He Left for Another Woman, but I Remained
Mary, I need to tell you something.
I was standing by the cooker, stirring a pot of stew. My husbands voice had that tone he used at work when things werent right, or when hed spent more money than he should have. A bit tense, somewhat guilty, but quite sure of what he wanted to say.
Go on, I replied without turning, making sure nothing caught on the bottom.
Im leaving. Theres someone else.
I set the spoon down. Turned. David was standing in the doorway, wearing a jacketodd, since it was evening and he never wore jackets at home. Hed obviously put it on for this conversation, as if it gave the event some official weight.
How longs it been? I asked.
Eight months.
Right.
I think David was expecting somethingtears, a scene, questions. Instead, he shifted awkwardly.
Mary, I truly dont want things to turn sour between us. Youve always been well, my anchor. I value that.
I studied him for a long moment, the way you look at something unfamiliar brought into your house and left on the table.
An anchor, I echoed softly. Very well. Are you staying for dinner?
What?
The stews ready. Are you eating or not?
David looked completely lost.
No, I No. Mary, dont you understand what I just said?
I do. Youre leaving for another woman. Eight months. An anchor. I get it. Youre not eating. Fair enough.
I ladled some stew into a clean bowl and sat at the table.
He lingered for five minutes more, then went off to the bedroom to pack. I could hear drawers slamming, bags rustling, while I finished my stewthe good, hearty kind Ive made for thirty years, just as David liked it.
I realised that and set my spoon down.
Then I changed my mind and finished it off.
***
David Graham was fifty-six, and still convinced his life lay ahead of him. Middle manager at a construction firm, kept himself fit, washed his hair with that expensive dye even though he pretended otherwise. We married when I was twenty-seven. Lived together twenty-eight years, raised Sam, now working in Birmingham and calling home once a week.
Alice Mitchell worked at Davids office as a manager. Twenty-nine, slim, long brown hair, fond of saying brilliant at every surprise. She surprised easily: by good food, a new phone, the way David could sort work troubles with a single call. He liked that.
I, Mary Graham, was fifty-three, chief accountant at the city hospital. Petite, dark-haired, with a streak of grey I never bothered to hide. I could add sums faster than most calculators, read three books a month, and made the best stew in the neighbourhood. For twenty-eight years I ran the household, balanced a full-time job, and never asked for a medal it never seemed heroic, just life.
We lived in Millford, a town not too big nor too small. The kind where people in each area know one another, theres a half-decent shopping centre and a handful of reliable cafés. Our flat was a three-bed on the fourth floor in a concrete nine-storey block. Well decorated, with curtains Id sewn myself years ago because the right shade simply didnt exist in shops.
After David left, I sat in the kitchen for a while. Outside, October rain swept against the window. Then I tidied the table, washed the dishes, and went to bed.
For the first three days I hardly thought at all. I went to work, did my reports, answered well-meaning colleagues with a brisk fine, thanks in a tone that discouraged any further probing. Evenings, my flat became so quiet it seemed to echo, and I found myself just staring at one point. I didnt cry. Inside there was a numbness, the kind you feel after a hard knock, before the ache sets in.
On the fourth day my friend Janet called.
Mary, I heard. Is it true?
Yes.
Oh God. How are you?
Fine.
Not fine. Weve been friends thirty years. How are you really?
I paused.
Janet, the oddest thing: Ive just realised I havent really known what hes thinking in ages. Weve lived together, and yet I didnt know. Perhaps that hurts most of all.
Janet stayed quiet, then gently suggested, Should you talk to him? There might still be
No need, I said quietly. Im just thinking out loud.
I never told Janet my real first feeling as David broke the news wasnt pain, but exhaustion. As if Id been carting a heavy bag forever, and now finally it had been taken off my hands. I was too ashamed to admit it, even to myself.
On the fifth day, I took down our large wedding photo from the living room wall. David in his dark suit, me in white, both young and smiling. I put it away in the cupboard, didnt smash or throw it out just put it away.
A pale patch remained where the frame had been.
I looked at it for a while, then picked up my phone and dialled Home and Heart furnishings shop.
***
I set about redecorating. Did what I could myself, hired people for jobs I couldnt tackle. Changed the wallpaper in the lounge to a light cream instead of tired green stripes. Bought ready-made curtains with a big floral print not at all Davids taste. Rearranged the furniture to suit me for once, not as wed agreed years before. The sofa now faced the window.
Sam rang two weeks later, probably after hearing from his dad.
Mum, how are you?
Fine, love. Doing a spot of decorating.
Decorating? he sounded floored.
Changed the lounge wallpaper. Might do the bedroom next.
Mum youre sure youre alright?
I am, darling. Have you spoken to your father?
He hesitated.
I have.
Thats good. Hes your dad, stay in touch, thats important. Will you be home for Christmas?
Of course. Mum, youre not too lonely there?
I looked around my newly bright lounge: the cream walls, the leafy curtains, the sofa by the window.
You know, I said honestly, Im surprised not to feel lonely. Honestly surprised.
Sam danced round the subject a bit more, but was reassured. Hes a decent lad, but like all children of older parents, deep down hopes nothing really bad can happen and grownups will sort themselves out.
In November, rummaging for winter things, I found an old box. Id packed it away fifteen years ago: all my knitting, needles, half-used yarn, unfinished jumpers. David had complained about stray balls of wool everywhere, so I just packed them up without argument.
I put the box in the middle of the room and stared at it.
Then I picked up my needles, sat on the sofa by the window. Outside, the first snow of the year – soft, almost playful – drifted down.
My fingers simply remembered the motions.
***
Irene from the office spotted my scarf at the start of December.
Did you knit that? Its gorgeous!
I did. Getting back into practice after years.
Mary, would you knit one for me? Ill pay, obviously.
Oh, thats not necessary.
No, really. Ill buy the wool you want and pay you. Ive always wanted a hat with a proper brim
Thats how the first commission arrived, almost by accidentlike things that later matter most.
By February, Id completed eight orders: three hats, two scarves, mittens, and two sweaters. I charged very little, but it was proper money extra, earned by hand, accompanied by the quiet satisfaction I felt each evening with wool and needles by the window.
Janet visited for tea, surveyed my redecorated lounge: new curtains, the wool box proudly in place.
Youve changed, Mary.
How so?
Im not sure. Calmer. I thought youd fall to pieces, but
But I havent, I agreed. Even I cant explain why. Possibly I just havent had the time to fall apart.
David not been in touch?
Called once. In November. Wanted to know where the car documents were. I told him. That was it.
Called because of the car? Janet snorted.
Because of the car.
We sat in our shared silence. Janet cradled her cup as she always did while thinking.
Do you hate him?
I considered honestly.
No. Strangely enough. Ive felt hurt, deeply, but not hate. Hes just someone who did what he did. Now he has his life, I have mine.
How to get through a husbands betrayal and stay sane, Janet said, smiling wryly. You ought to write a book.
Theres plenty of time for that, I laughed.
And for the first time in months, I laughedtruly, not forced or polite. Real laughter.
***
Alice proved to have many charms, but domesticity wasnt among them.
David didnt spot it at once: at first, there were restaurants, weekends away, a sense of youth and freedom. Alice admired him freely; he liked it. She said he looked nothing like his age, and hed stand proud.
But after they moved into his rented flat across town, things became clearer.
Alice didnt cook. Not badlyshe simply didnt see the point, with takeaways and cafés always available. It got expensive, and old, fast.
She didnt clean, either. Her clothes were everywhereover chairs, on the bed, in the bathroom. Not filth, just a personal chaos. David, used to pristine order, was quietly going spare by the third week.
She didnt understand paying bills in advance, or saving just because. David explained it all, shed nod, then forget a month later.
Also, Alices friends dropped by often, giggling into the small hours, emptying bottles into glasses left scattered for days. David would lie in the next room, hearing their laughter through the wall, and realise it wasnt quite the sound hed enjoyed.
In February, he called me.
How are you?
Well, David.
Youre not cross I havent called?
No.
Pause.
Do you know where the fridge warranty is? Need to call the engineers.
Green folder, third shelf in the cupboard.
You havent moved it?
No. Ive not touched anything of yours.
Got it, thanks.
I hung up, lingering at the window. The snow was melting; dark patches appeared on garage roofs. Nearly spring.
I picked up my needles. Started a soft, blue-grey jumperfor myself.
***
Come March, news spread through the hospital that the head of accounts was retiring. The chief rang for me.
Mary, Ill be blunt. Youve been capable of more for some time. Why not push for it?
I mused.
Family, I suppose. Didnt want more pressure.
And now?
Things have changed.
I heard. My sympathies.
No need. Just tell me whats needed for the promotion.
She smiled.
You already know. Want to apply?
Yes.
I wrote my application the same day. Walked home instead of catching the bus; I needed air. March smelt of wet tarmac, sharp and fresh. I realised I hadnt paid such attention to these little things in years: the scent of early spring, the puddles, the shimmer of wet trees with swollen buds.
Life goes on, I thought. Its a cliché, but sometimes clichés are true exactly because they are.
***
David turned up in April, unannouncedjust rang the bell.
I opened the door. He stood looking crumpled, dark circles under his eyes, in the jacket Id picked for him years before.
Can I come in?
Why?
He stared at the floor.
Mary, I need to talk.
I stepped back. He entered, glancing about at the new décor and arrangements.
You redecorated.
Yes.
Looks good.
I said nothing. Went into the kitchen, put the kettle on.
He settled at the table. I realised I saw him differently now; not better, not worse, simply different. Like seeing somewhere familiar with fresh eyes, suddenly noticing details missed before.
How are you? he asked.
Well. Got a promotion, actually.
Congratulations. You deserved it.
Yes, I did. A long time ago.
A pause.
Mary
Just tell me whats wrong, David.
He massaged his browa gesture I knew all too well when he felt awkward or uncertain.
Me and Alice it’s not great. Not terrible, but hard. Shes not as I thought.
That happens.
I thought He hesitated, then, I thought maybe, maybe I could come back. You always understood. You always knew how to hold things together.
I poured the tea, set his mug down, took mine. Perched on the edge of a chair.
For twenty-eight years, I did. While you were here, you barely noticed.
I did.
Not much. Otherwise, you’d have called me something else.
He was quiet.
Didnt mean to offend. Anchor I meant
It means you were elsewhere. An anchors whats left behind while others move forward. It keeps the place running.
Mary
No hard feelings, David. Truly. I just need you to realise things wont go how you expect.
I want to come back.
I hear you.
And you wont let me?
I looked at himhis familiar face now drawn and lost. He hadnt expected this. Hed come for tears, reproaches, maybe a show of rage, but ultimately forgivenessbecause Id always known how. I was the anchor, after all.
No.
Why not?
I dont want to.
He was at a loss, struggling to understand.
But youre alone.
I am. And Im fine.
Mary, you dont mean that. Nobody is fine alone.
I took a sip of tea, looking at him calmly.
Do you know what surprised me? I was afraid that without you things would feel empty. But instead, without you, theres all this space. For myself.
He was silent.
Youre a good man, perhaps, I said, not kindly, not unkindlysimply stating fact. You thought Id always be here. But Im not.
What do I do now? he asked, sounding heartbreakingly like a child. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Thats your question to answer, not mine.
He finished his tea, lingered a bit, then stood.
Will you file for divorce?
Yes. Soon. Ive already spoken to someone about it.
He nodded, put his jacket on.
Well Right then.
At the door, he turned.
Youve changed.
No, Im the same as ever. You just didnt see me.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat for a while. Outside, the street hummedcars rolling by, voices echoing cheerfully in the courtyard. A perfectly ordinary spring evening in Millford.
I tidied away the mugs, opened the window. Fresh air, carrying the scent of damp earth and budding poplars, drifted in.
***
I first noticed Mr. Parker at a residents meeting. Hed moved in that winter, taking the sixth floor flat after selling his house in the countrysidechildren grown, one in London, the other in Derby, so the big house wasnt needed.
He was fifty-eight. Not tall, wiry, neatly cropped grey hair, calm grey eyes. Worked as a civil engineer, designing bridges and junctions. Widowed three years.
At the meeting, he spoke politely, directlyabout a roof leak needing urgent work. No fuss, no bluster, just clear explanation. The landlord listened.
I noticed him for that self-assurancehow some people simply dont need to prove anything.
We met properly by chance in the lift that May. Id just bought a new bag filled with wool from the market, awkward and bulging against the doors.
Shall I help with that? he offered.
No need; Im managing.
I can see that. Just let me anyway.
I laughed and handed over the bag.
We started chatting in the lift, carried on in the hallway. He walked me to my door.
You knit? he nodded at the yarn.
I do. Does that amuse you?
Why would it? Im pleased. My wife left loads of good yarn behind; I dont know what to do with it. Perhaps youll take it?
I did. It was nice wool: soft, merino, neatly balled.
We began chatting now and then, when we bumped into each other. He dropped by for tea, then again. We spoke about the town, work, books. He read a lot, but without showing off. He listened well. And knew when to let me ramble.
In June, I knitted him a scarfgrey, with his wifes wool.
Why? he asked, surprised. Its summer.
Ready for autumn. And I wanted to see how the wool handled.
And?
Its nice to work with.
He took the scarf seriously, no fuss, thanked me quietly. I liked that.
***
In July, I filed for divorce. David didnt argue. We met at the solicitors, signed the forms. He looked tired and a little lost. I wore a light summer dress Id treated myself tobright, not the usual sombre, practical stuff.
How are you? he asked afterwards, outside.
Im well, I replied, truthfully.
Alices gone back to her mums, in Newcastle. Im on my own now.
I looked at him. Not with pity, not gloating, just looked.
Youll manage. You know how.
Do you think so?
I do. Only youll have to learn, properly this time. It’s not hard, if you try.
We said goodbye. He went one way, I another.
I stopped at the greengrocers, bought half a kilo of cherries, stood in the sun and ate them straight from the bag, placing stones into a little paper sack. The cherries were perfect.
***
Mr Parker suggested a film in August. Casually, with no fuss.
Good one on at the Odeon. Will you come?
Id like that.
It was an old British comedy, shown in the parks summer cinema. We wedged onto a wooden bench, families with kids all around, a few pensioner couples. Laughed at all the same jokes.
Afterwards, we walked through the park as dusk fell. It was warm and slow, the kind of evening only August brings. I told him how Id started knitting commissions, by accident. He listened.
Keep at it, he said, meaning it. Its a craft with heart.
You say that about my scarf.
I mean my scarf. But I mean you too.
He added, quietly:
Im not in a rush. You arent either, as far as I can see.
No.
Then thats right.
I didnt ask what he meant. I understood.
***
In September, Janet popped by and found me knitting by the window. The flat smelt of coffee, blue balls of wool lay on the table, laptop open to my new online shoporder numbers higher than Id expected.
You set up a website? she marvelled.
The neighbours girl helped me. Pictures, prices, all on there. Twenty-three orders so far.
Mary, seriously?
Seriously. Not big money, but its mine. And rewarding.
Janet shook her head.
A year ago, none of us could have foreseen
No one could. Least of all me.
And your new neighbour, this Mr Parker Janet fixed me with a look.
Yes?
Just that whenever you mention him, something changes in your face.
I didnt answer, kept working the needles.
Its just peaceful, I said at last. Hard to explain.
No need, she said. I get it.
We sat with coffee, chatted about her grandchildren, the renovation at the local clinic, the upcoming autumn sale at Home and Heart. Two women sharing coffee on a quiet September day.
Outside, Millford ticked on. The poplars along the high street were turning gold. A dog walker crossed the car park. A boy cycled past, eyes focused on the path.
I picked up the next ball of wool, found the end of the thread. Another order: a cabled hat, due in two weeks. Id have it finished in time.
My fingers moved in their familiar rhythm, needles clicking, soothing. Outside the window, autumns first rain tapped the leaves in a shiny, living world.
