White Tablecloth, Grey Life
The stew was good. Helen knew this for sure, because shed tasted it three times as she cooked, and each time shed been pleased. The beetroot was young, from the Saturday market; the beef on the bone had simmered for a good two hours; she added the garlic right at the end, just as it should be. On the table: candles and her finest white linen tablecloth, the one shed saved for special occasions. Fifteen years. That had to count as special.
It was getting dark outside. October in Nottingham always felt like this: damp, grey, the sharp smell of wet leaves mixed with exhaust fumes. Helen adjusted the fork on the right side of the plate, smoothed the cloth cornerthough it was perfectly straightand then stopped, just standing in the centre of the kitchen, listening to the clock ticking above the fridge.
Richard came home at half-eight. She heard the struggle with the lock, the heavy thump of his shopping bag, the switch flicked in the hallway.
Well, what have you got tonight? he said, poking his head around the kitchen door, not even out of his coat, cheeks red from the cold.
Come on, love, wash your hands and have a seat. Helen smiled. Ive made stew, roast chicken, and a salad as well.
Richard shrugged off his coat right there by the kitchen door, slinging it onto a chair. He glanced around.
Candles? Seriously?
Well, its our anniversary, Rich.
He said nothing, just went to the sink, quickly rinsed his hands, and sat down. Helen ladled out the stew, set his bowl in front of him. The sour cream was proper, full-fat from the market. She put a spoonful on top, the way he liked.
Richard sniffed it, took a spoonful, chewed thoughtfully.
Its a bit tangy.
Helen sat across from him.
Is it? I thought it was about right.
My mum makes it differently. Hers has I dont know, more flavour. Thats the real taste.
Helen took up her own spoon.
Eat before it gets cold.
I am. Richard spun the bowl. And what was the point of the white tablecloth? Youll drip on it.
I wont drip.
Well see. He snorted. Mum always puts out a dark tablecloth on special occasions. Burgundy. Practical. And looks good too.
Helen stared at the candles. The little flame quivered as Richard moved at the table.
Rich, she said calmly, its fifteen years today.
I know.
You didnt say anything when you walked in.
He looked at her, surprised, almost hurt.
Whatd you want me to say? Congratulations? We live together, its not a birthday.
Well, I dont know. Fifteen years, its
Its fifteen years, he cut in. Right, wheres the chicken?
Helen got up, brought the chicken out of the oven. Golden, herbedRichard liked herbs.
Dry, he said, slicing a piece off.
Ive only just brought it out.
Must have left it in too long. Mum covers hers with foilalways comes out juicy.
Helen served herself a little chicken. Chewed. Outside, a car drove past, slicing a strip of light across the ceiling.
Did you see your mum today? she asked.
I stopped in after work. Why?
No reason. Just wondered.
He glanced again at the tablecloth.
You shouldnt have bothered with the white one, Helen. Honestly. Mum always sets the table properlywith matching crockery, good napkins, and she slices the bread thin. Look at this, he nodded at her bread. Youve cut it in wedges.
Helen set down her fork. Not sharply, just quietly, next to the plate.
Something inside clenched and eased again. Like a fist.
Richard, she said, her voice steady even to her own surprise, do you hear yourself?
He looked at her, mildly annoyed, as someone interrupted at supper.
What? Im just saying my mums better at it, thats not an insult.
You came in the door. Didnt say happy anniversary. Picked the food apart. The tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. I spent three hours cooking, Rich.
So? Thats your job.
Helen paused for a moment.
My job, she echoed, as if tasting the phrase.
Of course. Youre home, you cook. I work and pay the bills. Thats how it is.
And fifteen years, thats just what, a statistic?
Helen, what do you want? Poetry? Mum always saidless romance, more order at home, thats what keeps the family together.
The candle flickered. Just once. As if it heard something too.
Helen stood, cleared her plate, walked to the window, looking at the wet roofs, yellow windows, the tree in the yard already almost bare.
She turned back.
Richard, pack your things.
He looked up.
What?
Pack your things. Leave. Please.
He stared at her like shed started speaking in tongues, then laugheda quick, harsh sound.
Youre serious?
I am.
Over a stew?
Not over the stew.
What then? Now something sharp edged his tone. Because I mentioned Mum? Helen, this is ridiculous.
I dont think its funny.
So youre upset? Fine, sorry then. Sit down and eat.
No, Richard.
He stared at her. She stood by the window, poised, calm. He probably expected tears, a raised voice, a door slammed. Anything else. Not this calm.
Youre not joking, he said slowly.
No.
Silence. The clock ticked. The candles burned.
So, just because of one conversation
Not one Helen began.
No, Richard. Fifteen years of the same conversation. Go. Take what you need. Get the rest another time.
Richard stood motionless for a minute, then turned and went to the bedroom. She heard him open the wardrobe, the rustle of a bag. She stayed in the kitchen, watching the candles burn, steady and unwavering.
When he came out with a bag, he paused in the kitchen doorway. He looked at the table. At the white cloth, at the stew, at the wedges of bread.
Youll regret this, he said.
Maybe, Helen replied. Goodbye, Richard.
The door shut. The lock clicked. She listened to the receding footsteps down the stairs.
She blew out the candles. There was no point in letting them burn now. Washed up. The stew went in the fridge. She wasnt hungry.
The flat smelled of fried onions and damp, like always in October, when the stairwells drafty and the radiators havent kicked in properly yet.
Helen went to bed at half ten. Sleep didnt come right awayshe watched the ceiling, listened to the neighbours telly murmuring through the walls, and thought only one thing: she wasnt crying. Fancy that.
***
Margaret opened the door before Richard could ring a second time. She always did, as if she sensed his arrival or stood waiting.
Richie! She threw up her hands, eyed his bag. What on earths happened?
She threw me out, he said, short.
Who? Thather? Margaret stepped aside, letting him in. Didnt I tell you, how many times did I say? Come in, come inIve made soup. Potato and chicken, just how you like.
He took off his shoes, headed to the kitchen, sat. The flat smelled of food and that unique old-lady scent: lavender sachets, a hint of camphor, mingled with kitchen smells.
His mother fussed at the stove, never stopping talking.
I knew from the start she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, Richard. Children dont come to cold womennature knows, see. Here, eat, Ive sliced good bread.
The bread was thin, even slices. Richard looked at it, somehow remembering that Helen always cut fat chunks.
Mum, dont start.
What do you mean dont start? Its true! Fifteen years she made you miserablewhat for? No children, nothing to show for it. Try the soup.
The soup was hot, richjust like she said. Richard ate in silence.
The first days drifted. He went to work, came home, ate with his mother, watched television. Margaret cooked daily, with gusto. She pulled out homemade rissoles, saying, You ought to eat more, love. You look grey.
On the third day, she unpacked his bag herself while he was at work.
Dont bother with that shirt again. Its all creased, I noticed, she told him at tea. Ill iron the blueit suits you.
I like the grey, said Richard.
Never mind that. Blue is better.
He shrugged, ate his meal, drank tea. She cleared the table, told him about Mrs. Wilson upstairs, doing just fine on her own, you see. There was something about Helen hidden in the tale, but Richard barely listened.
A week in, his mum declared his shoes were falling apart and theyd be shoe-shopping Saturday.
Mum, theyre fine.
No, Richard, I can tell. The soles coming away.
Its not.
It is. Well go Saturday.
They went. She picked pairs, making him try on what she fancied, not what he did. He wanted basic black, flat. She chose brown with a little buckle.
Look how smart.
I dont like them.
Oh, dont be childish, Richard. These are better.
The shop girl avoided his eyes. Richard looked at himself in the mirror by the till. Middle-aged man. Brown shoes with a buckle. No opinion at all on his own reflection.
He bought the brown shoes.
In the evenings she sat opposite, regaling him with tales of how hed been a good boy, how shed raised him alone, and how Helen never appreciated any of it. Richard nodded.
Sometimes, he thought about the white tablecloth. The candles. He couldnt see why shed botheredfifteen years, whats the fuss? Still, he dwelled on it.
And on how she didnt cry. Didnt shout. Just stood by the window and asked him to go. The calm in herhe couldnt place it. Hed expected something else entirely.
By the end of the first month, his mother crafted his routinethough she didnt call it that: Tuesday, youve got a doctors appointment, Ive booked it; Thursday, were at Aunt Jeans; Friday, dont be latepie for tea and I cant stand waiting.
He was late Friday because there was a staff meeting at work. He rang to warn her. She talked his ear off as he rode the bus, and he just stared into the black window.
The pie was tasty. Everything was. But Richard felt a quiet, constant pressure on his chestlike breathing less air than needed.
***
Helens first three weeks were a blur.
She went to work, came back, cooked herself something simple, ate, went to bed. Evenings were hardest; the flats silence was daunting at first, then just became silence.
Her friend Alice called every other day: Hel, are you alright? Come stay, if you like? Helen always shrugged it off. Alice turned up anyway the first Saturday, with wine and biscuits. They sat in the kitchen till two in the morning, Helen talking about the candles, the stew, the mum with her perfect table setting; Alice listened, occasionally muttering, What a pillock, which helped, in a strange way.
You did the right thing, Alice said before leaving. Absolutely right, Hel.
Its scary, Helen admitted.
I know. But itll get easier.
After Alice left, Helen stood in the lounge, gazing at the heavy navy curtains. Richard had picked those, years ago, for practicality. Shed never thought about them. Curtains are curtains, shed always said.
The next day she took them down.
She spent nearly two hours at itheavy rail, step stool, faffing about. She folded the curtains and shoved them in a cupboard. Instantly, the grey October light, dull and cool, was better than the old darkness.
She moved the sofa, too. Well, she called on Mr. Potts, the retired neighbour, always willing to lend a hand. Now the couch was by the window, the light fell on it differently.
It was odd. But it felt good.
By the second week, she slept betternot brilliantly, but enough to stop staring at the ceiling all night.
Work didnt change. Helen was a diligent, reliable accounts clerknever late, papers always immaculate. Her colleagues respected her, especially Mrs. Knight, the chief accountant: short, stern, always in pearl earrings, private about herself but keen, respectful to Helen.
At Octobers end, Mrs. Knight called her into the office.
Im retiring next year, Helen. Off to my daughters. The director wants you to take my place. Chief Accountant.
Helen blinked, then finally said, Me?
You. Ive had my eye on you a year. Say yes.
She caught the bus home, mulling the offer. Chief Accountanta step up, more weight. Shed always shied from it slightly. Richard once said, Why bother with promotion? I earn enough. Shed agreed at the time, not really objecting.
Now she watched the city blur by, streetlights flashing, and thought: why not?
November was busy. She started decorating, within her means: repainted the bedroom a soft yellow, swapped in pale linen curtains, bought a new orange lampshadewarm and cheerful. Each little change made the flat more hers.
She got geranium pots, set them on the sill. The scent of green, slightly spicy, matched the curtains and yellow walls.
Legal matters with Richard all went through solicitorscalm and fuss-free. The flat was hers; he didnt contest. Maybe his mother had persuaded him, maybe he just gave up.
In December, Helen accepted the Chief Accountant job. Mrs. Knight shook her hand.
Well done, she said, and, for the first time ever, smileda deep, genuine smile.
Helen saw in the New Year at Alices: big noisy crowd, kids, dogs, bowler hats, mountains of potato salad. It was fun, if a little melancholythe familiar sadness of New Years, looking back. She raised a glass of fizz, watched fireworks pop outside, and thoughtshed made it through a year, and she was alive. Maybe even fine.
***
Richards winter didnt fare so well.
His mother decided he needed a doctor. Booked him in with the GP, then the heart specialist, then the stomach man because, You look peaky, Rich, wed better check. Off he went; they all declared him fit for his age. Margaret sighed. Almost seemed disappointed nothing was wrong.
He was tetchy at work now; colleagues noticed. Peterson, from the smoking area, asked once,
Whats up with you lately?
Nothing, Richard muttered.
Problems at home?
No.
Peterson stubbed his cigarette, left. Richard lingered by the filthy window looking at the factory yard. The snow outside was either grey or trampled, slick with oil in places. He didnt want to go back to his desk, or home, or anywhere.
But thenwhere did he want to go?
No answer.
Margaret always had tea waiting. She cared, he knew that. But every meal came with orders for tomorrowwhat to wear, where to go, when to be home. If he was late, she rang. Didnt answer, she rang again. Then a text: Im worried, Richwhere are you?
One February night, he stayed late at Petersonshockey match and a pint. He came in at half ten.
Margaret sat at the kitchen table with the light off; when he came in, she flicked it on and fixed him with a stare.
Where were you?
I told you Id be out.
Wont be back early, she sniffed. Thats not an explanation. I worried myself sick.
Mum
Eat, I saved you some. She put a plate of rissoles in front of him. And dont turn your phone offI rang three times.
I didnt, I just didnt hear. The match was on.
She repeated the match as if it were some filthy sin.
Richard ate, eyes on the table.
Hed noticed: he was always having to explain himself. Always. Why late. Why that shirt. Why no call. Why not eat. Why eat that. Why want something different.
He remembered a time hed boasted, Mum always knows whats what. Hed said it with pride. Now, that memory embarrassed him.
In March he tried to rent a bedsitlooked up listings, found a decent deal near work. Told Margaret.
She quietly weptnot dramatically, no reproach. Just tears, and said, You must be unhappy here. Im in your way. I get it, Rich.
He didnt rent the room.
Some nights, Helen invaded his dreamsnot romantically, just scenes: making tea in the kitchen, in the car together. Mundane, really. Hed wake up and stare at the ceiling, with nothing but ceiling above him.
Hed wonder what she was doing, how she was.
Then hed catch himself: never mind, shes probably found someone.
That thought annoyed him.
***
February surprised with bright snow. Actual white. Helen squinted heading to the bus, thinking she really ought to treat herself to sunglasses.
She did. Pink lenses, narrow frame. Tried them on in the shop and laughed at her reflectionridiculous, but wonderful.
Work was full-on. The new responsibilities were tough but manageable. Sometimes she stayed till eight, worked through accounts, discussed things with the director, Mr. Thomas: solid, unfussy, valued precision. He was pleased, Helen could sense it.
Colleagues treated her well. Daisy, the young assistant, watched her with wide-eyed respect and occasionally brought her coffee without asking. Helen always thanked her; Daisy blushed.
In March, Alice dragged her to a birthday party for an old mate, Natalie. Come on, Hel, cant stay home foreverpromise, itll be great.
Natalie was a bubbly hostess, a warm flat, two cats and a massive rubber plant. There were a dozen guests. Helen clung to Alice at first then got chatting with the woman next to her, a maths teacherthey talked books the whole time.
Alex sat opposite. She barely noticed him at firstone of those men who blend into the background, a bit short, hair mostly silver, wearing a plain grey jumper. He was a quiet sort, attentive listener, smiled now and then.
Toward the end of the night, they ended up at the window with mugs of tea. He asked her a question; she replied; back and forth it wenteasy, natural. He was an engineer, worked for a design firm, widowed four years from cancer. He said it simply, as someone whod long since come to terms.
How do you know Natalie? Helen asked.
Through her ex-husband, actually. He moved away but Natalies a mate now. He sipped his tea. Youre a uni friend of Alice?
Since college, yes.
Good friends matter, he said.
They do, said Helen.
They swapped numbersno expectations. Three days later he texted for coffee; she said yes.
They met at a tiny café near her work. Chatted for two hours. She told her divorce story, he just listenedno advice, no judgement. He told his story. Out on the pavement, they lingered, cold but happy. Can I call again? he asked. Yes, please, she answered.
Then came the river walk. Then a cinema trip. Then, one April evening, he invited her to dinner at his.
***
Alex lived on the top floor of an old brick block. Helen climbed the stairsbottle of wine clutched tightthinking, Ill walk in and itll be a bachelors mess and Ill have to pretend its normal. A routine kind of nerves for someone used to always being weighed and criticised.
She rang.
The door opened. The flat smelled faintly of apples, warm and spiced.
Come in, Alex smiled. I got carried away and made an apple pie. Hope you dont mind?
Id love that, Helen said.
The flat was simple. Not spotless but alive: books and tools jumbled on the hall shelf, a newspaper on the kitchen table. Not staged or showy. Just lived-in.
She helped him with salad: she sliced tomatoes, he diced cheese. They talked, sometimes fell silentnever uncomfortable.
Somewhere inside, she braced herself. Any moment now: Wouldve been better with cucumbers, or, Wrong sauce, or just a lookshed learned those in fifteen years.
It didnt come. They sat, he poured wine, glanced at the table, then her.
Thanks for coming, he saidjust those words, thats all.
Helen looked down at her plate and felt something inside her quietly, gently release. As if shed been holding tension on a thread for so long, and now finally could let go.
Outside, April dusk deepened. Street lamps flickered; a slim branch danced in the wind already covered in tiny green leaves. The pie baked quietly, apple scent filling every corner.
They talked on: about childhood, about how shed almost become a teacher but ended up an accountant, about a heritage project he was working on. Helen thought it sounded good, fixing up old things.
When she left, he walked her to the stairs.
Im glad we met, he said.
On the way home, Helen found her mind not on Alex, or not solely him. She thought about pie, and the strange realisation that you could, after all, come to someones place, sit, eat, and not be braced for criticism. Just visit, enjoy supper. Go home, feeling lighter.
***
Summer rolled by: gentle, content.
Helen and Alex saw each other often, without hurry. Saturday mornings at the marketshe picked herbs and sour cream, he bought fish. Cooking together was pleasant; it felt completely differentnothing like cooking for yourself, or for censure.
In July she stayed over for the first time, simply didnt go home because it was late and she didnt want to. He made morning coffee, brought it into bedno ceremony, just placed it down and sat with her.
Working today? he asked.
From midday.
Want to go to the market for cherries?
Helen cradled her mug with both hands. Outside, the summer sky dazzled, swifts shrieked somewhere far off. She felt a sudden urge to crybut not from sorrow, from something else. The sudden knowledge of being happy.
Id like that, she said.
In autumn, Alex suggested she move in. Not formal, no ring, no flowersjust over the washing up one evening:
Helen, why dont you move here? I think youd be happy here. Plenty of spaceand Id like it too.
Ill need to think.
Of course. Take your time.
She thought for two weeks. Then she said yes.
In November, she moved. She let her flat, decided not to sell yet. She brought books, the geraniums, her orange lampshade, linen curtains. Alex rearranged the shelving so her books would fit. They put them up togetherhis tech books, her novels all mixed upit looked right.
December: they registered their relationship at the town hall. No fussonly Alice and Alexs mate Peter as witnesses. They celebrated at a quiet restaurant, four of themdelicious, funny, Alice a bit weepy, swearing, Its only happiness, ignore me.
And in January, Helen found out she was pregnant.
She stood in the bathroom, test in her hand, staring at two lines. Sat on the edge of the bath, motionless for ten minutes.
She was forty-three. Shed always assumed children werent in the cards. Richard hadnt wanted, or maybe she hadntthey simply never spoke about it, time drifted on. The doctors never gave warnings, but years ago shed just accepted: not happening.
And now.
Alex was in the study, sketching something. She appeared silently at the doorhe noticed, turned.
Whats up? he said softly.
She handed him the test. He examined it, thoughtful, silent. Then stood and hugged herno words, just held her tight.
Finally, he said, Thats wonderful, Helen. Really wonderful.
She buried her face in his shoulder and at last crieddeep, wrenching sobs she hadnt managed before. He just held her, murmuring, Its fine. Its really fine.
***
April returned, another year. Again: the riverside, the café, but now Helen strolled with a waddle, cradling her belly; Alex walked close, gently steadying her arm sometimes.
Six months along. Everyone at work knew. Mr. Thomas said, Congratulations, Mrs. Inglewood. Your job is safe, no need to worry. Daisys respect was now awe, the way young women look at those who know how to live.
Their shared flat now bristled with baby things: a cot waiting in pieces, a moon-shaped night-light, drawers of tiny suits. Helen sometimes opened them for the sake of touching those small clothesreal, reassuring.
Mornings, she sipped tea at the window, watching the grass thicken, breathing in the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness from the neighbours apple tree just beginning to bloom. It was peaceful, good.
Sometimes, especially at night, after Alex fell asleep and she listened to the tiny life turn inside her, shed think about the pastnot with hurt, not with regret, more how you glance at an old photograph: that was life once, those were people. A twinge of sorrow for somethingwhat, she couldnt say exactly. Perhaps it was the fifteen years gone that failed to deliver what they mightve. Perhaps for her old self, diligently preparing stew, laying a white cloth.
She had no news of Richard. Alice mentioned bumping into him at the supermarkethe looked older, she said. Helen nodded, said nothing. She wished him no ill. He was simply another story, foreign now, no longer hers.
***
Richard sat in his mothers kitchen.
April outside again, but in here, it might as well be permanent winter: heavy curtains blocked out any hint of spring, the same old ornaments lined the shelves, and the same old musty, medicinal, ever-present smell.
Margaret toiled at the stove, always talking.
You look dreadful again, Richard. You want my opinion: proper doctor, not the dodgy one at your firm. Ive found a good heart man at the clinic. Ill book you in.
Im fine, Mum.
Youd never know it yourself, she declared, sure as ever she knew best. Men never feel it till too late. Your father said he was fine, then look how that turned out.
Richard looked at the table.
Blue-and-white checked tablecloth: practical. Mums rightyou cant stain it.
She set soup before him.
Eat up while its hot. Beef and barley. You like beef and barley.
I do, he said.
The soup was good. Mum was a good cook.
Richard, she said, settling opposite him with tea, Did you think about what I said? About Janet?
He looked up.
No, I didnt.
You should. Shes decent, a widow, has her own place. She was asking after you.
Mum.
What? Youre forty-five, Richard. Man needs a woman, thats just sense.
I have a woman, he muttered, surprised to hear it.
His mother stared at him.
Wheres that then?
Nowhere. He stared at his soup. I meanI dont need Janet. Ill manage.
How, Richard? Sitting here, staring out the window? I see ityou think about her. About your Helen. But why? She threw you out. Women like that
Mum, he said, and something in his tone made her stop.
They fell quiet. The wall clock ticked. Bright birds trilled insistently outside.
Eat up, itll go cold, she said at last. Who else will look after you but your mum?
Richard stared into his bowl.
The soup was good. Really good. Mum could cook.
He took a spoonful and ate. Ate and thought. Thought about coming home that day in October, tired, irritable, going on about her tablecloth. About the stew. About how Mum knew best.
He hadnt understood then that it wasnt about the tablecloth. What was it about? He was only just now, far too late, beginning to work it outthe way people do who never face things in time.
He was trapped. The word came from nowhere, so sharp he nearly put down his spoon. Trapped. Hed thought the cage had been Helensher cooking, her ways. But it hadnt been Helen, not really. Shed simply been the one making allowances, constantly. The cage was his own; hed dragged it everywhere, from mums, to marriage, back again.
Nice soup? his mother asked.
Its good, Mum, he said.
I knew it, she sighed, satisfied. You see? Youd be lost without me, Richard.
He didnt answer.
Outside, a bird sang louder. Spring broke in relentlessly, a bright streak of unnecessary light slipping under the curtains.
Richard hunched over his soup and finished eating.
***
Helen, that April evening, stood on the balcony of what was now her and Alexs shared flat, gazing at the sunset. Her belly was big, awkward; standing there was tough, but she needed the air. From below came the scent of thawed earth and something green you cant namesomething that only belongs to spring.
Inside, Alex was on the phone, talking work, his voice steady and calm. Two mugs sat on the kitchen table, the orange lampshade glowing in the corner, just as shed brought with her.
Helen rested a hand on her bump. The baby kicked, lazy, end-of-day.
Well, hello, whispered Helen into the quiet.
She felt afraid. She felt good. It was a soft, honest kind of happinessuntidy but true, with no guarantees or pretty promisesonly this: an April sunset, the smell of living earth, the warm light behind her, and a little life inside, stirring and waiting its turn.
Helen stood a while longer.
Then went indoors.
