Empty Chair

An Empty Space

Youre just an empty space now, Margaret, do you get that? Empty. Just a space.

He said it as if he were reading a grocery list, no feeling at all. He stood at the window, his back to her, looking out over the shared garden. Below, someone was walking a squat ginger dachshund, and it tugged the lead towards a puddle with the giddy zeal only small dogs possess.

Margaret sat on the settee, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Her brew had gone cold at least twenty minutes before, yet she continued to hold it, unsure where else to place her hands.

What do you mean? she asked, voice thin and fleeting.

What I said. Harry finally turned, his face bored, almost weary, like someone forced to explain to a child why theres no Father Christmas. When I look at you theres just nothing. Grey. Dull. You walk, you cook, you sleep. Youre justwell, youre like the furniture, Margaret. Solid, dependable furniture, but furniture all the same.

She put down the mug; the porcelain made a gentle clink on the old wooden table.

Ten years, she said.

What about it?

Weve lived together ten years.

He shrugged, crossing the carpet, slumping into the battered armchair opposite. So we have. Ten years is long enough to realise when its pointless to carry on. I dont want this life anymore. I want to feel something. And youyou dont inspire me, Margaret. Youre not even really here, even when youre sat right in front of me.

Margaret felt some small, stubborn part of herself beginning to fold, not shatter, but bend.

Where am I meant to go, Harry?

Thats your problem. He crossed one leg over the other. You know the flats in my mothers name. So legally, youre no one here. Im not rushing youbut a week will do, right? Youll find somewhere.

A week is enough, she said, mechanically.

Good. Harry picked up his mobile and began scrolling through it. The conversation, for him, was done.

She got up, walked into the bedroom, closed the door quietly behind her, and lay on top of the duvet, eyes to the ceilingwhite, with a small patch of mould shed meant to paint over two years back, but never had.

On the other side of the wall, something flickered on the telly. Harry had found something to do.

She didnt cry. Just lay there, staring at the blank white, feeling that hush you get in a house right after someones smashed a window. Still. Awful.

***

A week unravelled itself in fog. Harry barely came home, always out early, returning late. They didnt speak. Margaret packed her things, humiliated anew by how little was truly hers in the flata few dresses, a winter coat, a box of old photographs, some sewing magazines shed kept but never opened.

She left the sewing magazines behind.

Then, after thinking twice, she packed them after all.

After some dithering, she rang her mothers cousin, Aunt Jean, who she last saw at her mums funeral seven years prior. Aunt Jean listened, was quiet for a moment, and then said:

Come to me. Ive got a spare roomtiny, but itll do until youre sorted.

Aunt Jean lived on the North End of town, right on the fringe. The bus came every hour; the only shop for three blocks was Bargain Bin. Margaret hated the areapebbledash maisonettes, crumbling porches, and line after line of poplars cottoning everything each spring.

She arrived on Friday, dragging two bags and a suitcase.

Good Lord, youve lost weight, Aunt Jean exclaimed, opening the door. Short, sturdy, face grooved by laughter lines, she smelled of lavender and stewed vegetables. Dont stand about, come in. Youll eat, wont you?

Im not hungry, Aunt Jean.

Youll eat. That was that. She bustled off to the kitchen.

The room was small, a narrow sofa, a battered wardrobe, and a window gazing straight onto a blank brick wall. The faded wallpaper may once have been blue. On the windowsill, three pots of geraniums burned with healthy, red blossoms.

Margaret placed her bags down, sat. The sofas springs sighed.

Do you want tea? Jean called from the kitchen.

I will, Margaret answered.

And only then, in that pokey room with its browning blue paper and Aunt Jeans geraniums, she finally let herself weep.

***

Then came a long grey spell.

Those mornings where you wake and cant fathom why you should move at all. Margaret would wake at six, hear Aunt Jean clattering a kettle, the brakes of infrequent cars rasping outside. Shed get up, wash, have tea in the kitchen, staring blankly at the wall through the window.

Aunt Jean was shrewd; she didnt prod, didnt meddle, didnt say, Youll move on, love, or, Youll find someone better. She served hearty stew, surrendered her television, and sometimes, evenings, she laid out a pack of cards and said, How about a game of rummy?

They played mainly in silence.

Margaret still had a little moneyshe emptied her meagre account, some £420. Enough for a month or so, living carefully. She lived carefully.

Her last job had been as a bookkeeper for a small building company, and she managed to keep itcommuting three times a week across town to update files, bring home her fortnightly £280 wages. That covered living and paid Jean, though Jean refused to take anything until Margaret left a plain brown envelope on the table and disappeared into her room, no chance to hand it back.

Evenings were the hardest. Thoughts circled endlessly. Ten years. A decade of breakfasts, colds, Christmases, holidays, quarrels and making up. He looked at her and saw nothing. Maybe she really had hollowed out. Or maybe he had, or both.

Sometimes she scrolled up through their old texts. A photo from Cornwall, three years agohis arm round her, both laughing. She couldnt remember the joke.

Those evenings, shed crawl under the covers early and bury her head.

Aunt Jean once opened the door a crack.

Asleep, Margaret?

No.

I thought so Are you hungry?

No.

Well, just rest then You know, I kicked mine out too. Long agobefore you were born. Thought Id die of heartache. Didnt die.

Clickthe door closed. Jean shuffled away.

Margaret lay in dark, thinking, Well, youre nearly fifty, Margaret. Begin again. As if its as easy as that.

***

She found the machine at the start of her second month there.

Aunt Jean needed old trunks cleared outhadnt been touched for fifteen years, and every time you opened the hatch, an avalanche of relics threatened to spill. Margaret agreed; she needed something to do.

She hauled out copies of Womans Weekly, a dilapidated umbrella, tins of buttons, perfume bottles long dry, a pile of Mothers Day cards yellowing with age. Then, chalky in the shadows, she found something heavy wrapped in a faded sheet.

Unwrappeda sewing machine. Old, cast-iron black, gilt scrollwork peering from beneath the flaked paint. A brass plaque read Pearl, the writing looped with flourishes.

Aunt Jean! called Margaret.

She appeared, wiping her hands on a towel.

Oh, the Pearl! That was my Nansyour great-aunt Aggies. No idea if it still works, havent touched it in ages.

Mind if I try?

Aunt Jean gave her a searching look.

You ever sew?

I used to.

Go on then.

Margaret carried the ancient thing into her room, set it by the window. She wiped the case, picked from the spindle a brittle scrap of cloth fossilised decades ago. Found, among great-aunt Aggies bits and bobsspools, sharp-eyed needles in a rusty tin, measuring tape, scissors dulled by time.

The oil was congealed, but she picked up some fresh machine oil at the corner shop, cleaned the feed dog, coaxed the wheel back to life. Sticky at first, but then smoother, easier.

She spent three hours tutoring herself againa dance of needle and thread. Threaded the bobbin, guided the fabric under the press.

Pressed the pedal. The old Pearl chattered into life, precise, singing metal, and for a second, Margaret felt a strange pulse, like a limb through which blood begins to flow after numbnessawkward and alive at once.

She stopped, examined the row of stitchesstraight, nearly perfect.

Something far off in her memory shifted, quivered awake.

***

At eighteen, shed sewn everythingupcycling mothers dresses into skirts, blouses from sale bin calico. Across from her college, Mrs. Benson ran a tiny tailoring shop, a bird-boned woman with needle-pitted fingers. Margaret haunted her after school, watching her mark and snip and hem. Mrs. Benson taught gladlythe girl had a hungry eye, not just idle curiosity.

Then university, then Harry, then housework and married life swallowing her up. The machine from her first paychecksold after moving in with Harry, who said their flat was too cramped already. That hurt a little, but she was newly in love, so she let it go.

Years passed; she barely thought of sewing anymoreunless passing a beautiful dress in a shop window. Even then, she never acted on the itch.

Now she sat in Aunt Jeans cubby of a room, feeding fabric through an ancient Pearl, listening to the stitch with strange contentment.

Next day she wandered down to the High Street marketnot to the big chain store, but to the proper fabric stalls. Hundreds of boltslinen, jersey, crepethe shop ladies crying out prices.

Margarets fingers drifted across a roll of steely blue viscose, soft, honest, unpretentious.

How much left on this?

About four and a half metres.

Ill take it all.

The attendant measured and bundled the fabric.

What are you making, love?

A dress, Margaret said, surprising herself with her certainty.

***

She cut the dress on the floor, pinning a pattern she sketched from memory and argued out of an old magazine found in Jeans heap. Plain silhouette, belted, stand-up collar, three-quarter sleeve. Simple. Functional.

Aunt Jean watched from the doorjamb, just once ducking in to leave her a mug of tea.

Thank you, said Margaret, head down, not meeting Jeans eyes.

Lovely shade, that, Jean mused and left her be.

She hesitated before cutting. Shed unearthed a pair of near-new scissors in the desk, almost untouched; the blade bit through the cloth and the fear vanished with the first long stroke.

Three nights workslow only because she was in no rush. After her days at the builders, shed perch in her small room and stitch, doing things delicately: seaming the sides, inserting the zip, fighting the sleeves to lie flat.

If mistakes happened, she stopped, unstitched, did it over again. The Pearl purred evenly under her hands, and as she worked, thoughts of Harry grew distant. Nothing else existed now but cloth and line and curve.

On the third night, she finished. Ironed the seams. Hung the dress upgreyish blue, clean and neat. Stepped back to take it in.

A good dress.

Simple lines, blue-grey, honest and quietly elegant. Belt to define the waist, collar sitting just soa modest grace.

She tried it on, examined herself in Aunt Jeans hall mirrortarnished at the edges, but truthful.

Margaret stared at her own reflection. Not no one, not furniture, not merely an empty spacebut a woman of fifty, hair swept back in a loose bun, back straight, eyes a little brighter as something within her flickered alight.

The dress fit beautifullybetter than shed dared.

Margaret! Jean called from the kitchen. Come show me what youve made!

Margaret went in, dress belted.

Aunt Jean turned, looked, said nothing for a heartbeat.

Well, there now. Thats better.

She turned back to her pother stew not to be neglectedbut Margaret saw her smile.

Back in her room, she rested her hand on the fabric. The viscose was soft, kind. The dress didnt pinch or sag, it simply lived on her.

A small splinter inside, which had buckled that first night, slowly straightened itself.

***

She wore the dress out on Saturday.

Only to the chemist, to pick up Jeans blood pressure tablets. She slipped on the soft blue dress, threw over it a cream cardi found at the bottom of her bag, and went.

Outside, the air was sweet and dryearly October. The poplars were just turning.

She walked differently, somehow. Not the head-down, bustling stride of before. She saw things now: a tabby cat surveying the world from a windowsill, park bench knitters, a little boy pulling his mother towards a puddle she did everything to avoid.

There was a tiny café beside the chemistsThe Nook, though it had never registered with her before. A sign promised fresh pastries and coffee.

She went in and ordered a cappuccino and a croissant; today, she allowed herself.

Inside, just five tables. In the corner, a woman of about sixty, smartly dressed, crisply white hair, scrolling her phone beside a sizeable cup. She looked coolly self-assured, the sort of woman used to steering her own life.

Margaret took her place by the window.

Ten minutes passed. Margaret sipped coffee and watched the world. It was fine, oddly peaceful, for no particular reason.

Excuse me.

She turnedthe older woman smiling at her.

I dont mean to intrude, the lady said, but your dress is lovely. May I ask where you found it?

Margaret blinked.

I made it myself.

You did? What, a seamstress by trade?

No, wellI used to sew. Im trying it again now.

So well tailoredlooks simple, but the fits really something. I used to work in one of the old Dress Agencies. I know these things.

Thank you, Margaret said, lost for words.

Im Elizabeth. Just Elizabeth.

Margaret.

Margaret, can I ask you a question? If its odd, say no. Im turning sixty-five in three weeksbig family do to mark it. Id like to look well, but theres nowhere to buy a dress I actually like. Its all too frumpy or too flashy these days. Yours is exactly what Id want. Would you make one for me?

Margaret looked at her. Elizabeth held her gaze, no pressure, just an honest offer.

Something inside shifted.

I will, said Margaret.

***

Elizabeth came by two days later, bearing a length of deep burgundy crepe, silky and lush.

Margaret took her measurements on the little table cleared of Jeans newsprint, noting everything in a pad. Together they sat round the kitchen table, drinking tea, sketching dress ideas until Elizabeth decideda gentle A-line with three-quarter sleeves, modest V neck.

That one, said Elizabeth, tapping it.

Itll be ready in two weeks.

And what do I owe you?

Margaret hesitated. She hadnt thought about payment.

Im not sure, she admitted.

Lets say what itd cost in a decent dressmakers. Elizabeth named a figure. Ill pay thatits only fair.

It was half a months bookkeepers salary.

Margaret paused. Deal.

When Elizabeth left, Jean caught Margarets eye.

Good price, Jean said.

Margaret nodded.

You keep going, girl. Youve got the knack.

Margaret looked up. Jean, why did you take me in? We barely knew each other.

Jean considered.

Because youre Annies daughter. My Annie always helped me when I needed it. Now I help you. Thats what family does, isnt it?

Jean returned to her magazine in the kitchen.

Margaret drifted to the window. Against the wall outside, a mural now unfurleda riot of painted blue flowers shed never noticed before.

***

Making Elizabeths dress was differentresponsibility, not just pleasure. Margaret cut with care, thinking over every snip, hesitating only a moment before diving in. The dress shaped beautifully. She hand-sewed the zip, finished every seam tidily.

At the first fitting, Elizabeths face said it all.

Good heavens, she said, looking at herself in the hall mirror. I barely recognise myself.

Margaret adjusted a side seam with pins.

It makes me stand tall, said Elizabeth. A dress made for you, you feel it in your bones.

Elizabeth stayed for tea, and, as Margaret worked, she whispered, Ive a friend, Patricia. She wants a suit, but shops are hopeless. May I pass along your number?

Of course.

And one more thingmy daughter-in-law is remarrying next summer, wants a formal dressshes a funny shape, nothing off the rack suits. Would you consider it?

Yesdefinitely.

Elizabeth nodded approvingly.

***

The following two months were crazy, but rather wonderfully so.

Patricia arrived. Then someone sent by Patricias daughter for a blouse and skirt. Then came a thirty-something womanElizabeths neighbours daughterwanting an evening dress for her work do. Photos appeared on social media, raving reviews. Three more clients followed.

Within weeks, Margarets room was packed: fabric heaped on the sofa, folded on the sill, stacked on the old chair. The Pearl ran each night. Not a word of complaint from Jean, though one morning, stepping over a fort of fabric, she simply said:

Youll need a bigger space, Margaret.

I know.

I cant manage all this here.

I understand.

The time had come. Shed saved more in two months than shed managed in her old job. Orders kept coming.

She pounded the towns streetslooked at a series of rooms to let. The first were damp, the second suffocating. Then, a treasure: a bright room on the second floor of an old merchants housetimbered, airy, with a huge sash window. It was expensive.

She did the mathsrent, a professional machine, an overlocker, proper tables. All her savings, and still shed need a loan.

She called Elizabeth.

I feel silly, but could I get your advice?

Of course.

She recounted her fears. Elizabeth was silent, then: Take the bloody studio. Ill lend you what you needno interest, repay whenever.

Oh, I cant possibly

Look, Margaretyou gave me the best birthday dress Ive ever worn. Let me do this. Its not charityits how people should help each other.

She hesitated.

And anyway, Elizabeth murmured with a grin, Ive now got four friends queuing up to see you. Its in my own interest!

***

Margaret opened the studio in early December.

She brought the Pearl, more as totem than toola new professional machine presided over the main table, but the Pearl got a place of pride by the window.

It was a serene space: cutting table, two sewing stations, shelves of fabrics and trimmings, a big honest mirror. She pinned up some drawings in cheap frames. Aunt Jean came to visit, examined everything, patted the shelves, gazed in the mirror.

Nice work, she said, quietly.

Jean. Margaret clasped her hand. Let me give you this

She handed over an envelope.

Dont be daft

Ive added up every week for the room. Please. Get something you properly need.

Jean took it. Shuffled.

My fridges about to conk outrattles like a tube train.

Well fix that.

They went to the appliance shop. Jean prodded fridge doors, grilled the staff about freezers, finally selected a grand two-door silver beast.

Good. She beamed, and Margaret saw what right felt like.

***

December brought a flurry of Christmas orders: New Years dresses, office party blouses, party frocks. Margaret worked late, sipping tea, fingers humming to the sewing machines purr.

January quieted. She hired an assistant, Alicea young seamstress, green but keen. Margaret found herself enjoying the teaching as much as the sewing.

She finally resigned from the builders firm, giving notice until April.

In March, an unknown woman rang, herself a hobby sewer, wanting lessons.

Im no teacher.

But you understand the craft; Elizabeth speaks highly of you.

Margaret thought. Come along, well see.

And so, her first class. Then a second, then a small grouppassing on, sharing, not just making. It fit in, found a rhythm.

That spring, she moved out of Jeans.

A rented one-bed flat near the studioa bright kitchen, all-white walls, no mildew patches. She brought her things: her fabrics, her own curtains cut and sewn to measure.

The first evening, sipping tea, she looked out at a small park ringed by silver birch.

It was hers now. Small. Still strange. But hers.

***

She bumped into Harry at the end of May.

She wandered home through the park, the air scented with late lilac, bag weighed by swathes of fabric for work.

He walked towards her, thin, shoulders hunched. His jacket hung oddly.

They recognised each other at the same moment. Harry stopped; she continued but paused when he murmured:

Margaret.

Hello, Harry.

He seemed lostuncertain, not angry.

Youre looking well.

Thanks.

A silence fell. He prodded his pockets.

Living around here now?

Yes.

More silence. Prams rolled by. The world went on.

Margaret he started, stopped. Could we talka real talk?

She studied him: he was worn, worn thin.

Lets sit, then.

They claimed a bench. Harry stared at his clasped hands.

I dont know where to begin.

As you like.

She left. The woman Iwell. She left, six months ago. Said I was too dull, lacking ambition. His chuckle was a small, brittle thing. A twist of fate.

I see.

Im at my mums now. Works dried upcompany closed. Feels like everythings broken. Sometimes I think, I made a huge mistake, Margaret.

She waited. Let him finish.

I didnt appreciate you. You were always there, you did everything. And Iwell, I called you an empty space. I do think of it, you know. All the time.

Margaret watched the birches across the park; a barbecue smelt sweet from a nearby garden.

You cant help falling out of love, Harry. That happens to people.

He was silent.

But how you said it, that was cruelcalling me furniture, telling me to go. I carried that a long time.

I know.

You did me some good, though. It made me leave. I was scared to deathdragging two bags and £420 in the bank, no plan, nowhere to go. I lived in a box room with Aunt Jean and cried myself to sleep most nights.

Margaret

Let me finish. There, I found Aunt Aggies sewing machine. I remembered I used to sew, and maybe even liked it. And I started, first for myself, then for others. Nowsix months onIve a studio in town. People come, I do real, honest work I enjoy.

He looked at her, expression unreadable.

If you hadnt thrown me out I suppose Id still be theremaking stew, not knowing who I was. SoIm not congratulating you. But things are as they are.

Have you forgiven me?

She considered.

I dont bear you a grudge, but I wont go back. Not because Im angry, just because this is my life now. My own, maybe for the first time.

He stared at his shoes.

We might have

No, Harry, she said, softly but firmly. No.

This silence, this pause, wasnt heavyjust complete.

Hows Aunt Jean? He did remember her.

Shes grand. Got her a new fridge. I pop round Sundays, we play rummy and chat.

He grinned, genuinely.

You always were good, Margaret.

You too, in your own way. Maybe just two people who didnt quite fit together.

She stood, swung her bag over her arm.

Heading off?

Yes, early start tomorrowclient coming in at eight sharp.

All right. He stood too, awkward, then said, Im glad youre doing well. Truly.

And I wish the same for you.

She meant it. No poison or victoryjust true. Anger had been spent, lost somewhere.

She walked off through the park towards her building. For a while, she could feel his gaze on her backthen not. He had gone his way.

A silver birch cast fine shadows on the tarmac. Margaret paced through. Her shoulder ached from fabricblocks of dark-green wool, a catalogue with ribbon samples. Tomorrow, Mrs. Barton was coming for her winter skirta decent one, straight, not too stuffy, for plays and the doctors.

Margaret was already considering the shape, the lines needed for a woman short and broad at the hipshow to balance the cut, flatter rather than emphasise.

She thought all this while noticing the thickening scent of lilac, the shrill glee of a boy on a scooter, the smell of frying potatoes winding from a kitchen window, redolent, homely.

***

That evening, she kept her promise: she didnt use the machine after seven. She nipped in only for her notebookmeasurements, patterns, sketches. The Pearl sat by the window, gleaming gently.

Margaret ran her hand over its side.

Thank you, she whispered.

It was an odd thing, thanking a machine. But to whom else should she direct gratitudeall those whod nudged her out of misery? Jean, Elizabeth, Alice learning her seams? Maybe all, or maybe to the whole weird tumble of events that began with heartbreak and veered into this airy, light-filled studio.

She took her things, switched off the lights, shut up shop and trotted down the creaky wooden stairs.

The city buzzedthe world tumbled onwards, children laughing, cars drifting, normal for an English May evening.

She popped into the corner bakery, bought a seeded loaf and a jar of bright local honey, the old lady from her allotment smiling at the counter.

Evening, love.

Evening. Good honey, I promisetry it on toast tomorrow.

I will, thank you.

With bread, honey, notebook and sample book, she wandered home. She wore the ivory linen dress shed stitched the prior weekgenerous sleeves, soft tieall hers, comfortable.

Ten minutes by foot. She considered Mrs. Bartons skirt, the new thread order, Alice nearing readiness to tackle simple cuts solo.

And then she left thoughts of work and simply walked.

The sky glimmered pale pink over the roofs, swifts scissoring the air. Somewhere, life surged on, layered, impossible to guess.

Post-divorce happiness, tabloids would crow. As if happiness were a peculiar category, needing a label. Margaret thought only: Im walking home. Up early tomorrow, work I know and cherish. Jean on Sunday, clients in and out, the Pearl by my studio window, and these swifts.

Enough.

Not too splendid, not lacking. Simply enough. Maybe this was the thing people meanta second wind, a beginning, self-worth grown over time, not all at once. A dress, then another, a studio, a flat, a May evening with honey in your bag.

She called Aunt Jean.

Jean, are you in?

Where else? Watching Pointless. Whats up?

Nothing. Just checking.

A little pause.

You coming on Sunday?

I am. Shall I bake?

An apple tart, if you can manage.

Apple tart it is.

Margaret pocketed her phone, entered her building, climbed three flights, unlocked her flat.

There was a faint scent of linenthe kitchen table still sporting scraps from yesterdays cutting, the rain pattering against fogged windows, the smell lingeredgood and real.

She put the kettle on, sliced the bread, opened the honey. It poured, clear and amber and alive.

Outside, the swifts shadow-danced, drifting towards dusk.

She tasted the honeyyes, very good indeed.

***

Morning was clear and sharp.

Mrs. Barton arrived at eight sharp, as arranged: tiny, unstoppable, cropped silver hair and a direct gaze above her specs.

Margaret, dearlet me show you what I want. Found a picture, more or less the idea, but nothing fussy.

She produced a printout.

Margaret studied it. Yes, that would suita proper cut, a worthy puzzle.

Let me explain how well tackle it.

Mrs. Barton perched, folded her hands primly.

You know, Ive wanted a skirt like this for years. Never knew where to turnhigh street just disappoints. But my neighbour insisted on you. She told me your dress made her feel herself again. Mrs. Barton laughed, a little shy. Thats praise, Id say.

The highest, Margaret agreed.

She picked up her notebook and tape.

Would you stand, please?

Mrs. Barton straightened, smoothing her blouse, catching her own eye in the big mirror.

You know, she remarked, Ive been retired four years. For a while, I thoughtsod it, who cares how I look? But really, why should I not? I might have years yet, touch wood. No sense in letting standards slide.

Exactly, Margaret smiled.

She measured, thought, plannedthe studio bright with morning, sunlight bruising the floorboards pale gold. In the corner, the Pearl glinted. Alice would arrive at ten. At eleven, the next client.

The day, and her new peculiar, joyful English life, was only just beginning.