I Won’t Hand Over the Keys

I Wont Give You the Keys

Do you realise weve finally done it? I say to Simon as I stand in the middle of an empty room, holding the key in my hand. The metal is cold and heavy, and Im gripping it so tightly the teeth leave little red marks on my palm.

I do, he says and wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on the top of my head. Its ours.

Ours. The word sounds so strange, I have to say it aloud just to hear how it echoes in these walls, still smelling faintly of fresh paint. Weve spent five years drifting through rented flatsall sorts. First a tiny one-bed in Streatham, through a friend of Lauras, then two rooms in a shared house in Barking, then a decent one-bed in Walthamstow with an intrusive landlady whod turn up unannounced to check if we washed her pots properly. Five years of it. Im forty-two, Simon is forty-six. Were grown-ups, but its taken five years of scrimping, saying no to holidays, taking odd jobs, and one birthday cheque from my mum before we could finally stand on floorboards that actually belong to us.

It isnt a big placetwo rooms in a Sixties block in Lewisham, third floor, windows facing the gardens. Simon insisted it was the best wed seen, and I agreed, though the first time I followed the estate agent into that narrow hallway, the squeeze gave me pause. Theres only really room for one wardrobe and even then you have to choose carefully. But once I saw the east-facing kitchen, I imagined myself sitting with a mug of tea, watching wood pigeons rouse in the dawn out on the green. That decided it.

We moved in mid-September while the paint was still drying and there was the faint tang of gloss in the air. Simon carried boxes, I unpacked plates, we bickered about where the sofa should go and laughed when it turned out we both wanted it by the windoweven though theres only one. Ended up placing it in the middle; honestly, it suited the room better. The downstairs neighbour, Mrs. Drakeelderly, neat, carrying a tin of apple pieknocked to welcome us. Nice to see proper people, she said. I thought: this is it. This is what your own place feels like.

That first evening, sitting on the floor eating Mrs. Drakes pie out of the tray, because the table wasnt assembled, Simon went a bit serious.

I ought to call Mum, he says. Shell be miffed if I dont invite her to see the place.

I put my fork down. Simon

Shes my mum, Anna.

I know shes your mum. I just want one day. Just for us, please.

Alright, he says. Just today. Well have everyone over on Saturday.

So we had one day. That felt like enough.

I could talk about my mother-in-law, Margaret Edwards, for hours and still not say the heart of it. Because with her, its not what she does, its how she does it. She never shouts. Never scolds. She enters a room, scans everything with this searching look as if shes about to spot something out of place, and she always does. Then shell mention it as though shes confiding a great secret. Anna, I just thought youd like to know that this shelfs gone up a bit wonkyprobably slipped your notice. Id noticed. Its as straight as it gets on a wall thats bent, but explaining that is like arguing with the wind about why it wont blow the way you want.

Shes seventy-one. Spent a lifetime as chief accountant at a factory and became used to her word being final. My father-in-law, Alan Edwards, a gentle man who loves fishing and old black-and-white films, gets the same tone as her staffnever harsh, just definite. Alan long ago learned not to argue. So did Simon, raised in that atmosphere.

I realised what she was like three months after meeting Simon. We went to visit, Margaret put on a splendid spread. She asked what I did. I told her I was a graphic designer at an ad agency. She nodded. That must be quite an easy job, she saidnot unkind, just as if stating a fact. I took another bite of quiche and said nothing. Ive kept silent for eight years since.

Eight years since Simon and I wed. Five of them, whilst we rented, Margaret routinely reminded me that sensible people have their own home by forty. Not directly pointed at us, of course. Shed mention how neighbour Louise did it right, got her mortgage at thirty, or a cousin of theirs who bought a two-bed even though his wages, Anna, were frankly not a patch on yours, Im sure. She always knew. About everything.

Now we had our own flat, and Saturday camefamily round for a housewarming: Simons sister Laura and her husband, my friend Claire, two of Simons work mates. And, of course, Margaret and Alan.

Theyre the first to arrive. At the sound of the door, something tightens in my chesta familiar tension, like exam nerves you know youll manage but cant help feeling.

Simon opens the door. Margaret steps in with a jar of pickled onions and a home-baked Victoria sponge. Alan is behind, clutching a bottle of prosecco and looking resigned to a long evening.

Well, here we are, Margaret announces, staring round at the hallway.

The pause lasts only a couple of seconds, but I can read her now. She surveys the space. One wardrobe, a mirror, a key rack. The coat hooks are from Home Solutions, a little furniture place by the bus stop.

Bit of a snug hallway, she assesses. No judgement, just observation.

But its cosy, Simon says.

Mmm, yes, yes. She moves on to the lounge.

I follow, seeing the flat now through her eyes. The sofa not by the window, the shelf a tad off because London flats are rarely level, curtains I pickedbeige stripes, thought theyd feel light and modern. Now I brace myself for her verdict.

Light curtains, she says at last. Theyll show the dirt.

They wash well, I reply.

She looks at menot annoyed, just in that way someone does when youve said something obvious and a bit beside the point. Of course you can wash them, Anna. I only mentioned it.

Alan ducks quietly into the kitchen to admire the view. Im grateful.

By seven, everyones arrived, noise and laughter filling the place. Claire brings orange chrysanthemums in abundancethey make the kitchen look festive. Laura hugs me, close and real, and whispers Your own place, Anna, Im so thrilled for you. Simons mates, Ben and Eddie, click instantly with Alan over fishing, and soon all three are talking about some lake near Redhill so enthusiastically they have to be called to the table twice.

Margaret seats herself at the head of the table. Not because we askedshe just always ends up in the place she considers correct. She drinks a little, eats neatly, remarks now and then on neighbours at her place in Beckenham, on the rising cost of decorators, with the air of an expert whos seen it all.

At some point, Claire tells a funny story about their first rented flat, where the hot water came only if you banged the boiler. Everybody laughs. Margaret smiles too, then adds, Thats what happens young people rent any flat they see. You really must be more selective. Claires laughter fades. I top up her wine.

After pudding, Laura and her husband head off to collect their kids from grandparents, Ben and Eddie say their goodbyes, and Claire hugs me in the hallway, whispering Stay strong, in a tone that tells me shes watched the whole evening more closely than I realised.

Its just the four of us left. Simon clears the table; I start on the washing up. Alan naps on the sofa, TV remote balanced on his chest. Margaret joins me in the kitchen.

Let me help, she offers.

No need, really.

Well, suit yourself. She stands by the window, looking out into the communal gardens. Decent flat. Bit small, but manageable.

I dry a plate. I like it.

Yes, you always like what youve got. Thats a good quality, Annait really is. Makes things easier for Simon.

I honestly cant tell if thats a compliment. I doubt she knows either.

Anna, can I ask you something? Her voice shiftsneither softer nor harsh, just business-like. Will you give me a set of keys?

I put the plate down. Sorry?

A duplicate key. Id like to come over. Help out. Simon works late; so do you. I could pop in during the day, make sure everythings alright. Water your plants, do a bit of dusting. I dont mind, Ive got plenty of time now Im retired.

Im silent for a few seconds.

Margaret, thats kind, but we dont need help.

How do you mean? Im not saying you cant cope. Im saying I can be here if you need a hand. Thats not the same thing.

Were alright.

Anna, dont be awkward. A keys just a key. Im not a stranger. Im Simons mother.

Simon comes in with the last stack of plates. He looks at both of ussenses something is up, sets the crockery down, and doesnt leave.

Whats happening?

Nothing at all, Margaret replies smoothly. I just asked for a spare key so I can come round and help. Perfectly normal, Simon. Your Uncle Johns wife had keys to his flat in Richmond, popped round whenevernobody minded.

Simon glances at me.

Anna?

The moment pivots. I know it viscerallyeight years of swallowing my words, of not making a fuss because it wasnt worth arguing Every time I let it go, I shrank a little. Just a fraction, but over eight years thats a lot of fractions.

No, I say.

Margarets eyebrows rise. No what?

I dry my handsslowly, deliberately, just so I know Im standing strong, on my own ground. So I feel the solidity of this kitchen, my kitchen.

We wont give you the keys. This is our flat, and we want anyone who comes here to let us know in advancegive us a ring. Thats everyone, not just you.

Anna Margaret says my name in the tone you use to stop a child from something foolish. Youre making this more dramatic than it is. Im only offering to help.

I know you want to help, I do. But were not giving anyone keys.

She turns to Simon. Tell her.

Ill remember this bitSimon by the fridge, looking first at his mother, then me. I can sense the struggle in him; years of reflex obedience to his mum battling his memories of us saving for five years, skipping holidays, me freelancing on weekends to save a bit extra, the day we signed the papers at the council office, how that heavy cold key felt in my hand.

Mum, he says. Annas right. We arent giving anyone keys.

The quiet is so thick you could practically touch it.

Youre serious, Margaret saysnot asking, just stating.

Yes, serious. If youd like to come over, just ring. Wed love to see you. But letting yourself in, even to be helpful, isnt what we want.

Margaret stares at him. Then at me. I hold her gaze. It isnt easysomething inside me is trembling, but I hope it doesnt show.

I see, she says finally. Right then.

She leaves the kitchen. I hear her waking Alan in the lounge. Theres some brisk whispering, and a minute later theyre both at the front door. Alan studies the toes of his shoes like hes never looked at them before.

Thank you for tonight, Margaret says, politeness itself. Congratulations on your new home.

Mum Simon tries.

Its fine, Simon. Its late, we should be going.

They leave. I close the door, slide down against it. Simon stands beside me, silent for a while.

You alright? he asks.

I dont know yet. You?

Same.

We move back to the kitchen. I put the kettle on. Simon sits at the table, watching me pour the water.

I shouldve said that a long time ago. Not just now.

You said it today. That was enough.

Shell be upset.

I know.

For quite a while, probably.

I know, Simon.

He holds the mug in both hands. Outside, the gardens are dark and quiet. Somewhere in the distance a train passes.

You did well, he says. You spoke first.

I say nothing, just sit there feeling the tremor beneath my ribs slowly fadenot gone, just quieter.

The next days are odd. Not bad, just strange. Margaret doesnt ring. She used to call Simon every couple of daysto check on us, mention neighbourly business, remind him about a cousins birthday. Now: silence. For about a week, Simon checks his phone more than usual. I notice him glance at it and put it back without a word.

Why dont you call her? I suggest one day.

No, he says. She can go first.

I let him choose.

Laura rings three days after the housewarming.

Anna, has Mum called you?

No.

She hasnt called us either. Dad texted to say shes taking it hard. What happened, Anna?

I explain, briefly and plainly. Laura listens.

I see. Well, you did the right thing.

Really?

Honestly. Mum did the same to us when we moved into ours. I gave her a keycouldnt say noand she was in all the time. Not daily, but three times a weeknearly drove Simon spare. In the end, I pretended to lose my keys and never got a new copy made for her. She sulked for four months. Afterwards, though, things were better.

So shell be upset a while then.

Maybe. But it does get better.

That word afterwards is what keeps me going. Like a lantern in a long tunnel.

The flat begins to feel lived in. I buy a giant cactus at the market, put it on the kitchen windowsill. Next to it, my old ceramic hedgehog mug, a gift from Claire, kept boxed through five years of renting because you always save your best things in other peoples homes. Now the mugs out. It gives me a small, irrational joy.

Simon finally fixes a shelf in the bathroom, just as he wanted, with a tiny lamp above the mirror. We buy a warm amber lamp for the living room from The Bright Corner in the high street. The place glows in the evening, soft and oddly dreamlike.

Three days a week, I work from home. On those days, the flats truly mine. I brew coffee, play the music I want, safe in the knowledge that nobody will just wander in. Its a revelationI realise what it is, eventually: safety. Feeling safe in your own home. It sounds obvious, but for us its new.

No word from Margaret.

Week passes, then another. Simon visits his parents quietly, alone, on a Sunday. He tells me later. Shes still frostybarely speaks. Dad was going on about some new fishing spot and seemed relieved not to be discussing us.

How is she?

Put out. But shes not making a scenejust sets her face.

What sort of face?

Like this. He mimics a slightly raised chin, mouth downturned but not dramatically.

I laugh, then stopit feels odd to laugh.

Simon, is this hard for you?

He nods. Yes, but Im glad we did it anyway. If Id given her the keys, Id never have respected myself again.

He means it, no drama. Thats how I believe him.

A month passes in silence, then another. Margaret starts calling Simon once a weekSunday nights, short chats, all business. Asking if hes caught a cold, telling him Alans knee is playing up, maybe needs seeing to. She never mentions the flat. Never brings up the keys. Simon is all efficiency on the phone, hanging up with the air of someone whos just done something unpleasant but survived.

I think about Margaret more than I expectnot with anger, just an understanding that deepens. Shes always been in controlat work, at home. She organised, sorted, made things happenraising Simon and Laura essentially single-handed as Alan prefers to follow rather than lead. Bought their Beckenham flat in unimaginably tough days. Her way of loving is through managing and safety. She doesnt know another way.

I dont excuse herbut I do understand. Thats different.

Claire asks about her every time we meet. Usually we see each other every other week in a little café, The Copper Kettle, near Stockwell tubenot because its fancy but because its quiet and you dont have to shout. Claire always orders a cappuccino and a croissant; I get an Americano, or pumpkin soup in November. Its cold and the soup is just right.

She still sulking? Claire asks, cupping her mug.

She is.

For long, I suppose.

Laura reckons up to four months.

Hows that for you?

I think carefully. Feels oddnot because I regret it, but the silence is heavy. I keep wondering if I couldve softened it somehow, said it better.

If youd used different words, youd never have said what mattered.

Maybe.

Anna, you didnt do anything wrong. You just said no.

I know. But sometimes no is enormous.

Shes quiet for a bit.

Remember how that landlady of yours used to barge in?

Oh yes.

Remember how you felt?

I do. That landlady, Mrs. Hydetiny, brown coat every day. She came every Wednesday, often more. Knocked, walked in, checked the kitchen, the bathroom. Just checking, she always said. Once, I was still in my dressing gown, dripping from the shower, and she looked at me as if it was her flat. And it was. I was nobody.

Awful, I admit.

Exactly. Now youre really home.

Shes right. I am.

December comes with frost and early evenings. Simon and I buy a little Christmas tree at the marketreal, pine-smelling. We hang the same old box of ornaments weve carted from flat to flat for years. The glass Father Christmas, nose chipped, that I bought with my first ever paycheque, goes up first.

For New Years, we keep to ourselveswatch old films, eat oranges, and giggle over the odds and ends I cooked that morning. At midnight, glasses clinked open by the window. Its minus three; we laugh at the cold and shut it quickly.

Well, its been a good year, Simon says.

Even so? I ask.

Because of it. He means the challenges: the years been good because we tackled the hard things together, not despite them.

Margaret rings on the eighth of January. Not Simonme.

I see her name flash on the mobile and stare at it for a few seconds before answering.

Anna, she saysalways my full name when she wants to be formal.

Margaret.

I wanted to wish you and Simon a Happy New Year. Belated, I know.

Thank you. You too.

A pause.

How are things?

Were alright. Settling in.

Did you have a tree up?

We did. A live one.

Good. Real trees are better.

Another pause. Im in the kitchen, looking at my cactus. Its survived December and seems entirely content.

Anna, she says, and now, for the first time, I hear something new in her voice. Not softness exactly, more an effortas if shes lifting a weight but doesnt want it to show. Id like to come round one day. If thats alright with you.

We dont mind, I say. Just call first to check, so we can plan.

Yes. Of course. Ill ring.

Alright.

Thats all. Give Simon my love.

I will.

She hangs up. I sit for a moment, unmoving. Then I get up, pour myself a glass of water, and drink every drop.

I tell Simon when he gets in from work.

She called? he asks, cautious.

She did. Wants to pop byshell call ahead.

Thats it?

Thats it.

He sits, exhalingnot relieved, not anxious, just as though somethings shifted at last.

Are you pleased?

I dont know yet. Well see how she calls, how she visits. This isnt the finish, Simonjust another step.

Yes, he agrees. Just another step.

She calls again at the end of January. Friday evening, both of us at home.

Simon, she says, could we come round Sunday? If its convenient.

He glances at me. I nod.

Of course, Mum. One oclock works.

Lovely. Ill bake an apple tart. Your favourite.

On Sunday they arrive at one sharp. Margaret is in that same smart coat, now with a navy scarf. Alan is carrying the tart, wrapped in a tea towel.

The hallway feels slightly tense. Margaret glances around; I prepare myself but she says nothing about it. Takes off her shoes, steps into the lounge.

Trees gone already, she observes, looking at the corner where it stood.

We took it down.

Shame. Real ones look pretty.

We sit with tea. Alan regales us with tales of his knee (thankfully nothing serious, just age). Margaret asks about work. I tell her about my latest project designing the brand for a bakery, how the client surprised me by picking the least expected designwhich, oddly, was the best. She listensnot with feigned interest but genuinely.

So theres something in that job of yours, she says. If people choose for themselves.

There is, I reply.

Good, then.

After tea, Alan wants to see the kitchen viewhed seen a photo and fancied the gardens. Simon takes him off, and the two of them discuss fishing again.

Margaret and I remain. She sits on the sofa looking at the amber lamp.

Warm light, she remarks. Cosy.

We like it.

She pauses. Then,

Anna, I wouldnt be here every day. You know that.

I look at her. She doesnt meet my eyeinstead, she looks at the lamp.

Maybe not every day, I say.

She smirks, not cross, just as if shes realised shes been caught out and cant change it.

Im not asking for keys, just so you know.

I know.

Good then. She sips her tea. Nice blend. Which is it?

Meadow Lane, small local company. I just picked it up by flukesuited me.

Write the name down for me later.

Will do.

Out the window its drab, not cheerless. That particular January light, making everything look slightly pale and unreal, like a watercolour. The cactus rests on the sill, my hedgehog mug beside it. Margaret sits on our couch, holds our teacup, and its not good or badit just is.

In February she rings againThursday evening, to ask about Saturday. We say yes. She arrives with homemade jamplum, from last summerand Alan with a bag of vacuum-packed trout from the last fishing trip.

Simon says afterwards he didnt expect her to actually come; figured it would take longer, or shed dream up something new.

Maybe she still will, I say.

Maybe. But for now, no.

For now, no.

We wash up after theyve gone. Simon does the soaping; I dry. Outside, street lamps gleam over thin, frosty grass. Someones walking their doga woolly, sandy mongrel that snuffles the grass and sneezes.

How do you think itll go? Simon asks.

I turn a newly dried plate in my hands. Simple, white, with a blue rimone of a set we bought that first week after moving in.

Ive no idea, I say. Well see.

The dog finally finds what it was after and wags its tail. Its owner ruffles its fur. They move on, leaving the lamplight lying calm and steady on the grass.

Simon, I say.

Yes?

Nothing. Just felt like saying your name.

He smiles. I set the plate back on our shelf. In our kitchen. In our home.