The Rebellion After Midnight

Late Rebellion

Do you know what youre doing? Larissas voice was level, almost flat, and the steadiness of it was scarier than any outburst. Do you realise what this means for all of us?

I stood by the window, watching the drizzle outside. It was a drab autumn rain, and passersby hurried beneath umbrellas without so much as glancing at one another.

I know what it means for me, I said at last.

For you. She repeated it as if weighing the words in her palm. Its always you, Mum. But what about the rest of us?

Youre all adults.

Mum, youre sixty-one.

And Im well aware how old I am.

Larissa sank onto the sofa. It was the old one, the one from our last flat, from a former life. I looked at it and wondered, for the thousandth time, why Id never gotten round to getting rid of it. Habit, I suppose. Or guilt. It felt like throwing out a living thing.

Have you at least given a thought to what peoplell say? my daughter asked.

No, I replied, honestly. I havent.

And that was the truth.

***

It all started back in March, when I, Galina, formerly an English teacher and now a pensioner doing part-time in the librarys childrens club, went to visit my friend Vera for the weekend in Salisbury.

Vera had settled there eight years before. Shed moved after her husband passed away, bought a little house on the edge of the city, dug over her own plot of land, and as she liked to say, finally learned to breathe. Id visit her once a year, usually over the summer, but this time something changed. Something inside whispered: Go now. Not in summer. Now.

March in Salisbury was bleak and quiet. Snow lingered in hollowed bits, but the slopes were already muddy and black. The cathedral spires shimmered against a pallid sky. I walked the narrow street and noticed how Id not felt such quiet for ages. Not emptiness, but silence. Theres a difference, and I was just realising it.

Vera was waiting on the porch in her wellies and an ancient parka.

At last, she said. Ive already reheated the shepherds pie.

We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, and Vera told me about her neighbours, her garden, her plans to get a goat.

A goat? I raised an eyebrow.

Why not? My own fresh milk, maybe have a go at cheese-making. I read it isnt that hard.

Vera, youve never even seen a real goat up close.

All the more reason to make its acquaintance, she smirked and topped up my tea. And how are you, honestly? You seem grey somehow. Sorry, but its true.

I looked at my hands. Old, ordinary hands, the veins showing now.

Im fine.

Fine doesnt answer anything. Is something wrong?

Nothings wrong. Everythings just as its always been.

Thats the problem, Vera remarked. As its always been is the very heart of it.

I kept silent. Outside, dusk had just started gathering, and down the street the first lamp was sparking to life.

The next day, Vera hauled me to the market, not the supermarket but the real market, the noisy, muddy kind where women in headscarves sold pickled onions and hand-knitted socks. And there, at a stall with dried mushrooms, I ran into Nicholas.

It took me a moment to recognize him. It must have been thirty-five years, and hed changed, but something in the way he stood with his hands in his coat pockets was just the same. I stopped.

So did he.

Gail? he asked, uncertain.

Nick.

Thats all we managed at first. Then Vera, sensing something, drifted away to look at socks, and we just stood there surrounded by the scent of mushrooms and chilly earth.

Do you live here? I asked.

Second year now. And you?

Visiting a friend.

I see.

Another pause. Not awkward, just… calm. Like neither of us needed to hurry.

You havent changed, he said.

Thats not true.

Well, not much. Just a little.

I laughed. I didnt expect to laugh.

***

Nicholas Barrett had been an old uni course-mate of mine. Not a close friend, not a flame, just someone who sat through the pedantics of teacher training for five years in the same group. Wed parted ways afterwards, as people do. Hed gone off to another city, I stayed put, married, raised a family. Id heard somewhere, through the grapevine, that hed married too, had a daughter. That was all.

And now here he was, at the mushroom stall, just looking at me.

We agreed to meet that evening, in a tiny café along the high street. Vera didnt seem fussed.

Go on with you, she said. Im watching my cooking shows. And dont look at me like that, Im not matchmaking.

I know.

You think I am. She chuckled. Just go.

The café was mostly empty: old wooden tables, lamps glowing amber, old black and white photographs of Salisbury lining the walls. We had tea and some apple tart and chatted away, dredging up names of old classmates, laughing at our own former seriousness.

Then he told me,

My wife died three years back.

Im sorry, I replied.

Dont be. Im I dont know. It doesnt get easier, I suppose. You just live differently.

I understand.

What about you?

I had to think how to explain it. My husband, Victor, had left for another woman nine years ago. No great drama. He just said, one ordinary evening, that things had worked out that way. I spent years unpicking the seams of our marriage, trying to see what Id done wrong, mentally counting through it all like prayer beads. Then I got tired of thinking and just got on. Kids, grandkids, the library club, Vera in Salisbury once a year.

Its varied, I said.

He nodded, no further questions. That was nice.

***

Back home in Winchester, I put it all down as a pleasant coincidence. Old classmates meet, have a natter, walk away. These things happen.

A week later, though, he found me on WhatsApp (via Vera) and messaged, Hi, how was your journey home?

I replied. And then we started chatting. Slowly, at first, then every day. Strange, really. I never usually text people much. Larissa often nags that I never answer my phone or reply to messages promptly, that I disappear for hours. But now, Id catch myself waiting for Nicks next ping.

He kept it simple, no flourishes. He wrote about his life in Salisbury, his restoration work, icon painting, the cats in his garden, about his evenings in. He asked after my club, the children. Sometimes hed send photos: the white spire in the snow, a tea cup on a battered table, a ginger tabby curled on the sill.

Larissa caught on after a month.

Mum, youre always on your phone.

Im reading.

You always said screens would ruin your eyes.

I stand corrected then.

She gave me a funny look, then said nothing.

In April, Nick asked if he could come up to Winchester.

Got some business with the restoration crowd up there, he messaged. If you dont mind my imposing, perhaps we could meet?

If you dont mind. I smiled, reading that. So careful, so British.

Do come, I replied.

We met near King Alfreds statue, where the Itchen and Arle rivers meet. The wind was bitterly cold, but there was spring in the air, a brightness to the light. I wore my good coat, a grey one, barely out of the wardrobe since Id bought it.

He was at the parapet, looking at the water. His face was wind-burnt, hands in his pockets, just like at the market.

Hello, he said.

Hello.

We walked along the waters edge, talking about this and that. His restoration work, my book club. I told him about the boy, James, only eight, who wrote an essay about how books are like windows, except instead of looking out, you look inwards. Nick stopped walking.

Thats spot on, he said. Hes eight?

Just eight. Talented little soul.

Youre good with children. You can tell.

Why do you say that? Youve never seen me!

Because you talk about them like what you do matters.

I looked at him. He gazed at the river.

Later, over coffee in a riverside café, I realised itd been years since Id sat with someone just talking, with no time pressure, no obligations, no need to fix or report anything. It felt good. Properly good.

As we left, he said,

Id like to come again. If thats alright.

Thats perfectly alright.

***

Larissa cottoned on by May. Not that Id told her, but she called at a strange time, and I wasnt home, and didnt answer for a while. She smelled something up.

Where were you?

Out walking.

Alone?

A tiny pause, but she was sharp for those.

No.

And so the questioning began. Slow at first, then sharper.

Who is he?

An old uni mate. I told you, we bumped into each other in Salisbury.

You just said you met someone you knew.

Hes the one.

Mum, youre

Yes, Larissa, I know exactly how old I am.

Silence.

So what, then? You go walking together?

Yes. Thats all, for now.

For now, she echoed.

I didnt explain further. Some things are too big for words, or too small whatever Id say would either overstate or understate it.

My son, Dennis, reacted differently. He lives in London, wife and two children, calls every couple of weeks. When I told him, quite casually, really, that Id met someone, he paused and asked,

He alright?

Hes fine.

Well, good stuff then, Dennis said.

That was that. I thought for a long time afterwards which reaction was better, his or Larissas. I didnt reach a conclusion.

***

Summer passed in some kind of new rhythm. Nick visited Winchester, I went down to Salisbury. We wandered markets, galleries, little pubs. One day, he showed me his workshop, a tiny place with high windows, lit up with odours of linseed oil and old pine. Wooden icons stood along the walls, some no more than faint blurs, some glowing with fresh paint.

Dont you worry about handling something so old? I asked.

Not at all. Quite the opposite. Its comforting, knowing this outlasted you, and probably will again.

Do you believe? In any of it?

He thought for a while.

I dont know what to call it. I just feel it matters. Not because someone said so.

I looked at the face hed almost finished restoring: luminous, calm.

Victor used to say I wasted my time with the book club, I blurted out. Said it wasnt worth it, not for the money they pay.

And you?

I used to think he was right. For a while. Most of my adult life, probably.

Nick said nothing. Just looked at me, and somehow that was all I needed.

We had dinner at his place. I felt a contentment Id long forgotten. Not because the problems had vanished they were there. Larissa hardly phoned when I was in Salisbury, her disapproval quietly obvious. My granddaughter Sophie eight years old once asked on the phone, Gran, are you coming home soon? and I had a pang of guilt, sharp, familiar.

But there in that kitchen, the guilt dulled, not gone, just quieter.

Have you ever thought of moving? Nick asked out of nowhere.

I looked up.

Where to?

Here. Salisbury. Or anywhere, really. Just a move.

He stared at his mug.

Are you asking me to?

Not exactly. Just wondered if youd thought about it.

I was silent.

Not really, I confessed. Maybe once, years ago. But it seemed impossible.

Why impossible?

Kids. Grandkids. The flat. Even just my little job. Its all here.

But theyre grown up.

That doesnt change everything.

He nodded.

Fair enough. Just asking, is all.

That question nestled inside me, refusing to leave.

***

In August, Larissa came to stay. No particular occasion, just the Saturday train, a holdall, and a pursed mouth.

Tea in the kitchen, her staring out the window.

Are you serious? she asked.

About what?

All of this. Him. This situation.

Im not sure, I replied, truthfully.

Mum. Dont you think its odd? At our age?

Whose age? Yours, or mine?

Ours. The familys age. Dads still alive, you know.

Hes lived with someone else for nine years, Larissa.

Doesnt matter, you were married thirty years.

It very much matters, I said. It changes everything.

She pushed her cup aside.

Have you thought about what Sophie will say? What shell understand?

Sophies eight.

Precisely. She understands plenty.

Shell understand what we explain.

And what will we explain?

I looked at her. Shes always looked like her dad, that straight mouth, the dark brows. Used to be endearing. Now, it felt different, though I couldnt say how.

That her grans met a good man, I said. Thats enough.

And then?

Then well see.

Well see. You always say that when you dont want to talk.

No, I said. I say it when I truly dont yet know. Its honest.

She leaned at the window a long while, then said, softly, almost without reproach:

Im scared youll regret this.

I could regret not doing it more.

She turned.

Thats philosophy. Doesnt help me much.

It doesnt always help me, either, I said. But its the truth I live with.

She left on the evening train. We hugged, tight, as usual. There was something warm but tense between us, as if we were both afraid something would snap.

***

September arrived cold and sharp. Id been retired six years now, but the childrens club kept me in something like a routine. Every Tuesday and Friday, the kids would come, reading, drawing, acting bits from books. It was a small room, low shelves, battered old cushions on the floor.

Tamara, the head librarian sixty-five and still sharp had figured something was up. Not by me saying, but by noticing I had changed. More self-contained. Not selfish, just finally thinking about myself sometimes, not everyone else.

Somethings going on with you, she said flatly one day.

There is, I agreed.

Good thing?

Not sure.

Good. Tamara shrugged. At least somethings happening. Otherwise, were like rivers with no idea where were headed.

I laughed.

In September, Nick suggested a few nights away together in Oxford, where he wanted to see an exhibition of old manuscripts. We booked separate rooms at a small inn, and spent the days at museums, evenings wandering the town. One night, dining by the Thames, Nick looked at me and said,

I want you to know: Im not in a rush. Im not pushing. If you feel pressure, its not from me.

I saw the sincerity in his eyes.

I know.

I mean it. Im sixty-three, not a lad who needs things a certain way. Im just glad you exist.

I didnt reply right away. Through the window, the Thames was black, lights twinkling on the opposite bank.

Its hard to take that at face value, I managed.

Why?

Im so used to words coming loaded with expectation.

Not here.

I know. But Im used to it being otherwise.

He nodded. We finished our wine, wandered down the river path. It was cold, and I flipped up my collar. He walked beside, not hooking my arm, not crowding me. Just there. It felt right.

***

October came with the talk Id dreaded and expected.

I rang Larissa, not giving her a chance to speak first.

I want to tell you: Nicks asked if Ill move to Salisbury. Live with him. Im considering it.

The silence stretched.

Youre serious.

Yes.

Youve known him seven months.

Eight.

Eight months, Mum! Eight! Do you hear yourself?

I do.

Its nothing, you barely know him!

I know enough.

What do you know? That you like him? People change, Mum. Everything does!

Larissa.

What?

Your father changed. We spent thirty years together.

Silence.

Thats not fair, Larissa said, finally, quietly.

I dont want to be unfair. I want to be honest. With you and with myself.

Dennis rang later that evening, clearly after a chat with his sister.

Mum, youre really thinking of moving?

I am.

Is it all right there for you? Is he alright?

Hes decent. Tidy. House is small but nice.

Will you sell the flat?

No, Ill let it.

What if you want to come back?

Dennis.

What?

If I need to, Ill come back. But can I try this, just once, without having to plan for retreat?

Pause.

Alright, he said. Just call regularly, yeah?

Promise.

Afterwards, I sat for a long time at the window. Rain came down, gold under the lamp. I thought about being sixty-one and making, for the first time, a choice that was absolutely my own. Not because someone else left; not because circumstance forced my hand just because I wanted to.

It was a strange feeling. Unfamiliar.

I messaged Nick, I need more time to think.

His reply came quickly: Take all the time you need.

***

Vera rang most weeks and kept out of it. Neither move! nor dont rush. Just Hows it going? News about her life, her garden, and the goat she finally did get.

Whats she called? I asked.

Primrose.

Really?

Lovely name for a goat, dont you think? Shes very dignified.

Vera, youre utterly unpredictable.

Good or bad?

Good. Definitely good.

Listen, she said after a thoughtful pause, if you were thirty, do you think youd be hesitating so long?

Whats age got to do with it?

Maybe nothing, maybe everything. I just notice, as we get older, we weigh more, hesitate more. Sometimes wisdom, sometimes just old fear, hiding as wisdom.

Youre as much a philosopher as Tamara.

Ill take that as a compliment.

When I hung up, I realised she was right. The fear behind wisdom thats it. Once I feared making mistakes, later feared inaction more, realising not choosing is still a choice.

But this fear was something else. Not about Nick. About me.

About never having been just myself always someones wife, someones mother, someones teacher. When all of that faded down the list, who was I then?

Maybe the book club was my first real me thing. And now, this.

***

Late October brought the conversation I never expected from Victors old mum, Antonia. Shes eighty-two, lives alone in Winchester, and I still visit out of habit and, frankly, affection.

Larissas told me, she said bluntly.

Told you what?

About your friend. That you might move.

I waited.

What do you think?

I think youve earned it, she said, quietly. My son never valued you. I saw it ages ago, never said. But now Ill say it.

Antonia

Let me finish. At my age, straight talk is all that matters. Go, if you want. The grandkidsll cope, theyre well looked after. Larissas just scared of losing you, but you cant spend your life only where youre needed.

I am needed.

As a gran. A mum. The ever-present one. But seen as a person?

I had no answer.

Right, then. She paused. Go on. And do keep in touch, yes?

After putting the phone down, I stared out of the kitchen at the garden. The trees had lost all their leaves, bare and wintry, utterly still.

People see you in all sorts of ways. Larissa as her mother, Dennis as someone who should be safe. Tamara as a capable colleague. Antonia, perhaps unexpectedly, saw me as a person.

And Nick? What did he see?

I only knew he saw me not my role, not a function, just me. Maybe because he had no baggage about me, just a woman whod recognised him at a market.

***

November brought the first snow, and a surprise phone call from Sophie.

She rang herself, which was rare. Usually she got the phone from Larissa at the end of a call. But on that Sunday morning, there it was, ringing, a number I didnt know.

Gran, its me.

Sophie? Where are you ringing from?

Mums iPad. Gran, are you moving away?

I sat down.

Have you been listening in on grown-ups talk?

A little bit. Mum said stuff to Uncle Dennis. Are you going?

I dont know yet, love.

Will you still visit?

Of course I will.

Promise?

Promise.

Silence. Then Sophie asked,

Is it pretty there?

Where?

Where you might go.

Very. There are white churches and lots of snow. And a river.

Like ours?

A bit smaller.

Right. A pause. Gran?

Yes, pet?

Mums scared youll get ill there, and we wont be able to get to you.

A hardness gripped my chest.

Tell Mum Im healthy and plan to stay that way.

She knows, really. Shes just scared.

I know. Im scared, too.

Of what?

I thought a moment.

Lots of things. But everyones scared sometimes.

You said brave people get scared but do things anyway.

Did I?

I remember everything, she replied with pride. Right, Id better go or Mumll notice.

Sophie.

Yes?

I love you.

Love you too. Bye.

***

Mid-November I went down to Salisbury. Not just for the weekend, but a whole week. Packed for seven days, told Tamara, left Vera to keep an eye on the letterbox.

Nick met me at the station. As we drove to his, he chattered about some cupola he was repairing, while I stared out at frost-blanketed fields, remembering how in March, it had all started on this same road. Full circle.

We spent the week together in his little house, creaky floorboards, old draughty sashes. I cooked a handful of times, he swept the floor. Mornings, we drank coffee by the kitchen window, snow drifting quietly.

One evening, I asked,

Dont you find it cramped, living together?

Eh?

I mean, youve lived alone for eight years.

He thought a moment.

It only felt cramped when I was living wrong. This is different.

Living wrong?

Years labouring on building sites, for money, but no joy. Then, in my forties late, I know! I switched to restoration. Everyone called it daft.

And?

I did it anyway, he smiled. My wife supported me. She was always good like that.

Tell me about her, I asked.

He went quiet.

Anna. Gentle, very. Not silent, but calm. When she entered, the whole house eased.

You miss her.

Of course. He said it simply. But missing doesnt mean you cant move on, you know?

I do know.

Same for you?

I thought of Victor. With him, Id often felt anxious, not calm. I missed an idea of him, more than the man himself.

Different, I admitted. But yes.

We sat in silence, and it was good.

***

Thursday, day five, Larissa rang.

I stood out on the porch. Snow had stopped, first stars starting to show.

Are you still there? Larissa asked.

Yes.

For how long?

Till Sunday.

Silence.

Mum, can I ask you something? Honestly.

Go on.

Are you doing this to prove something? To us? To yourself?

I looked at the stars.

Not to prove. No.

Then why?

Just to live. Differently than before.

And before, was it so bad?

Not bad. Just not quite me.

What didnt you have?

That was the trickiest question. I had plenty. A flat, kids, a job, friends. No great catastrophes.

But also this sense of living slightly beside my own life. As if it were a checklist, each box ticked, but the real me not quite inside it.

I missed myself, I said eventually.

Yourself? Whats that mean?

Just what it says.

Long pause.

Will you be happy? she asked, not unkindly.

I dont know. But Id like to try.

Fine, she said. Fine.

It wasnt blessing, but it wasnt war.

***

Sunday, bags packed, I stood by the door and Nick asked:

Have you decided?

Nearly.

Nearly good or bad?

It means Im still thinking, just for a little while longer.

He nodded.

Youre afraid of getting it wrong.

Yes.

May I say something?

Please do.

Mistakes come in two sorts. Some, you try, they turn out wrong, and it stings, but at least you know. Others, you never try at all, and youll never know. The second types worse, to me.

I looked at him.

Are you doing this deliberately?

What?

Saying what Ive been thinking, but never quite dared.

He laughed. His smile was wonderful when he laughed.

No, not deliberately. Just luck.

I came back to Winchester late that night. The flat welcomed me with familiar silence, the scent of its old paint, the light from the block opposite. I unpacked, made tea, and sat at the kitchen table.

My book lay there, opened on a folded page. I read a line about how we carry our loneliness inside us, but it isnt a sentence just a fact, to be handled as we see fit.

I shut the book.

Then, I texted Nick, Ill come in January. For a good while. Lets see.

His reply: Ill be waiting.

***

December drifted by, half-decision, half-peace, neither anxious nor calm. I kept up the club, my visits to Antonia, Christmas calls with the kids, but every bit of it had new weight.

Larissa rang in early December.

Changed your mind yet?

No.

You letting the flat out?

Yes, the estate agents sorting it.

Right. Pause. Mum, may I ask something?

Of course.

Dyou think maybe sometimes we just believe the new is always better, and then?

Larissa.

What?

Im sixty-one, not eighteen, swept away by moods. Ive been through every emotion. I can compare.

Still doesnt protect against illusions.

No. But fewer, at least.

What if hes not what he seems?

Thats always a risk. The whole of lifes what if, Larissa. When you married Andy, you couldnt be sure either.

I was twenty-seven.

So?

Silence.

Fine, she said. Fine, Mum.

Will you help me pack, when the time comes?

Long pause.

Yes, Mum, Ill help.

***

I spent New Years with Larissa, Sophie, and Andy. Dennis came from London with his family. The flat was crowded, noisy kids tumbling about, adults chatting over one another, exactly what Christmas is everywhere.

Sophie nestled beside me, whispering, Mum made the trifle herself, but this one is from a shop. She just says its homemade.

Youre to keep culinary secrets in this family, not share them, I teased.

Im not telling, just saying, she whispered back.

Just before midnight, as the grown-ups sipped their fizz and the children nodded off around us, Larissa announced,

Mums moving to Salisbury in January.

Matter-of-fact.

Andy nodded. Dennis glanced my way.

For long? Dennis asked.

Well see, I replied.

He smiled, a little.

Sophie, half-asleep, asked,

Gran, youre going?

I am, sweetheart.

You promised to visit.

I promised.

Good, she said, and nodded off.

I looked around: sleeping children, my children, the battered old sofa I still hadnt pitched out. And, somewhere in another town, a man whod written Im waiting.

***

Fifteenth of January, I called Tamara.

Im leaving the club.

Pause.

When?

February. Youll have time to find someone new.

Youre moving?

Yes.

Where, if you dont mind my asking?

Salisbury.

Ah, she said. To him?

Yes. And, in a way, to myself as well.

Good answer, Tamara said. Well replace you, though it wont be easy, you were good at this. Good luck, truly.

On my last day, the children made me a card collective, huge, everyone drawing their favourite thing. Little James, whod written about books-as-windows, drew a window with curtains and wrote: For looking inwards.

I folded it gently, put it in my bag.

***

Twenty-third of January, I arrived in Salisbury. Nick helped me with my bags. Hed cleared a small room for me. On the sill, a pot of pink geraniums.

Where did that come from? I asked.

Bought it. Felt the place needed a plant.

Good thinking.

I stood at the window. The garden was draped in snow, quiet. A fence, and beyond it, rooftops.

Well? Nick asked.

Dont know yet. Ask me in a month.

I will.

I turned.

Nick.

Yes?

Thank you for not rushing me.

He hesitated.

Thank you for coming.

***

Three months in, I was settling in, though slowly. Salisbury was small, which had its pros and cons: quiet, but everybody knew everybody, and I was the new one.

Vera introduced me to a few local ladies. One, Nina, suggested I help at a little book club at the arts centre. Ten people, reading and discussing.

Dont know if Ill manage, I protested.

Nothing to manage, Nina laughed. Come along. If you like it, stay. If not, dont.

I went. I liked it.

Calls with Larissa came about weekly. Bit by bit, shed ask not just how are you? but hows he? and hows the club? and what are you reading? a gentle acclimatisation. Like eyes coming used to dim light.

Sophie wrote a real letter, paper and all. She drew two churches and a river. Gran, Ill visit soon Mum says on Easter holidays. At the end: Primroses a goat? Vera told me.

I replied with a letter too.

***

It was April when Larissa finally visited alone, not with Sophie. She came for the day.

She walked into the house, looked round. I watched her take in the creaky boards, the geranium, the old pine table.

Nick, very tactfully, offered us tea then disappeared into the workshop.

We sat together.

Its nice here, she observed, almost in surprise.

Yes.

A bit small.

Peaceful, though.

Dont you get lonely for Winchester?

I do. I miss you all. Tamara, the riverside walks.

Yet youre here anyway.

Yes.

She fiddled with her teacup.

Is he good to you? she asked. Sincerely, plainly.

Yes.

Are you happy?

I thought.

I dont know about the word happy its a tricky one. But Im genuinely well.

She nodded.

Fine.

Fine means?

Fine, Mum. She met my eyes. Im still scared. For you. Guess I always will be.

I know.

But Im trying. To understand.

Thats all I need.

We had tea. She told me about Sophie, about work, about Andys plans for a new car. Just regular things.

Soon she was packing to leave. I walked her out.

The air was damp, earthy, trees leafing.

Mum, she said at the gate.

Yes?

I dont completely understand. And maybe I never will.

I know.

But I do want you to know one thing.

Whats that?

Long pause. Then, raising those dark, familiar eyes,

You were always there. Always. Im used to it. That youre always there, always an answer away.

I still am. Always.

I know. Its just a different kind of distance. Ill have to get used to it.

You will.

Will I?

I surveyed her, so familiar since she was a newborn, since that first panicky joy.

I think so, I said. Youve always adapted. Youre strong.

Not as strong as you.

Just as strong.

She smiled a little. Hugged me tight, as always.

Ill call when Im back.

Ill be waiting.

She walked away. I watched her go, quick step, straight back, so much of her father in her.

At the corner, she turned.

Mum! she called.

Yes?

Your geraniums in bloom. I saw it.

It is, I replied.

Good, she said, and went on.

***

I went back in. Nick was heating soup. I stood by the window, watching, until Larissa disappeared. An old woman ambled down the street, her shopping bag heavy.

The geranium blushed pink in the light.

Alright? Nick asked, without looking.

Alright, I answered.

A pause.

Shes a good girl, I said softly. Just frightened.

Understandable. Shes got her own struggle.

Yes.

I set out the bowls. Somehow, in just three months, it all felt familiar.

Nick, I said.

Yes?

Do you think what I did was right?

He looked straight at me.

What do you think?

I took a moment.

I think, for the first time, its completely mine.

There you are then, he said. You answered yourself.

We ate together. Outside, Aprils Salisbury was quiet, white with the last of the snow, green starting to peep through.

I thought: this is it. Not happiness as a word, nor a decision as a finish line. Just lunch. Just this view. Just this man, and that is enough.

Will it always be? I have no idea.

But the soup was hot. The geranium bloomed. And, somewhere, that card from little James saying for looking inwards was in my bag.

***

That evening, Sophie rang.

Gran, Mum says she visited.

She did, love.

Was she alright?

We had a good talk.

Did she cry?

No. Why?

Sometimes she does, when she thinks I wont hear. About you.

I closed my eyes a second.

Sweetheart.

Yes?

Tell your mum Ill come visit soon. Very soon.

Okay. Gran?

Yes?

Is it spring now, where you are?

Nearly. Just a bit of snow left.

Ours is warm already. Weird, right? Same country, different weather.

Not really. Thats normal here.

Gran, do you miss us?

I looked out at the stars beginning to glint.

Always, darling. All the time.

Good, she said, sounding reassured. Thats good, missings good.

You think?

Well, yes. If you miss us, you love us.

I couldnt answer.

Bye, Gran.

Bye, Sophie.

Nick was finishing the washing up, humming to himself. The geranium glowed softly in the dimness. Somewhere, a dog barked Id even stopped noticing, it was part of the local quiet.

I sat a moment. Sophie was right. If you miss, you love. Maybe the other way too. Love means missing, missing means love. It gives you someone to miss.

That, in the end, is life. Not perfect, not as the books say. But life, with nearness and distance, with right and wrong choices that, given time, just become your choices. Lived, owned.

I got up and went to dry the spoons.