by Beth O'Leary
I try to remember the bittersweet panic of discovering I was pregnant. That time was a complicated one for me and Wade. We weren’t married when Marian was conceived. Not even engaged, actually. I did a very good job covering the baby bump in the wedding photos, so now nobody’s the wiser—not even Marian—and I prefer it that way. But I remember, in among the chaos, those moments of pure panic that sent me spinning, just like Martha is now.
It was the change of plan that upset me the most. There would be no job down in London now, no changing the world, no adventures—or rather, the biggest adventure, but one I’d be undertaking at home. There was no question of leaving Hamleigh now. And as for men … well, it would be Wade, forever. He did the honest thing and proposed, and I was grateful. Who knows what my mother and father would have done with me if he hadn’t.
I take Martha’s hand. “You know what you need, love?” I tell her. “You need a list. Let’s get a pen and paper and sort through all the projects that need doing before the baby comes, then we can make a plan, and a backup plan.”
She smiles at that. “I can see where Leena gets her Leena-ness from, Mrs. Cotton.”
“Call me Eileen, would you?” I say. “I don’t much feel like a Mrs. any longer.”
I pull out my new project diary to start on Martha’s list.
“Oh! Have you spoken to the landlord about the communal area?” I ask, catching sight of spruce up on my last to-do list.
Martha sits up straighter, wiping her face. “Yeah, I meant to say: he loved the idea. Said he’d even give a bit of money toward it. Only five hundred quid, but…”
“Five hundred pounds?” I gawp. “That’ll be plenty!” I pause, looking at Martha. She looks like she’s been worrying here on the sofa for a while. “I don’t suppose you fancy getting started on it? We can work on that list of yours afterward.”
“Actually, yes, do you know what—let’s do it. I’ve done quite enough wallowy weeping.” She stands up, rubbing her eyes. “I was thinking we could try the antique place down the road, see if we can get some nice furniture without spending too much?”
I smile. “I’ve got a better idea.”
* * *
“Oh. My. God.” Martha clutches her throat. “This place. It’s a treasure trove. It’s—is that a genuine Chesterfield? Behind that other armchair?”
She starts clambering over one of Letitia’s many coffee tables in her eagerness to get to the armchairs; I reach out to steady her, laughing.
“Easy, love. We’re going to need some help moving all this.”
“And you’re sure we can use it downstairs?” Martha asks Letitia, wide-eyed.
Letitia shrugs. “Why not?” she says. “As long as it doesn’t go walkabout, I don’t mind lending it. Especially if it…” She swallows. “I like the sound of a communal area. It might be a nice way to meet people.”
I pause in thought, fiddling with one of Letitia’s bowls of trinkets. There must be lots of people like Letitia out there. I can’t imagine other apartment blocks are any better at getting people together than this one. It must be hard, living alone in this city, especially for the elderly.
“Do you think the landlord would let us use the space for something … a bit … bigger?” I ask Martha.
“Why, what are you thinking?”
“I’m not quite sure,” I say. “But … Letitia, do you happen to have a few spare dining tables?”
“I’ve got some in storage,” she says. “In the basement.”
Martha looks like she’s about to faint. “Storage!” she says. “There’s storage!”
“Lead the way,” I say to Letitia. “And we need to collect some assistants en route. I have just the people.”
The rude sandal-wearers who rolled their eyes at me are called Rupert and Aurora, I have discovered (thanks to thin party-walls). I knock firmly on their door, with Letitia and Martha on either side of me.
Rupert answers and looks immediately wrongfooted. He pats absently at his rounded belly and tucks his hair behind his ears.
“Umm, hi,” he says. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name—Isla, was it?”
“Eileen,” I say. “Eileen Cotton. This is Martha, and Letitia. And you are?”
“Rupert,” he says, offering me his hand. It’s splattered with paint.
I shake it, but only after a beat or two. There’s neighborly, and then there’s having no backbone.
“Listen, Eileen, I’ve been meaning to catch you and apologize,” Rupert says, looking abashed. “My girlfriend can be a little grouchy when she’s working on a new piece—she’s a sculptor. She was grappling with some tricky ironwork when we first met you and she’d not eaten for almost a day and … she was pretty rude. I’m really sorry. She is too.”
My smile becomes somewhat less haughty. “Well. We can all be bad-tempered when we’re hungry,” I say graciously. “And if you’re looking to make amends, we have just the job for you. Come on.”
“What … now?”
I turn to look at him again. “Busy, are you?”
“No, no,” he says hurriedly. “Let me just get some shoes. I’m all yours.”
* * *
We’re standing in a loose circle at the center of our soon-to-be communal space, a hodgepodge of furniture on all sides, sunlight streaming through the beautiful old windows.
Now that they’re all looking at me so expectantly, my confidence is wavering. I felt like my old self for a moment there; now I’m reminded of that blank-faced circle in the village hall whenever I suggest a new idea at a Neighborhood Watch meeting.
I swallow. Nothing ventured, and all that, I remind myself. What would Leena do?
“I thought we could have a club,” I say, fidgeting with the strap of my handbag. “There could be activities—dominoes, card games, Scrabble, that sort of thing. And a hot meal, if we can find a way to pay for it. Being here in London, at my age, it’s making me realize it might get lonely, for some older people.”
There’s a long silence.
“It’s probably a terrible idea. Basil is always telling me my projects are too ambitious. But—I—once, when I was younger, I was going to come to London and work on something a bit like this, but for young people. And now I think it would be … well, it would feel very special for me to be able to create a community here, only for older people.” I shrug rather helplessly. “Perhaps it can’t be done. I don’t really know where I’d even begin.”
“Floorboards,” Martha says suddenly.
We all look at her.
“Sorry,” she says, bouncing slightly on her toes. “But I think underneath this mangy carpet there are floorboards, and I just thought that might be the place to start if we want to make the place feel more inviting. And then we can have board games tables there, card games here—maybe bridge, my granddad loves bridge. And a long table here, along the back of the space, for everyone to eat together.” She smiles at me. “I love your idea, Eileen. It’s brilliant. And it’s not too ambitious at all.”
“There’s no such thing,” Fitz says. “Or so Leena always tells me when I’m trying to make excuses not to apply for jobs.” He winks at me. Fitz walked in just as we were dragging a large trestle table up from Letitia’s storage area, and—bless him—he dropped his bags and rolled his sleeves up and got stuck right in. He’s been moving furniture ever since.
“What do you think, Letitia?” I ask, rather nervously. “Do you think anyone would come?”
“I would,” she says after a moment. “And I think there are other people like me, out there, though I’ve never been very sure how to find them.”
That’s the next challenge, certainly. I unzip my handbag and pull out my project diary, itching to get started on a new list.
“I’ll speak with the landlord again, and then I’ll email around the building to check they’re all happy,” Martha says.
Letitia pulls a face. “Do we have to ask everyone in the building? Whoever complained about me sitting h
ere before, they probably don’t want a whole lot of oldies pottering around down here for a club, do they?”
My face falls. “Oh.”
“Someone complained about you sitting down here?” Fitz says, straightening up from where he’s trying to pull up a corner of the carpet on Martha’s instruction. “Jeez, that’s awful!”
Letitia shrugs.
“Well,” Fitz says, “whoever it was, they’ve probably moved out by now. I’m pretty sure Leena and Martha and me are the longest running residents here these days.”
“I’ve lived here for thirty years,” Letitia says helpfully.
Fitz gawps at her. “Oh. Wow. You win.”
“I could run an art class,” Rupert says suddenly, gazing at the corner of the room Martha had yet to allocate to any purpose. “For the club. Aurora and I could do it together. We’ve got loads of old bits and bobs, spare paints and chalks, that sort of thing.”
I beam at him, heart lifting again. “Wonderful!”
“And the guy in Flat 17 is a magician. I bet he could do the odd show, or even a workshop,” Rupert offers.
I click my pen, beaming more broadly than ever. “Right,” I say. “Step one: floorboards. Step two…”
* * *
After an exhausting and wonderful day of planning, painting, and directing furniture about the place, I collapse into bed and sleep more deeply than I have in years. When I wake, it strikes me that I didn’t think to thank Letitia for donating all that furniture. It was incredibly generous of her. I am seized by a sudden urge to return the generosity, and I swing my legs out of bed with such alacrity I have to take a moment to recover before getting up.
“You want to go shopping?” Letitia says suspiciously when I turn up outside her door with my most comfortable shoes and my largest shopping bag. “For what?”
“New clothes! My treat, to say thank you!”
“Oh, you mustn’t spend any money on me,” Letitia says, looking horrified.
I lean in. “My ex-husband hasn’t a clue of all the savings I’ve squirreled away over the years, and I plan on spending them before he notices and tries to get his hands on them. Come on. Give me a hand.”
That gets a grin out of Letitia. “I’m not fussed about fashion,” she says. “And where would we shop?” Her grin fades; she looks slightly nervous. “Not Oxford Street or something?”
I have no plans to repeat the experience of visiting Oxford Street. I got stabbed by an umbrella, shouted at by an angry American tourist, and, oddly, followed around Primark by a security guard.
“No, we’re going to the charity shops,” I say. “There’s five within a ten-minute walk of the building and they’re packed full of the bargains fancy London sorts have thrown out.”
Letitia brightens. I suspected charity shops would be more her cup of tea than those high-street places that only seem to sell clothes for tall people with gigantic bosoms and tiny waists. And even though this part of London seemed a little scary at first—what with all the graffiti, the tattoo parlors, the motorbikes—I much prefer it to the noise and bustle of London’s center now.
Since Fitz took me out shopping, I have learned all about “make-overs.” Fitz had me trying on all sorts of ridiculous things—skirts that showed my knees, shoes that you couldn’t wear stockings with. But I realized afterward it was all a clever ploy to make me more adventurous. Once I’d tried on a short denim skirt my comfort zone was so severely stretched that it didn’t seem too much of a leap to buy myself the long-sleeved linen dress I’d worn for my third date with Tod, for example, and after forcing my feet into heeled sandals, the lovely leather boots he persuaded me to borrow from Leena seemed quite comfortable.
I try this with Letitia, only I go a bit too far and she almost bolts from Save the Children when I attempt to wrestle her into a fitted pink blouse. I take a new tack and talk to her about her taste, but she stubbornly insists she has no interest in fashion and is perfectly happy in her navy-blue tunic and it doesn’t need washing as often as people think.
At last, just when I’m about to give up, I catch her eyeing an embroidered jacket in Help the Aged. The penny drops. I remember what an extraordinary cove of oddities Letitia’s flat is, and I take a closer look at her.
“What are you looking at?” she asks suspiciously.
“Your earrings,” I say. “They’re beautiful. And the last pair I saw you in were lovely too.”
“Oh.” She looks pleased. “Thank you. They’re 1940s—I found them at a flea market and polished them up myself.”
“What a find!” I hustle her out of Help the Aged toward the gigantic Oxfam where Fitz found himself three floral shirts. “Look,” I say, as casually as I can, “they have a vintage rail. Gosh, look at the curious ivy pattern on this skirt!”
If Letitia were a cat, her ears would be pricking up. She sidles closer and reaches to stroke the fabric.
I need to change how Letitia views clothes. She’s a magpie, she collects beautiful things—so why not decorate herself with them too? If she paid half as much attention to herself as she does to her home, well. She might still look odd, but at least she’d be taking some pride in her appearance.
“Shall I … try this on?” Letitia says nervously, holding the ivy-patterned skirt.
“Why not?” I ask, already pushing her toward the changing room.
15
Leena
Ant/Dec wakes me, as has become our routine; I am actually becoming quite fond of a furry head in my face first thing. It’s much nicer than an alarm.
As he jumps down from the bed, he knocks Mum’s moonstone from the bedside table. I pick it up slowly, rolling it between my fingers. It’s tinged with blue, kind of alien-looking. I wonder who decided it meant “new beginnings.”
Hesitantly, I reach for my phone. There’s a goodnight message from Ethan, sent at one a.m., with four kisses instead of the usual three. He’s had to miss another weekend visit because of work—I’ve been here three weeks now and he’s not visited once. I get it, but it’s still frustrating.
I scroll through my contacts. Mum wakes up even earlier than me—she’s usually up by five.
I hit dial. I’ve sent Mum a text most days, just checking whether she needs anything, but she always says no. I should definitely have called her or dropped around again by now, but …
“Hello? Leena? Is everything OK?”
The panic in her voice takes me right back there. It’s only because my phone rings so often that I’ve chased away the shadow of that instant, gut-dropping dread I’d feel every time it rang when Carla was dying, that conviction that this time it would be the worst news in the world. Now, as I hear that dread in my mother’s voice, the emotions start boiling in my stomach. I get up from the edge of the bed to pace, sweating, immediately desperate to end the call before I’ve even said a word.
“Hi, sorry Mum, all fine!” I say quickly. “I was just ringing to say hello—and—it’s bingo tomorrow night, I wondered if you wanted to come? I’ll be driving the van.”
There’s a short pause. “Oh, I … Yes, why not? If you want me to come?”
She waits.
“Yes!” I say, too shrill, and I press one fist at the point between my ribs where the emotions are roiling. “Yeah, totally, come along! Five p.m. OK. Great!”
If I hang up then this feeling of panic will go, but I’ve not said what I wanted to say, not really.
“Leena, take a deep breath,” Mum says.
I close my eyes and slow my breathing. The prickling sensation on my chest and face subsides a little, until it feels less like pins-and-needles, more like light rain on the skin.
I open my eyes and take one final deep breath. “Mum, Grandma told me you’d been to see the doctor and he’d given you some antidepressants.”
There’s a long pause. “Yes,” she says.
“I didn’t realize things were … that bad,” I say. “I—I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK, love.” Her voice is
quieter now.
“And they’re helping?”
“They are, actually. Though it’s hard to tell whether it’s the antidepressants or the crystals, really.”
I roll my eyes.
“Did you just roll your eyes?”
“No?”
I hear her smile. “You’re so sure about the world, Leena. But I’m not like that. You know the best way for you to heal, and you’ve been doing it: working hard, taking time away from me and your grandmother. I haven’t worked out how to heal. So I’m trying everything. That’s my way.”
I twist the moonstone between my fingers again.
“I’m not sure I do know the best way to heal,” I say quietly. “I’m not sure I’m doing very well at it, actually.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Mum asks. “In Hamleigh?”
“Maybe.” I swallow. “So I’ll see you at bingo?”
“See you at bingo.”
I shake out my arms after the phone call—they’re tense, as though I’ve been gripping the steering wheel after a long, difficult drive. I’m too hot. I take myself out for a run, just a short one; by the time I get back and make a coffee, I’m breathing normally, feeling more in control, but even so I pace around the dining room with my mug cupped between my hands, unable to sit for more than a moment or two. I need a distraction.
There is an insistent knocking on the kitchen window.
I groan into my coffee. Not that distraction, please. It’s only seven thirty in the morning—what could Arnold want now? Maybe I’ll just pretend to be asleep.
“Hello?” Arnold yells. “I can see your lights are on! Hello?”
Maybe I sleep with the lights on. This is a big, old house, I might find it very spooky.
“Hello? The kettle’s still steaming, you must be up. Hello?”
