I Never Promised Steak and Kidney Pie
Gail? Are you even listening? Jean Palmers voice sliced through the phone like she was standing right behind me, not all the way over in Brighton. Are you or are you not making steak and kidney pie? Sandra said you promised steak and kidney pie.
I didnt promise steak and kidney pie.
What do you mean, you didnt? She definitely heard you say so. You made it at Christmas, everyone raved about it, remember? Seventy is a milestone, doesnt come round every day.
Jean, Ive already done the pork pie, two kinds of salads, a roast duck, cabbage pasties, and a poppy-seed roulade. I cant manage steak and kidney pie on top of that.
Well, all right, all right. Will you at least serve horseradish with the pork pie?
Yes, with horseradish.
Because you forgot the horseradish last time, and Vic wont stop going on about it. And get out the white tableclothnone of those plastic ones. White tablecloth for a jubilee, come on.
Fine.
And candles. Nice ones, not those scraps from the drawer. Gail, are you with me?
Gail Harrison was most certainly with her. She was standing at her kitchen window on the fifth floor of their block in Croydon, watching the October wind chase leaves round the car park, and she was listening. She was forty-eight. Her heart had felt out of sorts since April.
***
Six days to go. Twenty-five people. Jean Palmer had written the guest list neatly, grid paper and all, and posted it to Gail back in August. Gail pinned it on her fridge and looked at it every morning when she made her coffee.
Twenty-five people. That meant Jeans husband, Uncle Vic, whos hard of hearing and laughs like a foghorn. That meant Jeans three sons from two marriages, and her husband Steve, of course. That meant the daughters-in-lawwhich included Gail herself, naturally. Their kids, grandchildren, all sizes and shapes. Cousin Cindy from Norwich and her husband. There was Jeans childhood pal, Rose Irving, who only eats boiled veg and cant stand onions. The neighbour from their allotment would be there too, for some reason.
Twenty-five people, and all the organising left to Gail.
She couldnt even remember when this became normal. Maybe after the first family lunch at Jeans, twenty years ago, when she offered to help because she was the eager, young daughter-in-law, hoping to impress. Maybe it was the day Jean announced to the table, Our Gails got golden hands, she can do anything. The warmth in her voice had lit Gail up inside. And thats where she stayed: behind the stove, behind the fridgealways cleaning, always preparing.
Twenty years passed. Her hands, apparently, were still golden. But her heart wasnt what it was.
***
The cardiologist, Dr. Natalie Brown, had her clinic hours at the local surgery on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Two chairs, a rigid exam table, the faint smell of antiseptic. She peered over thin-rimmed glasses at Gails test results.
Ill be blunt, Ms. Harrison, she said. You cant keep running at this pace. Youre living with constant stress, its written all over. You need a proper break. Two weeks at least. Ideally, three. Somewhere focused on heart rehab. Rest, treatments, fresh air.
Maybe after New Year, Gail managed.
Ms. Harrison.
Weve got Jeans birthday next week. Twenty-five people.
Dr. Brown took her glasses off and laid them down.
Do you hear what Im saying? This isnt just tiredness. Keep ignoring your body, and youre looking at serious consequences.
I understand. Ill go after the party. Promise.
She took the hospital referral, tucked it by her wallet, and put it under old receipts at home.
***
Monday: pork pie simmering. Four pans, because for twenty-five, one just wont do. She hovered over the stove, lifting lids, skimming stock for three hourssteam misted the windows, night coming in early.
Steve arrived just after seven, kicked off his shoes, flung his coat.
Whats for tea? he called, already walking to the kitchen.
Soup, in the small pot, she replied.
And whats all that youre making? he nodded at the bubbling pans.
Pork pie for Jeans party, she said.
He shrugged, ladled soup into a mug, and wandered off to watch telly. That was that.
Close to midnight, Gail switched off the hobs, covered the pots, headed for bed. Her feet throbbed. A dull ache crept up her left side, worse when she stood for too long. She lay down, rolled onto her right, eyes closed.
Steve came in later, snored immediately. Gail lay awake in the dark, counting up what was left: pasties, roulade, salads, duck, shopping, cleaning. Tablecloth, candles, horseradish.
She didnt drift off till nearly two.
***
Jean rang on Tuesday morning.
Gail, darling, I thought Id bring some of my pickled mushrooms for the table. And the homemade gherkins.
Brilliant. Bring them along.
And, another thingLindas coming, remember Linda? Costas cousins wife. She doesnt touch pork. Could you maybe do something separate for her?
Ive got duck. Duck isnt pork.
But ducks so fatty. Shes watching her weight.
Ill make a chicken salad, no mayonnaise.
My clever girlI knew youd sort it.
Gail added to the fridge list in pencil: Linda, chicken salad, no mayo.
***
Midweek, she trekked to the market. Lugged heavy bags, one in each hand, to the bus. Her arm went numb above her elbow. Once home, she unpacked everything only to realise shed forgotten sour cream, so back she went, again.
Thursday, she cleaned. Washed the floors, scrubbed the bathroom, did the skirting boardssince Jean had commented on the dusty skirting last visit, quietly but for all to hear.
Steve collapsed on the sofa after work with the football.
Steve, could you give me a hand with the light fitting?
Im knackered. On my feet all day.
So was I.
Just put your feet up after.
Gail dragged out the stepladder herself. Wiped the light, got back down. Her heart fluttered out of rhythm for a few seconds. She stood, clutching the ladder, forcing herself to breathe.
***
Friday: pasties, roulade, two salads, one for Linda. The duck marinated overnight and went into the oven first thing. By midday, the kitchen was so warm and smelled so inviting that Mrs. Taylor next door actually came round and, half-blushing, asked, Something baking, love?
Just a pie, Mrs. Taylor.
Lucky mother-in-law, having you about.
Gail smiled, shut the door.
Lucky mother-in-law. She repeated it in her head, without the smile.
By evening, everything was done. The pork pie set in the fridge under clingfilm. Pasties cooling under a tea towel. Duck carved and resting. Roulade sliced. Salads just needed dressing.
Gail sat on a kitchen stool, hands in her lap. Her back wouldnt straighten.
In the hallway, the phone rang. Jean again.
Gail, Vic and I are leaving Brighton at nine, so well get to yours by eleven. Guests at noon. Will you manage on time?
Ill manage.
And get the table set earlymight be a squeeze in your front room. Tell Steve to help move it.
All right.
Well, have a rest now. Its your big day tomorrow.
Gail hung up and went to do the washing up.
Steve was asleep by then. Friday, just after ten-thirty, as per usual. Saturdays a lie-in, after all.
***
Saturday started at half four. Gail lay there, eyes open, knowing she wouldnt sleep. She got up, put on her dressing gown, went to the kitchen, boiled the kettle. As it whistled, she stood by the window.
October skies still black, one street lamp burning outside. Beneath it, one lone bush, nothing else.
She sat down with her tea, looking at the apron hanging on the hook: blue, with little white flowersshed bought it at the market three years before. Edges now frayed.
She looked at the fridge, the guest list, the neatly arranged forks on the towel.
Something shifted. Not outwardly, but inside. Quiet, like a thread snapping in a bit of old fabric. She felt it, somewhere above her aching heart. Something let go.
She sat, thinking. No drama, no tears, just silence.
How many years had she done this? Twenty years of feeding people, clearing up, listening, adjusting, shushing herself. Twenty years as the first up and last to bed at every do. Twenty years of Clever Gail, Golden hands, as if those were payment. Praise instead of thanks. Instead of Can I help? Instead of, How are you holding up?
No one ever asked how she was. Not even Steve. The doctor had looked her in the eyes and told her she needed a break, her heart was struggling. Gail had come home and told Steve. He said: Try a different doctor; they always dramatise.
She hadnt gone to another doctor. Shed made more pork pie.
Tomorrow, twenty-five people would cram into her house. Theyd eat her food, sit on her cleaned chairs, under her polished lights. Theyd go home, shed be left with the mountain of dishes. Shed scrub, bin leftovers, head for bed after midnight.
Not a single one of those twenty-five would ask how she was.
Gail sipped her tea, set the mug down, got up. Took her apron, held it for a moment, left it on the table.
She went into the bedroom, soft steps so she wouldnt wake Steve. Pulled out a big blue holdall. Began packing. Warm jumpers. The book shed started back in May. Toilettries. Her payslip cardGail was an accountant at a small firm, modest wages, but her own.
Steve slept on, face as soft as a childs.
She looked at him, not angry, not sad, just looked. Then she took her bag, got dressed in the hall, scribbled a note.
Pork pies in the big pot. Pasties under the towel. Duck: reheat at 180. Roulade on the plate. Dress the salads with sour cream. Shift the table to the window. Ive gone to a spa on doctors orders. Phone will be off. Gail.
She stuck the note under a York fridge magnet, from their weekend away in 2015.
She hefted her bag and left.
***
Birch Grove Spa was seventy miles from Croydon, in Kent. Gail had looked it up when the doctor first told her to get away, browsed the rates, closed the tab. Now she made her way by train, then a mini-cab, then walked fifteen minutes through the quiet woods.
The reception smelled of polish and old pine. The woman at the desk gave her a quick once-over.
Do you have a reservation?
No. I justcame. Is there a room?
Weve got a single for fourteen days. Heart recovery package suit you?
Perfect.
She filled out the forms, paid by card. The room was small, spotless. White sheets, window onto trees, one bedside lamp. She put down her bag, fell onto the bed without even undressing, slept for four hours.
Woke at two. Bathed. Wandered the grounds in the chilly, resin-scented air. The sky overhead was a solid white.
She had soup in the canteen. No one bothered her. She didnt have to talk.
She fell asleep at eight, woke at eight. Twelve hours, undisturbed.
***
On day three, someone joined her at the canteen table. He had a tray, glanced around for a seat, and asked, Is this taken?
Go ahead, Gail replied.
He was about fifty-five, not tall, broad-shouldered with silver at his temples. Name was Andrew Bell.
Your first time here? he asked.
Yes. You?
Second. Came last year, too. Decent place.
They ate in silence.
What are you in for? he ventured.
My heart. You?
Something similar, he said. Blood pressure, nerves. The usual, after too many years living everyone elses life but your own.
She looked at him.
Thats it, exactly.
I had time to think here last go. Changed a few things after.
Did it help?
Halfway. Im working on the other half now.
They finished eating and parted. Next day, they just sat together without needing to ask.
***
Gail didnt switch her phone on for seven days.
During that time, she slept ten, sometimes eleven hours a night. Took all the spa treatments Dr. Brown had prescribed. Walked through the woods each day. Finished the book shed started months before.
In the evenings, she and Andrew would sometimes sit in the lounge in battered wooden chairs by the window, sharing the tea hed always bring.
How long you been here now? she asked one night.
Five days. Decided on a whim to come, really. Like you, Id bet.
What makes you think Im a spur-of-the-moment case?
You had the looksomeone who didnt plan to run away, just had to do it. I recognise it. I wore the same face first time I came.
Gail smiled, genuinely, for the first time in ages. Not because she had to. Because it bubbled up by itself.
What happened? she asked.
He shrugged. Worked as a branch manager for a construction company. Twenty-two years. Lived for the job. Rarely home. My son grew up; I barely know him. Wife left five years ago, she was right to. Then one morning I woke upI couldnt force myself to go in. Not just couldnt be bothered, but physically couldnt. Lay in bed three days, doctor called it complete burnout. I quit. Started thinking what to do with my life.
And what was the answer?
Still figuring it out, he grinned. Bought a little place in the country. I keep rabbits. Turned out, oddly, to be exactly what I needed.
Rabbits, really? she laughed.
Theyre easygoing. And they dont guilt trip you.
She laughed so hard she almost choked on her tea. It felt brilliantunforced, real.
***
On the seventh night, she finally turned her phone on. Messages rushed in.
At first, she counted. Then she lost track. Dozens of messages: from Steve, Jean, from Sandra, from other relatives.
Steve had messaged seven times the first day. Gail, whats happening? Call me. Then: Gail, guests are here, how do I reheat the duck? Mums asking whats going on. Gail, you cant do this. Where are my clean shirts? Do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Then silence, then the next day: Call me.
Jean had messaged three times: Gail, what was that about? Please explain. The party was ruined, Steves upset. Im in shock. Didnt expect this from you.
Sandra once: You couldve at least told us properly.
Not one messagenot one lineasked, Are you all right, Gail? What happened?
She put the phone back in her bag, left it off another week.
***
Tuesday, she and Andrew took a long walk through the woods, moving at his slower pace due to his dodgy knee. For once she didnt mind adjusting her pace just because she wanted to, not because she had to.
So, phone switched on at last? he asked.
Yeah. After a week.
And?
Loads of messages. About the party, about shirts. Not one asking how I am.
He was quiet a while.
People can live their whole life beside someone and still never really see them. They see the role, not the person.
I suppose its my fault. I let it go on for twenty years.
Not your fault. Its what we get taught. That being a good wife, good daughter-in-law means saying yes and making everything run.
We get trained for a life of service, but not a real life. At least in a job you get paid.
He looked at her.
So what will you do, when you go home?
Im not clearing up after them anymore. Im not doing dinner for twenty-five either.
They stepped out into an open clearing. The trees were bare, gold leaves scattered on the damp grass, sky above soft and grey.
I like the way you talk about it now, calm, he said.
I ran out of anger at that stove. Now, Im just tired.
Thats a fixable thing. Tiredness you can rest away. Angers tougher.
***
The last three days at the spa, Gail barely spoke with anyone. She did therapies, walked, finished her book. The doctor said her results had improvedblood pressure down, heart more regular.
The final night, she and Andrew sat in the lounge once more. He was leaving Friday, she Saturday.
Will you give me your number? he asked.
I will.
Ill call. Not straight awaygive you time to settle the dust. But Ill call.
All right.
Are you afraid? he asked.
Of what?
Going back. Whatevers waiting there.
She thought for a moment.
I wouldve been, last week. Now Im just… curious to see what happens when I finally say what I need to.
What do you need to say?
That Im done. If were going to live together, were doing it differently. I want to go to bed at ten and wake at seven. I want weekends walking, not tied to the cooker. No more guests unless I say yes. That someone actually checks with me before dumping twenty-five people in my tiny lounge.
He listened, not nodding, just letting her talk.
Will you say it? he asked.
I will. Ill even make a list, so I dont chicken out.
***
She came home Saturday, round lunchtime. The silence had that heavy, stale feeling only days of neglect can bring.
The kitchen sink was full of plates. Not from last Saturday, surelySteve must have managed to make himself beans and toast. The table cluttered with a paper and half-empty cup. Floor feeling sticky.
She set her bag down and walked throughbedroom sheets crumpled, grubby towel on the bathroom floor, TV blanket askew in the lounge.
She found Steve in the kitchen, scrolling his phone with a mug of tea. He looked up.
Youre back.
Im back.
Do you understand what youve done?
I do.
Mums still upset. The party was ruined. I had no idea where anything was.
I wrote it all down.
A note, Gail! You just left a note.
I went to the doctor. Remember what I told you about my heart?
He was quiet.
You mentioned it. But you dont do this.
Do what?
Abandon family on a birthday like that.
Steve, she said gently, Im not cleaning today. Ill unpack, have a bath, then we need to talk.
He looked at her as if she was speaking Greek.
***
Shed written her list two days before. Calmly, with a pen at the kitchen table, then typed it up neatly on the laptop, bullet points and all.
Shared chores. A rota, who does what. No more than a dozen people over, and only if she agreed. Separate budgetsno throwing her wages into the household pot without discussion. Two weeks proper holiday a year, no excuses.
She put the sheet in front of Steve.
He read it twice, then pushed it away.
Is this an ultimatum?
Its what I need, for us both to be all right. We have to change how we live.
Youve always lived like this. No one forced you.
You think no one forced me?
You piled it onto yourself. Did anyone ask you to?
Yes, Steve. Every time. Your mother asked, your brothers expected, you said nothingand silence is a kind of permission. I stopped saying no, and it became the way things are. Now I need that to change.
I cant live off a checklist.
Then Im not sure how we carry on.
He paced the kitchen.
Youre blackmailing me.
No, Im being honest. Im exhausted. My heart aches from it. The doctor told me in September, but I came home and made pork pie instead. I dont want to cook for people who dont even care if Im all right.
Mum cares.
She sent me three messages. Not one asked if I was ill. All about the ruined party. Not a word about nearly having a heart attack.
Steve said nothing.
***
They had several more conversations. Steve sulked, lashed out, went quiet. One time, Jean came over, sat at the kitchen table, sipped tea, watched Gail like shed never seen her before.
Youve changed, Jean said at last.
Im just so tired, Jean.
Everyones tired. Thats life.
No. Some people are tired because they carry more than their share. I did that. Too long. Its got to stop.
Jean finished her tea in silence.
Are you angry at me?
No. Not anymore. I just dont want it to go on.
Its hard for Steve, the change.
I know. But change is supposed to be hard.
Jean left. Gail didnt know what she was thinking; something complicated, something unsaid.
***
By February, the divorce was done. No drama, just signatures. Steve kept the flat; it was his before they married. Gail got a modest settlement for her part over two decades.
She rented a small one-bed round the corner, second floor, windows onto the car park. The ginger cat from the stairwell started waiting for her by the doorno collar, no owner. She fed him, he moved in.
By spring, she found a better jobstill accounts, but at a bigger firm, proper hours. Pay went up. She started spending money on herself for no reason. Bought the winter coat shed eyed up for years. Treated herself to a proper coffee machine.
Every three months, she saw Dr. Brown. The doctor would review her notes, say, Much better, Ms. Harrison. Whats your secret?
I changed a few things.
Keep it up.
Andrew rang her in December, just like hed promised. They spoke for ages, about what had happened, what hadnt. He listened, really listenedjust said, Well done, you, and it meant more than any clever girl shed ever had.
They started meeting from time to time. Hed come into town, theyd try little cafés, cinema, went to a museum she hadnt visited since she was a teenager. No pressure, no need to earn her place.
One day, he invited her out to his cottage to meet the rabbits.
Thats a real invitation, she said.
The realest, he grinned. Not everyone gets to meet the rabbits.
She laughed.
***
A year had passed. October again, the wind chasing the leaves over a different bit of paving, beneath a different window.
Gail Harrison sat at her little kitchen table, sipping coffee from her very own machine, book beside her, ginger cat sprawled across her lap.
The phone rang. Steves name flashed on screen. She didnt answer. Then changed her mind and picked up.
Hi, Steve. Everything all right?
All fine. JustMums organising another party, some reason or other. Sandra said your pork pies best, and asked me to
Gail glanced out the window. Autumn, trees bare, sky round and greythe same yet subtly changed.
Steve, no.
But its Mum.
No, not because Im angry. Im just saying: no.
He was quiet. For a long moment.
Are you happy? he finally asked, voice gentle, not accusing or sad, just quiet.
She thought for a secondnot even that.
Yes, Steve. For the first time in a long time.
Is it because of someone else?
Its because of me.
A pause.
Right, he said at last. Got it.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
She hung up. The cat lifted his head, watched her, then settled again.
The doorbell rang. Andrew had promised to come for lunch. She went to answer it.
How are you? he called from the hallway. It was still always the first thing he asked.
Im good, she beamed. Come incoffees still hot.
He stepped in; the cat trotted over to sniff him.
Outside, autumn reignedthe same, but new.
