I’m Not Here

I’m Not Here

Have you bought that rubbish again? Harold slammed the shopping bag down on the table so hard something inside clinked. I told you already: none of that Velvet Touch business. Its expensive and pointless.

Eleanor stood by the window, watching the neighbours little girl, perhaps seven years old, chasing pigeons across the courtyard. The birds scattered in a flurry, only to settle again as if nothing had happened. Eleanor watched and tried to remember the last time she had bought something for herself, just because she fancied it.

Its just hand cream, Harold. Three pounds eighty.

Three eighty or three hundred eighty, it doesnt matter. Have you lost your sense with money?

She didnt reply. Turning, she picked up the bag, fished out the small jar with its golden lid, and set it on the sill next to the geraniums. The flowers hadnt bloomed for an age. Eleanor kept meaning to work out why, but never found the time.

Eleanor. Im talking to you.

I can hear you, Harold.

She moved to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and wondered about supper. Behind her, his footsteps sounded heavy and even; the study door thudded shut. She exhaled, quietly.

She was fifty-eight then. They lived in Birmingham, in a three-bedroom flat on Victoria Avenue. Shed been married to Harold Alexander for twenty-nine years. Their grown-up son, Charles, lived up in Leeds, phoned on Sundays, sometimes forgetting. There was also a small cottage out by Warwick, a car Harold drove, and Eleanors work at the city library, eighteen years as senior librarian.

There was life, and no one could take that away.

She took out a chicken breast, laid it on the cutting board, held a knife. Outside, the little girl had gone, the pigeons vanished. The yard stood empty and grey, tufts of last years grass pushing up through cracked tarmac.

Eleanor realised she was still, knife in hand, not cuttingjust standing.

She put down the knife, went over, opened the jar of cream. The scent was quiet, with an undertone like wildflowers. She dabbed a little on the back of her hand, rubbing it in. Her skin absorbed it quickly, and she fancied, just for a moment, that someone took her hand and held it.

Eleanor closed the lid and went to cut the chicken.

That evening was much like any other. Harold ate in silence, watched the news, went to bed. Eleanor sat in the kitchen a long while with a cup of tea gone cold, idly leafing through some old gardening magazinenot really reading, just passing time.

In the morning, she arrived at the library to find Linda Baker crying behind the periodicals shelf.

Linda, whats happened?

Mrs Linda was three years older than Eleanor, at the library even longer, and knew every shelf by heart. Eleanor had never seen her weep.

Oh, nothing, nothing, Linda wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Sorry, its just personal.

If youd like to talk

Nothing to tell, really, Linda blew her nose and tucked the handkerchief away. My daughter called yesterday. Said, Mum, youre out of date. Just like that. Out of date.

In what sense?

Just that. I gave her a bit of advice, how to talk to her husband, you know, personal things. And she told me, Mum, your ideas are from another era. You dont get how things are these days. Linda rearranged some magazines. Maybe shes right.

She isnt, Eleanor replied.

How can you know?

Eleanor hadnt an answer. They stood in silence for a moment, with that scent of old paper and timber shelves, then quietly went back to work.

At lunch Eleanor went outside. April was brisk, but sunlit, and she wandered to the little park, closed her eyes on a bench. Through her eyelids came a flicker of orange. She thought about Linda, her daughter, that wordout of date.

Then her thoughts circled back to herself.

Eleanor Alexander, née Taylor, born in Oxford in 1966. Finished teacher training with English and Literature. Married at twenty-nine, which seemed late, in those days. Harold had been an engineer, respectable, practical, appeared dependable. The following year Charles was born. Eleanor took her maternity, then returned part-time, then brought her own mother to live with them until she passed, then returned to work. Life arranged itself, neat and spare.

Somewhere in all that arranging, something precious slipped out of reach. Eleanor couldnt name it now, but she was sure it had been there, and that for a long time its been gone.

She opened her eyes. A plum tree was blossoming across from her, tiny white petals almost too delicate to believe. She stared at its branches and thought she hadnt drawn, not properly, in over thirty years. In college, she had. For herself, with pastels. Then came time, then awkwardness, then forgetting.

Taking out her phone, she dialled Charles. He answered on the third ring, voice distracted.

Hi, Mum. Everything all right?

Oh yes. Just calling.

Mum, Im nearly in a meeting, can I ring back tonight?

Of course. Speak later.

He didnt call back. That was nothing new.

Eleanor finished her shift at the library, bought bread from the bakery, walked home along the same pavements shed walked eighteen years, five days a week. She knew each dip in the stones, every bend.

Harold was home before her, sat at his computer, reading. She took off her coat, moved into the kitchen.

Want supper?

Later.

She put water on, found some old soup in the fridge. While it warmed, she glanced at the jar of cream still sitting on the windowsill. It was small, pretty. Eleanor thought perhaps Harold was rightthree pounds eighty, for what? But then she remembered the scent, and found it pleasing.

So she left the jar where it was.

A fortnight slipped past, nothing of note. Life carried on in its quiet routine. Then, one morning at the library, came Mrs Jane Chapman.

Eleanor noticed her at once: a woman of maybe forty-five, in a cherry-red coat, sharp haircut, standing tall. She went to the counter and announced she wanted to join and was interested in psychology books, and if possible, anything on watercolours.

Watercolours? Eleanor echoed.

Yes. I did some as a child. Id like to try again.

Eleanor made her card, directed her to the section. Jane explored between shelves with quiet confidence, taking books, flipping through, putting them back, choosing again. Eleanor watched from the corner of her eye, feeling there was something in this woman she couldnt at once define. A self-sufficiency, as if Jane belonged to herself and that was enough.

Soon Jane came with two books and asked, Do you read any of these yourself? She nodded at the psychology shelf.

Sometimes, Eleanor said.

Youve worked here long?

Eighteen years.

Jane gave her a measuring looknot judging, but curious, intent.

Thats a long time, she said.

Yes.

Do you like it?

Eleanor hesitated. The question was easy; the answer wasnt.

I like it, she said. The books. The people. It’s familiar.

Familiar. Jane rolled the word around in her mouth. I see.

She took her books and left.

Next week, Jane returned, swapped one book, and asked for anything else on watercolour. Eleanor fetched a slim album of reproductions and offered it. Jane accepted. Suddenly, she asked,

Would you like to try?

Try what?

Drawing. I go to a Saturday watercolour class, small group, very relaxed. Would you come?

Eleanor almost refused, mouth already open for no. But instead she asked, Where is it?

Jane wrote the address on a slipWhite Light Studio, High Street, 11 oclock, Saturday.

That evening, Eleanor looked at the slip, tucked in her apron pocket, then set it on the sill near the hand cream. Harold never asked about the slip. In truth, he rarely asked about her, unless it related to money or housework.

At supper on Friday, she told him, Im going to an art class tomorrow morning.

Harold looked up from his plate. Where?

High Street. Watercolours. Jane, a new library member, invited me.

He chewed, set down his fork. What does it cost?

Ive not asked.

Right. Well, go on, if youve nothing else to do.

Eleanor looked at him. He was already busy with his food. She thought how often shed heard some version of that in twenty-nine years: Again? Why? How much? Nothing else to do.

All right, she said. Ill go.

She rose at eight, washed, dressed in a grey jumper and navy trousers. She looked in the mirror, properly, for the first time in a while. Usually, she just passed by. Now, she studied herself: not young, not bad, grey eyes, alive, hair turning silver but thick still. She combed it differently. Then used a little of the hand cream, even on her neck.

She left at nine, not wanting to hurry.

White Light Studio was on the second floor of an old townhouseordinary from the street, but bright and redone inside: white walls, wooden floors, tall windows. Eleanor climbed the stairs and opened the door.

Jane was already there, along with four other women of varying ages, and one stocky man in a check shirt. They all sat at a long table, glasses of water and paper before them.

Eleanor! Jane waved. You came!

Eleanor sat by her side. The instructor, a young woman called Zoe, explained theyd be painting lilac branches today. Eleanor picked up a brush, her hand slightly shakingnot from nerves, just unfamiliarity.

Dont worry about it looking nice, said Zoe. Just think about water and colour. Nothing else.

Eleanor drew the first sweep. Lilac purple spread on the damp paper, mingling with blue. She tried again, then again, watching the paint drift where it listedsometimes straying outside her intent. That was curiously interesting. Jane sat absorbed; the man with the small brush scowled at his effort.

An hour passed. Eleanor glanced at her sheet. It did not look like lilac. More a blur of blue and purple. Yet there was something alive in itsomething all her own.

Its lovely, said the older lady across from her, Mrs Valerie.

Im not sure I agree, Eleanor said.

But I do. Theres a feeling in it.

Eleanor looked again. Perhaps so.

Afterwards, Jane suggested coffee in a nearby café. Eleanor agreed. They sat by the window. Jane got straight to the point:

Did you like it?

I did. Surprisingly.

I thought you would. Jane held her cup with both hands. You have this look, you know, as if you see things but cant quite bring yourself to look direct.

Eleanor was silent. Then, Been in Birmingham long?

Three years. Moved from York after my divorce.

I see.

No tragedy, Jane said easily. Hard at first, then it got better. Then it was interesting.

Interesting?

To live by myself. Turns out, there was much I didnt know about myself. She offered a smile, warm and without irony. Youre married?

Twenty-nine years.

Is it good?

Eleanor stirred her coffee pointlessly. Depends, she said.

Jane nodded and didnt press. That, too, was kindly meant.

Eleanor returned home about half one. Harold watched football, didnt ask after her morning. She reheated soup, ate alone at the kitchen table. She retrieved her watery lilac painting and propped it against the wall beside the geranium.

The plant, she noticed, looked a touch more alive than last week. On one stem, a small, red bud had appeared. She hadnt seen it before.

Next Saturday, and the one after, she went again. Jane was always there. Little by little, their after-class chats grew longer. Eleanor told her about the library, the readers, favourite books. Jane told her about her jobshe was an accountant for a local builderher childhood in York, her daughter still there, learning French.

One day, Eleanor asked, Are you lonely here?

Sometimes. But its a different loneliness than before.

Hows that?

Jane thought, folding her hands. I used to be with someone and feel alone. Thats the hardest kind. Now Im truly by myself, but not lonely. Do you see?

Eleanor nodded. She didnt say so, but inside, something shifted, gathering force, like river ice breaking in the spring.

In May, the library announced a competition. The council was hosting a cultural showcase, and the staff were to plan an event for residents. Mrs Martin, the head librarian, assembled the team.

We need ideas. Any thoughts?

Everyone was silent. So was Eleanor, though a notion was already stirring.

How about a literary evening? offered Linda. We read aloud, discuss.

We do that every year. Something new, please.

What if we focused on women? Eleanor said.

Everyone looked at her.

In what way? asked Mrs Martin.

Real womens stories. Not novels. We invite local women of all ages, have them tell their stories. How things were, whats changed, how theyve lived. Nothing showy. And if they do any crafts, draw, knit, sculpt, we show that too.

There was a pause.

Unusual, Mrs Martin said.

But lively.

Whod lead this?

I will, said Eleanorsurprising herself.

Mrs Martin regarded her with interest. Alright, Mrs Alexander. Lets try.

Eleanor left the meeting and rang Jane at once. Jane laughed. Well, I never. You?

Yes. I dont know why I volunteered. It just came out.

Thats the honest kind. Im in. And lets ask Valerieyou remember her from art class? She does ceramics.

Valerie Hudson, at sixty-two, had been retired three years, now spent time sculpting tiny birds from clay and selling them at markets. Eleanor phoned, and Valerie agreed straightawayso long as she didnt have to speak for long (I get muddled, she said).

Eleanor started planning, each evening after Harold retreated to his study. She set herself at the kitchen table with a notebook, scribbling, scratching out, writing again. It felt novel, building something herselfnot merely sustaining the routine, but creating.

One night, Harold came for a glass of water, seeing her with the notebook.

What are you writing?

Work. Preparing for an event.

Library business again.

Yes.

He poured water, hesitated.

Youre always busy these days.

Is that a problem?

He shrugged. Supper was cold tonight.

Sorry. Ill warm it next time.

He left. Eleanor watched him go. Hed commented on cold supper, not on her looking brighter, not on her being interestingjust the cold supper.

She returned to her notebook.

The evening was set for the third Saturday in June. Eleanor invited four womenJane, Valerie, two others; the fifth was Mrs Nelson, retired geography teacher, who wrote poetry but never shared it; the sixth, Zoe the art teacher, youngest of them all.

Eleanor made posters, pinned them around the neighbourhood, sent an ad to the local paper. She worried no one would come, but on the night, the room filledmore than thirty people, mostly women, some quite young, one very elderly, led in by her daughter.

Eleanor led the evening herself, said only a few words that they were gathered to listen, and that mattered most. Then she let Valerie begin.

Valerie told how, on retiring, shed felt at a loss, wandering her flat, feeling unneeded. By chance, she tried a ceramics class. I suddenly realisedI have hands! she said, and laughter rippled, warm and gentle.

Jane spoke of starting over at forty-six, afraid at first, then not. Turned out, it wasnt the new I fearedit was the familiar, she said. Eleanor resolved to remember that.

Mrs Nelson read two poems, voice trembling at first, then steady. At the end, a woman in the third row began to clap, and soon everyone joined in.

Afterwards, clearing up with Linda, putting chairs away and collecting cups.

That was wonderful, Eleanor, Linda said. Truly.

Strangely good.

Not strange at all. Youre good with people. Always have beenyou just didnt let yourself.

Eleanor met her eyes.

Do you think so?

Im sure. Weve worked side by side, eighteen years.

Eleanor lifted a forgotten scarf, hung it on the hook. She thought maybe Linda was rightand knowing that was both nice and painful. Why only now, after all these years?

Harold was already asleep when she returned. She undressed quietly, slipped into the kitchen for water. On the sill stood the cream, the lilac painting, and the geranium blooming in full red clusters.

Eleanor spread cream on her hands, slowly, deliberately. She looked at the geraniums and thought about Janes words: It wasnt the new I fearedit was the familiar.

In the morning, Harold asked, So, how was the evening?

It was good. Lots of people turned up.

You eat there at least?

There was tea.

Teas not food, he grunted, nose bent over his phone.

Eleanor poured herself coffee and took it to the balcony. It was early, the yard still, the air scented with poplars. She stood and thoughtHarold asked if shed eaten. Perhaps that was care. His way. For twenty-nine years, she had accepted that for substance, never noticing it had changed, or maybe been gone a long time.

She couldnt say. Only that she was starting to look things in the face.

In July, Charles rangnot on Sunday, but Wednesday, oddly.

Mum, hello. How are you?

Im well, love. Why?

No reason. Well, Jane reached out, found me online, said youd run a wonderful event, that it was a real success. I didnt know.

You never asked.

Silence.

Mum, sorry. I really didnt ask. Tell me about it.

So Eleanor told himabout painting, Valerie with her birds, Mrs Nelson with her poems, a room full of people. Charles listened, quiet. Then said,

Well done, Mum. Truly.

Thank you.

Have you done this before?

No, it was the first time.

Should have done it sooner.

Indeed.

They were silent. Then Charles said,

Mum, are you and Dad alright?

Eleanor looked out the window. The courtyard below glowed in Julys light; boys kicked a ball.

Its familiar, she replied.

Is that good or bad?

Im not sure yet.

He didnt press. He said hed come in August, and they agreed. Eleanor replaced the receiver and stood gazing out a long while.

Charles came for four days in August. He resembled his father in looks, but the way he listened truly listenedwas hers. He brought cheese and walnuts, and, over tea, listened as she spoke, attending in earnest.

One morning, with Harold at the cottage, Charles and Eleanor sat in the kitchen. Charles said,

Mum, youve changed.

How do you mean?

Hard to put into words. Its as if youre more. He laughed at himself. That sounds daft.

No, its clear enough.

Are you happier now?

Eleanor cupped her mug, coffee warm.

Yes. But its a little frightening.

Why?

When you finally see yourself clearly, you see everything else clearly too. That can be troubling.

Charles nodded, thoughtful.

Does Dad see it?

Dad notices his cold supper, she said then regretted it. Im sorry, that wasnt fair of me.

No, it was honest. He looked at her. Have you talked to him?

About what I need?

She stared out. The garden was on the turn to autumn, the grass yellowing at the edges.

Im not good at that, to be honest.

Try, Charles said.

After he left, Eleanor changed the sheets and thought on that: Try. Twenty-nine years shed never really tried in earnest. Shed spoken, certainly, but never about the thing itself. That bit, shed always kept to herselffrom habit, from caution, because Harold knew how to stamp out a conversation before it started.

In September, Mrs Martin called her in to say the council wanted the event repeated, now district-wide. They wanted Eleanor to run it againand with a pay rise.

I accept, Eleanor said.

Mrs Martin gave her a small, approving nod.

Youve changed this summer, Eleanor. I hope you dont mind me saying.

Of course not.

Youve only improved. You seem livelier.

Eleanor returned to her desk, greeted a patron looking for thrillers, logged the books, handed them over. She stood surveying the room rows of bookcases, reading tables lit by green lamps, the September sun streaming through big windows.

Eighteen years. And only now did it feel truly hers. Not just a place she inhabited, but a place she made her own.

Autumn shifted things at home. Eleanor couldnt say what came first. It was subtle, all at once.

Harold noticed she was late more often, out on Saturday morningswith women he didnt know.

Whos this Jane, then?

My friend.

Since when do you have friends?

We met at the library in February.

And now every week?

Most weeks.

Harold stared, something in his look she hadnt seen: not annoyance, but confusion. He was simply lost.

Im not stopping you, he grumbled. Just not used to it.

Used to what?

You always being busy.

Eleanor sat opposite. For the first time, she looked at him not as a fixture, but as a man poorly known, despite thirty years together.

Haroldare you glad I do things, things that arent just work or housekeeping?

He hesitated.

I dont know. Maybe.

Maybe?

I said, its odd. You used to be around. Now youre always gone somewhere.

Im not gone. Im still here.

Here, but different.

Eleanor watched his backbroad, now stooped with sixty-one years on him. He, too, had grown older while she hadnt noticed.

Harold, when did we last have a real conversation? Not about supper, not about the car. Just talked?

He turned.

Well… dont we?

About what?

He said nothing.

Exactly, she whispered.

November brought chill and the big council event. Eleanor prepared for three weeks, eight women now, and even arranged for a local painter to hang works in the library. Jane pitched in each daycoffees, library meetings, even walks along the Severn if the weather held.

Once, by the river Eleanor said,

I cant imagine how I lived before.

You lived as you did, Jane replied.

No, what I mean is, its as if Ive been buried inside myself, too deep to come out. Why did I let that happen?

Its not why, Eleanor. It just happens, thats all.

But I could have lived otherwise.

You could have, Jane agreed, looking over the cold grey water. But otherwise begins when it beginsnot one moment sooner.

Im fifty-eight.

So?

Its a lot.

Eleanor. Jane turned. Are you serious?

Honestly.

Let me answer straight. I know women who finished with themselves at thirty-five, decided that was it, and lived like museum pieces after. Youre just starting at fifty-eight. If anything, thats exactly the right time.

Eleanor watched a barge, slow and distant.

You know, JaneIve painted every week for nine months now.

I know.

And this morning I wrote the opening for Friday night myselfnot from a template.

You read it to me.

And its good.

Its alive. Thats better than good.

The event was on a Friday in November, more than seventy turned upsome standing in corners. Eleanor opened with her own speech. Her voice was steady, hands almost still. She spoke about how each woman shelters something uniquely hers, something that may wait years before it is finally noticed. She said that age does not shut doors; sometimes it opens ones you never looked for. She meant itnot as advice, but as someone who had stumbled into the understanding herself.

Afterwards, the very elderly lady, Mrs Dorothy Harris, eighty-three, approached, led by her daughter.

Dear, were you talking about me? she asked.

About all of us, Eleanor replied.

No, no. I felt it was about me. I used to do needlework. Gave it upsilly, I thought. But today, Im wondering, could I try again? Eighty-three! Imagine!

Its not silly at all.

Really?

Truly.

Mrs Harris left, leaning on her daughters arm, but with something held close as she went.

December settled quietly. Eleanor led a creative writing group at the library on Wednesdayssix or seven regulars, reading, arguing, sometimes so passionate Eleanor barely spoke herself.

At home things felt tensenot dramatic, not noisy. Simply tense. Harold grew quiet, pensive. She sensed he had thoughts he never voiced. She no longer waited for him to begin.

Mid-December, Sunday evening, she went into his study.

Harold, I need a word.

Well, go on.

No, I mean a real conversation. She drew up a chair beside him.

He closed his book.

Whats happened?

Nothing has. I just want to say something I never really haveor maybe ever.

He waited, wary.

For years, I lived as though I hardly existedI was here, made dinners, went to work, visited the cottage, did all that was needed. Yet inside, I was barely present. Partly my faultI let it happen. But it was us, toothe way we were together.

Harold looked at the desk.

Is it divorce you want?

I dont know what I want. I know we need to talk, for real. I need you to see menot tea, not clean shirts. Me.

Long silence. Outside, snow fell quietly.

I dont know how, Eleanor, he said at lastquiet, unguarded. I was never taught.

I know. She watched his hands idle on his knees. Im not blaming you. I just want to trydifferently. If youll try too.

He looked away, watched snow beyond the glass. Eventually, he looked at her, that same lostness in his eyes.

Youve changed a lot this year, he said.

Yes.

I dont always follow.

I know.

But I dont want…he hesitated for the right wordI dont want you to leave. Here. He nodded, indicating home. Or anywhere.

Eleanor regarded hima man at sixty-one, stooped, perplexed by changed familiarities.

Then lets try, she said. I cant promise itll be easy. But lets try.

January brought frost and crisp clarity. Eleanor kept to the library, led her group, painted every Saturday. She had a dozen pieces, some Jane took, others hung in the kitchen by the geranium, now in a bigger pot, all ablaze with blooms.

She and Jane met lesswork was busy for Janebut they spoke often.

One afternoon Jane asked, Eleanor, have you thought about more events this spring?

I have. I want something biggera sort of festival, maybe a few days.

Thats a huge effort.

Yes. Eleanor smiled. But I find I like big undertakings.

Jane laughed. Whod have thought a year ago?

Indeed.

Things with Harold stayed complicated. They did talk more; sometimes it went well, sometimes Harold withdrew. Eleanor stopped trying to drag him out; she let it be, or did her own thing.

In February, at supper Harold said,

I went to the doctor last week. For a check.

Anything worrying?

Routine. My blood pressure sometimes. They said its finejust tablets.

Im glad you went.

You havent asked why I didnt tell you sooner.

Eleanor set her spoon down.

Why not?

I didnt want to worry you. Habit, I suppose.

Youre used to not bothering me?

Yes. Youre always busy lately.

She paused, feeling something important in his words.

Harold. I want to know when youre not well. I want to know about visits to the doctor. I want to know. Do you understand?

I do. He nodded. Ill tell you.

And Ill try to tell you, too.

They fell silent. Outside, February brought snow and gales, but in the kitchen it was warm, scented with dinner. The cream still stood on the sill, along with this weeks watercoloura white apple blossom.

Nice painting, Harold remarked. You did it?

I did.

He looked again.

Youre good.

Im learning.

In late February, Linda Baker phoned. Late, nearly nine.

Sorry, Eleanor, for calling so late. My daughters come to visit.

All alright?

Yes. We made up. It was obvious Linda was smiling. She said she was wrong to call me out of date.

A relief?

Very much. Eleanor, can I join your art class this week? Watercolours?

Of course. Saturday at eleven.

Im afraid Ill be hopeless at it.

Everyone is, at first. Thats part of it.

On Saturday, Linda was thereholding the brush awkwardly, Zoe helped her. The first strokes were too dark, the next too faded. Linda looked crestfallen.

Eleanor, look at this mess.

I see it. I like it.

It isnt a branch, its a splodge.

Its your first go.

Youre not just humouring me?

Im not. Next time, itll be different.

Linda looked, then gave a sudden laugh.

Alright. Next time.

March brought the first warmth. Eleanor sent in her proposal for a spring festival; the library supported her. Charles messagedhed be down in April, would come to the festival.

One evening, when Harold was in bed, Eleanor sat in the kitchen, jotting notes. Outside, water dripped from the eaves, snow melting, spring struggling to surface. The geranium was lush, green, three open clusters, and a bud to open tomorrow or the next.

Eleanor glanced at the now-empty hand cream jar. Shed left it on the sill, bought an identical oneVelvet Touch, still three pounds eighty. Harold didnt comment.

She opened her notebook to a fresh page and wrote at the top: What I know now that I didnt know a year ago. She stared at it. Then closed the book. That didnt need writing. It was already inside.

The phone ranglate, nearly eleven. Eleanor checked the screen: Jane.

All well? she asked straightaway.

All good, better really. Janes voice was livelier than ever. Ive been offered a post in York. A good onewell paid. And my daughters there. Im thinking about it.

Eleanor let the moment pass.

Would you like to go?

Im not sure yet. That’s why Im ringing. What do you think?

What should I say?

Whatever you feel.

Eleanor stared out at the wet spring dark beyond the glass.

I think you know the answer already, Jane. Youve made up your mind; you just havent told yourself yet.

A brief silence.

Probably, Jane admitted. Yes.

So whats holding you back?

Leaving things. This lotthe art group, you, Valerie with her birds, Mrs Nelson with her poems

Well be fine.

Birminghams a long way from York, Eleanor.

Jane. Eleanor picked up her pen, twirling it. You told me, oncedo you remember, down by the river, November?

What did I say?

Otherwise begins when it begins.

Jane chuckledsoft, warm.

I was wise, wasnt I?

You were. Still are.

Eleanor, one honest question. Please.

Yes?

Are you happy?

Eleanor looked at the geranium, the hand cream jar, her little paintings, that blank page with the unrecorded revelation.

Ive become myself, she answered. I think that matters more.

Is that the answer?

I think so, yes.

Jane waited, then, Then Im glad for you.

And I for you.

Eleanor

Yes?

What will you do if I go?

Eleanor looked at the open notebook, the empty page.

Ill carry on, she said.