Leave My Home
Helen, why on earth have you been standing at that cooker for nearly two hours? You made meat patties, salad, soupall this since morning. Hes not going to appreciate any of it, you know.
Mrs. Anna Evans sat perched on the kitchen stool beside the fridge, clutching a teacup to her chest. She favoured that spot, that very stool just off to one side, so she could see everything without being in the way. Seventy-five, sharp-eyed, and nothing escaped her notice.
Mum, thats enough now. Im not overdoing it. Im just making dinner. Its nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Anna set her teacup on her knee. Precisely. Every night its just the same. Every single Friday the same. Twenty years of it, ordinary.
Seventeen.
Whats that?
Seventeen years, not twenty.
Well, even if it was only seven! Have you ever counted how many meat patties youve made for him in those seventeen years? How many times youve cleared the table after him? How many shirts youve laundered?
Helen flipped a patty in the pan. The oil spat and hissed, and the kitchen was filled with the aroma of fried beef and oniona childhood scent, a smell that promised that life was safe and steady. She liked the smell; it calmed her.
I havent counted, Mum. I dont intend to. I have my family. This is just how I live. Im not burdened by it.
Youre not burdened, her mother repeated slowly, tasting the words. Helen, have you looked at your own reflection lately? Properly looked, not just in passing? Youre worn out, love. Bags under your eyes. When did you last just sit and do nothing at all?
Last weekend.
When you sat there mending his socks.
Helen laughed; it surprised her, how genuine it was.
Oh, Mum, thats nitpicking.
Thats called being observant. Im an old woman. Im allowed to be.
Outside, the sky was already pressing down with twilight. Late October, and dusk crept in before six. Helen loved this little flat at times like these: the kitchen aglow, the pan gently sizzling, her mother nearby for a natter about nothing. Her mother had been with her for three weeks now: Mrs Evans house on Sycamore Road was all but a construction site, with the pipes being replaced and the whole place damp and teeming with workmen. The management company had, of course, said it would all be done in two weeks; it was well over three. Helen didn’t mind. She liked having her mother around. It felt comfortablefamiliar.
A modest two-bedroom flat on the fourth floor of a post-war block. Not palatial, but her own. Helen had inherited it from her grandmother, ages agoback in 93, after the council sold off the flats. Shed renovated, settled in, married her husband Tom, and carried on. Tom moved inhed had only a room in a shared house, which he later sold, the money soon vanishing on this or that.
Will he be in soon? asked her mum.
Supposed to be here by six. Its nearly twenty past seven now.
Has he rung?
Helen didnt reply. Tom hadnt rung. He rarely did if he was running late. In his mind, unless he had a study of his own, he was busy somewhere and that should tell you enough.
She was laying the table when the front door rattled open. That sound she knew: first the key, the door flung wide, then the footsteps but this time, it was more than one set.
Helen, are you there? Tom shouted from the hallway.
In the kitchen.
Ah, good. Listen, thing is
He entered, and two shadows lingered behind him. A woman, late forties, in a short jacket, bag askew, her face set in a look of long-standing offence; beside her, a lanky teenager, headphones slung round his neck, eyes fixed to the floor.
Helen held a tea towel, frozen mid-movement.
ErmYou know Sarah, Tom said, waving his arm as if hed brought in a shopping parcel, not two people. And this is Nathan, my son.
Helen knew Sarahjust about. Toms first wife, whod divorced him before Helen met him. Nathan must be fifteen now. Helen remembered him turning up at a birthday party some years back, solemn-faced, glued to his phone. A decent lad, no quarrel with him.
Good evening, said Helen in a flat tone.
Hello, said Sarah, her voice edged with I have to be here and Id much prefer not to.
Helen, Sarahs flat was flooded. Same as Mumsburst pipes, water everywhere. No chance to stay there at all. Hotels cost a bomb, you know that. So I said theyd stay with us for the weekend.
Anna, whod been sitting as quiet as a mouse on her kitchen stool, placed her cup on the table so gently it was barely a sound.
For the weekend, Helen repeated.
Yeah, Friday to Monday probably, see how it goes.
Tom. This is a two-bedroom flat. You and me in one, Mums been living in the other for three weeks, because her place is a building site.
Yeah, I remember. So, my thought was Tom scratched his head could you and your mum go to hers? They’ll have finished the repairs nearly, havent they? Just a couple of nights. Not the end of the world. Sarah and Nathan can stay here.
The silence was thick enough to taste. Even the distant rattle of the tram outside was clearer than the hush in the kitchen.
What? said Helen.
Well, you and your mum go to her place, and
I heard you. Im only repeating to make sure I got it right. You think I should take my elderly mother and leave my own home so your ex-wife can move in for the weekend?
Its not like that. Shes Nathans mother, Nathans my son. I cant have them on the street.
Anna spoke up from her stool, quiet but firm so Tom turned. My flats still got no hot water, floorboards up, a great hole in the wall. Im living here because I cant stay there.
Anna, I understand, but
So, youre asking us to move back so you can bring your old family in here, is that it?
Just for a bit. Besides, Sarah really hasnt anywhere, you two have at least got four walls and a bed.
No floorboards, Tom, said Helen, voice calm with an edge that surprised even her. Damp and dust. Mums seventy-five. Her heart is bad and she has arthritis.
Helen, come on, dont make a melodrama over a couple of days. She can put a mattress down
A mattress. On the bare boards. My mother. Seventy-five.
Sarah gave a little wince in the doorwayperhaps she felt awkward, perhaps just tired of standing.
Look, Sarah said, maybe Ill just go have a look at the rooms?
Wait, said Helen.
And something in her voice made Sarah actually stop.
Helen set the towel on the sink, turned to face Tom. Seventeen years shed known this face. The receding hairline, more each year. The telltale scratch behind the ear, always when he felt guilty but never had any intention of admitting fault. That way of speaking: half-meek, half-expectant, as if convinced life would always come his way in the end.
Seventeen years. Shed simmered pots, mended socks, paid bills because he forgot, dealt with the housing association when the roof leaked, taken time off work to let the plumber in. Let holidays slip by when the money somehow vanished. Had called this compromise family, counted it the way things were supposed to be.
And now here he was in her kitchen, in her flat, amidst her saucepans and her curtains, telling her to leave. Just to get up, make room, like moving from a café table because someone more important arrived.
Tom, she said. I need you to take Sarah, Nathan and your things and go. Right now.
He gazed at her as though she were speaking a foreign language.
What?
Leave. All three. Find a hotel or a flat to rent, anything you like. But youre not staying here tonight.
Helen, are you listening to yourself? Hes my son!
I dont mind your son. I mind that you come into my home and tell me to leave it. Thats not the same.
I didnt tell you to leaveI just
Thats exactly what you said. Word for word. Repeat it if you want. Ill listen again.
Tom flushedthe way he always did when angry, not ashamed: ears first, then the cheeks.
Theres no need for a scene in front of everyone.
Theyre my people, Helen said. My mum and me. Your people nodding at Sarahare at the door, and you brought them here uninvited.
Sarah, to her credit, didnt interrupt, just looked to the side. Nathan kept studying the floor.
Look, Tom said, a sharper note coming to his voice, I live here. Im on the tenancy, you know.
Youre registered here. This flat is mine. You know that.
Do I? Were married, joint assets
Tom, Helen interrupted, My grandmother bought this flat, left it to me. It came to me before we wed. You know all this.
Lawyers can settle whose names on what.
Fine. Lets leave that to the lawyers. Right now, Im asking you to leave.
Helen!
Leave.
The pause stretched long as rope. Tom staring at her, she staring back. Anna, barely breathing on her kitchen stool.
Eventually, Tom spun round, muttered something, and made for the front entrance. Sarah and Nathan followed in silence. The doors banged: first the inner, then the main.
Helen stood by the cooker. The meat patties on the pan were stone cold.
Well then, said Anna after a good while. Thats more like it.
Be quiet, Mum, please.
Not another word.
Helen slid onto the edge of her chair. Her hands were freezing. She stared at them, as though for the first time, then folded them neatly on the table.
Hell come back tonight. With his own key.
So what?
Nothing. I just wanted to tell you now.
Her mother stood, put the kettle on again.
Helen, have you got the locksmiths number? The chap who changed the locks for Mrs Turner on the third floor?
Helen raised her eyes.
Mum
Whatmum? Do you have his number?
Somewhere in my contacts, yes.
Look it up. Its Fridayhalf-seven. Hell still be working.
Helen looked at her mother, then pulled out her phone.
The locksmith arrived at half past nine. A blunt, middle-aged chap with a battered old case. Had the lock changed in forty minutes, took his fee, slipped away. Helen tipped him, not really knowing any other way to say what she needed to.
Tom came at half-eleven. His key wouldnt turn the lock. He rang the bell. Then rang again. Then called Helens mobile. Helen stared at the screen as his name flashed up, but didnt pick up. Instead, she typed a message: The key wont work. Ill send you the solicitors address tomorrow. She pressed send and put the phone away.
Her mother was asleep. Helen lay in the darkness, eyes open, knowing tomorrow would be a terrible day: more phone calls, more words, probably shouting. Tom could shout when he lost controlshed seen that often. She wasnt afraid. It was odd, that absence of fear. Not couragejust emptiness, where the old tired anything to avoid conflict used to be.
She only managed to sleep towards two.
The next weeks were difficult. First, Tom tried texts and calls. Then mutual friendsthere werent many. Lastly, his mother, elderly and from Kent, rang Helen to say, voice shaking, Tom isnt a bad sort, its just how things turned out. Helen assured her she understood, then politely ended the call.
Tom arrived with a solicitors letter. It claimed he was entitled to a share in the flat, as joint marital property, never mind whod owned it first. Helen read the letter three times; put it in a folder, dug it out again later, read it once more. That uneasy coil in her stomach: this was real now.
Helen was head bookkeeper at a small building firma good job, steady wage. She was always careful with money. But solicitors were expensive, and she didnt know much about how things worked.
Her friend Gail said, Go to the council centrethey do free legal clinics. Helen doubted it, but anyway had to go there to update paperwork after the locks were changed, and she thought perhaps shed find out what documents were needed for a divorce.
The queue was long. November, people in coats, with folders, with masks. Helen took a ticket and sat on a cold plastic chair. Next to her sat a man of about fifty-five, maybe a bit more, slightly stooped, in glasses, reading something on his mobile. He put it away, stared at the screen showing ticket numbers.
Helen fished out Toms solicitor letter, scanning the jargon. So many words she recognised on their own, but not all together.
Excuse me, the man beside her said. Sorry, I caught a glance. Property claim, is it?
Helen slipped the letter away.
Sorry for looking. Just my angle, nothing else meant.
Thats all right, Helen replied, coolly.
Im a lawyer myself. Civil, mainly family disputes. If you want, I can have a look, no fee or anything.
She studied his unremarkable face, glasses in a dark frame, tidy hands.
No, thank you.
He shrugged, fell silent. After a while, Helen found a sentence she couldnt puzzle out and muttered to herself.
Joint asset only applies to property bought during the marriage, said the man quietly. If your flat was yours before you married, it isnt joint property.
He says there are special rules, like about money put in.
Thats the usual line. Theyll try to prove joint funds improved the asset. It can work, but you need proof.
This time, she let her guard drop. Im Ian, he said, nodding politely.
Helen.
He didnt push, didnt badger her. When his number was called, he sorted his own business and returned to sit with her. When she asked why he came back, he simply explained, Im in no rush. You gave the look of someone who could use a word from someone whos done this before.
I dont look helpless.
Not helpless. Like youve been handed a tricky instrument without any instructions. Thats different.
They spoke for forty minutes, until Helens number was called. He summarised how property cases tend to work, what records to look for, whats important to noticeall in plain language.
When they left together, he passed her his card: plain white, name and number.
Ring if you want real advice. First calls free.
Why bother?
Because I hate when people get intimidated by paperwork theyve no hope of understanding. Its not fair.
She kept his card. A week later, she rang.
Ian came round for a consultation on Saturday at her place. It felt odd, having a man she barely knew in her flat, but hed suggested iteasier than dragging all the paperwork out. Anna, still staying with Helen, let him in and vanished to the kitchen with a knowing face.
Ian spent three hours on her paperwork. He paid careful attention to the will, then the council right-to-buy contract Helen had unearthed from a battered file. Grandmothers name, faded but clear.
This matters, Ian said, holding the page by the corners. Flat bought by your grandmother in 93, in her name. She left it to you. You inherited in 98. Marriage registered?
2006.
Eight years gap. Definitely pre-marital property.
But he says about the renovations, we
When was the work done?
2009, partly DIY, partly
Any receipts?
Some, maybe.
Dig them out. If the money came mostly from you, or wages/gifts/inheritance in your name, his claim collapses. Only wages earned together during marriage count as joint assets. If you worked and he didnt, or only sporadically
He worked. Sometimes. Not very well.
Ian looked over his glasses.
Bank statements, payslips, tax details. Itll take work, but well get there.
Will you take the case?
He paused. I will. Lets discuss terms.
And the terms were fair. Helen, with a bookkeepers eye for figures, could see Ian was charging less than most. She didnt ask why, just thanked him and signed.
Court was in February. Grey, cold February light against the courts high walls. Helen on a hard wooden bench, watching the judge, Tom and his lawyer, Ian by her elbow. Ian calm as ever. Helen tried to match him, but inside she felt everything suspended by a hair.
In those intervening months, Tom had worn down. Less sure of himself now; something raw and nervous showing through. He sometimes fixed his gaze on Helen, as if looking for the person she once wasthe one whod make peace, say sorry, sweep it all under the rug.
But that Helen had gone.
Ian filed their papers: proof of inheritance, council contract, bank statements showing the 2009 refurbishment paid from Helens account, Toms patchy earnings, Helens reliable income. This destroyed any hope of improved by joint means.
Toms lawyer tried, falteringly, to argue moral contribution to family life. The judge listened, stone-faced.
The verdict was made there and thenthe flat confirmed as Helens personal property. Toms claim was denied.
Helen stepped out of court into the biting cold, her breath ghosting in the air. Ian walked at her side.
There, what did I tell you?
You said so.
She hesitated. Thank you.
Nothing to thank me for. It wasnt difficult, to be honest. You keep your paperwork in good order.
Always have.
Thats a rare gift, he said solemnly. Then, in a warmer voice: Fancy a coffee? Theres a lovely café just nearby.
They had coffee. It was so ordinary, and yet felt oddly marvellousordinary things, coffee, conversation, a walk, suddenly seemed extraordinariness shed almost forgotten after seventeen years.
The divorce was settled in March, quietly and without fuss. Helen signed, Tom signed, the judge stamped the order. That was that.
Heading home on the Tube, Helen supposed she should feel something granda sense of loss, relief, even victory. She just felt tired, and something else mingled with curiosity, as if life had a doorway waiting and for once she didnt fear what lay on the other side.
That spring came early.
April brought warmth sooner, and Helen flung open the windows wide, suddenly longing for a refurbnot because she ought to, or to please Tom, or to impress guests, simply because she fancied it. Cream walls, new curtains, shiny tiling in the bathroom at last.
She called round the builders, chose her team, planned the budgetchecked it twice, out of habit. They started on May Day, which seemed faintly amusing.
By then, Anna was back home, her own flat finally habitable. Shed gone home as if returning from a spa retreat. On her last day, over tea, she said:
I dont worry about you any more, Helen. I used to, but not now.
You dont? Whys that?
Because you finally look like yourself.
Helen didnt ask who shed looked like before.
The refurb took two months. Helen lived through it as only people who can see order within chaos do. Cooked on a camping hob, kept an eye on the plastering. Sorted the tiles herself, fussily, but with pleasure. She dealt with the foreman firmly but fairly. Took ages over the bathroom tiles, carried home new curtainssoft cream.
Ian dropped by from time to time, no longer for legal matters. Sometimes he brought cakes. Theyd chat in the dust and clutter, conversations stretching onhe talked about books hed read, encouraged her to try them. Helen started to read in the evenings, sometimes agreeing, sometimes arguingshe liked arguing with a man who didnt get cross when disagreed with.
Late May, they strolled beside the river, the air warm with the scent of water and the years first greenery. Ian shared some story about post-war Europe. Helen listened, amazed how rare it felt to walk with someone, expecting nothing, simply being.
What are you thinking? he asked.
Just that its been ages since I walked like this.
Like what?
Without a list of errands, without a timetable. Just walking, watching the river.
He was quiet a while. It isnt so easy, doing that. Just walking for the sake of it.
I know.
They sat a long while on a bench, silentand that silence was good, too.
The builders finished in June. Helen spent days putting everything in its new placeher ritual: calmly, with cups of tea, slow, careful. New curtains, creamy-white. Shoe rack by the door. The bathroom was all shining white tile with the thin grey line shed debated so long. Kitchen with a green mosaic splashbackshed worried it was too much, but it looked perfect.
She snapped some photos to send to her mum, who texted back: “Helen, it’s beautiful. I must visit.” Then Anna rang up, wanting to hear about every bit of it.
In July, something good happened at work. Their chief accountant, long past retirement age, finally left. Everyone saw it coming. Helen got the jobno hinting or nudging: the boss offered it outright. She asked for a day to think and then accepted.
It was a new salary. More pressure, but she could handle pressure; she always could, she now realised.
That summer passed easily. In August, the heat sent her and Ian out of the city with his friends, onto a cottage veranda where they could just sitdoing nothing. Helen found, to her own surprise, that she could now sit without guilt, simply watching the breeze flick the apple tree leaves.
Neither she nor Ian rushed. Hed divorced ages back and seemed entirely at ease with itno bitterness, no fuss. Helen appreciated that. She wanted things to go slow, to feel sturdy and real.
Come September, as autumn crept in, Helen found her life changednot perfect, but different. Fuller, somehow, as if fresh air had filled up spaces where shed barely been able to breathe.
She chanced upon Tom at the end of September. She was walking home, bags of shopping in hand. The air smelt of leaves and the first edge of cold. She was just thinking of phoning Ian to confirm their plan for the cinema on Wednesday.
Tom was there, outside the pharmacy, staring at his phone. In a shabby jacket, looking battered and shrunken. He looked up, saw her.
The first second was odda flicker of awkwardness crossing his face.
Helen.
Tom. Hello.
You look well.
He was right; she did. She got proper sleep now, ate well, no longer spent her days locking emotion away just to preserve some uneasy peace.
Thank you.
Off home, then?
Yes.
He shifted, clearly wanting to say more.
How are things, work and all?
Good, thanks.
She could see the hesitation, as he searched for somethingthe old crack in her resolve, hoping to start a conversation, crack open the past.
Helen, look I was thinking, maybe we could meet for a proper talk.
About what?
Life, I suppose. Seventeen years, after all.
Helen gripped two bagsone with her favourite blueberry yoghurt and honey, the other with bread, cheese, and a small cactus she had bought on a whim.
She looked at Tom, this slightly frayed man outside a pharmacy, clinging to the notion shed somehow soften, slot back into type.
Theres nothing to talk about, Tom.
Of course there is
Truly, there isnt. Its all settled. You live your life, Ill live mine. Its fine.
Fine, then, he echoed.
Yes.
He gazed at her a second, then nodded.
Right, then.
Goodbye, Tom.
Helen walked on. The leaves scuffled at her boots, the bags weighed on her arms. She didnt look back.
Everything had been left behind: seventeen years of meat patties and mended shirts. Seventeen years of calling things family because it provided a reason for everything. One Friday night, and all of it changed.
She supposed she ought to feel somethingsome conclusion. But there was no ending; she walked with her shopping down a beautiful autumn street, thinking to ring Ian, feeling the spines of the cactus pricking through the bag.
She made a quick text: Are you free Wednesday?
Reply within a minute: Yes. Where shall we go?
To the cinema. That French film you mentioned.
Perfect. Seven oclock?
Seven.
She tucked the phone away, walked another block, then another. The wind spun the leaves up in gold, brown, russet whorls. One caught her sleeveshe left it clinging there all the way home.
At her own front door, she set the shopping down and unlocked with her new yellow-tagged keythe one shed got that chilly October night.
Inside, the air smelt fresh and faintly of wood from her new shelves. On the windowsill, several plants shed allowed herself to buy now there was no one to roll his eyes about cluttering up the placegreen, living, and a bit dusty. She added her cactus to the collection; it fit in perfectly.
She put on the kettle, cracked open the window for the London air. The autumn breeze slipped inside, cool and leaf-scented.
She sat at her kitchen table, waiting for the kettle, and listened to her street outsideher October, her season, her own future at last.
