Eight Years of Nothing Special

Eight Years of Little Things

The phone rings at half past seven in the morning, right as Helen stands by the hob, watching a saucepan of water come to the boil. The cooker is old, gas, with cast-iron racks covered in a layer of someone elses greasea residue she can never quite scrub away. Every morning, that stubborn grease reminds her this flat isnt hers, that other people once lived here with their own routines, their own Sunday roasts and their own lives.

She checks the screen. Its Katie.

Helen picks up.

You still havent replied to his message, her daughter begins, skipping hello.

Good morning, Katie.

Mum, Im serious. He messaged me last night, says youre ignoring him.

The water boils. Helen turns off the hob and drops in a battered tea bagcheap, supermarket own-brand, forty to a box. She used to drink nothing but loose-leaf Ceylon, the kind Andrew ordered from a shop near Covent Garden.

Let him talk, she says.

Mum, do you even realise what youre doing? You live in some grim place in Wood Green, theres probably rats, youre alone, nearly sixty

Im fifty-eight.

Thats basically sixty! And you left a good man, a central London flat, a proper life. What for?

Helen glances out the window. The November sky is flat grey, a sycamore stands stripped of leaves, and across the way the next blocks yellow paint is peeling in flakes. Somewhere below, a double-decker bus goes by. The roadworks are noisy here; her first two nights, she barely slept.

Then she got used to it.

Katie, Im late for work.

You never want to talk properly!

I do. Just not now, not like this. You could come over this Saturday? Ill make soup.

Im not coming to your little hole.

Little hole. The word has reached Katie too, probably from Aunt Jo.

All right, Helen says, calm. Well talk later then.

Mum

Katie, I love you. Bye.

She places the phone on the table, lifts the saucepan, pours the tea into a thick, ridged glass shed found in the back of the cupboard amongst someones old pans. Proper British, probably from the eighties, weighty, with those familiar grooves. She hasnt seen a glass like that in thirty years. She takes a sip. The teas hot, slightly bitter, a hint of cardboard from the teabag.

She drinks standing by the window, watching the sycamore.

Then she gets dressed and heads outside.

***

The building smells of damp and cat. Somewhere up on the third floor lives a tomcat shes never seen, but hears at night. Theres no lift. Four flights down, past battered letterboxes, past someones old sledge propped in the cornerabandoned since last winter, perhaps.

Outside, its barely five degrees. Helen buttons her coat, heads towards the tube. She doesnt know Wood Green wellhalf a year here and she still sometimes loses her bearings in the side roads. Bounds Green, Tottenham, Finsbury Park. Streets are different here than in the centre. Quieter, wider, lines of trees. People hurry along the same as everywhere in London, not looking at each other, but without that city-centre impatience that always grated on her.

She nips into the corner shop for some milk and a half-loaf. The checkout girl, young with green eyeshadow, doesnt look up. Helen counts her change, packs her bits into a bag, and heads out.

The tube is warm and crowded. She stands, clutching the pole, thinking about the project. Yesterday, she and David finished the first section of survey drawings, and today she needs to deal with the cellar ceiling, which, by the sound of it, is only standing thanks to Victorian engineering and a miracle.

The manor house theyre working on is in Stepney. Not grand, late eighteenth century, main house and two wings, plus something like a coach house thats been rebuilt so often its hard to tell what was originally there. Owners changed, the council once used it for storage before abandoning it. For twenty years, it sat empty. Now, finally, fundings appeared, people with an eye to turn it into a cultural centre, a project team assembled. Helen is chief restoration architect. David, her colleague, handles structural work.

Its proper work. Not the piecemeal flat conversions she took on in the last few years with Andrewjust to keep busybut a real project, with genuine history inside.

***

David is already on site when she arrives. He stands in the large hall on the ground floor in his battered grey coat, tape measure in hand, peering up at the ceiling.

Morning, Helen greets him.

Look, he says instead of hello, pointing to a corner where plaster has peeled away in a big chunk, exposing old brickwork. I think I know why the ceilings sagging. Theres a beam upstairs; its split end to end. This isnt a restoration, its almost total replacement.

Split or come apart at the grain?

Come and see.

They climb to the first floor on a staircase that has been partially reinforced but still creaks with every step. Helen holds the dusty handrail, catching a whiff of ancient floorboards, dry and sweetish, mixed with the scent of dustan odour of old time, of lives lived and lost in these walls.

She always loved that scent. Always.

David points out the beam. She crouches, fishes out a torch, runs it along the crack.

It hasnt split with the grain, she says. See the way it runs? Thats mechanical damage. Something heavy mustve stood here.

Yeah, likely. Some sort of machine.

Or a row of them. It was a storehouse, after all.

David squats beside her, both of them watching the beam. Wind rustles outside the window, where the panes are long gone.

So we replace it, he says.

We do. But same method. I checked the archives last night, found a specification for the timber. Pine, local but well-seasoned.

Not easy to find that now.

Well manage. Theres a supplier near Oxfordshire; I worked with them on the Camden restoration. Ill ring them.

David nods, gets up, brushes his knees. Hes tall, slightly stooped, the type who dips his head as he listens, giving him the look of someone always lost in thought. But its misleadinghe listens closely, responds precisely, never interrupts. Four months working together and Helen appreciates this.

Fancy a tea? he asks. Brought my flask.

Thatd be lovely.

They retreat to the corridor, where his bag is stashed. He pours from the flask into two plastic cups.

Youre different today, he says, not finishing the sentence but giving her a look.

How so?

Dont know. Focused.

Helen smiles.

That means my daughter or my sister rang this morning.

He doesnt pry. Just passes her the tea.

She accepts it. This is real tea, not out of a bag.

***

Helen saw Jo last Sunday. Her sister showed up without warning, called from downstairsOpen up, Ive brought pie. Helen buzzed her in.

Jo is three years older, lives in Enfield with her husband Graham, works as an accountant for a building firm, and has always held views solid as concrete, not to be shifted by any reason. She steps in, surveys the flat with an expression Helen knows from childhooda mix of pity and triumph.

Blimey, Jo exclaims. Is this a bathroom or a broom cupboard?

Bathroom.

The tiles are cracked.

Jo, you brought pie.

I did. She heads to the kitchen, sets the pie on the table, looks around again. Helen, reallyyou need to tell me. Three bedrooms in central London, solid wood floors, high ceilings, a man with good money. Was he hitting you?

No.

Cheating?

Maybe. I stopped caring.

So what is it? Are you mad, doing this at your age?

Helen fetches plates.

Dont, Jo.

Dont what, Helen? Im your sister! Im supposed to say it. Katie rings me up in tears. Hes ringing, asking if I know whats going on. Hes a good bloke, actually.

He is, Helen agrees. For someone else. Cut the pie?

Youre always like this. Cut the pie. Wont talk.

Im talking. Ive explained. Many times.

No, you havent! I wasnt happy. No ones always happy. Think its perfect with me and Graham? Bit rough, I dont run off to a dingy flat at my age.

Its not shared, I live here alone.

Alone! Jo throws up her hands. Youre fifty-eight, alone in this dump, working for peanuts. And you say things are fine?

Helen looks at her. Jo sits opposite, big, warm, in her familiar beige jumper, her confusion genuine. She really doesnt understand. And Helen cannot be cross with her for that.

Jo, she says softly. Youd get lost without me, silly, Jo says.

Helen shakes her head: Maybebut Id get lost my own way.

Jo stares at her.

What are you on about?

Nothing. Just chatting. Helen takes the knife, slices the pie. Whats in it?

Cabbage. Jo is still eyeing her suspiciously. Helen, are you all right? Seeing anyone about it?

I am.

And they say?

They say Im making good decisions.

Yeah, they wouldget paid for it.

They eat pie with tea. Jo tells stories about Grahams bad back, about the neighbours new dog barking all night. Helen listens. Streetlights are switching on outside, the sky turns a bruised purple.

At the door, Jo pauses.

You should at least text him, she says. The mans worried.

All right.

Helen knows she wont.

***

She lived with Andrew for eight years. No marriagehe was adamantly against official paperwork, which said a lot, though she realised it too late.

The first two years were different. Or so she remembers. He was attentive, took her to restaurants, to plays, they travelled to Italy and Prague. He told her she was clever, that she had taste. Then subtle changes crept in, as slight as a crack in old plaster.

Small things. Once, she wore her favourite green dress to his office party. He looked at her in the hall and just said, Are you sure? That was all. She changed into black.

Then came comments on her cooking, on how she talked to his friends, on how much time she spent working for such small results. The last bit hed say gently, almost with kindness, Helen, you must see restorations a dead end for people without big ambitions.

I do have ambitions.

Oh, come on. His smile. Youre skilled, but ordinary. Thats not a bad thing. Not everyone can be exceptional.

She said nothing then. She sat in another room for an hour, wondering why words spoken so softly could wound so much.

He never shouted. Never raised a hand. Instead, he chipped away at her confidence: that without him she was nothing, her career pointless, her friends dull, her choices provincial. She owed him, just for his presence.

Shed make stew and fret over the salt. She called her friends and wondered if she phoned too much. She went to meetings doubting if her outfit was too bold. That internal voice, always doubting, sounded exactly like his.

And then, finally, that night.

They were having dinner at a friends flat in Marylebone. Talk turned to a new build. Helen made an observation about poor design, about developers scrimping on architects. Calm, measured.

Andrew turned to their host and smiled that smile she knew so well.

Helens an expert, he said. Of course, theres a difference between doing and theorising. Helens more of a theorist. Hasnt handled a big project in a while.

It went silent. Their friends wife looked at Helen. The host sipped his wine.

Helen smiled. Finished her meal, had some wine, kept up conversation, called a taxi. On the way home, Andrew chatted about their friends business deals. She gazed at the city lights and one thought consumed her: I cant do this anymore.

Not hes a bad man, not Im miserable. Just: I cant.

She left three months later, found the Wood Green flat, moved on her own. Andrew was away on business that day. She left her keys and a note with one word: Sorry.

Later, she wondered why she wrote it. She never found the answer.

***

November in Wood Green feels unique. The parks close by, and some evenings she detours through, not straight home but winding past old trees. Leaves are all down, the path squelches, but the quiet air, the scent of damp earth and wood, feels necessary, like drinking something essential.

Her flat is cold. The old radiators are either boiling or stone-cold, nothing in between. The kitchen tap drips steadily. Shes rung the landlord a few timeshe promises a plumber, who never materialises.

Helen buys a rubber washer at B&Q and replaces it herself. It takes forty minutes, two broken nails and some choice words when the spanner slips and she cracks her elbow. But when she handles the tap afterit works. No more drips.

A small thing to be proud of. But pride nonetheless.

In the evenings, she works at the kitchen table, drawers open, plans everywhere, lamp switched onher old one with the green glass shade, picked up at a car boot sale in the nineties. Andrew always hated it, said it spoiled the décor. In the centre, it was hidden away; here, it takes pride of place.

The manor project moves slowly, inevitably so. First measurements, then trawling archives, then damage reports, then concepts. Helen likes it for that very reasontheres no cheating in this work. A building stands, or it doesnt. A brick is either sound, or crumbling. A history is either real or invented.

Shes found, in the London Archives, documents about the manor house. In the nineteenth century, the Beresford family owned it; later, their daughter converted it into a kind of home school before the council took it over. The daughter was called Hope. In an old photo, Helen finds a woman of fifty, upright, with the look of someone who knows exactly what the photographer does not.

Helen stares at the image for a long time.

Then puts it away and returns to her plans.

***

One morning, David asks how she got into restoration.

Theyre sitting in his car, engine running, waiting for the heater to warm up before heading to the records office. Outside, a thin, shaky flurry of the years first snow.

I designed new builds in the nineties, Helen explains. Flats, offices. Paid well, always busy. Then, by chance, I visited a church restoration in Sussex with a friend. That was it.

What do you mean, that was it?

I realised thats what I wanted. That it mattered more.

Hes quiet.

Thats rare, he says. To know what you care about.

Did you?

Not straight away. Bumbled along with what seemed right. But then, eventually, I stopped.

She watches him. Hes focused on the windscreen, where snow thins over the wipers.

And now?

Now this. He jerks his thumb vaguely in the direction of the unseen manor. Suits me fine.

The car is warm, smells faintly of coffee from his travel mug.

They set off for the archives.

***

Andrew turns up on Wednesday.

She isnt expecting him. The doorbell rings at eight; shes at the table with her plans, spooning yoghurt straight from the pot. The bell is a tired, metallic trilleveryones door sounds the same here.

She opens up, thinking its the landlord or a neighbour.

Andrew stands outside in his cashmere coat, holding a scruffy bunchchrysanthemums. Shes never liked them. After eight years, he never learned.

Hello, he says.

She stands there three seconds, not sure what to say.

How did you get the address? she asks.

Katie gave it to me.

So, Katie. She files it away for later.

What do you want?

To talk. He smilesThat smile. Arent you going to let me in?

She hesitates, then steps aside.

He looks around, taking in the cramped hallway, the wallpaper, the crooked coat hook, her boots by the door.

You actually live here, he says, not a question.

I do.

Helen He takes her hand. She pulls it away. He shrugs, moves his flowers to the other hand. Look. I get that you needed space. But its been six months. Isnt that long enough?

Long enough for what?

To be on your own. Pause. Whatever you call it. He moves through to the kitchen, eyes the plans on the table. Youre working?

I am.

What project?

Restoring a manor in Stepney.

Right. He says it dismissively. Good for you.

Its good for me and for the manor. Eighteenth century.

He sets the flowers down, right on top of the blueprints. She moves them aside.

Helen, he says, do you realise what youre doing? Living herethis he gestures widely.

I know where I live.

I want you to come back.

She looks at him. Andrew is, objectively, a handsome man for his agesixty-five, but easily passes for less, still well turned out.

Why? she asks.

He seems thrown. Thats not a question he expected.

What do you mean, why?

You want me to come back. Why?

I I miss you.

What exactly?

Helen, what is this?

A normal conversation. You say you miss me. I ask: What, precisely?

He watches her. She recognises the old expression: mild irritation cloaked in patience.

You. Us. Eight years.

I remember.

So, thats it? Gone? You just up and left?

It wasnt just up and leave. Helen folds her arms. Shes in an old jumper and jeansso different to the women he prefers. It took eight years to leave. You just didnt notice.

I dont understand.

I know.

Explain.

Ive explained. Her tone is steady, even she is surprised. Six months ago, she might be crying, babbling, apologising. Remember that dinner at Paul and Maries?

What dinner?

You called me a theorist. Said I havent done anything proper in years. With everyone listening.

He frowns, thinking.

I was joking. Dont really remember, but must have been.

Maybe. Helen shrugs. But that was one of many. I remember them all.

Helen, youre too sensitive.

Maybe.

It wasnt meant to hurt.

Perhaps. But it did.

Over nothing.

Over eight years of nothing.

Hes silent. Again, looking aroundthe chipped tumbler by the hob, the old green lamp.

Youre actually happy here? he asks, a touch incredulous. Seriously?

Helen thinks, and not for his benefit, for her own.

Sometimes yes, sometimes no, she says honestly. Sometimes its hard. Sometimes lonely. The heatings rubbish. But its better than before.

Its just an illusion.

Maybe. But its mine.

He grabs his coat from the chair, pauses. Something shifts in hima flash of something real, not polished.

Hel, Im not a stranger to you.

No, she says. Not a stranger. Just not mine anymore. Go home, Andrew.

He lingers a moment, then heads for the door. Pulls it open.

Youll regret this, he says.

It isnt a threat. More regret than anything.

Perhaps, she replies.

The door closes. Helen stands a minute, eying the battered faux-leather front and little peephole. She returns to the kitchen, puts the chrysanthemums in an old jarafter all, theyre flowers. Feels wrong to just toss them out.

Back to her plans.

Outside, a bus rumbles past. She realises she no longer notices it as a nuisance.

***

The concept meeting is set for the second week of December. Its a first stage; the backers want to see the general visionwhat gets saved, whats rebuilt, and why. Helen prepares thoroughly. David works in parallel. Most evenings, they call to hash out details, sometimes argue.

One evening, they debate the cellar ceiling for forty minutesturns out both are right, just from different perspectives. Shes thinking how it will look, hes thinking how it will hold.

Youre tough, he says, without the slightest judgement.

Just at work.

Its good at work.

Thats all. Nothing touchy-feely.

She ends the call, realising shes smiling.

***

Three days before the presentation, Katie rings in the evening.

Mum, she says, in a different voice. Not the clipped one from recent months. Can I come over?

Of course.

Katie arrives with a bottle of wine, looking determined but unsure how to say what she wants. She resembles Helen at that agethe same cheekbones, same hands. Thirty-two, a designer, sharing a flat near Angel with her boyfriend.

They sit in the kitchen. Helen pours wine into ordinary glasses; theres only one wine glass and thats for company, but Katie says plain glass is fine.

Did he call you after he came here? Katie asks.

No. He texts sometimes.

What does he write?

All sorts. I dont always reply.

Katie spins her glass in her hands.

Mum, I gave him your address. Youre not angry?

No.

I thought I dont know, maybe youd talk and

We talked.

And?

And nothing. He left.

Katies silent, then looks at her glass. Mum, all this time, I was on his side. Did you know?

I do.

I thought you were just in some mood. That you needed to go back to normal life. I felt sorry for himhe seemed so lost, so lonely.

Hes good at seeming.

Yeah. Katie looks up. I only realised recently. He phoned me after he left here, and he said these things Said youd always been a bit odd, that he put up with you, did you a favour for eight years.

Helen nods.

Thats how he talks.

Mum. For the first time in months, Katie looks at her without irritation, without condescension. Were you unhappy?

Very.

Why didnt you tell me?

Helen thinks.

Because its hard to explain when youre not being hit, not being thrown out, not even being cheated on. Hardest thing to tell your daughter, especially if she only ever saw him at his best.

Katie gets up and circles the table, hugs hersudden, fierce. Helen freezes, then hugs her back. Katies head smells of the pear shampoo shes used since she was young.

Youre not mad, Katie mumbles into her shoulder. Aunt Jos wrong.

Helen laughs, quietly.

Good to know.

They finish the wine. Katie studies the plans, asks about the manor. Helen explains, shows her the photo of Hope Beresford. Katie says, She looks a bit like you. Helen examines the photo again. Maybe she does.

Katie leaves at half eleven, promising to visit Saturday.

Helen washes the glasses, tidies the plans, stands at the window.

No more buses running now, its late. The courtyard below is silent, painted blue by streetlight. Theres one window lit in the neighbouring building; a silhouette passes behind the curtain.

She thinks of ringing David to ask something about the cellar, but its too late. Shell call tomorrow.

***

The presentation is in the meeting room at the project office. The client is all business, with a team of lawyers and a heritage consultant who fires off pointed questions. Helen fields them all; David chips in on structural details. The client queries deadlines for the second floor beams; Helen is frank: if the timber arrives on time, theyre on track; if not, expect a three-week delay. The consultant frowns. Helen adds, Better to be honest now than explain delays later.

The consultant nods. Oddly, this seems to go over best of all.

Afterwards, they stand in the corridor. Davids holding a folder.

Theyll approve it, he says.

I think so, too.

He looks at her. The corridors busy, people with folders rushing past.

Fancy dinner? he asks. Theres a good spot nearby. We could celebrate.

She meets his eyes.

Id like that, she says.

They walk through December London, through Stepney, lamplight on the old houses, snow still clinging to the roofs. David walks beside her, head slightly bowed, as always. They talk about nothing urgentthe timber for the beams, how the heritage consultant is a stickler, how dark it gets so early in winter.

The restaurant is small, cosy, heavy curtains and wooden tables. They order something hot to eat, a glass of red. They talk for ages, not only about workabout London, how it changes, about books. Helen realises shes not watching the clock.

When they leave, he holds her coat for her, just a simple, ordinary gesture. She thinks nothing of itor maybe she does, but not in a rushed or nervous way.

Outside, he says, Im glad were working together.

She answers, Me too.

They head for opposite platforms on the Underground.