I Won’t Give Up His Home

I Wont Give Up His Flat

– What are you doing here?

Valerie blocked the doorway, arms spread out against the doorframe as if barring not just the entrance to the room, but to a whole life.

– Hello, Mrs. Stephens, Melanie said, using the Sunday-best version of her name.

– I asked you: why have you come?

Melanie didnt answer straight away. She looked down at the doormat blue with a white trim, the one shed bought at the market on Farringdon Road years ago. It was still there, threadbare now but not thrown out.

– May I come in?

The pause stretched. Valerie didn’t move. Then, after a moment so silent you could hear the click of the boiler, she simply turned and walked off toward the kitchen. That was her version of an invitation.

Melanie slipped in and shut the door. The hallway smelled familiar, but not in the old way. Gone was the faint tang of tobacco from Henrys coat, which used to hang on the left-hand peg. Now, only a faded housecoat and an ancient bobble hat hung there.

Valerie was already making a racket with the kettle, probably not planning to offer tea but needing something to do with her hands.

– I saw a light in the window, said Melanie. – I was walking by.

– At ten oclock at night?

– The bus was delayed. I waited ages at the stop.

Valerie turned to size her up a look halfway between suspicion and a shrug, the kind you give someone you havent written off but can’t quite trust either.

– Well, come on then, take your coat off, she sighed.

Melanie hung her coat on the left peg, under the bobble hat. Then thought better of it and moved it to the right.

They sat across the kitchen table from each other. Valerie poured the tea, not offering, just placing a mug in front of Melanie and shoving the sugar nearby with a look somewhere in the region of her elbow. Automatic motions, the sort you cant help, because a guest at the table is a guest and the body has its own manners even if the mind is otherwise engaged.

– How are you? asked Melanie.

– Fine, as usual, said Valerie, both hands cupping her mug like she was drawing heat from it.

Melanie looked at those hands all knobby knuckles and age spots, typical for their generation but right now holding the mug too tightly for all that talk of fine and as usual.

– I wanted to talk, Melanie said.

– About what?

– All sorts.

– Paperwork?

Melanie hesitated.

– Not just that.

Valerie sipped her tea and set the mug down with a soft thud that could mean nothing or everything.

– Talk to the solicitor about the paperwork, I’ve told you everything I have to say.

– I know.

– Then why repeat yourself?

It wasnt really a question. Melanie took up her mug and tried the tea scalding, of course. She put it back down.

Outside, the rain droned steadily a fine October drizzle, more suspended in the air than pouring from the sky. The streetlamp swung in the wind, shadow loping back and forth across the windowsill.

Melanie knew this kitchen by heart. She knew the left-hand drawer contained a jumble of twist ties, rubber bands, and spent batteries (Might be a little in them yet, Henry always claimed). She knew there was a bucket under the sink, used every autumn when the pipe dripped. She remembered the coin that slipped behind the fridge she and Henry spent the better part of an hour trying to fish it out with a ruler, laughing until they coughed. And that laugh Alexs had sounded the same.

Alex. Only three months ago.

– I brought some jam, she said suddenly. – Plum. Its in a bag by the door. I dont know if you saw.

Valerie glanced toward the hall, then back.

– I noticed.

– You always liked plum.

– Liked. – Pause. – Like.

The slip was exact and painful, as though Valerie wasnt sure what tense she inhabited these days. Melanie understood. Sometimes shed start talking about him in the present tense too, and have to pull up short, lost between times.

– I heard you were going to see your friend Dorothy in Bournemouth, Melanie said.

– I was. Havent got there yet.

– Whats holding you?

– Oh things, Valerie gestured vaguely.

Except there were no things, and they both knew it. There was the flat she couldnt bear to leave empty. There was fear of going away and coming back to nothing. And perhaps, the fear of Dorothys pity, which Valerie didnt have the stomach for.

– Mrs. Stephens, said Melanie, her voice softer, more serious. – Im not here because of the flat. Honestly.

– Honestly, echoed Valerie, dryly, and it wasnt clear if she believed her or was just mimicking the word.

– I know youre angry with me.

– Im not angry.

– Alright.

– I just dont understand, Valerie said, and suddenly there was something raw and genuine in her. – I dont understand how you can. Half a years gone by. Youre already moving on. And Im still here.

Melanie didnt argue or explain. She just sat.

– Ive seen you, continued Valerie. – Livvy, from downstairs, saw you too. You were with someone in a café in August, over on Kings Road.

– That was a work colleague. We were in on a project together.

– Work colleague, Valerie repeated, echoing.

– Yes.

Valerie stood and went to the window. She looked out at the rain and streetlamp.

– Alex loved you, she said, not turning around. – Maybe more than you realised.

– I realised.

– Im not sure, said Valerie.

Melanie gripped her mug. Inside herself, something swayed, like the lamplight shadow. She stayed quiet, not trusting herself to say anything that wouldnt make it worse.

– Im not saying youre bad, Valerie said, still staring out. – I dont think that. I think youre young, Melanie, forty-two. You have your whole life. Im sixty-eight. I had one son.

– I know.

– And now hes gone. And you bring plum jam.

It couldve sounded cruel, but it was just painfully, exactly true. For a moment, Melanie even felt grateful for the honesty, as muddled as that was.

– I dont know what else to do, she said. – I cant do words. I have to bring something. I brought jam because coming empty-handed was worse.

Valerie turned back, studying her.

– Have you been crying, before you came in?

– A bit.

– On the stairs?

– Yes.

Something in Valeries face shifted hard to spot, but there. She returned to the table and sat down.

– Arent we both a pair of fools, she said. And finally, for once, it was plain, with nothing hiding underneath.

They sat in silence. The rain grew fatter, pattering audibly against the glass.

– Tell me, Melanie said. – About the will. What actually upset you. Not through the solicitor. Tell me yourself.

Valerie looked at her, ever so slightly surprised. Like she didnt expect anyone to ask her to speak for herself.

– Its his flat, she began. – The one we bought him, me and Colin. It took us nearly eight years, scraping by, so hed have his own place. He lived there, you lived there, and I dont begrudge you. But it was his, and now, on paper

– On paper, it comes to me, Melanie said.

– You werent married.

– We lived together for six years.

– I know. – Valerie folded her hands. – But I feel that hed want me to have a say. I dont think hed want me just left out.

– He wrote the will himself, Mrs Stephens.

– I know he did. – Pause. – Maybe he was right. Maybe not. I was angry at first. Im not angry now. I just dont understand.

– What dont you understand?

– Why you want to keep it. You told Livvys daughter you might move out, that its too big for you alone. So why hang on?

Melanie looked at her.

– That was in July when I was at my lowest. I dont know yet what Ill do.

– If you sell it Valerie began.

– Ive no plans to sell.

– If you ever do, insisted Valerie, – would you tell me first? Not some strangers me?

And Melanie realised that was the heart of it. Not the square footage, not the money. Just that. To not be a stranger. To have the right to know first, to keep some thread to Alex through this awkward woman whod lived in his flat, cooked in his kitchen, known sides of him his mother never did, and that otherwise was unerasable.

– Ill tell you first, Melanie promised.

Valerie nodded, briefly, and poured herself more tea.

– Have you eaten today? she asked.

– Breakfast.

– Breakfast! She got up and rummaged in the fridge. – I made noodle soup. Will you have some?

– Yes, thanks.

While Valerie busied herself with the saucepan, Melanie looked at her back. She thought how, in another life, if things had been different, maybe theyd have been a little more than this. Maybe shared Christmases. Shared phone calls about nothing. Or maybe not; maybe theyd always have been awkward and careful, too different ever to be close, yet too entangled to be strangers.

The soup was simple: carrot, onion, noodles, a sprig of parsley. The sort you make for yourself, not for guests, when you cant be bothered to fuss.

– Nice, Melanie said.

– Dont overdo it.

– No, really.

They ate in silence, until Valerie said without looking up:

– He looked for you in hospital, you know?

Melanies spoon stopped.

– What?

– You left in April. You said conference. He went in for tests. I visited him he kept asking when youd get back. I said I didnt know. Hed say, she should have been here today. Then tomorrow. Then the day after.

Melanie put down her spoon.

– I came back the next day when I heard.

– I know. – Valerie finally looked at her. – I dont mean it as a complaint. I just want you to know.

– Why?

– I dont know. So someone else knows, not just me.

It was honest. Melanie felt her mouth go a bit dry, even though shed just eaten soup. She took a sip of tea stone cold, now.

– He never told me he was scared, she said. – I thought he was calm, taking it as it came. I thought I gave him peace by not fussing.

– He didnt like to be pitied.

– Exactly. I thought I was doing the right thing.

– Maybe you were. – Valerie cleared the bowls. – Maybe not. Who knows, now.

That hung in the room, and didnt go anywhere.

Melanie helped with the washing-up, though Valerie hadnt asked. They stood side by side at the sink Valerie washed, Melanie dried so ordinary that both probably had the same thought but neither said it.

Later, they returned to the table. Valerie brought out some broken shortbread from the Mr Crumbs shop at the corner the kind left in the bottom of the packet.

– Livvy says I ought to join some club, said Valerie. – Theres a group for watercolour at the community centre, Thursdays. All pensioners.

– Would you like that?

– Ive no idea. Feels daft.

– Why?

– Well, at my age

– Perfect time, said Melanie. – Honestly.

Valerie gave her a look a half-joking, you-sound-like-my-social-worker look.

– You talk like a do-gooder.

– And you like youre a hundred. Sixty-eights not a hundred.

Valerie munched a bit of biscuit.

– Ive always been busy Colin, then Alex, then work. Had plans for grandkids, didnt work out. Just sitting painting seems, well, pointless.

– Maybe thats the skill to learn.

– Easy for you to say.

– Harder than you think, Melanie said. – I find it hard too.

Valerie eyed her.

– You joining the art club, then?

– No, but I have to figure out something. I have my job, friends, everything. But I come home and just sit there, thinking hell walk in and say something silly and itd all click back into place.

A pause.

– He did talk nonsense well, Valerie admitted.

– He did.

– Hed waltz in Mum, when I was a boy I thought stoats were small toasters. Where did he get that from?

– He told me the Mongolian for elephant was zaan, and he thought that sounded like someone getting too big for their boots.

Valerie laughed, brief and surprised, as if laughter had been waiting behind the bakery door.

– Good grief. Where did he find this stuff?

– He read everything.

– Always had a book since he was five. I could never drag him away from the table.

– I saw a photo once you at the allotment, him about eight, propped on the step reading while everyone else played.

– Colins veg patch. He was out there all day. Alex would sit, reading. Id think: odd child. Then I let him be.

– What did he read, at eight?

– Some adventure captains, the sea. Hed never seen the sea til he was sixteen. When he did, stood forever staring. Colin said, well, what do you think? Alex said, Its not what I thought. How? Smaller. In books it seemed bigger.

Melanie smiled. Shed heard that from Alex too, a slightly different version. Which was right? Who knows maybe versions were all they had left.

– He talked about Colin a lot, Melanie said. – Missed him.

Colin, Colin Peter Stephens, had died six years prior, just before Melanie met Alex. Theyd never met.

– Yes, said Valerie. – Missed him.

– And do you still?

– Every day, she said, with no bitterness. – Im used to it, but I miss him. Thats not a contradiction.

– No, said Melanie. It isnt.

They sat in companionable silence.

– Tell me about Alex as a boy, asked Melanie. – He didnt like to talk about his childhood much.

Valerie looked at her.

– Why do you want to know?

– Because I do. While theres someone left to tell me.

It sounded hard. Melanie felt it, but didnt take it back. It was true, after all.

Valerie sat a minute, then got up and disappeared. Melanie heard her rooting about, a cupboard sliding open. She returned with a cardboard box, the kind that lives atop wardrobes until needed.

– This was his, said Valerie. – I sorted through it in September. Some stuff Ive given away, some I kept.

Inside were exercise books, a couple of little toys, a few scribbled-on papers. Melanie picked out one: Alex Stephens, 2B in determined, wobbly writing.

– Oh god, she whispered.

– Thats how I feel, Valerie echoed.

They flipped through together. Valerie talked, Melanie listened: how Alex once tried headstands and walked around bruised for a week. How he once brought home a cat; at first Colin disapproved, later liked it, and then, two years on, the cat left of its own accord. It has the right to a flatmate too, said Alex. How at fourteen he announced hed be a computer whiz because you can work in your slippers.

– He really did, said Melanie.

– Kept his word.

– He did.

It was midnight by the time Melanie glanced up and realised the hour.

– I should go. Last bus soon.

– Stay, Valerie said unexpectedly. – The sofas spare. Ill make it up.

– I couldnt.

– Couldnt to whom?

Melanie looked at her. Valerie was staring aside, as if the invitation had come from some lurking relative.

– Alright. Thank you.

While Valerie sorted sheets, Melanie did the mugs, and watched her own reflection in the kitchens yellowish glow. Three months ago, she couldnt have imagined this scene: soup, old exercise books, an awkward stay.

She thought: with family, after a loss, some things cant be flattened out on probate forms. Sometimes you just have to come, with jam or without, sit, and let things settle into a shape that might one day hold.

Maybe, tonight, things had shifted a bit.

The room she slept in was the same shed used when she and Alex had visited. The sofa sagged at one end, the blanket a kind Valerie called brown but was more russet. Above the bookshelf mostly Colins, battered with age there was one slim, odd one out. Melanie reached up, squinted: Letters from Nowhere, by an unknown author. Inside, Alexs unmistakable scrawl: To Mum, for your birthday. Read slowly. Love.

She closed the book gently and put it back.

For a while, she just looked at it in the dusk.

Beyond the wall, she heard Valerie pottering around the creak of floorboards, a tap squeaking briefly. Life going on, remarkably ordinary, against all odds.

Morning arrived with porridge on the table, laid before Melanie without any questioning, orange juice on the side for good measure. Outside was a grey October London, the roads shiny with rain, trees nearly bare.

– What time do you start work? asked Valerie.

– At ten. Ill make it.

– Plenty of time. The Undergrounds not far. – She stirred her own porridge. You taking the Tube?

– Yes, District line.

– Third stop, I remember.

– You do? Melanie blinked. She hadnt expected that.

– Alex told me. End of explanation.

Melanie tasted the porridge it was salty, not sweet, with butter. Exactly like her mother used to make, years ago, before Melanie got used to sugar. Salty porridge, like a memory returned.

– Ive something to show you, said Valerie, fetching an envelope. – Found it while sorting out. From his student army training. He never did proper service, but wrote me this from field camp. Just for you to see, not to keep. So you know he could do words.

It was three pages, folded neatly, small neat script Melanie read slowly, just like it said in the book.

Alex wrote about a foggy morning outside the barracks, a lone poplar in the mist, and about how everything shifts but the poplar just remains, and how thats good. He wished for home and his mums pasties, and quiet in his own room.

A younger Alex, softer. Not quite set into who hed become.

– May I copy it? Or take a photo, just for me?

Valerie paused, then nodded.

– Keep it. Really. I dont need it anymore.

– Its yours.

– Melanie her name, for the first time. Take it.

Melanie folded the letter and slipped it into her bag. She couldnt find the words to thank, so she didnt try.

They washed up in tandem, same rhythm, but this time it felt a fraction lighter.

– You should go see Dorothy, Melanie said. – The flat will still be here. Dorothys waiting, I bet.

– She called last week says Im being difficult.

– So go!

– Well see.

– Mrs. Stephens

– Well see, I said.

Melanie hung up the tea towel.

– I could visit, if you dont mind. Not often. Sometimes.

Valerie shut off the tap and dried her hands, gazing for a long moment into the sink.

– Visit, she said finally. – Ill make soup.

– Noodles?

– Or would you prefer barley?

– Noodles is good.

– Thats settled then.

Melanie dressed. Valerie walked her to the door. By the coat rack, Melanie turned around.

– Thank you for the night.

– Alright. Off you pop, or youll be late for work.

Melanie reached for the handle, paused.

– That book Alex gave you. On the shelf. Have you read it?

– Started. A pause. Slowly.

– He wrote, Read slowly.

– I saw. – A moments pause. – So he knew me well.

Melanie nodded, opened the door.

– Goodbye.

– Goodbye, said Valerie.

Melanie heard the lock click behind her after a moments wait, as if Valerie stood listening to her steps on the stairs.

The stairwell smelled of damp and fresh paint. The bulb on the next floor flickered but never fully failed. Melanie made her way down slowly, holding the banister.

Outside was the same grey October day people heading to work, a van booming in the distance, and pigeons pottering professionally on the pavement. Everything ordinary, everything known nothing at all bearing any relation to last night, and yet, in a way, everything connected to it.

Melanie walked to the Tube, thinking that reconciliation isnt a lightning-bolt its soup, old jotters, a night on someone elses sofa, a towel in hand, a letter in the bottom of your bag.

She didnt know what would come next. Didnt know what she and Valerie could be in this unlabelled state. Not quite mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, not strangers, not friends. Something balanced on a shared memory and the fact that once, theyd both loved one man. Not enough for closeness, not enough for nothing.

The envelope was there, snug in her bag. She decided to leave it until evening, at home, under better light.

The Tube rolled into the station. Doors opened and closed. The journey began.

A few stops before her own, Melanie took out her phone and messaged Valerie: Got in fine. Thanks for breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, as Melanie hung up her coat at work, a reply pinged in: Youre welcome. Put your jam in the cupboard.

Melanie smiled, put away her phone, and shrugged out of her coat.

Down the corridor, someone was laughing for no discernible reason. Out the office window, the sky was that almost-white London grey. Maybe by evening, the clouds would thin. Maybe not. October is anyones guess.

She went off to the morning meeting.

Friday evening, three days later, Valerie called. Melanie was reheating her own dinner and took a while to get the phone, catching it on the third ring.

– Im going to Dorothys, said Valerie, businesslike. – Saturday. Ten days.

– Good, said Melanie.

A pause.

– Hope you dont mind me ringing.

– Not at all. Im glad.

– Well then.

– Say hello to Dorothy.

– Will do. Another pause. – Melanie.

– Yes?

– That book the one on the shelf in your room. Take it next time. It was Alexs, let it stay with him, so to speak.

Melanie stood by the hob, wooden spoon in hand. Saucepan just coming to the boil.

– Alright, she said. – I will.

– Right then. Off I go to pack.

– Safe travels.

– Thanks.

A second of silence, comfortable as gentle dusk.

– Goodbye, said Valerie.

– Goodbye.

Melanie turned down the gas, set her spoon on the rest. Out the window: darkness, street-lit.

Somewhere in Bournemouth, Dorothy was getting her guest room ready. Somewhere, a book inscribed Read slowly. Love. waited. Somewhere in a strange kitchen cupboard sat a jar of plum jam.

Perhaps thats all thats left. Not what the solicitor files for you. Not documents and deeds. But this: jam in an unfamiliar cupboard. A letter in an envelope. An out-of-place sentence with perfect timing.

Melanie took up her spoon and stirred the soup.