all right. As usual. Margarets hands gripped her mughands with knuckles like bulging acorns and speckled with age, but holding on far too tightly for all right and as usual.
I wanted to talk, Caroline began.
About what?
A few things.
The paperwork, I suppose.
Caroline paused.
Not just that.
Margaret took a sip, putting her mug down with a click that was either nothing or everything.
Talk to the solicitor about paperwork. Ive said my bit.
I know.
Then why repeat yourself?
It wasnt a question. Caroline took a sip of teatoo hot, as everand set the mug back down.
Outside, the rain had that drizzly English persistencenot so much falling as suspending itself in the air. The streetlamps yellow light swung, flinging shadows over the sill.
Caroline knew this kitchen like the back of her hand. She knew the left drawer hoarded string and spent batteries, legacies of Geoff who insisted theres a bit of life in them yet. She knew the enamel bucket under the sink appeared every autumn, when the pipe inevitably leaked. She knew that behind the fridge was a slot where a 20p piece once fellshe, Geoff, and Alex spent half an hour with a ruler trying to get it out, laughing hard enough to set off the neighbours dog.
Alex. Three months.
I brought some homemade plum jam. Its in a bag by the door. Not sure if you noticed.
Margaret flicked her eyes toward the hall, then back to the table.
I saw.
You always liked plum jam.
Liked. Still do.
Margarets slip carried a familiar ache, as if time itself had lost its footing.
Caroline got it. She too sometimes referred to Alex in the present, realising midway through and falling silenta heavier pause than words.
I heard you were off to see Susan in Durham? Caroline ventured.
I considered it. Haven’t got round to it.
Whats stopping you?
Margaret shrugged vaguely. Things.
Caroline looked at her. No things, they both knew. Only the flat that loomed larger in her head when left alone, a lurking fear of leaving and coming back to emptiness, or perhaps the dread of being pitiedMargaret had never been one for other peoples sympathy.
Mrs. Chambers, Carolines tone softened. Im not here about the paperwork. Honestly.
Honestly, Margaret echoed. Hard to say if she believed it or just liked the ring of the word.
I know youre still angry.
Im not angry.
All right.
I just dont get it, said Margaret. And this time her tone had an edge, a dash of real feeling. Six months. Youve moved on, it seems. Im still here.
Caroline didnt say Youve misunderstood, or You dont see it right. She just sat, letting the silence say what she couldnt.
I saw you, you know, Margaret pressed on. Linda from next door saw you too. You were with someone in that café on Market Street back in August.
That was a colleague. We were working on a project.
A colleague. The echo again.
Yes.
Margaret stood and stared out into the rain.
Alex loved you, she said, back turned. Probably more than you realise.
I know.
Im not sure you do.
Caroline clutched her mug, shadows lapping around inside her like the light bobbing outside. She knew if she spoke now shed say the wrong thingso she didnt.
Im not saying youre a villain, Margaret continued, voice low, still staring out, But you’re young, forty-two, life ahead of you. Im sixty-eight. He was my only son.
I know.
And now hes gone. And you turn up here with jam.
Had it not rung so achingly true, the phrase would have stung. Caroline even felt a flicker of gratitude for Margarets unflinching accuracy.
I cant do better, Im afraid. I dont have the right words. I just had to come. Turning up empty-handed felt worse than jam.
Margaret turned, eyeing her closely.
Youve been crying? Before you came in?
A bit.
On the landing?
Yes.
Margarets face twitched, almost imperceptibly. She returned to the table.
Were both daft as brushes, she announced. Which, after all that, was delightfully transparent.
They sat in companionable silence. The rain thickened, properly drumming now.
Tell me, Caroline said, about the will. What upset you? In your own words, not the solicitors.
Margaret looked caught unawaresas if no one had ever asked her opinion before, only ever delivered the verdict.
Its the flat, she said. His flat. We bought it for himmy Colin and I. Eight years, we saved. Alex was young. We wanted him to have something of his own. He lived there. You lived thereIm not complaining. The flat was his. Now, on paper
On paper, it comes to me, said Caroline.
You weren’t married.
We lived together six years.
I know. Margarets hands folded together. But I think Hed have wanted me to have some say. Not to be left out completely.
He wrote the will, Mrs. Chambers. Himself.
I know. Another pause. Maybe he was right. I was furious at first. Less so now. Just dont understand.
What dont you understand?
Why youre holding on to it. You told Lindas daughter you might move out, that its too big for one. Why keep it?
Caroline shrugged. That was July. I was in a dark place. I dont know yet.
If you sell Margaret began.
Im not planning to sell.
But if you ever did, Margaret insisted, would you tell me first? Not the agentsme?
And there it was. Not square feet or pounds. Not solicitor stuff. Just thisbeing not-quite a stranger. The connection. The right to hear first. A thread to her son through this woman whod lived with him, drunk tea in his kitchen, knew him in a completely other way, and had her own unassailable version of him.
Ill tell you first, Caroline promised. I will.
Margaret nodded, once. She topped up her tea.
Have you eaten today? she asked.
Just breakfast.
Just breakfast. She stood up, opened the fridge, nothing more to be asked. I made soup. Vermicelli, not fancy. Want some?
Please.
As Margaret reheated the soup, Caroline watched her back, thinking how, in another life, things could have been less prickly. Maybe theyd have gone to the seaside together, exchanged Christmas cards, rung up just for a natter. Or maybe not. Maybe theyd have kept this careful distancetoo different to be truly close, not quite different enough to drift into indifference.
The soup was honest food: carrots, onions, soft pasta, a bit of parsley. The sort you make for yourself, not for company.
Its lovely, Caroline said.
Dont go overboard.
But it really is.
They ate in silence until Margaret remarked, eyes fixed on her bowl, He looked for you in hospital. Did you know?
Caroline stopped mid-spoon.
What?
When you went off in Aprilfor that conference. He went in for tests. I visited, and he kept asking when youd be back. I said I didnt know. Shes meant to come today. Maybe tomorrow, hed say. Then the day after.
Caroline set her spoon down.
I came back as soon as I found out.
I know. Margaret finally looked up. No blame. Just want you to know. That someone else knows.
It was honest. Carolines mouth went dry, which seems perverse after soup. She sipped cold tea.
He never said he was frightened, she replied. He acted calm. I thought it helped not fussing.
He hated being pitied.
Exactly. I thought I did the right thing.
Maybe you did. Maybe not. Whos to say now.
That whos to say settled between them, a quietly unwelcome guest.
Caroline helped clear upMargaret hadnt asked, just as she wouldnt have refused. They did the washing up together, like clockwork, the sort of domestic choreography that stills thoughts if only for a minute.
Margaret fetched a battered packet of digestives from the sideboardthe last of the lot, not quite intact, likely from Morrisons.
Linda says I ought to join a group. Watercolours, Thursday mornings, at the community centre. Pensioners with paints.
Are you going?
I dunno. Seems a bit daft at my age.
Whys it daft?
Sixty-eight and painting daisies
Thats precisely the age, said Caroline, for nothing serious.
Margaret regarded her with mock suspicion. You talk like a social worker.
You talk like youre a hundred.
Sixty-eight.
Thats not a hundred.
Margaret nibbled her biscuit thoughtfully. All my life, Ive been occupied. Colin, Alex, work, then there should have been grandkids. I dont do just for the sake of it. Watercolours are the ultimate just for the sake of it.
Perhaps thats good training.
Easy for you to say.
Not that easy, Caroline countered softly. Its hard for me too.
Margaret glanced at her.
You joining a group as well, then?
No. But Ive got my job, friends, the lotyet I flounder about at home thinking, Hed walk in now and say something off the wall, and everything would be fine.
Pause.
He had a knack for nonsense, Margaret observed.
He did.
Turn up, say, Mum, I thought chipmunks were made from chippings. I mean, why? And whats a chipping, really?
He once told me elephants in Mongolian are called zaanand laughed, saying it sounded like someone getting too big for their boots.
Margaret gave a laugha short, surprised thing, as if her own voice startled her.
Good grief, where did he get these ideas?
He read a lot.
He did. Since he was five, stuck to books. Couldnt drag him away from the table.
He showed me a photo once. Hes eight, at your allotment, sitting on the step with a storybook while every other kids charging about.
I remember that allotment. Margaret looked right through Carolinenot at her, not past her, but inwards, to the place you have to enter to recall things properly. Colin lived out there, shoveling and digging since dawn. Alex sat reading and Id think, what a strange child. But you get used to it.
What was he reading then?
Captain books, I think. Sea stories. Never saw the sea till he was sixteen. We took him. He just stood there, looking at it for ages. Colin asked, So, what do you think? He said, Its not like the books. Smaller, somehow.
Caroline smiled. Shed heard a very similar tale from Alex himselfbut of course the details had naturally evolved with the family.
He used to talk about Colin, she said. Missed him.
Colin Chambers, gone six years now, missed Alex by a matter of months and never met Caroline.
Yes, said Margaret simply. He did.
Do you miss him too?
Every day. Calmly said, as if shed settled with it. You can get used to it, but you still miss them. Not a contradiction.
Caroline nodded. No, it isnt.
They sat in quiet.
Tell me about him as a child, Caroline finally said. I hardly know beyond the bits he chose to share.
Margaret looked at her.
Why?
Id like towhile theres still someone who remembers.
It came out a tad raw, but Caroline didnt retract. In the end, truths are rarely smooth.
Margaret was silent for a minute, then fetched a cardboard box from a top shelfone of those you keep just in case but almost never open.
This is his. Margaret rummaged inside. I sorted through it in September. Some I gave away, kept this bit.
Inside: handwriting exercise books, tiny plastic dinosaurs, a few brightly-coloured scraps of paper. Caroline gingerly pulled out a Year 2 notebook. Bold, wonky, and eager handwriting. Alex Chambers, Year 2.
Oh blimey, she whispered.
Exactly, Margaret muttered. Thats what I say every time.
They leafed through the contents. Margaret recounted tales: how Alex tried to learn headstands at six and wore a comical lump on his head for a week; how he brought home a stray kitten Pete detesteduntil he didntand two years later, the cat simply left to move out and Alex declared it had a right to its own life. At fourteen, Alex announced hed be a programmer because programmers dont have to rush about and can work in their slippers.
He really did work in his slippers, Caroline noted.
So he kept his word.
It seems he did.
Midnight. Caroline checked her watch, suddenly guilty.
I need to go. Last bus soon.
Stay, Margaret saidhurriedly, as if surprised herself. Theres a sofa bed. Give me a tick.
Id hate to be a bother.
To whom?
Caroline looked at her. Margaret was very busily side-eyeing the mug rack. As if shed like to blame the suggestion on the wallpaper.
All right, said Caroline. Thank you.
While Margaret made up the bed, Caroline washed up, watching her reflection ripple in the kitchen window. Three months ago, shed never have imagined thisthis soup, these exercise books, this stay.
Loss does that. Some gaps can only be bridged by turning up, jam or no jam, and waiting for something real to uncrumple itself between people.
Who knows if it would last? Didnt matter much. Tonight something did shift.
The living room hadnt changed since shed stayed with Alex: the same old sofa bed, slanting slightly to the left, and the brown checked blanket Margaret always insisted was chocolate (it was more russet). Caroline lay down, tucked herself in, stared at fading glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
Books lined the shelvesmostly Colins, spines all faded and peeling. Great Expectations, Lucky Jim, some old history volumes. And one thin, out-of-place paperback. Caroline reached for it. Letters from Nowhere, by someone she didnt know. She opened the cover. In familiar, careful handwriting: For Mum. Read slowly. Love you. Alex.
She shut the book, placed it back, and lay staring at the shelf in the half-dark.
From the next room, she heard Margaret about the placethe click of the light, the inevitable creak of the floorboard by the wardrobe, the kitchen tap for a moment. Life, bustling onas it does, wilfully and impolitely.
In the morning, Margaret was making porridge. Caroline wandered in to sit down, and got a bowl of unsweetened, buttery oats for her troubleexactly the kind her own mother made before sugar entered the equation.
Margaret placed a glass of orange juice beside herunexpected.
When do you start work? she asked.
Ten. Plenty of time.
Youre near the tube, right?
Mm, third stop.
I remember. Alex used to say.
Caroline ate; the porridge tasted like memory, not quite entirely pleasant but undeniably grounding.
I want to show you something. Margaret produced an envelope. Found it cleaning up. From his days at those training campshe didnt do military service but his uni sent him off for a week. He wrote me this. Not for keeps, just for you to see he could say what he felt.
Caroline took the letterthree pages, written small and neat. She read slowly, as the book inscription instructed.
Alex wrote about mist over the field by the old barrack, about a poplar tree standing quietly in shifting fog, how everything else moved or ended but the tree just was. He missed home, missed his room, wanted his mums pasties.
A softer Alex, younger, like someone slowly setting.
May I copy it? Or take a picture? Caroline asked. Just for meits yours.
Margaret looked at her.
Take it. Keep it. I dont need it now.
Its yours, though.
Caroline. Margarets first use of her name throughout. I insist.
Caroline slipped the letter into her bag, oddly wordless; nothing needed to be said.
They washed up togethertheir rhythm a little more aligned this time. Almost like a team.
Do go to Susan in Durham, Caroline said. This flats not going anywhere. But Susans waiting, I bet.
She rang last week, Margaret admitted. Says Im sulking.
So go.
Well see.
Mrs. Chambers.
Well see, I said.
Caroline hung up the tea towel.
I could come again, she murmured. If you dont mind. Not often. Sometimes.
Margaret turned off the tap and gripped a clean towel, looking into the sink for a small eternity.
Yes, do, she said at last. Ill make soup.
Vermicelli?
Unless you want barley?
Vermicelli’s perfect.
Done, then.
Caroline pulled on her coat and made for the door. Margaret walked her out. At the door, Caroline paused.
About that book on the shelf. The one Alex gave you. Have you read it?
I started. Pause. Slow going.
He said read slowly.
Margaret hesitated, then smiled faintly. He knew me well enough, seems.
Caroline nodded. Opened the door.
Goodbye.
Goodbye, said Margaret.
On the stairs, Caroline heard the lock softly clickafter a pause, as if Margaret waited, listening, lingering.
The stairwell smelt faintly of damp and paint. The landing bulb flickered but soldiered on. Caroline walked down, gripping the banister as if it might keep her from floating away.
Grey October greeted herpeople scurrying to work, taxis giving up the ghost in the drizzle, pigeons patrolling with grave importance. Everything as it wasfamiliarly indifferent, and yet intimately connected to all that had happened in the night.
On her way to the Underground, Caroline mused: Reconciliation isnt a single moment, tidying everything up. Its more like thissoup, notebooks, a night on the sofa, a shared towel, a letter tucked away in a handbag.
She didnt know what came next. She and Margaretneither ex-mother-in-law nor mere acquaintances, not quite friends. Bound together by love for one gone, enough not to be strangers but not quite family.
She decided not to open Alexs letter until evening, at home, in proper light.
She boarded the tube. Three stops in, she texted Margaret: Home in one piece. Thanks for breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, at her office, as she shrugged off her coat, the reply pinged:
Good. I put your jam in the cupboard.
Caroline smiled, pocketed her phone, and rejoined lifes lowly hurly-burlysomeone laughing pointlessly in the corridor, a slice of pale sky at the window. Maybe the weather would clear before dusk. Maybe not. Octoberwily, hard to pin down.
She headed for the staff meeting.
On Friday evening, three days later, Margaret rang as Caroline was wrestling with the microwave.
Im going up to Susans, Margaret said, no hello. Saturday morning.
All right, said Caroline.
For ten days.
All right.
A pause.
You mind I rang?
No. Im glad.
Right then. Susan sends her love.
Give mine back.
I will. Caroline
Yes?
That book on the shelf. In the spare room. Take it, next time. Its hislet him have his way.
Caroline twirled her spoon, dinner threatening to boil over.
All right, she said. Ill take it.
Right. Thats that. Off to finish packing.
Safe journey.
Cheers.
They let the silence settle, comfortable as an old pair of slippers.
Goodbye, Caroline, Margaret said.
Goodbye.
Caroline turned down the heat and watched the streetlights bloom in the windows reflection.
Somewhere in Durham, Susan was getting the guest room ready. Some book with read slowly, love you sat on a shelf in a room Caroline now counted twice. Somewhere in a modest kitchen cupboard was a jar of Carolines plum jam.
Perhaps this is whats left over. Not what the solicitor files in triplicate, not money, not deeds. Thisjam in someone elses kitchen, a letter folded in an envelope, some phrase blurted out, hitting the mark.
Caroline stirred her soup, the corners of her mouth twitching at last.
