Eight Years of Little Things

Eight Years of Trifles

The telephone rang at half past seven in the morning, just as Helen stood at the cooker, watching the water begin to boil in a small saucepan. The hob was ancient, gas-fired, its cast iron grates thick with anothers greasy neglect that she could never quite scrub away. Every morning that grease reminded her the flat was not hers, that this place had harboured different people, different habits, their own Sunday roasts and lives.

She glanced at the screen. Kate.

Helen answered.

You still havent replied to his message, her daughter started, dispensing with any greeting.

Good morning, Katie.

Mum, I mean it. He wrote to me last night. Says youre ignoring him.

The water boiled over. Helen switched off the flame and tossed in a teabag. Cheap, English, forty to a box in thin paper envelopes. She used to insist on loose leaf, Darjeeling or Ceylon, the kind Andrew would hunt for in a little shop near Marylebone.

Let him talk, Helen said simply.

Mum, do you realise what youre doing? Youre living in some hole in Hackney, probably riddled with mice, all by yourself, youre nearly sixty

Im fifty-eight.

Thats almost sixty! And you left a perfectly good man, a flat in the city centre, a normal life. To what end?

Helen looked out the window. Beyond, the November sky hung low and grey, a bare chestnut tree, and across the way, the peeling yellow render of a neighbouring terrace. Somewhere out of sight, a tram rattled by. The tracks here were so old, their noise had robbed her of sleep the first two nights.

But she was used to it now.

Kate, Im late for work.

You never want to talk about it properly!

I do. Just not now, and not like this. Could you come at the weekend? Ill make soup.

Im not coming to that hole of yours.

A hole. So the word had reached Kate too. Likely through Aunt Martha.

All right, Helen replied calmly. Well speak later then.

Mum

Kate, I love you. Bye.

She put the phone down on the table. Poured the tea into a thick, faceted glass shed found abandoned in the kitchen cabinet among pans that werent hers. It was proper British glassware, heavy, the sort she hadnt set eyes on for thirty years at least. She sipped. The tea was hot, slightly bitter, carrying a faint paper taste from the bag.

She drank, standing by the window, watching over the chestnut.

Then she got dressed and left the house.

***

The entrance smelled of damp and cat. Somewhere above, on the third floor, lived a tom shed never seen but often heard wailing at night. There was no lift. Four flights down, past battered post boxes with swinging doors, past a rusty sledge left in the corner from last winter, perhaps.

Outside, it couldnt have been more than five degrees. Helen buttoned her coat and made her way towards the Underground. Hackney was still unfamiliar; half a year gone, yet she still got confused in its winding lanes. Dalston, Stamford Hill, London Fields. Here, the streets were different than in the West Endquieter, broader, lined with trees. People strode quickly, eyes down, just like anywhere in London, but without that central London haste that always frayed her nerves.

She bought some milk and half a loaf at the shop downstairs. The girl at the till, all bright green eye shadow, did not lift her gaze. Helen counted her change in pounds and tucked the groceries into her bag.

The Tube was noisy and warm. She travelled standing, gripping the rail, thinking about the current project. Yesterday, she and David had finished the first batch of survey drawings; today they would tackle the ground floor joists, which seemed to remain by nothing but luck and some Victorian engineering miracle.

The estate was in Bow. Small, built in the late eighteenth century; the main house, flanked by a pair of wings and, at the rear, a former coach house repeatedly altered and extended to the point where its origins were now obscure. The property kept changing handsbecame a government storage depot in the fifties, then stood empty for two decades. Now, a group funding a cultural centre had hired a project team, and Helen was lead conservation architect. David, her colleague, managed the engineering.

It was proper work. Not the fiddly little flat refurbishments shed picked up when she lived with Andrew, just to keep occupied, but something real, sizeable, with the bones of history lodged within.

***

David was already at the site when she arrived. He loomed in the centre of the grand hall, ever-present in his grey work coat, tape measure in hand, staring up at the ceiling.

Morning, Helen greeted.

Look here, he replied, pointing to a section where the plaster had fallen away, revealing the old brickwork. I think Ive cracked why the ceilings sagging. The beam above is split its full length. This isnt just repairit needs replacement.

Is it split with the grain or has it sheared?

Come up and Ill show you.

They climbed the staircasehalf-shored but still groaning underfoot. Helen gripped the bannister, inhaling the odour of ancient wood, dry and faintly sweet, seasoned with time and a spice she could not put to words. The scent of old lives, perhaps, lost to these very walls.

She loved that smell. Always had.

David indicated the beam. She crouched, torch in hand, tracing the splintering line.

Its not the grain, she said at last. Lookits a mechanical break. Something heavy sat here.

Id say a printing press. Or a few. This was a warehouse, remember.

David squatted beside her, both of them peering at the wound in the beam. Outside, wind rattled the empty window frame.

So, we replace it, he said.

Yes. But using the original method. I found some old timber specs in the archives yesterdayI reckon its local pine, well-seasoned.

Thatll be hard to source…

Well find it. Theres a mill up in Suffolk I worked with before; Ill ring them.

David nodded, brushing off his knees as he stood. He was tall, with a mild stoop and the habit of listening with his head tipped slightly forward, which made him look as though lost in his own thoughtsbut it was an illusion. He absorbed everything, reacted precisely, never interrupted. Four months working together and shed come to value that.

Fancy a cuppa? he asked. Brought a flask.

Id love one.

In the corridor, David fetched his bag and poured out two plastic cups.

Youre… I dont know. Very focussed today, he observed, hesitating.

What do you mean?

When youre like this, it means youve had a call from either your daughter or your sister.

He didnt pry further. Just handed her the tea.

She took it. It wasnt bagged.

***

Shed seen Martha only last Sunday. Her sister appeared without warning, phoned from the street: Open up, Ive brought pie. Helen obliged.

Martha, three years older, lived with her husband George in Hammersmith, worked as an accountant in a construction firm, and held lifes convictions with the unwavering stubbornness of concrete. She stepped into the flat, surveyed its dingy bathroom, and donned her lifelong expressiona mixture of pity and victory.

Good grief, she groaned. Is this a bathroom or a broom cupboard?

A bathroom.

That tiles cracked.

Martha, you brought pie.

I did. She set the pie on the kitchen table, took another curious glance. Helen, just explain to me. Theres a city flat, three rooms, parquet, high ceilingsan accomplished man. Did he hit you?

No.

Cheat?

Dont know. Perhaps. Didnt care by then.

Then why did you leave? Have you lost your marbles in your old age?

Helen fetched plates.

Martha, enough.

Enough of what, Helen? Im your sister! Am I supposed to say nothing when Kate rings me, crying, and he calls asking if I know whats got into you? Hes a good man, you know.

He isa good man. For someone else. Slice the pie.

There you go, always slice the pie. Never want to talk.

I am talking. Ive told youmore than once.

Youve explained nothing. I felt miserable. Well, we all do. Do you think its always rosy with George? Am I packing my bags at my age for some grotty bed-sit?

Its not a bed-sit, Im alone here.

Alone! Helen, youre fifty-eight, living in this dump, earning tuppence, and you call it happiness?

She looked at Marthabig and warm in her everlasting beige jumper, an honest bewilderment writ large across her features. Truly, it was impossible to resent her for not understanding.

Mar, Helen said quietly. Youll die without me, silly, Martha said.

Helen shook her head. Ill die, but on my own terms.

Martha gawked. What are you on?

Nothing, Helen said, cutting the pie. Whats in it?

Cabbage. Helen, are you all right? See a therapist?

I do.

And what does she say?

She says I make good choices.

Oh well, thats what they all saytheyre paid for it.

They drank tea and ate cabbage pie. Martha told tales of George and his bad back, the neighbours new dog, the incessant barking. Helen listened. The sky darkened, the dusk outside settling violet around the chestnut.

At the door, Martha paused.

You could at least text him. Hes worried.

All right, Helen replied.

She knew she wouldnt.

***

She and Andrew had spent eight years together. Not marriedhe was, in principle, against such conventions, which ought to have said it all; shed realised too late.

The first two years had been differentor so she thought. Hed been thoughtful, treated her to restaurants, theatres, trips to Florence and Prague. Spoke how clever she was. Then, gradually, things changed, subtle as a hairline crack in old plaster.

It started with little things. One evening, she wore her favourite green dress to his work dinner. He looked at her in the hall.

You sure? he said. Just that. She changed into something black.

After that, there were comments on her cooking. The way she spoke to his friends. How much time she wasted at work for so little reward. He delivered these with a gentle, reasonable air, as though he were granting her a favour, pointing out the obvious.

Helen, darling, you know conservation isnt a field where you can get anywhere. Dead-end for people lacking real ambition.

I have ambition.

He smiled. Youre a good professional. Just, you know, average. That isnt badnot everyone has to be exceptional.

She found no words to answer. She left the room, sitting by herself for an hour, trying to understand why his soft words left her feeling so hurt.

He never once shouted. Never raised a hand. Instead, he slowly, methodically convinced her she was worthless without him. That her career was trivial, her friends tedious, her tastes provincial. She owed him for his company alone.

Shed cook stew and fret over the seasoning. Shed ring her friends, worrying if it was too often. Shed go for a meeting and fret if she appeared too sure of herself. That inner doubtful voice always echoed his.

And then came that night.

They were at his friends placeSimon and Rachela nice flat near Regents Park. Conversation turned to some new block of flats; Helen remarked the elevations were poor, the developer cut corners on the architect, all quite measured.

Andrew flashed that smile shed come to dread.

Helen here is a specialist, he told Simon. But you know, there are practising specialists and theoretical ones. Helens more the latter. She hasnt worked on anything big in ages.

The table fell silent a moment. Rachel eyed Helen. Simon reached for his wine.

Helen smiled.

She finished her meal. Drank. Kept up the chatter. Ordered a taxi. On the way home, Andrew was all cheer, recounting Simons tales. She watched London slide by outside and thought the clearest thought in years: I cant do this anymore.

Not hes a bad man, not Im unhappy. Simply: I cant. Like hitting a wall with no way through.

She left three months later. Hunted for a flat, found this place in Hackney. Hauled her things in two car trips. Andrew was away on business. She left her keys and a note on the kitchen table containing only one word: Sorry.

She wondered afterwards why she wrote that. Didnt know. Just did.

***

November in Hackney was peculiar. There was a park nearby, and in the evenings, returning from work, Helen sometimes wandered through it, taking the long way past old trees. All leaves shed, the paths wet underfoot, mulch squelching, yet in the park it was silent, and shed inhale the damp airmoulding leaves, wet barkwith the pleasure of a necessary remedy.

At home, it was cold. The boiler in this old terrace worked fitfully, radiators alternately roasting or icy. The kitchen tap dripped. Shed rung the landlord three times; he promised a plumber, who never came.

Helen bought a rubber washer at the DIY shop and replaced it herself. It took forty minutes, broke two fingernails, and one curse when the spanner slipped and she banged her elbow. But, wiping her hands, she turned the tap. No more drip.

It brought a daft sense of pridebut real nonetheless.

Evenings, she worked at the kitchen table. Spread out blueprints, flicked on the old desk lamp shed lugged with herthe one with the green glass shade, rescued from a stall in Camden in the nineties. Andrew had hated that lamp, always said it blighted the décor. In the West End, it languished in a cupboard. Here, it had pride of place.

Progress on the estate was slow, as always with serious projects. First, the surveys; then, the archives; analysis of damage, then the concept. Helen cherished the slownessno shortcuts. A building either stood, or it didnt. Brick was alive, or dead. History was real, or invented.

She found old papers in the London Archives tracing the estates ownershiponce the property of a merchant, Mr. Hollis, later inherited by his daughter, who ran it as a small home school. Then the war, then the warehouse. The daughter, Margaret, appeared in a faded photographfiftyish, upright, her gaze at the camera alive with knowledge the photographer lacked.

Helen stared at that photograph a long while.

Then set it aside and returned to her plans.

***

David once asked how she came to conservation.

They sat in his car, waiting for the engine to warm before heading to the archives. First snow of the year flurried at the windscreen.

I used to design new builds in the nineties, Helen began. Flats, offices. Good money, plenty of work. Then by chance, a friend dragged me to see them restoring a church in Surrey. That was it.

What do you mean, that was it?

I realised then and there. It mattered more.

He was silent for a moment.

Thats rare, he said. Knowing what matters.

Did you?

Not straight away. Did the sensible thing for years. Until I just… stopped.

She watched him, eyes on the windscreen, snow gathering on the wipers.

What then?

This. All this. He gestured towards the unseen estate. That suits me just fine.

The car was warm, smelled of leather and a trace of coffee.

They drove to the archives.

***

Andrew turned up unexpectedly one Wednesday.

She wasnt expecting him. He rang the bell at eight, just as she sat over drawings, eating Greek yoghurt straight from its carton. The chime was the old-fashioned kind, found on every door here.

She opened, thinking it the landlord or a neighbour.

Andrew stood in his cashmere overcoat, holding a small bunch of chrysanthemums. She had never liked chrysanthemums. In eight years, he never learned.

Hello, he said.

She took a moment to respond.

How did you find my address?

Kate gave it.

So, Kate. She filed that away to think on later.

What do you want? she asked.

To talk. He smiled, that familiar smile. May I come in?

She paused, then stepped aside.

He looked around: at the poky hallway, faded wallpaper, the wonky coat hook, her boots on the mat.

You live here, he said, not so much querying as stating.

I do.

Helen He took her hand; she pulled it away. He made no fuss, shifting the flowers instead. Look, I understand you needed space. But its been six months. Thats enough.

Enough of what?

Enough time alone. To… take a break. Whatever you call it. He drifted into the kitchen, eyed the plans spread out. Been working?

Yes.

Whats this?

Restoring the Bow Estate.

Good. His tone was mild, patronising. Thats good, for you.

For me and for the estate. Georgian, you know.

He set the chrysanthemums on her drawings. She set them aside.

Helen, he began, do you understand what youre doing? Living here. In this A sweeping gesture.

I know where I live.

I want you to come back.

She looked at him. Andrew was handsome, objectively so. Sixty-five, but youthful, well kept, tall. His coat fit impeccably.

Why? she asked.

He faltered; clearly hadnt expected the question.

What do you mean, why?

You want me back. Why?

I I miss you.

What do you miss?

Helen, what sort of conversation is this?

A normal one. You say you miss me. Im asking, what exactly do you miss?

He looked at her, the old shade of irritation behind feigned patience settling in.

I miss you. As a person. We were together eight years.

I remember.

And thats it? You just go?

I didnt just go. Helen crossed her arms. She wore her old jumper and jeansnot at all the way he liked to see her. I left for eight years. You just never noticed.

I dont understand.

I know you dont.

Explain.

I havemany times. Her voice was steady, which surprised her. Six months back, shed be crying, rambling, apologising. Do you remember that night at Simon and Rachels?

What night?

You called me a theorist. Said I hadnt done anything big in years. In front of everyone.

He paused, thinking.

I was joking. Probably.

Maybe. But that was one of dozens. I remember all of them.

Helen, youre overly sensitive.

Perhaps.

It wasnt meant as humiliation.

All right. But it still hurt.

Over a trifle.

Over eight years of trifles.

He stood, silent, surveying the kitchen. The thick glass at the sink. The old lamp with its green shade.

And youre happy here? he asked with incredulous amusement. Really?

Helen consideredthough not for him.

It depends, she answered honestly. Sometimes its hard. Lonely. The radiators dont work. But its better than there.

Thats an illusion.

Maybe. But its mine.

He fetched his coat, paused to look at her. Something shifted, uncertain, perhaps real.

Helen, Im not a stranger to you.

No, she agreed. Not a stranger. But not mine any longer. Go home, Andrew.

He hesitated, then left. Dressed, opened the door.

Youll regret this, he saidnot as a threat, almost regretfully.

Maybe, she said.

The door closed. Helen stood in the hall, eyes on the battered covering and the little spy hole. Then she returned to the kitchen, dropped the chrysanthemums in an empty jar, filled it with water. Flowers, after all; shame to throw them out.

She went back to her plans.

A tram clattered past. Once, again, then faded.

She realised she no longer found it disturbing.

***

The project review was set for the second week of December. An early stagethe client wanted their approach clear: what to keep, what to restore, what to rebuildand why. Helen threw herself into preparations. David did the same. Theyd consult most evenings, compare notes, occasionally argue.

One evening they debated the ground floor joists for forty minutes, till both saw they were rightHelen from an aesthetic, David from an engineering, standpoint.

Youre tough, he said, but without censure.

In my work.

Thats good.

That was all. Nothing sentimental.

She hung up, realising she was smiling.

***

Three days before the review, Kate rang. Not morning, but at night.

Mum, she said, voice changedsofter. Can I come round?

Yes, Helen replied.

Kate arrived with a bottle of wine, looking both resolved and lost for words. She had Helens cheekbones, her handsthe same at thirty-two. She worked as a designer, lived in Brixton with her boyfriend.

They sat in the kitchen. Helen poured wine into ordinary tumblersonly one wine glass in the house, reserved for special guests, but Kate said the tumblers would do.

Did he call after coming here? Kate asked.

No. Just sends messages sometimes.

What does he say?

All sorts. I dont always reply.

Kate rolled her glass between her fingers.

Mum, I gave him your address. You angry?

No.

I thought I dont know. Maybe youd talk, maybe

We talked.

And?

And nothing. He left.

Kate was silent for a while, looking into her wine.

Honestly, I was on his side, all along, you know?

I know.

I kept telling myself you that you were just having some moment, that youd go back to your senses. I pitied him, you know, he seemed so alone, so lost.

Hes good at seeming.

Yeah. Kate looked up, her gaze clear now, not the resentful, superior look of old. Were you unhappy?

Very.

Why didnt you tell me?

Helen considered. Maybe because I couldnt put it into words myself. When youre not hit, not cheated on, not thrown outyou cant explain why youre miserable. Especially to a daughter who only ever saw the best of him.

Kate got up and came round to hug her, sudden and hard. Helen hesitated, then returned the embrace. Kates hair smelled of her favourite shampoopear-scented, from her teen years.

You arent daft, Kate muttered into her shoulder. Aunt Marthas wrong.

Helen laughed, quietly.

Thats nice to know.

They finished the wine. Kate pored over the drawings, asking about the estate. Helen explained, showed her Margarets photo. She looks like you, Kate said. Helen glanced at the picture again. Maybe.

Kate left at half eleven, promising to come next Saturday.

Helen washed the cups, packed up the drawings. Stood at the window.

The tram had long since stopped; it was late. Down below, the garden was blue, lit by a street lamp. Only one window glowed in the neighbouring house, someone moving behind it.

She thought of calling David about the ground floor joists, but left it for morning.

***

The review was held at the architectural firms meeting room. The client was formidable: lawyers flanking his sides, a heritage adviser who asked sharp, awkward questions. Helen replied; David provided the technicals. They asked her about the joist replacement scheduleshe answered frankly: if they sourced the timber in time, on schedule; if not, delayed by three weeks. The adviser looked grim. Helen added, Better you know the truth now than have to explain a delay later.

He nodded, and, oddly, that seemed to please him most.

Afterwards, standing in the corridor, David clutched their folder.

I think theyll sign off, he said.

I think so too.

He looked at her. Other staff brushed past with their own concerns.

Shall we get dinner? he asked. Theres a decent place round the corner. We should celebrate.

She looked at him.

Id like that, she replied.

They walked through December London, the lamps bright over Bows old brick, snow dusting the eaves. David strode beside her, head dipped in his usual way. Their talk was unhurriedabout oak beams, the fussy adviser, the too-early winter darkness.

The restaurant was compact, hush of heavy drapes and wooden tables. They ordered hot food and a glass of red each. They spoke at length, not just shop; they discussed the city, how it shifted, the books they were reading. Helen found herself forgetting to check her watch.

Leaving, he held up her coat while she slipped it on. An everyday gesture. She barely registered it. Or perhaps she did, just not in any hurried way.

On the street, he said:

Im glad we work together.

She replied,

So am I.

They wandered off towards different stations, the night crisp, the snow bright above Londons eaves.