We’re Not Going Again
Claire, have you printed the tickets? asked Andrew, eyes locked on his phone.
I have. Found our passports, bought a new swimsuit, and dropped Emily off at Mums for the fortnight. All sorted, I replied.
Well done.
Andrew.
What?
Look at me.
He glanced up. I stood in the kitchen, wearing a fresh sundress bought specially for our holidaythree days left before we were due to leave. Just to feel like it had begun, that we really were going.
You look lovely, he said, then turned back to his phone.
I wasnt offended. I just thought: this is how we live now. Side by side, yet each in our own space. Id planned this holidayten days in Cornwallto coax us out of our corners, to meet each other halfway somewhere sunny. Somewhere without endless chores, parent-teacher meetings, or his mother ringing every weekend.
His mother. Margaret Harris, aged sixty-eight, lived alone in a two-bedroom flat on Maple Road, just ten minutes from us. Widowed twelve years, Andrews her only child.
Id known her nine years. In that time Id learnt a few things. Her favourite phrase, I dont like to interfere, really meant the opposite. Do as you see fit meant do as I say. Her quietness on the phone could weigh heavier than any words.
But that evening, in my new dress with our printed tickets, I wasnt thinking about Margaret. I was daydreaming about the sea. About walking down the promenade hand in hand with Andrew, maybe remembering why wed gotten married.
The phone rang at exactly ten that night.
Andy, love, came her voiceso quiet and fragile, I heard it across the kitchen. My blood pressures up. One-sixty over one hundred. Feeling quite dizzy.
Andrew was up in a second; I saw his face change.
Mum, Ill come round.
No, love, you mustnt. Ill manage.
Mum, Im on my way.
He was already searching for his keys. I wanted to shout, Not now, please. It was just her blood pressurealways her blood pressure. She had her pills and knew what to do.
Andrew I started.
Claire, you heard her. Its high this time.
Shes got her own blood pressure monitor. She knows when to ring the surgery. Did she call for an ambulance?
No point, Ill pop over.
Its nearly ten.
So?
I gave up. He went. Came back at one in the morning, collapsed into bed and fell asleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling. My sundress hung over the chair, fancy and forgotten.
Three days to go.
Next day, Margaret called again, this time at lunch.
Claire, sorry to botherbut would you tell Andrew, I had a fall last night. Just wanted some water and toppled over. Nothing serious, just a sore knee.
Did you ring the GP?
Oh, what for? Just a bruise.
Mrs Harris, you really should get it checked. There could be a crack.
Oh, Claire. As if I could get out for an x-ray.
I phoned Andrew at work and told him. He came home early, packed a bag and said hed take her to A&E.
Andrew, we fly in three days.
I know.
She fell last night but only told you now. Can it not wait?
Shes on her own.
Shes been on her own twelve years.
He looked at me as if Id said something shameful. That same old pang of guilt prickled, the one that came when I dared say what I really felt about Margaret.
Nothing was foundno breaks, no fractures. Just a bruise.
That evening I unpacked the suitcase, neatly folding everything, as if this ritual would keep the holiday together. Swimsuit. Factor fifty sun creamfor my pale skin. Light dress. A book Id been putting off for months.
Packing already? Andrew asked, poking his head in.
We leave the day after tomorrow.
Yeah. He hesitated. Mum looked off colour today.
Andrew.
What?
Nothing.
I zipped the suitcase and left it by the door.
The final call came the day before we were due to leave. I was in Sainsburys buying snacks for the trip when Andrew texted: Claire, Mums called the ambulance. Temp and blood pressure this time. Im heading over now.
I stared at the message among shelves of pickled onions and yoghurts, rereading it five times, then replied: Going home.
I sat in the kitchen and waited. Andrew got back late. He sat opposite me for ages.
Claire, well need to postpone the holiday.
No.
He looked up.
Shes in hospital.
But shes being discharged soon?
No, but
Andrew, theyre looking after her. There are nurses, doctors, everything she needs. What can you do by sitting at her bedside?
Shes frightened to be alone.
Shes always frightened alone! I could feel my voice rising, but couldnt stop. Every time we make planssuddenly shes ill! Remember New Year three years ago? Wanted to visit my parents, boomher heart acts up. Remember my birthday in May? Reserved a table, she calls an hour beforecant breathe. Andrew, Im exhausted.
Shes my mother.
I know. Im not asking you to abandon her. Im asking to go on the holiday weve planned for eight months.
He said nothing.
Well lose our money, I whispered. Emilys already at Mums.
Ill get a refund. Well book again later.
Andrew.
Claire, I cant just leave her.
I went to bed, left the suitcase by the door. It looked silly and prepared.
The next morning, Andrew went to the hospital. I rang the airline, then the hotel, then my mum to tell her Emily would be staying longer.
Whats happened? Mum asked.
Andrews mum.
I see, she said, and asked nothing more.
I lived alone for three days, cooked, cleaned, went to work, came back to an empty house. Andrew came home late, sometimes stayed overnight at his mums. We hardly spoke. Id ask about Margarethed reply better or alright. Id say good and go to bed.
On the fourth day, I snapped.
He arrived at half past ten, took off his coat, and before he could say a word I told him:
Andrew. Shes putting it on.
He froze. What?
Ive seen it for ages. Every time we have plans, this happens. Dont you remember how often?
Claire, shes in hospital with high blood pressure.
Everyone gets that. Shes been there a weektheyd have discharged her if it was urgent.
Theyre keeping her to observe.
Theyre keeping her because she wont leave while youre there.
He stared at me, and I didnt see anger in his eyes, but something worsedisappointment.
Youre talking about someone whos ill.
Im talking about someone who knows exactly what shes doing.
How could you?
Im telling you the truth.
Thats not truth. Thats jealousy.
Jealousy?
Youre jealous of my mother. You always have been. She knows, so its always been awkward.
I stared at him for a long time. Then I said, Maybe youre right, and left for the bedroom.
But I knew he wasnt.
I met Margaret within two months of dating Andrew. Shed opened the door, appraised me from head to toe and said, Come on in. Lets have a look. Not hello, not pleased to meet you. Just lets see.
Over tea she grilled me like a detective. Where were my parents, where did I work, how much did I earn, did I own a flat. I stayed calmI thought thats what mums did.
As we left, she said to Andrew, loud enough for me to hear, Bit scrawny. Troubled eyes.
Hed laughed. So had I. Then, it seemed funny.
We married after a year and a half. Small wedding, both wanting to avoid a fuss. Margaret sat at the table with the look of a woman dragged against her will. During the toast she stood and said, Andy, youre all Ive got. Dont forget that, and sat down.
I never forgot.
Emily was born two years later. Margaret arrived with flowers, looked at her new granddaughter, and said, Doesnt look like Andy. All you. Not a compliment.
But she was a good grandmother. She read stories, took her to the park. Emily adored her. Called her Gran Meg and ran to her happily.
The problem wasnt how she treated Emily. The problem was me. Or, rather, how she barely treated meas if I were invisible. There was Andrew, there was Emily, there was Margaret. I was just the background, the household help.
Andy, youve lost weightClaire not feeding you? Andy, you look tiredlong hours, never get a rest at home? Andy, remember our holidays to Devon? Now that was a trip. Not these overseas places Id long since stopped reacting. Most slid off, but sometimes, one remark snaggeda sharp little hook.
After Andrew called me jealous, I wondered for days. Was he right? Maybe I was oversensitive. Maybe she was just a lonely elderly woman, and what I saw as manipulation was really fear of losing her son.
I tried putting myself in her placesixty-eight, alone, widow. One child, off with his own life. Must be hard. Loneliness must press you to pull people back however you can.
But then I’d remember those Cornwall tickets, eight months waiting, Emily at Mums, and that ten oclock phone call three days before departure.
No. It was more than fear. It was something else.
Margaret was discharged after ten days. Andrew brought her home, sorted her tablets, stayed for lunch, then returned.
All sorted, he said.
Glad to hear it, I replied.
Claire.
Yes?
Youre angry.
No.
You are. I can see it.
Im not angry. Im tired of pretending its all fine.
Whats not fine?
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, tall, a little slumped, looking at me with those earnest eyestruly not understanding.
That was the issue. He didnt see. Not by malice, just because when he looked at his mother, he saw only Mum. I looked and saw a pattern.
Nothing, I said. Want some tea?
Go on, then.
We drank. Talked about Emily and whether she missed us at Mums. Andrew said we should bring her home at the weekend. I agreed.
Before bed, he hugged me. Well go away. I promise. Well find time in summer.
I didnt reply. Not because I didnt believe him, but because well find time sounded like never.
Summer came. Andrew found a last-minute cheap packageTurkey, a week, flights leaving soon. We took Emily to Mums again. Out came the suitcasethe same one. I started packing.
This time, the call came not three days before, but four hours before the taxi.
Andy, I just dont know whats wrong Called the nurse, my blood pressures normal, but I feel dreadful. Weak, chest feels odd. Probably nerves
Mum, where does it hurt?
Well, here She couldnt say over the phone, of course. And back, and head a bit.
Ill come.
I overheard the conversation. I saw Andrews face, the way he grabbed the keys, and something in me just gave way.
No shouting, no dramatics, just broke.
Andrew, I said, if you go now, I dont know whatll happen to us.
He stopped.
What are you saying?
I mean it. I cant do this again. Its the second time. Not counting all the others. Im a person, Andrew. Im your wife. I have my limits.
He was silent. Then said, I cant leave Mum.
Im not asking you to. Im asking you to get in the taxi with me.
She says her chest hurts
She says it every time were meant to leave.
Claire.
Andrew.
We stood in the hallway, the suitcase between usblue with a yellow handle, bought specially, still unused after a year.
Go on, I said.
Claire
Just go. Ill take a cab.
Youre going alone?
No. Im not going anywhere.
I put the suitcase back in the cupboard, dressed, and left.
I wandered through warm August streets not knowing where to go. The city smelled of sun-drenched tarmac andsomehowlinden blossom, though it was far too late for that. I walked for ages, then ducked into a small café with old wooden tables, ordered a coffee, and sat.
My friend Sophie rang.
Where are you? she asked.
Some café, on Larch Lane, I think.
Whats happened?
The same.
His mum?
Yeah. Again.
There was a pause.
Listen, Claire. Ive wanted to say this for ages.
Go on.
Youve lived alongside this for nine years, hoping it’ll change. But it wont. Not unless Andrew changes, and he wont, not as long as you stay.
Youre talking about leaving?
Im talking about letting people feel the weight of losssometimes thats the only way they learn.
I finished my coffee. Ordered another.
Sophie, I cant just disappear for effect.
Its not theatre. Its honesty. You told him the truth. He didnt hear it. Maybe silence speaks louder.
I got home around midnight. Andrew was there in the kitchen.
Where were you? he asked.
Out.
I called.
I saw.
Why didnt you answer?
Didnt want to.
He looked at me. I looked at him. We both knew that something had shifted, but didnt know which way.
Mums okay, he said. Nerves, the nurse was right. Had a tablet, gone to bed.
Good.
Claire, Im sorry.
For what?
For going.
Youre entitled to go to your mother, Andrew.
But I should have
Dont. Not now.
I went to bed. A week later I packed a small bagjust a bag, not the suitcaseand took Emily to Mums house. Officially for a little time away, but really because I needed to breathe.
Mum didnt press for details. She cooked, made tea, played old films. Emily bounced around needing attention, and I gladly gave it. It was simpleheres a child, here are her needs, heres my love.
Andrew rang daily. On the third day, he asked, Arent you coming home?
Soon.
Are you punishing me?
No, Andrew. Im resting.
On the sixth day I returned. We didnt discuss it. We just restarted. Emily went back to nursery. Andrew to work. So did I. On weekends we saw Margaret.
Those visits were hard. I sat over her homemade pies, listened to stories of her neighbour Zena and her neer-do-well son-in-law. Sometimes wed talk quietlyabout Emily or her vegetable patch. I saw she was sharp, had her own life and losses. Shed lost her husband, Andrews dad, to a stroke at fifty-six. I realised that leaves a mark.
But understanding and accepting are two different things.
Once, in October, I was washing up after dinner at Margarets while Andrew played with Emily. She joined me, drying plates.
We were silent for a while. Then she said:
Youre angry with me.
No.
Yes, you are. I can tell.
I put the plate down, looked at her.
Im not angry. Im tired, Mrs Harris.
Tired of me?
Tired of it all.
She dried another plate in silence, then said:
I know you wanted your holiday. That I ruined it.
I said nothing.
I wasnt trying to make trouble, she went on, her voice raw with something that sounded like honesty.
Mrs Harris, if youre unwell, call the GP, take your pills. Andrew will come if its serious. But if its not
How do I know if its serious?
Thats what doctors are for.
She put the towel down and left. I watched her go.
It didnt make me feel better. But something, somewhere, shifted just a little inside me. I had no idea what it meant.
Winter passed quietly. In spring, Andrew said cautiously, How about a holiday in Junesomewhere not too far?
We can try, I said.
I mean it, Claire.
So do I.
Ill talk to Mum, make it clear.
Alright.
He had that talk. I didnt overhear, but his tense face spoke volumes.
Well? I asked.
She says she understands.
And?
And hopes nothing happens.
Splendid.
She didnt promise to get sick.
She never does.
June came. We booked again. This time I didnt pre-buy sunscreen or swimweardidnt want to jinx it. Emily went to Mums. I didnt pack the suitcase till the very last evening.
When I finally put it by the door, the call came that same morning. Not from Margaret, but the hospital.
Are you the relatives of Margaret Harris?
Andrew took the phone. I watched his face.
Yes, Im her son. Whats happened?
Silence.
When was she brought in?
More silence.
Were on our way.
He hung up, looked at me. I knew before he spoke.
Heart attack. Overnight. Neighbour found her, called an ambulance.
I said nothing.
Claire, its real this timea proper heart attack.
I understand.
I have to go.
Of course, Andrew. Go.
He left. I phoned the airline for the third time.
Margaret spent two days in ICU. Then in a general ward. Andrew was with her almost non-stop; I took him food, spare clothes. Once, I visited myself.
She lay small and pale, drip in her hand, staring at the wall.
Claire, she said weakly.
How are you?
Not good. I might die.
You wont, I told her.
How do you know?
Doctors say youre stable.
She closed her eyes, then opened them.
I didnt expect this, she said. Not for real.
It took a second to realise she meant itreally meant it.
Mrs Harris.
Dont. I know what youre thinking.
Im not thinking anything.
You are. She turned to the window. And youre right.
We sat together in silence.
Can I get you anything? I asked at last.
No. Andrews brought it all.
As I stood to leave, she said, Thanks for coming.
I turned. If you need me, Ill come, I said, and oddly, it was true.
A fortnight later she was discharged. Andrew wanted her with us while she recovered.
I half expected to say no. I didnt want her in my housenot really. But I said, Alright.
Youre sure? Andrew asked, surprised.
No, I replied, but its the right thing. She needs help.
We brought her home. She stepped into our house with a tiny holdall and looked about. Emily ran to hug her.
Gran Meg! Emily shouted, wrapping her arms round her.
Margaret hugged her back, and for the first time in all those years, I saw her crynot for effect, not for show, just quietly and truly.
The first days were odd. I cooked special food for her, bland and salt-free. Andrew took her to appointments. Emily told her tales from nursery. Sometimes, in the evenings, we watched TV together.
I forced myself to be calm. When she complained about the soup being thin, I said, Ill do it thicker next time. When she turned the TV up, I brought her headphones.
One afternoon, she asked, Claire, why are you so patient with me?
How do you mean?
Putting up with me.
Im not putting up. Youre ill. You need help.
Ive always been difficult.
I nodded. Honesty felt truer than denial.
She gave a half-smilenot resentment, almost resignation. Not always on purpose. Then again, maybe it was. Im not sure any more.
We sat in the kitchen, midday, Andrew at work, Emily at nursery. I sipped tea; she drank her prescribed herbal brew.
When Victor died, she saidher husbandId only ever seen him in faded photos, I didnt know what to do. Not that I couldnt go on, just felt no point. Andy was grown, away. I was left alone.
Thats tough, I said.
It is. So I started holding on. Clinging, you know? Afraid hed leave me too.
He never did.
He did, really. Into his own lifeand thats fair. But I only knew how to pull him back. Id ring, get ill, cry.
I looked at her. She looked out at the garden.
Mrs Harris, I said softly, he loves you. He always came.
I know. But I never let him come because he wanted. I made him come. Theres a difference, Claire.
It was the longest, truest conversation wed ever had.
I didnt forgive her then. Forgiving is a process, slow as a healing scratch. You just wake up one day and realise it no longer hurts.
Margaret stayed with us three months. Grew stronger, went out for strolls. By autumn, she asked to go home.
I want my own place, she said. Outstayed my welcome.
When Andrew carried her bags out, she stopped in front of me.
Claire.
Yes?
Go. Take your holiday. Take Emily. Ill be fine.
I was quiet.
Ill ask Zena across the hall to check in. Shes nosy, but decent.
Were not planning anything just now.
Well, you should. Its high time.
She pulled her coat on, let Emily hug her. I watched themtwo shapes, tall and smalland thought how life is peculiar. That sometimes you need to walk to the very edge to see whats truly importantor for someone else to see it.
Winter passed peacefully. Margaret called weekly, spoke to Andrew or Emily, sometimes briefly to me. We visited on holidays; she baked pies with Emily, Andrew watched Midsomer Murders. Occasionally, she and I sat together, not talking about Andrew, but about her lifeworking in the design office, a trip to Liverpool as a girl, meeting Victor at the factory dance. She was interesting. Id always known, but could never see it past all the walls between us.
In February, she rang menot Andrew, me.
Claire, I want you to book that holiday. Dont wait for summer. Get tickets early. Cheaper, you know.
Mrs Harris
Dont interrupt. I mean it. Emily should see the seaside. Ill manage on my own. Zenas said shell look in.
Well see.
Dont take too longsummer doesnt last.
That evening, Andrew asked, Was that Mum?
She was. Told me to book early.
He fell quiet, then smileda proper smile.
Well, theres a first.
It is, I agreed.
April. Nearly a year since the emergency call. We began talking about holidays properlyAndrew found a nice little guesthouse in Cornwall, breakfast included. I looked at the pictures and finally allowed myself hope.
Emily was the happiestbought herself some tiny flippers with her pocket money, hopelessly small but she wanted them, lined them up on the windowsill and gazed at them daily.
Margaret called on Sunday, as routine.
On Monday evening, Zena called.
Is that Andrew?
No, its Claire. His wife.
Oh, Claire, she said, her voice soft, I popped in to see Margaret this morningshe didnt answer, even though wed planned tea. Used the spare key, she gave it to me for emergencies. She was in her chair. Very peaceful.
I was silent for ages.
Peaceful, I repeated.
Yes. The doctor said it happened overnight, in her sleep. No pain.
I thanked her, called Andrew, then phoned my mum to collect Emily for a few days.
I wandered the house, unsure what to do. Not the practicalities, those were clear. But with everything inside.
The grief was real. I knew that for certain. Despite the years, the missed holidays, the lost tickets, the empty nights. It was real because she was realwith all her difficult edges and tight love.
Andrew wept. I sat beside him, just holding his hand.
In a few weeks, Emily returned home, and life carefully rebuilt itself. Breakfasts, bedtime stories, weekend walks in the park.
One morning in June, Emily went to the cupboard for a ball and came out dragging the suitcase.
Mum, whats this for?
Its a suitcase.
Whys it in there?
Waiting.
Waiting for what?
I looked at the blue case with the yellow handle.
For us, I said. Its waiting for us.
Emily put it in the hall and scampered off. I stared at that case, feeling a complicated sort of ache.
That evening Andrew saw it.
Youve gotten it out?
Emily did.
Right. He paused. Claire, Ive found tickets. August. Cornwall, that guesthouserooms still free. Are you in?
I thought for a few seconds.
I am, I said.
Definitely?
Definitely.
Well take Emily.
We will.
He nodded and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I stood there, looking at the suitcasefaithful and patient.
It was June outside, long, bright, warm. Emily was laughing at her cartoon. The kettle started to boil.
Claire! called Andrew. Sugar in your tea?
No, thanks. As always.
Sure? You used to have one.
That was a long time ago.
Suppose so. I can’t remember when you stopped.
I cant either. One day I just didnt need it.
I stood a moment longer. Then went to the kitchen for my tea, cupping my hands round the mug. Andrew sat by the window, gazing out. I looked at him.
We were different nowdifferent from the two of us whod stood in the hall with printed tickets years ago. Not better or worse, simply changed. Shaped by losses, by words said too late, by the ones that finally came. By the suitcase that waited.
Andrew, I said.
Yes?
Nothing. Just
Just what?
Just glad youre here.
He met my eyes. In his face was something I couldnt namenot joy, not sadness, something in between.
Do you think well be happy? he asked quietly. There. By the sea.
I wrapped my hands round my tea. I dont know, I said. But were going.
Sometimes, life isnt about waiting for the perfect momentits about carrying on, no matter how many times youre turned back. Even the most patient suitcase can only wait so long, but when you open it, you might discover youre readynot just for the journey, but for each other.
