Eighteen Years of Silence

Just look at this tablecloth, said Valerie, not even lifting her eyes from her plate. I swear I saw the exact same one at the market, with the stalls the Bangladeshis run. Mustve been about twenty pounds, Id say. Isnt that right, Mark?

Mark smirked, stretching for the bread.

Mum, whats the tablecloth got to do with anything?

Oh, just an observation. She smiled that peculiar smile of hersnever really a smile, more like a blade wrapped in silk. Helen, whered you find your dress? Its so unusual.

My mum was sitting opposite me, staring into her plate. Shed barely touched her food, though I had to admit Valerie could cook quite well. But my mum couldnt eat, not tonight. I could tell by the way she gripped her fork: too tightly, her knuckles white.

Dad was at my right, in the wheelchair wed brought in and placed beside an extra chair. He ate slowly and with care, as always. Dad never rushed through a mealhe said good food deserved respect.

I made the dress myself, I replied evenly.

Yourself? Valeries eyebrows shot up as if Id said something unbelievable. Well, that much is obvious, I suppose. Not that its a bad thing, mind yousome people have a knack for handiwork, others dont. Like taste, Helen. Some are born with it, others develop it. Takes a good upbringing, years and the right environment.

I didnt answer, curling my fingers into a fist under the table, then letting them go. Mark and I had been together eighteen years, and Id learned to keep my mouth shut about these things, telling myself: shes an older woman, set in her ways, not worth arguing. And so Id kept silent, which, no doubt, Valerie took as permission to keep going.

Peter, which part of town did you live in before all this? She gestured vaguely at Dads wheelchair.

We still live in Riverside, he answered calmly. Thirty-eight years in that flat.

Riverside. She nodded with an expression that made the area sound shameful rather than just a part of town. Those are tower blocks, right? Sixties builds?

Five-storey terrace, said Dad. Good flat. Helen and I did it up ourselvesdecorated, everything.

Did it up yourselves, Valerie repeated with that same sly smile. Mark always told me Helen came from a working-class family. I respect thatevery job matters, of course, but

Mum, said Marklouder than usual.

But really, you must admitthe way someones brought up sticks with them for life. You see it in the way they act, their manners, even their clothes. Nothing offensive meant. Its just how it is.

Mum put down her fork. Quiet, no clatter.

I glanced at her. Helen Woods, sixty-nine, retired primary school teacher, forty-two years in education. She sat as upright as ever, yet in her eyes was something that tightened my chest.

Valerie, I said; my voice came out steadier than I expected. My mum spent four decades teaching children to read and count. Shes had a good life. Theres nothing shameful in that.

Nobodys saying there is! my mother-in-law laughed. Gosh, straight onto the defensive, arent you? Thats a trait too, you know. A real lady would let it slide. But you

No, I said. Im done letting things slide.

Silence fell. Mark looked at me, then his mother, then took a sip of wine.

Well, there we are, the celebrations ruined, Valerie said, voice wounded.

Come on, Helen, let it be, Mark muttered. Mum just says what she thinks. She doesnt mean any harm.

Its never meant maliciously, I said.

Just then, I heard a noisea quiet scraping. I didnt immediately recognise it until I saw Dads hands, clenched on the tables edge, white with effort as he slowly, painfully, began to stand from his wheelchair.

Dad, I blurted, dontits not good for you

He didnt look at me. He stared ahead, with a determination I hadnt seen for months. He stoodslowly, every line of his face strained, jaw set, eyes squeezed shut for a second. But he stood. Peter Woods, seventy-eight, retired engineer, whom doctors had recently told to walk only when absolutely necessary.

Were leaving, Dad said.

His voice was even. Not angry, not trembling. Just firmas unyielding as an iron nail.

Peter, what are you Valerie started.

Helen, Dad said, still not glancing at our hostess. Get your bag. Anna, help me.

Mum got up quicker than Id ever seen. I jumped up too, rushing to Dads side. He took my handwarm, slightly trembling.

No one here will ever insult my daughter again, Dad said. Not today. Not ever again. Because there wont be a next time.

Mark didnt move. He just sat, glass in hand, looking at my father as though he were an unexpected event nobody knew how to handle.

We left. I helped Dad to the lift; Mum carried his folded wheelchair. We rode down in silence. I could feel Dads legs trembling, though his back remained rigidthis exit had cost him dearly.

Outside, I settled him back into his chair. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

Its all right, he told me. Its all right, Anna.

And I broke down. Not loud, not dramaticallyjust tears I let flow, because in my fifty-two patient, mostly silent years, no one had done for me what my old, ill dad did that evening. He stood up for me. Against the rules, the pain, all of it. He stood and said: no. No more.

I didnt leap into filing for divorce straight away. It would be a lie to say I left that night knowing for sure. No, for two more weeks I carried it around, turning it over like old letters you cant throw away but never read. Eighteen years is no jokethe flat we bought together, the habits, big and small: morning coffee that Mark excelled at; rare, precious trips to the seaside. The sum of life, which in reality is just so many recurring days.

I wondered if Id overreacted. Maybe Valerie really was just as she seemedblunt, plainspoken, and maybe I should have kept enduring. Maybe being an adult meant learning to sit at the wrong dinner table and smile when pinched.

But then Id remember Dads hands, white, clutching the table. And how he stood.

And realise: no. Not anymore.

The stories Id read in books about dignity and respect were suddenly about me. About how if you dont defend your own dignity, no one else will. Except maybe your father. But I only have oneand hes seventy-eight, and not supposed to walk if he can help it.

I filed for divorce at the end of November. I told Mark two days before, in the evening, in the kitchen. He was making his signature coffee.

I want a divorce, I said.

He turned. Looked at me like Id said something completely out of order, something that didnt fit.

Because of that night? he asked.

Because of eighteen years, I replied.

He set the coffee pot down and sat at the table.

Helen, Mum was out of order, but you know what shes like. She never means it. You know this.

Youve told me that before, I said.

Shes an old lady.

So are my parents.

He was quiet.

What do you want? For me to talk to her? Fine, Ill talk to her.

No. I want a divorce.

Helen, and now he sounded slightly annoyed, the way people do when youre being stubborn for no reason, you know what this means? The flatll have to go. Or be split. You want to go back to Riverside? That poky place of your parents?

Thats when I knew for certain. Not when he first said nothing at Valeries. Not even when he said his mother was just being overly blunt. It was now, when he called our flat that poky place with the same disdain as his mother. He didnt even realise he was speaking her language. After eighteen years, he thought in it.

Yes, I said. Ill go.

He didnt believe me. Thought Id cool off. Or that Id change my mind in the morning. People used to being the one making decisions at home dont understand when someone else makes the final call.

I wont bore with the details of the divorce. Theyre long, dull, and painfulthe kind youre better off living through and letting fade. All Ill say is the solicitor we got was diligent, and it all went through fairly, quietly, because I avoided fuss wherever I could.

I moved back to my parents in December. Mum met me at the door, hugged me, said nothingjust held me for a long minute, then said:

Come on, love. Ive made up your old room for you.

My old room. Where Id grown up. My childhood desk, still there from school days. The shelf of books Id left behind when I got married, because Mark thought they cluttered the place. The tiny window looking over the back garden, where kids make snowmen in the winter.

I set my bag on the bed and stood for ages in that familiar space. Fifty-two. Divorced. The start of something new, yet the word start sounded strange at fifty-two. Or perhaps not strangejust unfamiliar.

Dad was in good spirits that evening, sitting in his armchair by the telly watching a documentary about wildlife, a favourite of his. When I came in, he muted it.

Well then, love, he said. Settle in. Theres plenty of room.

There is, I agreed, laughingunexpectedly, and he laughed too.

Later mum brought tea, and the three of us sat in the tiny kitchen as we had years ago, when life seemed simple and clear. Now, Dad was in a wheelchair, Mum moved more slowly and squinted to readbut I was still their daughter, just with a new stamp in her passport soon.

The tea was hot, Mums fresh scones were dotted with poppy seeds, and the snow fell outside. I felt well. Just well, without any qualifications.

Mark turned up a week later, one Saturday morning before Id had my coffee. He stood at the door with a massive bouquethe must have spent half my old monthly wage on it.

Can we talk? he asked.

I stepped into the hallway. Didnt invite him in.

Say what you need.

He talked for ages. How we could fix things. Hed spoken to his mother, apparently, and shed understood and was ready to apologise. We could put the flat in my namehed find somewhere else. Hed thought it through, he said, and realised he needed me.

I listened. I looked at him and thought: heres a man I spent nearly twenty years with. I know how he sleeps, sneezes, grumbles when annoyed; how he hates flying but would never confess it; how he loved his Meccano sets as a boy, is still drawn to engineering magazines. I knew him very well.

Which is why I could see he hadnt really changed. He offered flats, flowersbecause thats how he saw it: problems could be solved, if you just offered enough. He couldnt grasp that this wasnt about the flat, nor even about his mothers supposed change of heart.

The heart of it was this: when a husband doesnt stick up for his wife, something irrevocable happens to a marriage. Its not just hurt feelingsits a crack in the very foundations, one Id been ignoring for years.

Mark, I said, when hed finished, take your flowers. Give them to your mother if shes so enlightened now.

He looked back and forth.

Are you serious?

Yes.

Helen, youre going to be alone. Fifty-two is not twenty-five. Your future isnt ahead anymore.

I know how old I am. I count each year myself.

So what, youll just go back to painting your pictures?

Yes, I said simply. Ill paint.

He left with the flowers. I poured myself some coffee and stared out at the falling December sleet. I didnt feel triumphant, nor relievedjust quiet and a bit sad, like after a long illness eases and youre left tired, but alive.

I found work in January. The art school on Station Road, three blocks from my parents. I was given a painting class, for children and adults. Not many hours, not much pay, but the work brought with it a glimmer of purpose. That feeling is rare and precious; I learned that late, but I did learn it.

Back at uni Id planned to be a real artistexhibitions, galleries, the rest. Then I married Mark, and life swerved away. He never minded my painting, but saw it as a pleasant little hobbyno more serious than knitting or fussing over houseplants. Nice enough, not a real job.

I didnt try to change his mind. Whats the use? I painted on weekends, sometimes in the evenings: small canvases with nowhere to hang them, landscapes, portraits, still lifes. Stacks of them, behind the wardrobe, under the bed.

Now they all came with me to Riverside, filling my old room. Dad had some hung up, Mum agreedhallway, lounge, even a small riverside sketch in the kitchen Id done six years prior.

Thats the way, Dad said, looking at the river above the fridge. You live surrounded by beauty.

And Dad improved. That surprised me. Since that night at Valeries, its as though a switch flipped in him. The doctor said his numbers were up, his blood pressure steady. He ate better. Started doing arm exercises from physiotherapy.

We spent more time togethertime we hadnt shared before. Married, Id have visited once or twice a month, always in haste, always thinking of the next thing. Now we were side by side every day. Evenings, Id read aloud to him. He loved the gentleness of English countryside writing, books about nature and peace. Sometimes we just talked.

You know, Dad said to me in February, as we watched children sled down the park hill, Id been thinking about you these past years. Something just felt off, but I couldnt place it.

What do you mean?

You didnt glow, he said simply. Like a bulb with a dead filament. Its on but theres no light.

I didnt answer. Just watched a little boy in an orange coat race up the slope, beaming.

Youre glowing now, Dad said. Thats the main thing.

Discovering my calling after fifty wasnt as terrifying as Id thought. The hardest bit was making the decision, believing that what brings you joy could be your real work, not just a break from it. But once Id stepped into that classroom and saw those learners, all different, there because they wanted to be, the fear eased.

My adults group was mostly womenvaried ages, from thirty to seventy. There was Nina, a retired accountant, whod dreamed of painting all her life but had never allowed herself tothought it frivolous. There was Gillian, forty, pharmacy worker, often exhausted after her shift but who came alive at the easel. There was Betty, seventy-two, slow and shaky with her brush, but with such patient pleasure that it was a delight to watch.

With the childrens group, it was something elselouder, wild, unpredictable. Kids arent afraid of mistakes. Theyll splash blue over half the page and just call it skyand (sometimes) it is. The freedom inspires you.

By spring, I was painting for myself againproperly, not just in odd moments. An hour each day if I could. Id set my easel by the window and paint the yard, neighbouring rooftops, bare March trees, the first hints of green near the fence. I painted Dads hands, learned by heartevery vein, knuckle. I painted Mum reading in her chair, our hallway art.

The paintings multiplied, filling every inch of my small roomMum and I hammered in nails wherever we found space.

Helen, she said one day, looking at the walls fondly, its a bit of a gallery in here these days.

You dont mind?

I love it, she smiled. Its a compliment.

I met Nicholas by chance, as most people meet someone important. It was April. I was carrying a big, awkwardly wrapped canvas home and dropped it outside our block. The painting slipped out, paper unraveling, landing on the damp pavement.

Let me help, someone offered.

A man of about sixty, maybe a bit less. Stocky, broad-shouldered, in a workers jacket with a screwdriver sticking out. Workingmans handslarge, calloused, steady.

He picked up the painting, held the paper while I tied it.

Is this a painting?

Yes.

A big one, he said with respect. You paint?

Yes. Are you from this block?

Next one. He smiled. Nicholas.

Anna, I said.

We shook hands the way grown-ups do, no fuss, just simple. He helped me into the lift; normally you forget encounters like that.

But days later, we met again by the postboxes.

Hows your painting? Survive the tumble?

I laughed.

All fine. Just a bit of dirt.

Im glad, he saidgenuinely, not as a pleasantry.

I soon found out he worked at the local maintenance office, did carpentry. At home, he carved wood as a hobby. I learned this gradually, through chats by the shop, on benches outside the flats.

He was a quiet mannot that he couldnt chat, but he never talked for the sake of it. I liked that, before I even consciously realised it.

In May, I asked him to see my paintings. Innocentlyit was after hed asked what I painted, and I couldnt describe it. He said, Sounds impossibleneeds seeing.

He came on a Saturday. Mum baked piesan event in itselfand I tried to suggest it was too much, but she shot me down.

Nicholas walked around slowly, stopping to look. He didnt say muchjust observed, not trying to fill silences with comments or ratings.

He paused in front of Dads hands.

Whose are these?

Dads, I said.

He nodded, silent for a moment.

You can tell you love him, by how you painted them. You cant fake that.

I hadnt expected that. It was simple, but it felt true.

We drank tea and Mums pies, while Dad asked about woodcarving. Nicholas answered straightforwardlyno showing offabout learning from his grandfather, about choosing wood, finding shape in the grain. Dad listened keenlythey found quick kinship, both practical men.

Good man, Dad said after Nicholas left.

I think so too, I murmured.

I didnt rush. That mattered most to me then: not hurrying. After the divorce, once things calmed, I promised not to fill the emptiness with the first person who offered. A void isnt always so; sometimes its a space you must get used to before allowing anything new in.

Nicholas didnt hurry either. He seemed to understand. Wed see each other about, go for groceries if we crossed paths. One day he helped me shift a wardrobe to fit my easel. Another, he brought Mum gooseberries from his allotment. He showed Dad his woodcarvings on his phone, theyd discuss tools for ages.

That summer, we went together to the river. Just sitting, with his fishing rodshe fished like he talked: unhurried, not fussed about a catch, simply enjoying being near water.

I took my sketchbook. He fished, I drew. Sometimes hed peer over, sometimes hed just sit, saying nothinga comfortable silence, the type that doesnt need filling.

You ever thought of an exhibition? he asked once. All your work at home.

I did, I admitted. Ages ago. But

But?

I was afraid, I said, honestly.

Afraid of what?

I thought about it.

That it wasnt good enough. That Im not up to the standard. Real artists are out therethis is just for myself.

He gazed at the river.

I took ages before showing people my woodcarving, he said. Called it messing about. Then a neighbour spotted it and said, This is craft, Nick. Good craft. Nothing to be ashamed of.

And then?

I started showing itbit by bit.

That conversation made me consider an exhibition, for real.

In autumn, I spoke to the art schools head. She said the gallery was small but homely: happy to give staff a show. February was set. Seven months to prepare. I started sorting through paintings, thinking which ones meant most, which to paint anew.

Nicholas was all in from the startnot bossy, not overbearingjust properly helpful. He asked if I needed frames; I mentioned the cost, and he replied:

Ill make them.

Yourself?

Ill make the frames, he said. Tell methe style: plain, oaked, with gilding?

I was a bit stunned.

Its a lot of work, Nicholas.

Not really, he said. Ive a workshop. Got the wood. Give me the sizes.

He made thirty-two frames in three months. Different ones for different works. Brought samples for approval, once even a half-built frame to check the fit. Worked with such care, as if the paintings were his own.

Dad watched all this, mostly in wise silence. Sometimes, after Nicholas visited, Dad would watch me with an expression that needed no words.

Mum was not so quiet.

Anna, she whispered one evening in the kitchen, as if someone might overhear, are you blind?

Mum?

Im just saying. Hes decent. Works hard. And he sees you.

He does, I agreed.

So?

Nothing, Mum, I said. Its all fine.

And it was. Not perfect, not suddenly easyjust right in that I woke each day ready to work, to paint, to live. Dad was alive and near. Mum still baked pies. Nicholas made frames. The children grinned with their first real drawings at school.

This is life, I thought. Not the one I imagined at twentywhere happiness had to be loud, dazzling. A quiet, modest life, with the scent of linseed oil and wood shavings. A real one.

In January, I began to ready the gallery with the headteacher and Mrs. Thompson, another art teacher. Nicholas came with the frames, quietly helping hang the works, measure the heights, move them around, never showing off.

This onehe pointed to Dads handsgoes in the centre. Thats the heart of it.

You think?

Thats what I see. Its your strongest work.

So I put it there.

We launched on the first Friday in February. Unexpectedly, it was packed: pupils and families, local friends, staff. Nina from the adult group came up in her best dress with flowers. Betty brought her granddaughter and stared for ages at a winter scene of our old backyard from my first December back home.

Thats our garden, she told her granddaughter. See? Ive walked there for forty years.

Mum and Dad sat front row. Dad in his best jacket, freshly pressed by Mum. He gazed at the paintings quietlywith an expression I had to turn from more than once to avoid tears.

Nicholas stood at the back, arms folded, smiling faintlyenough.

Mid-evening, I sensed the room shift. I looked round.

Mark was by the door.

I hadnt seen him in months. He looked heavier, smartly dressed in a new, expensive coat. He scanned the crowd with the old appraising look I knew so well.

He caught my eye. I nodded, carried on talking to Mrs. Thompson, braced inside.

He approached in a few minutes.

Congratulations, he said.

Thank you.

He took in the exhibitionthe paintings, the people, the simple hand-written labels.

Not bad, he pronounced. Not bad in that patronising way meaning: passable, given the circumstances.

I like it, I replied.

I see youre in your element. He hesitated. Its all very sweet, Anna. Honestly, it is. But tell mehow do you make ends meet? Art school salaries are peanuts.

Its enough.

Enoughhe echoed. For what? Your shoesthose are three years old. I remember them.

I remember you too, Mark, I said steadily. And what you valued. Including the shoes.

He frowned.

Thats not what I mean. You deserve a proper life. A higher standard. Youre bright, talentedyou could have

What? I asked. Gone back to sitting silent while your mum sniped behind my back?

He dropped his voice.

My mums not the issue. Im talking about us.

There is no us, I said. Not anymore.

Anna. He stepped closer. Look around. A show in a community centre. You deserve more. I can give you morea comfortable life. A proper retirement, you understand?

I looked at him for a long momentno anger, no pity. Just looking at what once mattered, but no longer.

Mark, I said, Im not after comfort, not that way. Im done paying the price I paid to have it. You speak in poundsbecause its your only language. I want to live in a language I understand.

He was silent.

Look there, I pointed at Mum and Dad, seated together. He hasnt been out in a crowd in ages. But he came, because it mattered. Thats whats more, Mark. Understand?

He did. The look on his face told mehe understood, but not in a way that changes anyone. He understood that it was over.

Youve made your choice, he said.

I have, I agreed.

He lingered, looking at the works. At Dads hands, at the snowy garden.

Good paintings, he murmured at last. Almost flatly, but he said it.

Thank you.

He walked out. I watched him go, thinking: thats it. Something has ended, quietly, properly, at last.

Someone touched my elbow. I turnedNicholas.

All right? he asked softly.

Yes, I said. All right.

He nodded. Didnt ask who that was. Didnt pry. Just stood with meenough.

When the crowd thinned out and it was just my family and Nicholas, he wandered the room, inspecting the frames hed made. Mum held Dads hand; Dad gazed at the painting of a fisherman beside the waterone Id painted before meeting Nicholas, though now it seemed about him.

Anna, Dad called.

I went over.

Well done, he said. Plainly, just because he wanted to say it.

You too, I answered, squeezing his hand.

His handwarm, the same one that once clung to that table when he stood for my sake, trembling. I remembered the quiver then, and felt the calm now.

Nice frames, Nicholas, Dad commented. Good wood choice.

Pear, Nicholas answered. Gentle, works well with painting.

Pear-wood frames, Dad mused, as if tasting the words. Well, I never.

Mum got up, gathered leftover scones into a packet from a side table.

Well take these, shall we? Waste not, want not.

I laughedquietly, but honestly.

It was funny and, at the same time, genuine and homely. The exhibition, the paintings, Nicholass pear-wood frames, Mark with his money, Dads hand, the bittersweet end of a chapter, and Mum packaging up scones for later. That was life, compressed into one small hall.

Then Nicholas asked suddenly, Do you eat fish, Helen? Im off to the lake this weekendif I get any, Ill bring some.

We do, Mum replied. Peter loves fish.

Ill see what I catch, he said seriously.

Dad looked at him approvingly.

Nicholas, which lake do you fish?

Longwater, know it?

Know it? Used to go there thirty years ago with a mate. Mists in the morningjust like milk.

Exactly, Nicholas smiled. I always arrive before dawn, for the mists.

They talked about the lake, fish, early mornings. Mum bagged the scones. I stood among my paintings, feeling the completeness of it all. Here it was.

Not cinematic happiness. No glamour, no luxury. Dad and Nicholas chatting about misty lakes. Mum saving scones. Paintings on pear-wood frames. Winters and breakfasts ahead. Canvases still to be painted. All mine.

How does one get through divorce after fifty? Friends sometimes ask, when they hear my storynot directly, but with a How did you do it? Werent you scared? And every time I think: I didnt manage it. One day, my father stood up for me, and I knew silence was costlier than speaking.

A parents support is precious. Not in money, advice, or ready answers. But in an old man standingpainfullyand saying: no one will hurt my daughter here. It changes something inside you. You get permission. To be yourself.

A toxic mother-in-law isnt a villain from a fairy tale. Its the thousand quiet cuts at a table covered in polite conversation. A husband who keeps silentbecause thats easier. A wife who enduresbecause she believes it isnt fatal. Until, one day, it is.

I dont regret my years with Mark. That would be a lie. There were good times too. But nor do I regret leaving. Happiness after divorce sounds like a magazine headline, but behind it is just this: waking up and thinking about what you want to do, not about what mood to manage for someone else.

As for dealing with a mother-in-law, thats another story. Ive rarely met anyone who wounds for fun. Valerie, I believe, meant it honestlythought her truth helpful. But you cant change such people. Only leave the room.

And so, we left.

Now its March. A year and a bit has passed. Dads been out to the lake with Nicholas several times this winter, just to see the iceDad in his chair, Nicholas guiding. Theyd come back red-cheeked and happy.

Mum has mastered a new cabbage pie recipe for Sundays. Ive painted eight new pictures this winter. The school gave us a second classthe adults group has grown.

Last week, Nicholas brought me a tiny carved wooden robin. He put it beside my brushes on my desk.

Whats this?

A robin, he said. I thought youd like it.

I picked it upwarm, pale, detailed. Small and full of life.

Thank you, I said.

Youre welcome.

The robin stands on my table, looking out at the garden where the snows melting and the first sparrows splash in puddles. Soon itll be spring. Ill paint the new shoots at the fence, the March sky thats like no other.

When a husband doesnt stand up for you, it hurts in a unique waynot as when a stranger slights you, but as a silence from someone who should have spoken. Its the answer to a question you never quite voicedabout what you mean to them.

It took me eighteen years to hear it. I dont blame myself. I just know it now.

Next to my robin is a sketchbook. Tomorrow Ill get up early, before the house stirs, take that book into the garden and sketch what its like at seven in March. Later, maybe, paint it in oils. See what comes of it.

Life is here. In a wooden robin, in cabbage pies, in Dads voice saying, Were leavingno one will upset my daughter. In the way Nicholas pauses before remarking on a painting.

I have no idea what comes next. And thats all right. I once thought the future had to be mapped out, secured, predictable. Now I know: its simply the next day you wake, go to the window, see the melting snow and think: Ill get my sketchbook.

***

Anna, said Nicholas, popping his head in as we cleared up the last bits after the show. You tired?

No, I replied. It was the truth. Not at all.

He looked at me, then the paintings, then back.

So, whens the next exhibition?

I laughed.

Let me recover from this one, at least!

All right, he grinned. But think on it. Ive a good plank of oak in, perfect for large frames.

Oak? I raised an eyebrow.

For big canvases, he smiled. If you ever want to attempt something bigger. Oak holds well.

I looked at himat his steady, lined face, the hands that made practical things, both useful and beautiful.

Thank you, Nicholas, I said, for the frames, for todayfor everything.