A Wall in Her Favour
Sarah, why do you always have to get involved in these conversations? Richard didnt even bother to look my way. He stood by the window, wine glass in hand, broad-shouldered, steady as ever, speaking in that low, gentle tonewhich was oddly the worst. James was asking me, you see? Me. Lets not weigh him down with your thoughts.
James Thompson, our guest and Richards latest partner in some new logistics scheme, stared into his plate. I could see his discomfortthe way he shifted uneasily in his chair and fiddled with his fork, though it was clear he had no intention of taking another bite.
I simply pointed out that theres a lot of empty commercial space in the city centre, I replied, keeping my voice even.
Sarah. Now Richard finally turned. Id learned to read that look over twenty-seven yearsnot anger but something worse: a quiet condescension. Youve fed everyone well, the table looks splendid, alls grand. How about bringing in dessert, hmm?
The table held four others. Laura, James wife, threw me a quick glance, a flicker of sympathyor so I thought. I rose, gathered some plates, and made my way to the kitchen.
There, I stood for a minute at the sink, gazing out at the night. Rain, the soft, autumnal kind, smudged the streetlights into yellow stains on the windowsill. I was fifty-two. Through the wall, the murmur of voices, Richards laughter, and the musical chink of glasses. I took the cake I’d baked that morning from the fridge and carried it back.
That was my existence.
Our house sat in a pleasant part of an English townOxford, where wed lived our married lives. Fifteen years ago, once Richards business had started flourishing, he had the place built: large, two stories, with a garage and a garden Id designed myself (Richard was always too busy, and the gardener he’d hired got everything planted all wrong). Guests would always say, What a lovely home, Mrs. Clark, splendid taste. Id smile and thank thembecause every bit of it, every curtain, every shelf, every currant bush along the fence was chosen by me.
But the house was in Richards name.
Id never truly worked, not like Richard. After we met at university, I taught technical drawing at a college for a few years. Our son Tom was born, then the business grew, we moved, there were receptions to host, functions to attendalways beside him. I left my job. Richard would say, No point keeping on for a few pennies, love, Ill look after you. And he didwell and without stinginess, but it was always that delicate dance whenever I wanted to buy something for myself. Either ask, or squirrel bits away from the housekeeping.
Jewellery-making started by accident, ten years ago, when I was stuck at our country cottage in the rain. I found an old box of beads Id once bought and forgotten. By evening, Id made a necklace that surprised me by how well it turned out. Then another, and another. My friends started to ask for gifts, then to buy them. I bought proper tools, began working with stones and silver clasps. It became my space, my own territory within the house.
Richard saw it much as he saw my attempts at growing tomatoesa harmless pastime.
You and your little trinkets,” hed sometimes say, as I showed him something new. “Its not a real business, Sarah. Whos going to buy those? A market stall?
I never bothered to answer. What was the point?
Tom grew up, moved to London, married and settled there. We met on holidays. Hed ring on Sundays and ask about my health; Id ask about his work. We loved each other, just living separate lives.
I, however, didnt have a life of my own.
There was the large, beautiful home, a husband, guests twice a week, charity lunches Richard attended for contacts, and I was always there, the right dress, the right smile. I was his calling card. Respectable man, fine family, a wife who could entertain. Thats work too, I knewonly, you dont get paid, nor thanked.
Then came the letter in February. Ordinary post, from a solicitor on Builders Lane, a name unfamiliar. I opened it at the kitchen table while Richard still slept.
My mothers cousin, Aunt Marion Dalton, whom Id only met thrice in my lifethe last time two decades agohad died in December. Shed left me a building. Not a flat or a plot, but an actual building: a two-storey, postwar light-industrial property, 340 square metres, in Oxfords centre but derelict for years.
I read the letter three times.
Then called the firm.
Yes, Mrs. Clark, all correct, the solicitor assured. Mrs. Dalton named you sole beneficiary. The land under the building is included. Its all properly deeded. She had it sorted back in the 90s.
Land? In the city centre? I repeated.
In the centre, yes. Small, but an excellent location.
I thanked him and held the letter for a long time afterwards.
I didnt tell Richardnot right away. Perhaps because I already knew how hed react: hed size it up, call his mate in construction, advise selling or knocking it down, and Id stand by and smile while it all happened around me.
So the first time, I went alonetold Richard I was visiting a friend.
The building stood in a back lane behind the old theatre, in that part of Oxford where Georgian houses stood cheek-by-jowl with council blocks and gleaming new offices. The lane was quiet, old cobblestones underfoot; spring buds just beginning on the trees.
It was a bit frightening: peeling render, windows on the ground floor boarded up, rusting gates. But the walls were sturdy. I walked round it, touched the brickwork, eyed the roof. It held. I entered through a side door left unlocked.
High ceilings. Huge windows, battered by time. Timber floors upstairs, some rotten patches, but mostly intact. A layer of grime on the tiles. The musty scent of time and timber.
I stood in the centre, looking up at a gap in the ceiling showing the sky.
Suddenly, I felt something strange. Not fear, nor sadnessbut something akin to belonging, as if Id walked into a strange place and realised: this is mine.
The solicitor was a pleasant chap in his forties. We sorted it all in two weeks. I collected the documents myself and stashed them in a folder, hidden in the little room where I worked on jewelleryRichard never went in there.
My old friend, Jenny Barnes, had become an estate agent. I rang her and told her everything.
Youre serious? Jenny asked after a long pause.
Absolutely.
Sarah, this is huge. Building, land, city centrereal money. Do you realise?
I do. I dont want to sell.
What, then?
I thought for a moment. Then I said, Jenny, do you remember those art exhibitions we visitedback in our twenties? In the old Artists House?
Of course.
I want something like that. A space for people. For making, learning, showing work. An art space, like they call them now.
Jenny was silent for a while longer.
Sarah, thats a big project. Renovation, utilitiesitll cost a fortune.
I know.
Do you have the funds?
Not yet. But I will.
She didnt ask furtherJenny could keep her counsel, thats why I valued her friendship.
I went about raising money the only way I knew. Jewellery. Over the years, Id built up a collectionfine pendants of British stones, hand-made bracelets, sets that had taken me weeks to perfect.
Jenny offered to help. She knew the owner of a little shop selling handmade crafts. We agreedJenny brought over my pieces, mentioned these were from an anonymous craftsman, and the shop took a small cut. The first batch sold out in three weeks.
Sarah, you wont believe it, Jenny said. They want to know if therell be any more. That labradorite ring from two years ago? Gone in two hours.
For how much?
Jenny named the sum.
I went to the balcony, suddenly breathless.
In three months, I earned more than Id thought possible. I opened an account at a branch near the solicitors office, set everything up myself. Richard had no idea.
Meanwhile, I found a building crewnot through Richards contacts, but via the internet and meetings at cafés during the day, while Richard was at work. The team was small, four men led by Paul, a quiet fellow in his fifties, who looked at the place with the same steadiness as I didno disgust, just interest.
These walls are sound, he said, tapping the bricks. Roof needs redoing. Some floorboards on the ground have to go. Full rewiring, inevitably. Well manage in four monthsif nothing interrupts.
We shant delay, I said.
Paul looked at menot judging, but intently.
Alright, then, he agreed.
Home life ticked on as normal. I hosted, cooked, went to functions, smiled through Richards talks of logistics and investments. Sometimes hed say something, Id nod all the time thinking about window frames and mezzanines for canvases, lighting for exhibitions.
Richard noticed nothing. I was reliable backdrop.
There was one close callhe found a receipt from a DIY shop in my bag, where Id picked up paint samples.
Whats this? he asked at dinner.
Bought a few bits for the cellar. Thought Id spruce up the walls, its damp down there.
He shrugged, headed back to his phone. The matter took thirty seconds.
Paul did honest workdidnt rush where it wasnt needed, nor drag his feet when it was. We talked practically, sparing in words. Sometimes Id visit and stand amid the noise of power tools and sanding, feeling suddenly well in my own skinas if the very air was easier on the lungs.
Jenny came by in June, when the windows were in and the walls plastered.
My word, Sarah, she said, eyes wide. This will be smashing.
It will, I smiled.
So whats the plan? Have you mapped out the events and such?
Of course. Exhibitionslocal artists, lots of them, with nowhere to show their work. Workshops. Rent studio space to those who need a place to create. Little café downstairs. Book corner, too.
You really have it all in your mind, Jenny grinned.
Ive been thinking about it for three years. Just didnt know I could.
In September, I met Lily. She sold handmade dolls at a local craft fair, standing behind a small table, nose in a book while people passed by. Her dolls were extraordinary. I picked one up.
Do you make these yourself? I asked.
Yes. For seven years, she replied, meeting my gaze. Do you like it?
Very much. Im Sarah. Im opening a new art spacea little community centreand Im seeking artists interested in working or exhibiting there.
Lily put her book down.
Thats how we began to form a community. Lily knew a pair of painters. One of them introduced a sculptor; the sculptor was friends with a woman teaching ceramics whod long needed a proper venue. By October, I had a list of twelve ready for our launch.
The funds were running out. I had only a few pieces of jewellery leftmy best, really. Paul needed payment for the last stretch, plus money for lighting and the sign.
I sold the final set Id kept for myselfa silver and amethyst ensemble that had taken two years to make. Jenny phoned the next day.
Sarah, it sold an hour after I brought it in. The buyer said shed never seen anything like it. Asked if there were more.
No more, I replied.
Are you upset?
No. And it was true.
The building opened early November. No grand showjust a note posted in the Oxford community group: new art space opening, all welcome. Sixty people turned out the first night.
Richard was away on business. I told him Id spend the night with Jenny. Alright, Ill warm up dinner, he replied.
I stood in the main hall, watching people look at art, chat, pick up Lilys dolls, my hands tremblingnot with nerves, but the kind of trembling you get when something long wished for finally comes true.
Paul came too. He stood by the wall, taking it all in.
Nice work, he said.
Thank you, I replied.
No, thank you, he countered.
Things gathered pace. Studios were rented. Pottery classes filled their sessions. The café downstairsrun by a bright young woman called Sophieopened in December and quickly became a neighbourhood spot. Local journalists wrote a piece, then another.
One day I bumped into an older neighbour whod lived across the lane for decades.
Was it you who opened up? he asked, nodding at the building.
Yes.
Ive lived here forevernever had anywhere like this in our lane, not until now. Well done, you.
I thanked him and found I was smiling all the way home.
Richard found out in Januarynot from me, but from one of his colleagues who saw a photo of the opening in the local paper, my name in the caption. He brought it up at dinner.
Sarah, he said after everyone else had left, is there something you want to tell me?
I was washing dishesslowly, calmly.
There is, I admitted. Sit down, Ill make tea.
I told him everything: the inheritance, the building, the renovation, the jewellery. He listened in silence, his face carefully blankhe was always good at that business mask.
When I finished, he sat for a moment, then said,
You hid this from me.
Yes.
Why?
I looked at him. He genuinely wanted to know, or perhaps he thought he did.
Because if Id told you, Richard, youd have decided everything for me. It would have become your project, not mine.
Thats rather unfair.
Unfair, yes. I agreed. Just as its been unfair that in twenty-seven years you never once asked what I wanted. Not for real.
He stood, mug in hand, and looked out the window.
Do you want me to say Im proud of you?
No, I replied. You dont need to say anything.
He didnt.
We lived together a few more months, but something shiftednothing dramatic, just like ice beginning to thaw, noiselessly, changing shape.
Then came the Ball.
Every February the city hosted a large charity ballwith local businesses and dignitaries in attendance. Richard always went. This time, an invitation came addressed separately to me. A woman from the events committee phoned and explained that in addition to the usual awards, they would, for the first time, present a New Urban Space prize, and my projectDalton House, named after Aunt Marionwas on the shortlist.
Will you be there in person? she asked.
Yes, I said.
Richard found out about the nomination that same dayI didnt hide it. He looked at me in that way you do when you suddenly notice something new about a person you thought you knew.
Congratulations, he said, briefly.
Thank you.
I bought my own dressdeep navy, well-cut and simple. For the first time, I wore my own jewellery: a new labradorite ring to replace the one Id sold, and small garnet earrings.
At the ball, we were seated separatelyRichard, as a committee regular, near the front; I, among other nominees. Our eyes met as I sat down: he nodded, and I nodded back.
The hall was magnificentan old Georgian mansion, ceiling mouldings, crystal chandeliers, the air thick with flowers and perfume and music. I sat tall, thinking how only a year ago Id have hovered by the sink with dirty plates, listening to laughter through the wall.
When my category was called, I walked to the stage. My legs were unsteady, but you couldnt tell; I made it in good form.
The chairman of the committeea stately older gentlemansaid a few words about the importance of creative spaces, then called my name and handed me the crystal statue and a white envelope.
Would you like to say a few words? he asked.
I took the microphone. The room was silent. I found Jenny in the crowd, smiling so widely you could see across the room. Then found Richard, watching me with that hard-to-read looknot pride, nor offence, but somewhere in between.
Id like to thank everyone who had faith in this place before it existed, I said. Artists, makers, friends, and most of all, my Aunt Marionwho left me a great deal more than a building.
My speech was three minutes, no more. The room applauded. I returned to my seat, still clutching the little statue.
Jenny rushed over at the break and hugged me tight. Sarah, did you see his face?
I did.
And?
Nothing, I said. Nothing in particular.
Richard approached after the awards, when the dancing started and the crowd dispersed.
Nice speech, he said.
Thank you.
You look well.
Richard, I sighed, no need.
He was quiet.
We need to talk. Honestly.
I know, I said. We will, at home.
The conversation was a long onenot a row (we were too tired for arguments, and honestly, there had never been that many), just something deeper, both of us weary, realising wed become like polite strangers.
I told him I wanted a divorce.
He was silent a long while. Then,
Is there someone else?
No. I just want to live my own life.
You are, now.
Yesand I want to keep doing so. Alone.
He paced the room.
The houseshall we split it?
The house is in your name, I said evenly. But the land beneath it belongs to me.
He stopped.
What?
I explained. The plot beneath our home was, years back, arranged via my mothers cousinAunt Marion Dalton. A long story Id only discovered when dealing with my inheritance. The solicitor had pointed it out, and Id asked a lawyer to check. Everything was legal. The land was mine.
He stared at me like never before.
When did you find out? He spoke softly.
When I sorted the inheritance.
And you said nothing.
As you never said much about plenty of things.
He slumped into a chair.
We talked for hoursno shouting, no tears. Just two worn-out people who had spent decades side by side, now finally seeing unfamiliar parts of each other.
The solicitors took three months. We divorced quietly, without drama. I left the house to Richard, on clear terms set by my lawyer. The compensation, I invested straight into Dalton Houseexpanding the café, opening a second gallery upstairs.
I rented a flatsmall, in the same area as Dalton House. Fourth floor, with a view over old rooftops and a twisted lime tree that blossomed with such heady scent each spring you could smell it even through shut panes.
The first night there, I woke at three and listened to the silence. No voices, no footsteps, no one breathing beside me. Just the occasional car and the rain.
I was fifty-three. Alone, and unafraidand that felt momentous.
Another year passed.
Dalton House grew stronger every season. Three resident artists rented studios, pottery classes ran thrice a week and were booked out a month ahead. Sophies café, with its wooden tables and vintage photos, turned into the heart of things. Each Friday, a local jazz quartet played evenings there.
Lily sold all her dolls and began taking commissions. Wed become friendsthe sort that meet at the right time of life.
Jenny sometimes remarked, Sarah, youve taken tenno, fifteenyears off.
I finally sleep, I replied.
I still made jewellery. Not for money, just for myself. In the evenings, in my flat, lamp glowing, stones and silver laid out, hands busy. That was my time. No one elses.
I ran into Richard unexpectedly, early December, leaving a café near Dalton House. He was coming the other way. We spotted each other instantly.
He looked a little oldermaybe just my impression, or perhaps Id never noticed before.
Sarah, he said.
Hello, Richard.
We paused. Not awkward, just the pause of people who share history but have no more to say.
How are things? he asked.
Well. And you?
Alright. He hesitated. Heard you opened a second gallery.
Yes, in November.
Good work, he saidand it was sincere, without the old patronising air.
Thank you.
Another pause. He shuffled his feet.
Listen, he began, a business query, if you don’t mind. Im after a space for a small showroom, central Oxford. Know whos handling refurbishments round here? Reliable people.
I looked at him. Something inside me tuggeda pattern hard-worn from twenty-seven years of supporting, helping, sorting things for him. It was ingrained.
But I smiled.
No, Richard, I said, calm and clear. I dont.
He looked surprisednot hurt, just surprised.
Alright, fair enough.
Best of luck, I told him.
And to you.
We went our separate ways. At the corner, I stopped and pulled up my collar. The frosty air tingled pleasantly. Pine scent from the Christmas market drifted over from the next street.
I thought: tonight Ill go by Dalton HouseLilys installing a new collection, people will stop in. Sophie will bake something, as always. Therell be jazz, chatter, the glow from the big windows.
And I walked on, forward.
Life, I realised, isnt about finding someone else to build your wallsits discovering you can create your own, and then opening doors where none existed before.
