I've spent a while working on this chapter because there's a lot of emotions covered and I wanted to try and balance them. So, sorry for the wait but I hope it's worth it. And, as always, thank you to you wonderful people who support the story and leave reviews. xxx


Chapter 12

Friday 25th March

"Hello darling," Elsie said, getting to her feet and drawing Tom into a hug. "You're looking wonderful."

"As are you, gorgeous lady." He kissed her cheek, held her tight, "So good to see you."

"And you, it's been a few weeks. You're so busy nowadays."

"Erm, says the woman who hasn't had a weekend free since what, Valentine's?"

She felt her cheeks warm, and took a sip of her water, "Yes well, I'm not sure you're one to be passing comment."

"Elsie, I have no shame at all in admitting I am one hundred percent taken."

"So I hear! And sharing an abode?" She leant forward across the table to him, slapping his hand. "How come I find out second hand?"

"Gossips. I bet that was Anna," he waved over a waitress. "You ready to order?"

"Mmm, hi," she smiled up at the waitress, "can I have a Gin and Tonic, and I'll have the pear and stilton salad I think. Thank you."

"You're being good. I'm going to have this stacked burger thing, and chips and I'll have whatever's on tap."

"Bitter or lager?"

"Bitter. Thanks."

"How the hell do you stay so trim?"

"I work out. Besides, it's Friday lunch, might as well indulge."

"I don't want to eat too heavy, Charles is coming over tonight and I said I'd cook."

"Little homebody, you never cooked for me."

"I made you toast," she laughed, "and besides, it was different."

"Very different. What are you cooking him?"

"Steak, I'm going to make garlic butter too, salad, homemade chips…"

"You definitely never made me that!"

"I rang Beryl for advice last night, got it all written down and stuck to the fridge door."

"That's the Elsie I know. Can I ask you something?"

"Go on," she took her drink from the waitress, "don't ask me about the birds and bees though, we're past that."

"Ever a comedian." He took a gulp of beer, "So, is it love?"

"With you and Sybil? It certainly looks like it."

"No, with you… Mary Berry."

"Oh god, don't call me that. You know Beryl claims she can't really cook."

"We've had this debate before. And don't avoid the question."

She bit her lip, stared resolutely into her drink, swirling the lime around the glass, "Not yet," she finally said.

"Not yet…" he smiled, "Well, I'm glad you're happy Mrs Hughes, it's about time."

"And I'm glad you're happy too," she held her glass over to his, "a toast to being happy."

"You do realise her parents hate me."

"Well, which parents wouldn't? You're clearly reckless, you fool around with cars on a weekend and your hair's always far too perfect to be trusted."

"I'm counting on you to talk me up, now you're part of the family."

"I am not part of the family," she laughed, "and you'll be fine, give it time, they'll soon see how wonderful you are. I want you to meet her though, properly."

"We can arrange that, dinner, bring Charles. Will that be weird?"

"Absolutely. Charles sees her as a niece, and he's still…uncertain about you and I. God, what a tangled mess."

"Yeah, I kinda read that. Sybil doesn't know, you know, about you and I, other than us being friends."

"Okay. Should you tell her?"

"Probably."

"But you won't. You shouldn't have secrets." She said firmly, unsure where her strong opinion had suddenly come from.

"Yes mum! And it isn't a secret, it's just not – well, we don't need to tell each other of everyone we've slept with in the past."

"What if somebody else does?"

"Then I'll deal with that then."

She was going to respond but checked herself, took a drink instead. She didn't like people interfering with her life, she wasn't about to interfere with his. Not over this anyhow, she'd save that card for some other moment.

"So, the reason I called to meet is because I want to tell you something." Tom said, suddenly nervous. "And you give good advice – not judgemental advice."

"Oh?" She wondered if his claim was a warning rather than a truth. "Other than you being in love and moving in together?"

"Yes. One, I got offered a job, a good job… in Ireland."

"Oh my goodness, I'll miss you." She automatically reached for his hand again, squeezing it tightly, realising for a second how different his hand felt in hers compared to Charles'.

"I haven't taken it yet, still mulling it over. You see there's the other thing."

"Which is?"

"Sybil." He took a deep breath.

"Yes, you've just moved into this flat, haven't you? Is she going to want to uproot her entire life –,"

"– She's pregnant."

"Fuck! Tom!" She exclaimed, covering her mouth.

"I know, pretty insane."

"How the hell? Forget that, I know how, I just didn't… you've not been dating long. You know better than that."

"I know, I know, and believe me I've already beat myself up over this – no excuse. But then, you know, somehow, for some reason, as terrifying as it is…" he couldn't help but smile, "I love her Elsie, and the thought of having a baby with her, having our child." He shrugged, unable to hold in his joy and Elsie understood that the glow in his features was far more than just dating a nice girl and having great sex.

She squeezed his hand again, "You're going to be a father."

He nodded, feeling emotional, glad of this woman before him; he'd had no mother to rely on, no aunt, not even a sister to share thoughts with. They were the same in that respect, in a place without family; relying on her strength had become part of his life. "And it's only early on but I need you to know because I need to tell somebody, I can't keep it in my head."

"I understand that," she felt her eyes moisten and reached for her napkin, upsetting her cutlery as she moved, "I'm sorry, I don't why I feel emotional."

"I'm not used to seeing you cry, what's this man done to you?"

"You're the one who made me cry!" She smiled, wiping her face. "We're going out with his mother tomorrow."

"Wow, she's still alive?"

"Don't be bitchy, he's not that much older than me."

"I've missed our bitch sessions, who can we bitch about now?"

"I tell you who will be bitching – her father when he finds out you've impregnated his daughter."

"Probably cut my balls off, it's a bit mafia like isn't it, all this family stuff. That weekend, the Valentine's thing, the money is intense."

"I know. Charles hasn't really spoken about it, but it must be odd, your best friend being in such a different financial situation. I don't ask about it, I think I'm quite different to them, sometimes I wonder…"

"What?"

"What he sees in me. I'm nothing like the people in the circles he's used to mixing with. All this travel, all these rich families he's worked for."

"Maybe that's what he likes, what he wants."

"Maybe. Messy business isn't it, this dating stuff."

"I think we've both moved beyond dating."

She giggled, "Look at you, all grown up."

"I am 36, it's about time."

"God yes, what's my excuse." She took a long drink, the gin playing wonderfully with her senses, she'd limit herself to one more or Charles would arrive to find her asleep on the sofa and his steak still in the fridge. "Do you ever feel you've left it too long? Sometimes I think I left it all too late."

"Never too late, Elsie-May."

She bit her lip, sat back in her chair watching him as their lunch arrived. How odd life was – nobody ever called her Elsie-May, not since she was a child, not since her Gran.

A familiar sensation flittered through her chest; fear, failure. She didn't want to let Charles down like she had every other person in her life that she truly cared for. Yet the closer she got to him, the more she worried that would be the outcome.


Saturday 26th March

When she wakes it's with a sense of mischief. Naked as she is, tucked up against his body; his broad, vast chest – like some barrel, but soft, warm; she feels it lift against her cheek and she thinks of his lungs expanding, his heart beating.

She counts. Each beat, each second.

This is becoming her norm, waking with him on a Saturday morning. It's three months and it's becoming normal to spend the weekends together. Friday night at either one's house; dinner, a movie, or the theatre or a pub and some music, whatever, it doesn't really matter. Dating is no longer viewed as just 'dating', as stand alone events, it's one long experience that all merges into one and, presently, it's glorious.

She realises that at some point there'll be a bump in the road, inevitably, two people can't co-exist in harmony, it isn't realistic. But now, right now, it's pretty bloody good.

There's a shaft of sunlight coming through the curtains and falling across the white doors of her wardrobes, a sense of a Saturday ready to unfold before them. All that freedom from work, from having to make decisions and sit at a desk and stick to times.

Instead she feel languorous, at ease, and that in itself is something of a revelation.

What better way to start the weekend than here, in her bed with him.

"Charles," she breathes across his chest, lifting her head slowly, peeling her skin where her cheek had been pressed against him. Turning her head, letting her mouth move across his skin, pressing her lips to the places where she'd heard his heart, felt his life.

"Mmm," his hand presses against the curve of her hip, "I'm sleeping."

"Wake up."

"It's still early."

She moves her body carefully, sliding on top of him, bringing her mouth to his ear, "I want to make love."

Despite his claims she hears him smile, the quick exhale of breath, "I'm beginning to understand why you're such a good businesswoman."

"Oh?" She licks the shell of his ear.

"You're demanding."

She giggles, moves back so she can see his face, brushing her hair out of her eyes, "I do like things to go my way."

He pats her bottom, "Luckily for you, I happen to find you fairly attractive."

"Oh? That is lucky."

She squeals in both shock and delight as he turns them over, his great, comforting bulk hovering over her body.

"That's not fair, you're stronger than I am."

"But not as quick." His eyes are wide now, awake, bright. "I take my chances."

"Right now, your chances are pretty good."

"I'm blessed." He kisses her neck, knows the places now, the ones where she'll moan or breathe a little deeper or push her body up to his. The way her breasts feel against his chest, how her hips tilt up to his, hands stretch over his back, palms wide, mouth open.

He likes the fact she says 'make love', that they can be slow now, take their time, enjoy each other.

It's getting better all the time.


Elsie drives, which worries Charles; where he's rigid and focused whilst at the wheel, she's chatty and laid-back.

He feels his legs stiffen as she accelerates, feet press against the soles of his shoes and the car mat beneath. In an attempt to calm himself, and stop him from gripping the seat, he curls his fingers into his palm.

"So, she just handed her notice in, there and then. It was a bit of a shock actually, and I'm not usually easily shocked, as you probably know."

"Elsie…"

"Mmm?"

"You won't drive so fast when mother's in the car, will you?"

She nips the inside of her bottom lip between her top and bottom teeth, "Are you insinuating I drive too fast?"

"Course not," he swallows, "just recklessly is all."

At that she laughs, remembering being reckless with him only a couple of hours earlier – he didn't seem to mind that.

"Rest assured, I will drive like Miss Daisy. Or like you, which is the same thing."

"I resent that," he says, head snapping round. "I'm not boring."

She can't help but snigger, "You're hardly 'loose' behind the wheel of the car sweetheart."

Her insinuation is overlooked, instead there's a smile on his face, "Sweetheart?"

"Do you prefer something more rugged?"

"Sweetheart's good." He can't help but reach over to touch her hand, just briefly, just because. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Look for someone else I guess, advertise, but it's so difficult," she sighed, "finding a suitable replacement, someone who gets on with Anna and I, can learn quickly, be responsible, work without too much instruction."

"You mean you aren't barking orders at them every second of the day?"

"Ha! I'm not you."

"I haven't barked orders in a while, actually, I need to get back into it. Have felt no need to bark of late." 'Content' he thinks to himself, he's felt content, and happy. "Thomas has been doing more and more. I don't mind, it's rather nice to have more time to myself."

"More time to flirt with your waitress in that coffee shop."

"Please, I could be her father. I feel for her though, must be awfully difficult, awfully lonely."

"You're a sucker for a pretty face."

"Case in point."

"Yes well, what can I say to that? Have you seen that kid again, the boy?"

"Not for a while, think he's started at a school. Alfred. Alfie. Cute thing."

"You know his name, how quaint."

"It's mock Charles morning, isn't it?"

"I need to have my fun. Should I come in with you or wait in the car?"

"Wait in the car, she'll be in the foyer anyhow and will have been for almost an hour, tapping her cane, waiting. And don't let her order any gin with lunch."

"If that's what she wants…"

"No. Believe me. No gin. A glass of wine is fine, we'll get a bottle. And we need to find a table near the disabled loo so she doesn't have to walk far every twenty minutes."

"Goodness Charles, you do put a downer on events." She said, bringing the car to a halt.

"I apologise, I'm just being honest, realistic. It's the way things are."

"I'm beginning to think I should've grouted the tiles in my bathroom and let you come alone."

He feels slightly bad for that, and leans over to kiss her cheek, "I'm very happy you're here and willing to spend time with her, us."

"So am I. Now go, get her, I'm starving, used a lot of energy this morning."

"Minx." He leans back into the car before heading inside, "Oh, and I'm not a boring driver, just steady."


Charles picked the pub. It was very old and very quiet, tucked away on some random country road. He'd been there before with Margaret and experience had taught him it was safe to take her back to places she knew.

"I figured out that radio," Margaret said to Elsie, without even a hello, as she got into the front seat – leaving Elsie wondering how on earth Charles was going to fold himself into the back.

"Oh?"

"Contraption. Almost gave up. I kept flicking that switch back and forth, back and forth, constant buzzing, interference from that infernal Sky dish they've got stuck on the side of the building no doubt. I blame Americans for that."

"For Sky?"

"Yes. That and Marathons."

It takes her a moment before she suddenly registers, "Snickers?"

"Never will be dear." She pats her stomach where the seatbelt stretches across it. "So, we're off?"

Elsie thinks it might be one of the more bizarre conversations she's had when greeting somebody, but she checks Charles is safely in the back seat – bottom on the seat behind his mother, legs stretched across to the space behind Elsie's seat – and puts the car into gear.

"So, which radio are we talking about?"

"The one you gave me for my birthday of course. I didn't say anything at the time but I didn't really want one, you know, I did wonder why you'd bought it for me."

"I bought it for you mum, not Elsie." Charles says from the back seat.

"Same thing."

He thinks about how he didn't even know Elsie then, let alone buy joint presents with her.

"But it's working," Elsie quickly says.

"Yes. I said so. Listened to that man yesterday, Irish, funny voice, 'erms' a lot."

"Graham Norton," Charles suggests.

"Yes and him. Used to have Wogan on all the time, lovely man, voice like velvet. Such a shame."

"It is a shame," Elsie said softly, "I used to like his show too."

"Such a wit, I always pride wit Ellie, any monkey can crack a joke, true wit takes considerably longer to hone."

"Turn left," Charles instructs.

Elsie smiles, feeling a little like she could be in a sitcom right now.

Margaret goes quiet as they head further into the country, taking in the view, and Elsie switches on Radio 2, keeping the volume low but enough to fill the silence as she drives. She can see Charles in her rearview mirror, the same posture as his mother as he watches the fields pass by. How similar they are, she thinks, in both manner and voice. He might not like to hear it but she thinks his stubborn views might be a direct copy of his mother.

"Here we are," she announces as they arrive at the pub and parks as close to the door as she can.

"Charlie," Margaret says, suddenly looking concerned at Elsie. Her eyes wide, face pale.

Charles slips his hand from the back onto his mother's shoulder, "Right here mum, I'll come and get you out of the car, shall I?"

Elsie follows them into the pub, finding it both amusing and yet endearing how Margaret's handbag hangs from Charles' shoulder. They go to the same table he always reserves, and Margaret sits by the window, she finds the light helps when reading the menu.

"I want beef," she proclaims as the waiter seats them.

"Well, that may be," Charles says, taking off his coat, "but let Elsie and I look first hey."

Margaret notes Elsie again and, after a second or two, smiles, "Elsie, not the launderette Elsie. You should have beef too, they roast it well, melt in the mouth."

"I may just do that, good Yorkshire puds?"

"The best."

Elsie smiles, taking a seat next to Charles, across from Margaret.

"When I was a girl we used to go out to the fruit man, do you remember that Charles?"

"I wasn't born, mother," he says without looking up from his menu.

"He brought his cart up the street, I lived on Nelson street and the fruit man came with his cart."

Elsie folded her hands beneath her chin, listening patiently, "Yes?"

"He would bring rabbits, you know, skin them for you, 1 and sixpence for a rabbit. You ever had a rabbit?"

"Not since I was a girl in Scotland, we had them all the time on the farm, I used to help Dad skin them."

Now Charles looked up, "You did?"

"Of course, I wouldn't do it now of course. But back then, it was normal, part of the routine."

He's both looked impressed and faintly disgusted at the thought.

"Ma would make rabbit pie," Margaret continued. "The man who ran it, what was his name…?" She clicked her fingers repeatedly, "Sam, no Ben, Mr Benn. Older man, in his forties when he married our Hilda. She was a beauty Hilda, wasn't she Charles?"

"She was." He signalled to the waiter, ordered three beef dinners and a bottle of red wine.

"Everyone told her not to. You see Ellie."

"Elsie," Charles corrected but Elsie shot him a look; it didn't matter really.

"Hilda worked up at big house, for Mrs Grantham, cleaning and the like, just a maid really. One morning she's scrubbing the kitchen floor, early hours, and it used to have that flooring down… you know, was popular for a while. Charlie?"

"Like a lino thing?"

"Yes, on top of the floor beneath. Anyway it'd curled up, you know." She rolled her hand, showing Elsie what she meant. "And what did she find beneath?"

"I'm thinking money?" Elsie said.

The wine came and Charles set about pouring, a small glass for his mum and Elsie, a large one for himself.

"£500, do you know how much that was in those days?"

"Well, thousands now, I should think."

"Exactly. That for me Charlie?" Margaret said, taking the larger glass of wine. "Hilda takes herself off to see Mrs Grantham, gave her the money, told her the scenario, you know. And from then on she wasn't a maid anymore, she was a companion. Took her everywhere. Well, our Hilda was beautiful, wasn't she Charlie?"

"She was."

"And young. All these men, Doctors and the like, middle class types, after her, wanting to court her. What does she do? Fall for the fruit man, we all warned her not to marry him. Miserable old bastard too."

"Mother!" Charles snapped and Elsie laughed.

"Well he was, wanted his dinner on the table when he got in, didn't want anyone in the house when he was there, you didn't even get the offer of a cup of tea."

"Which is the measure of every good English household." Elsie smiled. "What a wonderful story though."

"Clear as day that, yet ask me what I did yesterday and it just…" She put her hand to her head. "Nothing there."

"I think you remember the best bits," Elsie said gently.

"You skinned rabbits then?" Charles said, nudging her elbow on the table.

"I did." She turned her head to smile at him.

"He's smitten," Margaret delared, "Look at his smile."

"Mum."

"In his eyes too. Looks like he did as a boy, always running round, grinning, carrying his fishing rod about."

"Ah, so you were a fisherman?" Elsie asked.

"I caught tadpoles and trapped them in jars, hardly Robson Greene."

"You like that show, you mentioned it before." Elsie said, just as the waiter arrived with their plates.

"I'll need more gravy than that," Margaret proclaimed.

"Not a problem," the young man said. "I'll bring out a jug."

"There always tight with the gravy," Margaret declared, picking up her Yorkshire pudding and biting into it.

"Mother, hands. Use the cutlery." Charles got up from his seat and helped spread Margaret's napkin in her lap.

"Elsie doesn't mind, do you love?"

"Not at all, you enjoy it." She took a sip of her wine, watched curiously as Charles arranged the napkin then cut up his Margaret's beef, checked his mother was settled before seating himself and starting on his own lunch.

After dinner Margaret was quieter, as if exhausted by the effort of eating.

They spoke of the upcoming EU referendum, debated arguments, and Margaret was quiet throughout, listening attentively but not commenting, not entirely following.

It was quite clear to Elsie that Charles was Conservative through and through – she was decidedly not. She was Scottish after all. It wasn't part of her heritage. But she let it lie at the moment, as did he, such were the tentative steps they were taking, working their way through this.

And there was such simple joy in being together. Such truth in it.

So, they discussed. She found him interesting, knowledgeable, perhaps one of the most intelligent people she'd ever met. He found her honest, refreshingly so, black and white, fair.

After their plates were cleared and they'd shared a pot of tea, Margaret's head started to tip forward, her posture slumping.

"Well, I guess we ought to get you back then," Charles said, pushing his chair back from the table. "You look like you'll be asleep any minute. I'll go settle the bill."

Elsie noted the slightly resigned look on Margaret's face; the dread of going back to the home perhaps, of another afternoon dozing in the same chair in the same room with the faded floral curtains and that smell – a curious mixture of medicine and stewing veg.

"Why don't you come back with us?" She suggested, then felt Charles stiffen beside her. She looked up at him, wide eyed, lips parted. "That'd be okay? It's horrid weather out, we could play cards, have some dessert later."

"Mother will nap…" he started.

"She can nap on the sofa," she got to her feet, dropped the napkin to the table and lowered her voice, "can't she?"

He gazed at her for a moment, then gave a slight tip of his chin, "As well as anywhere."

"Wonderful," Elsie smiled, turning to Margaret. "Settled, we can play some games."

"Dominoes?" Margaret suggested, her voice suspicious.

"If you like. Shall we use the ladies, before we drive back?" Elsie held out her hand, "Come with me?"

Margaret stared at her for a few moments before putting a wobbly hand onto the table and another into Elsie's outstretched one and slowly got to her feet, pulling heavily on Elsie's arm.

"We'll meet you by the door." She said to Charles, and he stood, and nodded, because she'd taken control and he wasn't quite sure what to do about that.


"So, I feel a little awkward," Charles said, sitting at Elsie's kitchen table and watching her make a pot of coffee.

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, my mother is sleeping on your sofa, snoring her head off." He laughed.

"That's not awkward."

"It's a tad awkward. To me."

"Charles, you can be so stuffy. Do you want milk or cream?"

"Cream, but I'll have milk, better for my heart," he said, turning over the magazine on her table.

"You're thinking about your heart?" She teased, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He raised his eyebrows, shook his head, "And the other awkward thing…"

"Go on, you forgot to pack your pyjamas for staying tonight?" She carried the coffee over to the table.

"Is it just me you like to tease or does everybody get the same treatment?"

She leant over and kissed him, pressing heavily on his shoulder, "You're definitely special."

"You see, that's sarcasm."

"Perhaps," she giggled, "you want some chocolate cake?"

"Of course. We didn't have dessert at the pub – and yes, I realise this makes a mockery of me not having cream."

"I won't judge."

"Did you make the cake?"

"Hardly, Beryl did, she brought it over the other day for our weekly girly catch up." She cut two slices and sat with him. "So, the other awkward thing?"

"What did you discuss in a weekly girly catch up?"

"Sex." His eyes widened and she laughed, "I'm joking. Just stuff, woman stuff. Stop hesitating."

He huffed, "I'm meant to ask about Tom…and Sybil?"

She frowned, "Oh, and what are you meant to be asking about?"

"What you know, I guess." He pushed his plate away, feeling his stomach tighten.

"Are you on an errand?"

"No," he said quickly, toying with his fork. "A request, not an errand."

"I can guess who from; I'm not a gossip Charles." She felt both annoyed that he'd asked and also guilty – because she did know things, she knew of the pregnancy, of the possible move and she couldn't, wouldn't, share those things with him. It wasn't her place to do so. And for some reason holding something back from him made her chest feel tight.

"That's not what I'm asking for."

"Don't make things strange."

"How is it strange?"

"Because he's my friend, and he's in love, if you want to know, need to know."

"They've moved in together."

"I know."

"And?"

"And what? Charles, they're adults, whether her parents want to face that fact or not. They do what they want."

"They've known each other a few months."

"And so have we, does that make our relationship any less valuable?"

He felt his throat constrict, his heartbeat double in speed, "We aren't planning to live together."

"No. We aren't. We run at a slightly slower pace to young lovers." She got to her feet, carried their pots to the sink, "I won't condemn them for doing what they want, Charles, nor judge them, they're young, they're in love, let them live their life."

He turned in his chair, his long legs sticking out into the kitchen, "I'm sorry I've ruined the mood of the day."

"You haven't," she let out a deep breath, scrunching her hands into fists and then uncurling them again. "I realise you find my friendship with Tom… odd. But we aren't… I'm not uncomfortable with him dating Sybil, clearly you're still uncomfortable with him being my friend."

"How can I not be, try as I might? He knows you, he's shared your bed."

She glanced to her feet, away from his gaze, "It isn't a threat to us, it means nothing in relation to us… and where I suspect we're going."

At that he felt light headed, his heart fluttering somewhere in his chest, "We're going somewhere…?"

"Shall we set up the domiones?"

He caught hold of her wrist as she passed him, "Elsie…"

"Don't do that now, it isn't time." She whispered, without looking at him. "Make a pot of tea for your mother, I'll find out the dominoes, wake her."

Elsie had lit the fire when they'd gotten home, and it crackled now in the late afternoon, with the rain falling outside and a grey Saturday afternoon bringing shades of lilac into the lounge.

She knelt on the floor by the hearth, watching Margaret sleep, lining up the dominoes across the table.

"Your daffodils are growing in the garden," Charles said, standing by the door.

"It's been a fairly mild winter."

"It has." He looked to his mother, feeling Elsie watching him – things felt odd now and he was sorry for it; she'd been so good to him today, so good to his mother.

"She talks in her sleep," Elsie said, sitting back, closer to the warmth of the fire. "Like you."

He nodded, his hands hidden in his pockets.

"Come sit with me. It's gone cold."

For the briefest of seconds he wished he was alone with her.

"Best wake her, I'll go make the tea – it'll soften the blow."

She chewed on her lip, hugged her arms around her knees, "Alright."

Margaret grumbled, turned on the sofa and Elsie got up from her spot by the fire, kneeling instead at the side of the older woman and taking her hands, rubbing them very softly.

"Margaret?" She said gently, "Time to wake up I'm afraid."

"I don't know where I am," her voice was shallow, panicked. She made to sit up but her body failed her and she fell back against the cushions. "I don't know where I am."

"You're at my house, Elsie's house, remember, with Charles? We had dinner. You told me about your sister and the fruit man."

"Yes," she licked her lips, "yes…"

"Mum, are you alright?" Charles put the tray down on the coffee table and her head jerked towards him.

"Charlie," she said urgently, a hand leaving Elsie's and reaching towards him. "I need to go back home."

"And I'll take you, later."

"No now."

He bent beside her, touched her head, "You wanted to play dominoes with us, with Elsie and I, didn't you mum?"

She held his gaze for a long time, searching his calm eyes, comforting in his tender voice, the memory of her husband in it.

Finally she nodded, moved to sit again and this time he helped her, piled pillows behind her.

"Two sugars in my tea."

"I know."

The moment of disorientation had passed, the stricken expression gone and Elsie realised what she was part of now, or becoming part of.

She took her tea from Charles, touched his fingers very briefly with hers, and stretched her legs out, sticking her feet towards the fire.

"I like your nails, dear." Margaret said.

Elsie wiggled her toes, "Do them myself too," she smiled. "Would you like me to do yours?"

Margaret smirked, "I can't have that!"

"Why ever not?" Elsie asked, "Go on, put the others ladies to shame."

"My feet are a state, I wouldn't inflict that upon you."

"Oh I have no airs and graces, come on. Which colour would you like, the same one I have?"

Margaret nodded.

For the next thirty odd minutes Charles sat across from them, on the sofa where he and Elsie had lain before, many times before, cuddled together watching television, where he'd removed her bra and drifted to some other heaven with her nipple in his mouth listening to her moan her pleasure.

Now he was still, silent, watching as his girlfriend painted his mother's toes a bright shade of red.

It was odd to him, watching these two women, to reflect upon their individual strength. They were different, very different. And women had been a mystery to him for so many years – as were most aspects of human relationships. It seemed he'd spent his entire life skimming the surface of them and now he was daring to delve beneath, because she'd let him? Because she'd opened the door? Her hints that this meant more, that it would become more than what it was now… he felt confused by it all.

Afraid. And unwilling to admit that.

Like some vast void was opening in his chest, and blackness was crawling out. This wasn't how he'd expected to feel, almost unsteady, uncertain about it all. Waiting for the fall.

He listened to them laugh, gossip about Corrie and his mother share her recipe for the best flapjack. He liked it best with hazelnuts in; he'd have to tell Elsie that.

She looked across to him at one point, her eyes bright and happy, and smiled at him in such a way as if she knew exactly what he was feeling. As if trying to drag him back to them, from this fear that had suddenly worked its way into his system.


He drove his mother home in the rain, when it was dark and he was tired and he wasn't sure if he'd arranged with Elsie that he'd go back to hers or not.

Margaret was barely awake beside him, her head lolling from left to right against the headrest. He almost carried her inside, helped her change, made her a hot water bottle, and sat her in bed, got her water and watched her take her pills.

He held her hand as she drank, perched on the small white chair she kept by the bed; he a giant in the room. The scar on her thumb familiar to him where she'd cut it with the Stanley knife when he was seven and she fitted his bedroom carpet by herself one summer afternoon and his father had scolded her when he'd come home from work to find her hand bandaged.

Charles had felt guilty for a long time over that.

"Love you," he said as she laid back to sleep, and he meant it. Sometimes, when she wasn't the woman he remembered from his childhood, he could only remember how it felt to love her, and he hated himself for that too.

Soon she'd be gone, and then he'd remember what she looked like, how she spoke, or held her self. Or the fragrance of her skin, the delicate crispness of her hand as it lay in his.

He was sorry he'd never made her a Grandmother.


Melcancholy filled his chest as he drove home and he wasn't sure why. Like he wasn't physically present, not himself, but floating above his body somewhere, observing actions.

Still. Halfway into the drive he realised he was heading back to Elsie's.

When he got there he found the door unlocked, it was dark apart from the dimmed spotlights in the kitchen, his coat was wet and he hung it on the coat hook to the left of the door, the one on the end that she always seemed to leave empty for him now.

How she'd made space for him in her life; shifted up in the bed a little, opened her arms, welcomed him. He wondered if that was what unnerved him now, realising this was real, it was going somewhere and he couldn't just walk out when the job finished and he'd fly to another country.

Months before he'd stood in this very same hallway, cold from the winter frost, and practically begged her to give him a chance. And she hadn't fought it, how he'd expected her to, once it had started she'd been all in.

In the lounge the fire still crackled, though diminished by time, and the orangey light shone on her face as she lay on the sofa he'd sat upon earlier in the afternoon.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi."

"Still raining," she noted the wet in his hair, glistening like silver in the shaded light. "Was she alright?"

"Tired, went straight to sleep. It seems you sleep most of the day away when you get to a certain age."

"I could do that now."

He smiled, shifted his feet, pondered taking his shoes off and going into her.

"You're in a strange mood today."

"Sorry."

She sat up a little, pulled the blanket over her legs, "Don't be sorry, just don't close off."

"It's how I am."

"I think I understand that… But it isn't to do with Tom and Sybil is it? I'm not being difficult or anything with it…"

He waved it off, "No, not that."

"What then? Have you changed your mind?"

"On?"

"Us? Me?"

He shook his head, listened to the uncomfortable thud of his own blood in his ear.

"Are you staying?"

He nodded this time, toed off his damp shoes and went into her. She shifted, made room for him, bid him to lie down with her, squashed up together and for a long time they held each other until the room was in virtual darkness and the fire almost spent.

"What happened?" She finally whispered against his chest, the buttons of his shirt firm against her skin.

"I'm not quite sure, perhaps seeing you with her, realising the time I've wasted, realising that this is important, you are."

She let her hand drag heavily down his arm, squeezed his elbow, "How have you wasted time?"

"Denying myself all these years, avoiding relationships, always moving. I just felt odd… I feel odd."

"Would it help to know I feel the same?"

"Yes," he smiled, held her tighter.

"Of course. We're too old for this to be some game, Charles, and I care for you so much already. So of course I'm nervous, I can be so bossy and independent – I've always taken care of myself. I don't want to isolate you. I'm scared to death of our real first argument coming about."

He pressed his palm against her back, felt the clasp of her bra through her jumper, "Me too. I don't want to mess this up."

"We'll just take our time, and talk," she lifted her face to his, "you must talk to me. Don't dwell or muse," she gave him a small smile, "ruminate on things until they cause issues."

He raised his eyebrows, "What makes you think I do that?"

Her hand slid further down his arm, finding his hand and wrapping hers around it. "I'm sorry if you thought I was pushy with your mother."

"Not at all. It was nice to see you with her, how good you are with her. Just unsettling too. I think you would have gotten on, had we met when we were younger and…"

"Don't do that." She folded her fingers with his, pressed her mouth to his until he felt the breath leave his body and he wanted her so badly.

She took him to bed. Sat on the edge of the mattress and watched him undress. A normal body for a man his age, not the usual gym-honed appearance she'd have gone for. Trying her best to hold onto her youth, or avoiding facing up to reality through superficial arrangements with men she didn't really care about, with whom it wasn't that deep.

And here he was. Changing it all.

She liked how he hung his shirt, that he knew where there'd be spare hangers in the wardrobe. That he could take his time and it was all so very natural.

When he stood before her, his hands on her shoulders, mouth kissing her head, she placed her hands on his chest, watched her own fingers trace over his skin – uneven textures, uneven shades, the greying hairs.

She leant forward, kissing him, let his hands work on the buttons of her shirt and undress her until she was topless.

"You're going to have to move," he said lightly and she smiled up at him, rising slowly, her long skirt curling around her ankles.

"Hello…" he said reverently, his hands on her face, thumbs smoothing her skin, "…beautiful."

"Hello."

They kissed slowly, hands on each other's bare backs, her breasts pressed against his chest, holding each other until they couldn't be any closer.

In time her hand crept down to the material of his briefs, the thick warmth of his erection – solid silk – filling her hand, and he moaned, his pleasure filling her heart.

She gasped when he lifted her up, gripping her bottom through her skirt.

Who would have imagined that stoic man who seemed so uncomfortable in social situations would have such passion, she just had to tap into it? And she was under no illusions, this was all for her; not just about sex, not just lust or getting laid. It was all her drawing this from somewhere deep inside him.

He lay her back on top of the mattress, his mouth worshipping every inch of exposed skin – pale gloriousness. A tongue on her nipples until her hips pushed up, forward, arms stretched out above her head and he shifted down to her belly.

So many things in his mind he wanted to whisper, but none of it really mattered, none of it bore weight when compared to how this felt. Eager hands, his and hers, pushing up her skirt, simultaneously pushing down her knickers.

Meeting between her thighs, frantic in that moment, with the heavy material of her skirt bunched between them and him naked on her. She'd never expected it… never expected he would turn her on so much, or change the way she viewed sex. And then stillness, eternity.

"Oh god," he breathed into her hair, kissed her forehead, down to her mouth, lips meeting lips.

Legs rising, wrapping around him, hips grinding into sweetness, spinning gold.

There was some antidote to loneliness, to guilt, emptiness, fear, inside her body. Something eternally human that he found within her to make himself a whole person. Knot after knot of unspun silk coming together, seamless.

Outside the rain fell, it was almost April and spring was on its way.


She lay with her head on his stomach, her chest flushed, his hand on her breast still, his breathing deep beneath her cheek.

"I think I could stay here forever," he whispered and she nodded, closed her eyes, listened to the rain.

He knew most of her freckles now. Knew the patterns on her arms, how there was a spot on the inside of her arm, just below her elbow, where three identically sized freckles stood one after the other, equally spaced. He'd tiptoed his little finger down them before, had kissed where the largest of her freckles stood right beside the three.

She was his lover. Friend. Confidante now it seemed too. Lifeline. Earlier that day she'd been a comfort to his mother, a younger woman to an older one, passing down recipes and painting nails like women did. Forming bonds. It had scared him, it meant opening his life to another in a way like he never had before.

But they were building something.

It wasn't love yet. But it was damned close.