No Turning Back Now

No Way Back

Helen set her teacup down on the table and looked at her husband. He stood by the mirror in the hallway, fussing with the fresh collar of his new shirt. It was a narrow-cut shirt, navy blue with a fine check pattern that would suit a lad of about twenty-five not a man turning fifty in a months time.

George, are you off to work? Or somewhere else?

To work. Where else would I be off to?

I was just asking. You never used to dress like that before.

He turned. There was something in his glance that hadnt been there in the past. A distant note, a flicker of impatience, as if he were in a hurry to be somewhere else and she was just in the way.

Helen, people update their wardrobe. Its normal.

Im not saying anything.

Exactly. Youre not saying anything just looking.

He pulled on a coat. Not his usual well-worn grey, the one that had hung on the peg for seven years, but a new, shorter, navy one. Helen watched him as he left, then picked up her cup and moved through to the kitchen. Outside, early March drizzled on, grey and damp. She glanced at the pot of geraniums she watered every Tuesday on the window ledge thick, healthy leaves, slightly sharp and homely-scented. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass and remembered that the last time she and George had gone out together was in October. They went to the theatre, saw a play she liked. He was silent all the way home.

Twenty-five years. Helen had long stopped counting that in days.

Helen worked as an accounts manager for a small construction firm on the citys edge. It was the sort of place where not much changed the staff, the little rituals. Everyone called her Mrs. Howard, even the older blokes. She was always careful, prompt, and never left before time. At home she kept the same order. Every Sunday shed swap the linen tablecloth pale blue stripes for one of the several identical ones, always freshly washed and pressed. She owned a soft, thick housecoat, colour of clotted cream, bought three years ago and fiercely protected from spills. Evenings, shed settle with a book and a cup of tea and some plum jam she put up in August. Her life fit together as neatly as a well-tailored dress nothing spare, nothing missing.

The changes in George started about February. First, he joined a gym. Nothing odd in itself, except for the tone in which he told her at dinner. Not, I want to stay healthy, but, Im tired of falling apart. Helen hadnt thought much of it. Shed read about this sort of thing men, coming to fifty, suddenly pick up running shoes or take up a low-carb diet, trying to prove somethings still ahead of them. She didnt mind so long as he kept at it.

Then came the aftershave. Pungent and sickly, with a manufactured sweetness to it. Not what hed worn before, a subtle woody scent, barely-there and masculine. This one would linger in the hallway even after hed gone. One day, Helen picked up the bottle on the bathroom shelf some foreign brand, glossy black with silver detail. She put it back.

Then the new shirts. Then, one day, while sorting the wardrobe, Helen spotted a pair of expensive jeans skinny, faded at the knees. She hung them back, closing the doors quietly.

By March, George started staying late at work. At first, once a week. Then more. The stories were the sort youd expect drinks with colleagues, finishing a project, dropping in on a mate. Helen listened, nodding. She was used to trusting him. Twenty-five years is more than a number: its habit, faith in the routines youve built. Otherwise, what was any of it for?

Yet something tugged at her, quietly, insistently, like an old injury aching in cold water.

In April, she noticed hed started guarding his phone. He used to throw it on the table and leave it at that. Now it was always in his pocket. If it rang, hed step into the hall to answer. Once, Helen came through to the kitchen and saw him turn the phone face-down, quickly, then ask if she needed hand with dinner. Hed never offered to help with dinner before.

Her friend Louise, whod known her since university, was blunt.

Helen, dont you see? Textbook mid-life crisis, that is. My Steve bought himself a motorbike at forty-eight and spent three months in leather. Sold it in the end. Got over it.

George isnt like that.

Theyre all not like that until they are.

Lou, dont put ideas in my head.

Im not. Just look, alright?

So Helen looked. But the more she looked, the less she understood. George was there eating, sleeping, talking about work, pipes in the bathroom that needed fixing. All as always, and yet, not the same. Almost like a stranger, though not in any shocking way. He wasnt unkind or angry. He just seemed to be somewhere else, ticking boxes.

One evening, when they sat in the kitchen over tea, she asked, pouring him his cup first as always, and placing the biscuits in the bowl.

George, are you alright?

Im fine.

Youve seemed… distant lately.

He looked up from his cup.

Im tired. Works been tricky.

I know. Im just asking.

Everythings fine, he said again, picking a biscuit.

May brought warmth. Helen planted petunias on the balcony, bought from the same old lady at the market every year red and white in window boxes. She watered them in the mornings, watching them bloom her quiet pleasure, asking nothing in return.

George started coming home around midnight. Business dinners. Helen said nothing. Shed lie awake, listening to him move quietly about, the floorboard creaking near the bed. She couldnt fall asleep easily after that.

One night, the words slipped out.

George, is there someone else?

A pause long enough to make a plain no impossible.

What gives you that idea?

I just asked.

Helen, dont be ridiculous.

Fine, she said. And left it at that.

But inside, something shifted. Not broken, just moved, like a bookcase nudged off its mark enough to leave the room unfamiliar.

By summer, George began spending nights at a mates. Once. Twice. Thrice. Helen packed a shirt for him in a bag and kept quiet. She wondered if Louise was right just a midlife crisis, it would pass. Men her age often lost themselves, then found their way back. You cant toss away twenty-five years just like that.

Mid-July, he sat opposite her at the kitchen table wearing that same check shirt from March hands clasped, peering out the window. Helen sat quietly, her tea cupped in both hands. She guessed what hed say; perhaps shed known for months.

Helen, we need to talk.

Go on.

Im leaving.

She set her cup down. The tea was still hot; she felt its warmth through the china.

For whom?

He hesitated.

Her names Charlotte. Shes twenty-two. I met her six months ago.

Someone was watering flowers on the next-door balcony outside. She could hear the steady drip of water.

Since February, then, said Helen.

Roughly.

Back when you started buying new shirts.

Helen…

Im not blaming. Im just piecing it together.

He looked at her, awkward, almost apologetic, as though hed expected tears, shouting, something to make him feel righteous.

You dont understand, he said at last. I want to feel alive. Like Ive still got something ahead. Look at us weve turned into old folk.

Youre forty-nine, George.

Exactly.

I dont understand what you mean by exactly.

He got up, moved across the kitchen, took an empty cup to the sink something to break the silence.

Weve turned into housemates. You know it. Same thing every day linen, geraniums, tea on the dot. Thats not living, Helen. Its stagnation.

Thats home, she said softly. What Ive spent twenty-five years building.

I know. Im grateful. I am. But I cant anymore.

She looked at him and wondered if shed ever really known this man. Not because hed changed, but maybe because shed only seen what she wanted all these years.

Packing tonight then?

He seemed caught off guard by her calm.

No, not tonight. Ill collect things gradually.

Fine.

She rose, poured the last of her tea away, placed her cup beside his. She dried her hands with a towel and left the kitchen. In her room, Helen opened the window. Outside, warmth rose from the tarmac and a hint of lime trees from the avenue drifted in. She breathed deeply and reminded herself to water the petunias tomorrow, and that the butter in the fridge was nearly out.

Sometimes its the little chores that pull you through, better than any words.

The first few weeks after George left passed strangely. Not unbearably; she still woke, ate, went to work and watered her plants. But the flat grew quieter. His things vanished from the bathroom; the hall peg seemed oddly empty. Helen bought a new hook and hung her work bag there, to disguise the emptiness.

Louise visited the first weekend brought a savory pie, sat with her until evening.

How are you, really?

Im alright.

Helen, I mean it.

So do I. Im not great, but Im alright. Its a different thing.

I know. Louise paused. Did he even explain?

He did. Said wed turned into old folk. Called it a swamp.

A swamp?

His own, not mine.

Helen poured more tea. Night fell; the kitchen lamp glowed over the table, pie sat on the wooden board, warmth all around. She realised she could build comfort, after all her own comfort, even if there wasnt need for two anymore.

Louise, shes twenty-two.

I heard.

Its not jealousy. Its just… odd maths. I was twenty-two and he already seemed a grown man. And now hes with someone that age.

He wants time back. They all do.

But you cant go back.

No. Hell learn soon enough.

Helen didnt reply. She felt there was something important she still had to understand, but she wasnt sure what things inside her were unsettled, like displaced furniture. The space was the same, but it was harder to move in.

At work, nobody knew, and Helen didnt rush to tell. Colleagues noticed she was quieter than usual but Mrs. Howard was always reserved, so nobody was that surprised. One young woman, Kate, asked quietly if she was alright. Helen said she was just tired. Kate brought her a coffee from the machine a small, unexpected kindness.

August drifted by in a kind of numbness. Not bad, not good just numb. Helen made her jam as every year, scooping the foam into the same dish, later spread on white bread to eat alone. The crop was good fat, sweet plums. The jam jars lined up neat on the larder shelf a quiet reassurance that life pressed on, regardless.

George rang once, to collect his last things: books, some tools, a brown folder with papers. He glanced around the kitchen, paused, eyes drifting over the table and the geraniums.

How are you?

Im alright.

Dont hold it against me.

I dont, George. Im just getting on.

He nodded and left. She locked the door and listened for his retreating footsteps, then made herself an omelette for lunch three eggs, a little parsley. She washed up, checked the petunias they were nearly finished, autumn close.

The divorce was finalised in October. Quiet, civil, almost routine. Helen found a good solicitor a young woman with tired eyes, brisk and efficient. The flat had been in Helens name since before the wedding, not much dividing to do. George made no fuss. Perhaps his new life didnt leave time for bargaining over the old.

Helen walked out of the magistrates court, stood on the steps. It was a typical grey London morning, a fine drizzle in the air. She turned up her collar, wandered over to the bakery, and bought a poppyseed plait. That evening, she brewed tea, sliced the bread, and watched as autumn busied itself with the leaves outside her window.

Shed read somewhere, in an article online, Psychology of marriage separation suggests that the actual break happens long before everything becomes official. That felt true. The thread snapped long before in that silent car ride home from the play, in the secretive phone, and the new shirts. Shed just never wanted to call it what it was.

November brought the sharp chill and a new routine. Helen joined a watercolour class something shed always fancied but kept putting off. Every Wednesday evening, she went to a cosy little studio near her street, smelling of paint and paper, full of strangers who knew nothing of her story. Her work was clumsy, the colours pooling in the wrong places, proportions off. But she enjoyed the calm focus the watery play of shadow, the blue and grey of winter.

The tutor, an older woman with silver earrings, said one week: Youre too careful with your brush. Be brave. The paper can take it.

Helen thought: that applies to more than watercolours.

Louise called every week, sometimes popped by. Theyd discuss work, books, what the world was coming to. Slowly, talk of George grew shorter, less frequent Helen noticed, with quiet relief. Not because shed stopped caring, but because life was growing, bit by bit, to fill the space he’d left.

From time to time, shed ask herself that question every woman her age does when a man leaves for a younger woman: what did I do wrong? Every answer felt a little dishonest. She kept a lovely home, was loyal, avoided drama, worked hard, never demanded too much. Maybe that was the problem, she thought. Not what she did, but thinking it was enough.

But that thought drifted off too. Truthfully, she no longer knew what she would have changed.

Winter was snowy that year. Helen bought herself new boots burgundy, low-heeled, comfortable. A colleague said they suited her just a small thing, but she remembered all day.

Come January, Louise called, voice oddly cautious.

Helen, are you sitting down?

Im by the stove, why? What is it?

Have you heard from George?

No. We dont speak.

Hes been taken ill. Heart attack. In a club somewhere.

Helen switched off the hob.

For real?

Yes. Tamara from his work called me. He collapsed at some disco. Ambulance was called.

Is he?

He’s alive, just. In hospital. But apparently it’s serious.

Helen was silent a long moment. Outside, the snow came thick and slow.

Whats he been doing with himself?

By the sounds of it, a lot. The young woman of his, Charlotte, theyve been everywhere clubs, parties, staying out till dawn. He kept at the gym, overdoing it. His body couldnt keep up.

I see.

Helen, will you?

I dont know yet.

Helen hung up and stood by the window. Children built a snowman in the courtyard. She watched and tried to make sense of what she felt: anxiety, yes, weariness, too and, somewhere quiet and awkward at the bottom, relief that she was here, in her own flat, not there.

The next day, she phoned the hospital, found out which ward he was in, if visitors were allowed. The nurse said he was stable, visiting permitted.

That afternoon, Helen put together a bag: a bottle of spring water, apples, some homemade biscuits left from the weekend. She zipped her coat tight and headed out.

The hospital smelt as all hospitals do hot radiators, cleaning fluids, a faint pulse of anxiety. Helen found the ward and explained herself at the desk. A tired-faced young nurse showed her to the right room.

She opened the door quietly. Four beds, only one occupied. George, by the window. He had changed, or maybe she simply saw him differently now thinner, grey-faced, dark under the eyes. Not a man reborn, but an older man whod tried for something out of reach.

He looked up, startled.

Helen.

Hello, George.

She set the bag on his bedside cabinet, drew up a chair.

I didnt think youd come.

Well, I did.

He studied her, searching for something. There was a lot in his eyes, but she didnt look too deep.

How are you feeling?

Better. Yesterday was rough, todays better. The doctors say I need a week, at least.

Theyre right. Rest up.

Helen he paused, rearranging his covers. Charlotte hasnt visited. I rang her after I was brought in. She said shed come. She didnt.

Helen looked at the apples.

I know.

How?

I guessed.

He closed his eyes for a long time.

I was a fool, Helen.

Probably.

Not just probably. I dont know what came over me. I looked at that young girl and felt young again. You understand?

I do.

But in the end, I was just an old man they pitied, so long as the money lasted.

She said nothing. Outside was a pale winter sky. Snow layered the sill.

Helen, I want to ask your forgiveness.

Dont. Not now. Youre not well.

I must. I finally see it. I compared you to her when really I should have appreciated you. You built a home, I called it a swamp. That was unfair.

She looked at his hands. She knew those hands so well twenty-five years, and hands change less than faces.

Helen. I want to come back.

The silence in the ward was thick.

Do you hear me?

I do.

I want to come home. I know that with you that was my real life. What I went chasing wasnt the answer.

Helen stood, walked to the window, watched a grey pigeon on a bare branch. She thought honestly, without self-pity.

She asked herself: what do I feel now? Searching for something alive in the place where love had been, found only calmness. Not cold or angry just calm, as if the pain had faded at last.

George, she said, still looking away. Youll be alright. Youll recover here. Youll get back on your feet.

Helen, thats not what I mean.

I know. Im glad I came. But I wont take you back.

He watched her; something in his face flickered.

Why?

She considered how to be honest without cruelty.

Because I feel sorry for you. I do care, right now, but thats not enough not for us to live together. Do you see?

But you could feel again

No. Some things dont come back, George. Not out of stubbornness. Theyre just gone. Like a spring thats run dry.

Helen, please

I came because I care. I brought apples and water. Thats real. But I cant bring back whats gone, not out of spite. It just isnt there anymore.

He closed his eyes. Quiet.

I see.

Thats good.

She put on her coat, straightened the collar.

Ill tell the nurse to keep an eye on you. Ring our son. He ought to know.

Were not really that close

Ring him. Hes your son.

She picked up her bag, paused at the door.

The apples are Coxs. Nice and crisp. Eat them.

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

The corridor smelt of hospital heat and something institutional. She walked past the nurses desk, nodded thanks, headed down the stairs. The air in the lobby was cooler and tasted faintly of the outdoors. She pushed through the heavy doors.

Outside, the snow had stopped. The air was bright with winter light. The snow squeaked underfoot. Helen walked to the bus stop, thinking about what shed say to Louise. Then decided not to say anything for now. Shed sit with it herself awhile.

The bus arrived quickly. Helen got on, took a window seat. London drifted past bare trees, streetlamps, people with carrier bags. Life, pressing on.

She thought: when your husband goes for someone younger, its not the going thats hardest. The hardest thing is what comes after finding not just how to survive, but how to begin again. Not to get even, nor chase old days, but to start shaping something of your own. Harder than it sounds.

Helen watched out the window and thought about Wednesday. Thats when her art class was. The tutor said theyd be painting a winter scene she still wasnt great with snow, mixing shadow in blue and grey. But shed try.

At her stop, she stepped off, shivered, buttoned her coat up. The path home was familiar: the chemists, the bakery, the little square with swings. An empty swing creaked in the wind.

She climbed her stairs, unlocked the door. Warmth and that faint, homely scent greeted her. Boots off, slippers on, she walked to the kitchen, set the kettle to boil. Smoothed the corner of her striped linen cloth.

While the kettle hummed, she went to the window. The geranium stood upright, its leaves dusty; she wiped one, made a note to clean the rest.

The kettle snapped off.

Helen poured her tea, cupping the warmth.

Outside, the streetlights flicked on, one by one, reluctant, as they do early in an English January.

Helen sipped and thought: Friday shed go to the market for milk and eggs. Maybe pick up more Coxs apples, while they lasted. Bake a crumble Louise had been asking for the recipe.

Thats Friday.

Wednesday shed paint her snow.

***

Meanwhile, January pressed on outside, with all the citys clatter and daft bravado. In Helens warm kitchen, with its geraniums and orderly cloth, there was peace. Her peace. Shed not trade it for anything.

Her phone sat on the table. He could ring. Ask, beg. Shed answer, ask after his health, urge him to listen to the doctors. Thats who she was.

But she wouldnt go back.

You know what, Mrs. Howard, she said aloud, and her voice in the quiet kitchen was steadier than she expected. It wasnt a swamp. It was life. Just not his.

She finished her tea, washed her cup, carried it through. Switched on the lamp, because she never did like reading under the ceiling light.

Her book lay on the side table, bookmark in place. Opening to her page, she settled in and read on. Snow drifted outside. The geranium stood guard on the sill. The linen sat smooth on the table.

Everything just where it ought to be.