System Failure

System Error

Kate, are you home?

Mark, you know Im always at home on Sunday mornings.

Then open the door.

She watched through the peephole for a moment. Her brother stood in the hallway, coat half-zipped, two large bags by his feet, looking like hed just lost a crucial debate. Behind him hovered two small figures: one taller, one shorter. Kate closed her eyes, then opened them. The kids were still there.

She unlocked the door.

Good morning, Mark said, wearing that smile shed recognised from childhood the one he used whenever he was about to ask a favour.

No, she said.

I havent asked you anything yet.

But youre smiling like that. So, no.

Ben scooted past his dad, peering up at his aunt. All of six years old, with a cowlick on his crown and a shoelace trailing in something he managed to pick up. Next to him, Emma clung to a one-eared stuffed bunny and stared at Kate with that serene curiosity only four-year-olds have utterly without fear.

Kates eyes drifted down to her brand-new parquet. Pale oak, sealed just three months ago by a joiner shed waited six weeks for. Bens shoelace was covered in something brown, and she really didnt want to know what.

Come in, she said. But shoes off, please. Right away.

Her flat, up on the eighth floor of the modern Northview Gardens, was her pride. Not her senior sales manager role at Urban Interiors, not her car, or her bank balance, but this 104 square metres, three-metre ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view out over the city park. Shed spent two years furnishing it, changing light fixtures, hunting for the perfect grey-blue curtains that turned almost silver at sunset. The Estelle sofa grey, deep, high-backed. A solid wood coffee table with a little crack, which the shop bloke called the timbers character, and which she almost returned but ended up loving. No rubbish cluttering the window ledges, no tat. Her Belle Visage toiletries lined up in order by the mirror. Identical, fluffy towels. Matching wooden hangers in the wardrobe.

It was the life shed built, piece by piece. True city quiet: only the kitchen appliances humming and the gentle, occasional patter of rain.

Mark dumped his bags in the hallway. The kids wriggled out of their shoes. Ben immediately slapped a hand on her newly painted wall.

Ben, said Kate.

What?

Hands.

He looked at his palm, the wall, back at his aunt.

Whats wrong with my hands?

Kate inhaled three in, three out, just like theyd taught her at that stress management course.

Mark, she said, spit it out.

He collapsed onto a kitchen stool, hands on the breakfast bar. Surrender.

Rachel and I are going to a retreat. For eight days. We need to talk, really talk, and we cant with the kids. Please. Im out of options.

No one else?

Mums in Harrogate until Friday, you know that. Rachels parents are up in the Peak District, flus going round, we cant take the kids. Kate. Im not asking for much. Eight days.

Eight days, she repeated.

Or nine, if you count the Sunday were back.

A faint thud from the lounge. Sounded like something hit the floor.

Emma, leave that alone! Mark yelled, not even turning, like someone used to shouting that a hundred times a day.

Mark. Kates voice was low which shed also learnt was more effective than shouting. I work from home. On Wednesday, Ive got a big online pitch for clients from London, Manchester, and Leeds. I dont have a clue how to handle children. I dont know what they eat, how to talk to them, bedtime routines

They eat everything except onions. Well, Ben wont touch tomatoes, either, but thats it. Just talk to them theyre not fussy. Emma needs her bunny to sleep, Ben likes a story, theres a book in his bag.

Mark.

Kate. He looked up, and she saw something in his eyes that made her own chest tighten. Not pity. Something older, heavier. Resignation you cant argue with. If we dont go now, I really dont know what will happen to us. I dont.

Silence. Beyond the window, a plump white cloud drifted over the park.

Eight days, she agreed, finally.

Thank you.

Dont thank me yet. I might phone you in three hours.

Ill keep my phone on. So will Rachel.

Mark left quickly. Too quickly like someone worried youd try to change their mind. He kissed the kids, said something about Auntie Kate being the best, left a sheet of handwritten instructions on the breakfast bar, and fifteen minutes later, she was alone with Ben and Emma and the closed door.

They eyed each other in the hallway.

Well, said Kate.

Well, agreed Ben.

Are you hungry?

I want juice, said Emma.

What juice?

Orange.

Orange juice?

No, ORANGE. The ORANGE one.

Kate opened the fridge. Two bottles of mineral water, chopped veg, plain Belle Visage yoghurts and half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. No childrens juice. Shed never thought about it never had a reason to.

Well go to the shop in a bit, she said.

Yay! Ben shouted, the echo bouncing round her high ceilings.

Kate grimaced.

The shop was just next door five minutes walk. In that time, Emma dropped her bunny four times, Ben pressed every lift button, including the emergency help, and told Kate an elaborate story about a boy from his class called Billy, who could spit through his teeth two metres much more than Kate wanted to know.

In the shop, she bought four types of juice, milk, bread, strawberry yoghurts, pasta, vacuum-packed chicken kievs, apples, bananas, and a garishly-packaged biscuit Ben snuck into the basket while she was scrutinising cheddar. She let him keep it. A small surrender, one she wouldnt have forgiven herself for a week ago.

The first day, all things considered, went smoothly. Emma spilled orange juice on the coffee table. Ben barrelled shoulder-first into a doorframe and howled for five minutes. Kate had no idea how to comfort a child. She handed him a glass of water and told him it would pass her go-to advice for adults, but, weirdly, it worked. He drank, sniffed, and went off to watch cartoons on the tablet Mark had packed.

They refused bed at nine, at ten and by half-ten, she was reading Ben the story about the bear and the raspberries twice, because he asked. Emma had already fallen asleep on the sofa, hugging her bunny. Kate watched her a moment, then gently carried her to the guest bed; so small, so warm, like holding a little sun.

Back in the kitchen, she poured herbal tea from her Livington flask and opened the laptop. Three days to the pitch. Two more slides to fix and practice her opening.

She sat in her silent kitchen sipping tea, but somehow couldnt focus.

The second day started at precisely six thirty-seven (she remembered exactly because it glowed on her Livington phone as the noise arrived).

Ben was up before anyone. Hed made a fortress from the Estelle sofa cushions all four on the floor, blanket too, and he sat in the middle, eating biscuits filched from the kitchen cupboards second shelf. Crumbs everywhere.

Morning! he called, bright as anything.

Morning, Kate replied.

Can you make pancakes?

Drop scones?

Yeah, the round ones with maple syrup.

I dont own maple syrup.

Thats a shame.

She made porridge instead. Ben ate it with no complaints. Emma wandered out at eight, hair wild, climbing up to the table clutching her bunny. Can I have porridge, like Ben? she asked. Kate allowed herself to feel things were going okay.

The flood hit on Tuesday, 2pm.

She was at her desk, tweaking her slides. The kids were playing in the bath: allowed to float little paper boats made from old bills Ben discovered in her bedside drawer. It seemed safe. Bathwater, boats, kids quiet.

Twenty minutes later, quiet ended.

At first, she didnt notice. Finished a slide, went to get water, only then seeing a wet gleam sneaking under the bathroom door and across the corridor.

Oh no, she muttered, in that too-late sort of voice.

The bath tap was still running. The boats had clogged the plughole, with one battleship wedged just so, and water had been spilling for at least ten minutes.

Kate cut the tap. Surveyed the damage. Closed her eyes for a moment.

Doorbell rang, twenty minutes later, just as she wrung out her soggy Belle Visage slippers and wondered if they were salvageable.

Who is it?

Downstairs. Seventh floor.

She opened up. Man in his early forties, tall, a bit ruffled, wearing jeans and a navy jumper. Calm face, phone in hand, showing her a photo his ceiling, stained, with water marking blooming out from the light fixture.

Im Andrew. Flat seventy-two.

Kate. Eighty-four. She sighed. I know why youre here. The kids

Got it. He slipped the phone away. Need a hand?

She regarded him. Waited for the usual: this isnt on, Im phoning management, you owe me for damages. She was ready; managing difficult conversations was part of her job.

You said, do I need a hand? she checked.

Sounds like youve still got water on your floors. Ive a builders heat gun and a really decent mop. You know, one that actually soaks things up.

Ben peeked from behind her back.

Are you the downstairs neighbour? he asked with interest. Is it wet in your flat cos of us?

It is, Andrew agreed, and Kate tensed. But no scolding, just a slight tilt of the head: Did your ships sail well?

Amazing! My carrier was unstoppable!

Serious build, that.

Come in, Kate said, because what was the point of keeping him in the hall?

The next hour went by in a blur. Andrew did actually help mop up the bathroom and corridor. No fuss, no judgement sometimes handing Ben the cloth, which Ben handled very solemnly. Emma, perched on the threshold, bunny clutched to her chest, occasionally announced, Its wet here, and, to be fair, she was always right.

Is your ceiling ruined? Kate asked, mopping her brow.

Bit. Ceiling paint was old anyway, itll dry. Maybe need a fresh lick.

Ill pay for it.

Well see. He smiled like: life will tell, rather than I expect money.

Are they yours? he asked, nodding at the kids.

Nephew and niece. No, I havent got children.

Right. In that case, a tip: you want a plug cover for your bath, just in case. Any hardware shop. And dont turn the tap up full.

Noted.

Good luck. He took his mop. At the door, he paused. If you ever need, Im down on seven. Dont hesitate.

Why are you so calm? the question slipped out.

He thought a moment.

Whats the alternative? Yelling? Wont dry my ceiling any quicker.

He left. Kate pressed her back to the door. Out the window, the sun was sinking. The kitchen was loud with distant quarrels over biscuits. She divided the biscuits exactly between the kids, in silence. They both gave her a proper look like respect.

Wednesday, her presentation day kids were glued to cartoons, apples and crackers set out, all under control. She donned a blazer over her tee for the video call. Seven people dialled in from branches in London, Manchester and Leeds. Probably her most important pitch of the quarter.

Fifteen minutes in all smooth. Showed off the new Estelle range, handled pricing questions.

At minute sixteen, the study door burst open.

Auntie Kate! Emmas voice would have carried down to the seventh floor. Bens got my bunny!

Emma, Kate replied, quietly and with meaning, Im working.

He says my bunnys ugly!

It is ugly! came from the lounge.

Kate, ever composed, smiled at the camera. Sorry, one moment please.

She muted, went out. Ben had one ear, Emma the body, the bunny stretched to breaking.

Let go, both of you, she said.

They did. Emma snatched up the bunny and retreated.

Ben, can you watch quietly?

The cartoon ended.

Start another.

Which one?

Whatever comes next.

Its adverts.

She found the kids channel herself, left them there, and went back.

Eight more minutes of peace, then Ben tiptoed in, stood beside her desk, just standing.

Without breaking off, she glanced at him. He waited.

I need the loo, he declared, right into the camera.

The London director laughed first, then everyone else. Kate felt herself blush for the first time since her twenties.

Ben, you know where it is

Yeah, just wanted to tell you.

Off you go.

She finished the pitch business atmosphere gone, but, in a way, more warmth. The Manchester partner piped up: Ive got three kids, totally get it. The Leeds guy said he liked the offer and theyd talk soon.

Kate closed her laptop and just sat for a bit. No anger, oddly enough. Which was new.

She made cheese sandwiches for the kids. Ben said they were tasty. Emma ate half, busy chatting with her bunny.

At four, the bell. Andrew, again. This time, holding a little plastic pack.

Brought you a bath plug cover, he said.

You went shopping deliberately?

Needed bread anyway.

Come in.

She hadnt planned on inviting him, but did, and he came in, took off his shoes. Ben appeared out of nowhere Ooh! Its the man who helped! Andrew was immediately in the thick of it, playing Jenga at the coffee table, with Ben and Emma on either side. Emma didnt play, but her bunny cheered. Andrew wasnt silly about it took the game seriously, and somehow, the children felt that.

Kate busied herself in the kitchen, just watching.

Careful, Ben, this sides loose. Pull left.

How do you know?

Theres always a weak spot. Same with towers, same with life.

Really? Ben, staring with that unexpected kids seriousness.

Andrew paused.

Quite similar, he said.

They all ate together, Andrew helping slice bread properly (let me, youll squash it), and, yes, it was neater. Not annoying, just truthful.

You lived here long? she asked.

Three years. You moved in last year, I saw your furniture coming up.

Observant.

Just passed by on my way to the office.

What do you do?

Im an architectural engineer do the boring structure bits.

Why are they boring?

No one judges a structural engineer for beauty, only if the thing stands.

But thats more important, surely?

He gave her a look surprised to hear that.

Yes, I suppose.

Kids fell asleep by nine. Andrew finished his tea and left. At the door she thanked him for the plug, for not getting angry, for all of it.

Youre doing great, he said. For a beginner.

How could you tell?

People who arent new dont look quite so much as if theyre holding a crystal vase and are terrified itll smash.

She actually laughed, properly this time.

He left. She lingered in the hallway. Emmas little blue coat with a bear-button on the hook, Bens little jacket next to hers. Her own coat suddenly looked solitary, shuffling off to one end.

Thursday and Friday felt calmer. Kate flinched less at loud noises. The morning porridge-n-juice routine became weirdly comforting. Emma liked sitting alongside Kate as she worked, drawing in a spare notepad rabbit families, lots, each with names.

Thats Mummy Rabbit, Emma explained, pencil flying. Thats Daddy. Thats Baby, hes called Button.

Why Button?

Hes round and tiny.

Makes sense, Kate replied.

Friday evening, Andrew rang again, this time with a battered old game, Cities of the Worldclearly his childhood. The kids had no idea what any of the cities were but played fiercely anyway.

Whered you get this? Kate asked.

Childhood. Kept it for no reason, really.

Good job you did.

They sat on the floor (Estelles coffee table wasnt big enough for all); she couldnt remember when shed last been comfortable on the parquet. Emma dozed off, Kates arm supporting her, without Kate even noticing. Andrew did, but didn’t mention it.

Saturday they spent in the park, Andrews idea. Ben found a puddle, went right through, shoes soaked. Kate carried them home in a bag, and Ben wandered in soggy socks, not a care in the world.

Why aren’t you bothered? she asked.

About what?

Wet shoes.

Theyll dry.

Youre just like Andrew, she blurted, realising.

Andrews brilliant, agreed Ben. Auntie Kate, is he your friend?

My neighbour.

Isnt that the same?

No.

Why not?

She had no answer. Behind them, Andrew carried Emma on his shoulders, telling her about trees. She listened like it was a lecture.

Sunday night, Mark rang. He sounded different lighter, softer.

How are they?

Survived. Ben stomped through a puddle, Emma drew forty-seven rabbits.

Mark laughed.

Youre managing.

Sort of. Hows it going there?

A pause.

Better. Much better. Thanks, Kate.

Glad to hear it.

The second week was easier. Kate now knew Bens tomato phobia didnt extend to tomato soup as long as she never called it that. Emma needed her window just a tiny crack at bedtime. By half seven, both got cranky, but if you didnt argue and suggested bed, theyd go without fuss. None of this was in the instructionsit simply appeared.

Andrew dropped by each evening. Sometimes with small gifts, sometimes just for a chat in the kitchen while the children settled. They talked about work, the city, books. Andrew read more than shed expected from a structural engineer. She read too, but work killed it recently.

What are you reading? He asked once.

Nothing lately. Work stuff only.

Doesnt count.

I know.

Shall I bring you something?

Please do.

He brought a novel, Japanese author, about a woman who clears her mothers house after her death and realises she never knew her at all. Kate devoured it in the quiet after bedtime. Those were the best half hours of her day.

Thursday of the second week, Ben asked to see her office. She misunderstood at first.

Where you work. Your office.

Oh, in here. This is the office.

He followed her in, gazed at the laptop, the neat stack of Estelle catalogues, the tiny cactus.

Are you happy? he asked, direct as only a child can.

In what way?

With your work.

I suppose so. I like my job.

Dad says, work should make you happy or else whats the point?

Smart dad.

Yeah. Ben paused. Auntie Kate, why do you live alone?

Just how it happened.

Didnt you want someone here?

I got used to it. I liked it.

Liked?

She hesitated.

Liked, she said, softly.

The last day came faster than expected. Mark arrived, Rachel with him she looked different, calmer. Rachel hugged the children for ages, Emma clung tightly.

Kate, Rachel said, I dont even know how to thank you.

No thanks needed.

Were they well-behaved?

They were children. Thats normal.

Rachel lifted an eyebrow, perhaps expecting another answer.

Packing up took an hour. Emma cried a little saying goodbye; Kate hugged her and promised theyd visit again. Ben departed with a solemn handshake, then dashed back to give a real hug. Then off they went.

Door closed.

Kate stood silent in the hallway.

Emmas little coat no longer hung on the hook. Just hers remained.

The flat was utterly quiet.

She wandered to the lounge. The cushion was squashedBens morning perch for tablet cartoons. On the floor, by the table, a crumpled drawing Emma had forgotten: a rabbit family, labelled in wobbly writing: Auntie Kate.

Kate held the drawing for a while.

She made tea. Filled the kettle, chose her favourite mug. Everything exactly right, neat, and quietjust as she liked.

She waited for that familiar relief. It always came: after noisy weekends at Marks, after work parties, after anything that poked her routine. Relief at being back in her own rhythm.

But it didnt come.

Only the bunny picture in her hand and the silence, which sounded different now like a pause after music. Where the musics gone, and youre not sure if thats good, only that somethings changed.

She sat in the kitchen, sipping tea, looking out at the park, thinking.

About Ben, with his awkward questions. About Emma, falling asleep on the floor Friday evening, Kate keeping her arm curled around her. About her office, how it felt different after Ben had asked to see it.

Thinking about Andrew.

The way he sliced bread just so. His calmness not apathy, but resilience, like the strong bones of a building. How he turned up every night, asking for nothing in return. Just being there.

Realising, over the past nine days, she hadnt woken up once gripped by work anxiety. That was strange. Anxiety had been the constant hum for five years.

At six, she got up, changed into her favourite navy jumper. Picked up her phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.

She didnt ring. She took the lift to the seventh floor and knocked on flat seventy-two.

Andrew answered in seconds. He saw her: not surprised, but attentive.

Theyve gone, Kate said.

I heard the door.

Its so quiet now.

Im sure.

Will you come for tea? I only just boiled the kettle probably need to re-boil, but

He paused, then:

Id like that.

They went up together. Kate reboiled the kettle. He took the high stool by the breakfast barthe very one Mark had first sat on. Different person, different day.

Do you know, she said, tonight is my first night in nine days with no obligations. And I have no idea what to do with that.

Good or bad?

Dont know. Just strange.

Youll get used to new strangeness.

Whats new strangeness?

The first strangeness is being alone. Then you get used to it. Then new strangeness shows up, but in a new way.

You sound like youve lived it.

He met her gaze.

I was married. Six years. Not anymore. Hasnt been for three years.

Im sorry.

Dont be. It ran its course. Were good people, just not good for each other. He hesitated. The hardest bit wasnt the breakup. It was the silence after. Because silence with someone and without totally different.

Kate looked into her mug.

I always thought silence meant freedom, she said. That being alone was a choice.

It can be. But choices sometimes change.

Did you change your mind?

Im working on it. He smiled faintly. Helps to have neighbour kids flooding your flat.

She laughed, real, not polite.

Andrew.

Yes?

You She stopped. She could have retreated, changed the subject. Shed always been good at that. I like you. Just wanted to say that.

He watched her.

Thats nice to hear, he said at last, warmth in his voice. Because I like you, too. Been thinking it a while.

How long?

Since you asked why I was so calm, that first time. No one ever wondered before.

Odd reason.

I have odd reasons.

They talked till eleven. About work, about what the city looked like from different floors, about children who drew bunny families. He didnt hurry to leave. She didnt rush him out.

At the door, he briefly took her hand.

Goodnight, Kate.

Goodnight.

She leaned against the door same as that very first evening, but this time the silence was warm, not blank.

She wandered to the lounge, put Emmas drawing on the shelf by the vase. Three rabbits peered up, plus an adult figure with yellow hair Auntie Kate. A bit lopsided, but recognisable.

A year passed.

Her flat had changed, just a little, but enough for those who knew her well. The bookshelfs bottom shelf was now crowded with colourful childrens books, clearly left from the last niece-and-nephew visit. Beside her cactus, three more pots, one rather askew from Emmas helpful watering. Two coats in the hall now: her navy one, and a mans grey.

On the Estelle table sat one of Andrews architectural catalogues, open next to a half-drunk coffee and a dog-eared novel.

Kate stood by the window, looking at the autumn park: russet and gold. She loved it most in autumn.

Her bump was obvious now, not huge but noticeable. Five months. She was getting used to the idea, bit by bit, every day the impossible had become normal, and most precious.

The door opened.

Theyre on their way, Andrew said, coming into the kitchen. Mark texted, theyre already in the car.

So theyll be here in half an hour.

Ben phoned you?

Three times. He wants to know if he can watch cartoons on the tablet or if were going to the park.

Why not both?

Thats what I said.

Andrew set the kettle going, then looked over: How are you?

Good, she smiled. Just the feet aching now and then. But good.

Sit for a bit.

I am standing.

Kate.

Fine, Ill sit. She moved to the sofa. Funny, I was thinking: a year ago this Sunday, they all left. I stood in the kitchen with a cup of tea, just waiting for the quiet to feel comfortable again.

And?

It didnt.

I remember you came over.

Were you waiting?

He thought.

Not sure. More hoping.

The bell rang loud, two short bursts: children, for whom a doorbell isnt a button, but a drumroll.

Thatll be Ben.

Certainly.

Go get it. Im not leaping up.

Andrew went. Even before the door fully opened: Auntie Kate! Were here! Are we going to the park? Are the leaves orange yet? Has your tummy grown?

Ben, Marks voice chided, let people get inside first.

Im inside!

Emma slipped in quietly, scanning for Kate, then beelining for her and hugging her tight and silent. Then looking up seriously:

Auntie Kate. Is my bunny here?

Of course. On the guestroom shelf.

Good. I knew it would be.

The hallway filled with commotion: Mark hugging Andrew, Rachel chatting, Ben vanishing insidenoisy clues tracking him. A distant clatter, not too dramatic. Then he reappeared, clutching the bear-and-raspberry storybook.

Auntie Kate! You kept it!

Of course.

Will you read it to the baby?

Absolutely.

Good. His nod told her things were right in his world. Andrew, park time? Leaves orange?

Very orange, Andrew replied.

Lets go!

Tea first, Kate said. Then park.

You always say that.

And I always will.

Alright, Ben agreed, still not quite grown out of that direct gaze. Auntie Kate, are you happy now?

The flat filled with noise: voices, Rachels laughter, Emma already calling to her bunny, kettle boiling, city humming below, autumn shining in the trees, and a baby kicking quietly inside her.

Kate looked at Ben.

Yes, she said.