Vox Meditantis

The Long Friday Evening

The rain had been threatening all afternoon, pressing down on the terraced houses of Date Street like a held breath. Mary Darling stood at the kitchen window, watching the grey sky through net curtains that needed washing, and felt that familiar knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. Friday evenings should have been a relief – the end of another week, the promise of two days without the morning scramble to get three children fed, dressed, and out the door. Instead, she found herself dreading the weekend’s enforced togetherness, the way their small house seemed to shrink when all five of them were confined within its walls.

“Mum, Michael’s nicked my rubber again!” Wendy’s voice carried down from the front room, pitched with the particular outrage that twelve-year-olds reserved for younger siblings’ transgressions.

“I haven’t!” came Michael’s indignant reply, though even from the kitchen Mary could hear the telltale guilt in her seven-year-old’s voice.

She sighed and turned from the window, wiping her hands on the tea towel that hung perpetually from the oven handle. The shepherd’s pie would be ready in twenty minutes, and George still wasn’t home. His train from London Bridge was usually punctual, delivering him to Walworth Road station at half past five with clockwork precision. It was nearly six now.

“Right, that’s enough, both of you,” she called through to the front room. “Michael, give your sister back her rubber. Wendy, you’ve got homework to finish before tea.”

“But Mum – “

“No buts. And keep your voices down – Mrs Quinn next door has already given me one of her looks this week.”

Mary heard John’s quieter voice attempting to mediate between his siblings, always the peacemaker despite being only ten. She smiled despite her fraying nerves. Of her three children, John was the most like her – gentle, thoughtful, quick to sense the emotional weather of a room and adjust accordingly. Sometimes she worried he carried too much of the family’s unspoken tensions on his narrow shoulders.

The sound of the front gate clanging shut made her heart lift slightly. George’s key turned in the lock with its familiar double-click, and she heard his briefcase hit the floor with a thud that spoke of exhaustion.

“Evening,” he called out, though his voice lacked its usual warmth.

“In the kitchen,” Mary replied, already moving towards the kettle. Tea was George’s ritual, the bridge between his City persona and home. She’d learned early in their marriage to have it ready.

George appeared in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie with one hand whilst the other rubbed at his temples. At forty-one, he still carried himself well – broad shoulders beneath his M&S suit, dark hair only lightly touched with silver at the temples – but the lines around his eyes had deepened in recent months. The pressure of his job, the weight of providing for five people and helping to support his ageing parents, showed in the set of his jaw and the way he held his shoulders slightly hunched, as if braced against an invisible weight.

“Traffic was murder getting out of the City,” he said, accepting the mug of tea she handed him. “Some protest or other blocking up the roads. Took forty minutes just to get to the station.”

“Long week?” Mary asked, though she already knew the answer. They’d barely spoken since Wednesday, their conversations reduced to logistics and the necessary coordination of family life.

“Anderson’s been breathing down my neck about the Ramsay account. Three months we’ve been chasing those figures, and now suddenly it’s urgent.” George took a sip of tea and closed his eyes briefly. “Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t just stay in Croydon. Local practice, reasonable hours, home by five-thirty every night.”

“Because the money’s better in the City,” Mary said gently. “And because you’re good at what you do.”

“Good at what I do,” George repeated with a hollow laugh. “Shuffling numbers for people who earn in a month what I make in a year. Brilliant career choice, that.”

Before Mary could respond, a tremendous crash came from the front room, followed by Michael’s wail and Wendy’s sharp cry of “Now look what you’ve done!”

George’s face darkened. “For God’s sake, can’t I have five minutes of peace when I get in?”

“I’ll sort it,” Mary said quickly, but George was already striding towards the front room, his jaw set in that way that meant trouble.

“Right, what’s going on in here?” His voice carried the edge that made all three children freeze.

Mary followed him into the cramped front room, where John’s Lego castle lay scattered across the worn carpet, casualty of what appeared to have been a chase between Michael and the dog. Nana, their enormous Newfoundland, sat in the corner looking apologetic, her thick black coat dusty from where she’d knocked against the bookshelf.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Michael said quickly, his lower lip already trembling. “Nana was chasing me and I tried to jump over John’s castle but – “

“You shouldn’t have been running around in here in the first place,” Wendy said from her position on the settee, homework spread around her like a defensive barrier. “You’re such a baby, Michael.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Enough!” George’s voice cut through the argument like a blade. “Michael, pick up every single piece of that Lego. Wendy, stop winding your brother up. John…” He paused, looking at his middle son, who was already quietly gathering up the scattered bricks. “Never mind, John. At least one of you has some sense.”

Mary watched the familiar dynamic play out – George’s frustration seeking a target, the children responding with their individual defence mechanisms. Michael’s face crumpled as he scrambled to collect the Lego pieces. Wendy retreated behind her homework with the wounded dignity of a preteen. John continued his methodical cleanup, shooting worried glances between his father and siblings.

“George,” Mary said quietly, “tea’s nearly ready.”

“Good. I’m starving.” He turned to leave, then paused. “And get that dog sorted, Mary. She’s too big for this house – always knocking something over.”

Nana’s tail thumped apologetically against the floor. Mary reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, feeling the familiar surge of protectiveness. Nana had been with them since before Michael was born, a gentle giant who’d never shown an aggressive bone in her body despite her imposing size. The children adored her, and she them – but George saw only the expense of feeding such a large animal and the chaos that inevitably followed in her wake.

“Come on, love,” Mary murmured to the dog. “Out to the garden for a bit.”

The back door led to a narrow strip of grass bordered by a low fence that separated their property from the identical gardens behind. Mary let Nana out and stood for a moment in the doorway, breathing in the cooling air. The threatened rain had finally begun, a light drizzle that darkened the concrete and made the air smell of wet earth and diesel from the main road.

She’d grown up three streets over, in a house much like this one but smaller, with parents who’d stretched every penny to keep their family fed and clothed. Meeting George had felt like stepping up in the world – he’d been articled to a firm in Croydon then, smart and ambitious, with plans to move to London and make something of himself. They’d married when she was twenty-three, bought this house with help from his parents, and settled into what she’d thought would be a steady climb towards middle-class respectability.

The reality had proved more complicated. London was expensive, children were expensive, and George’s parents were beginning to need help with their own mounting costs. Mary’s part-time work at the local primary school brought in some extra income, but it wasn’t enough to lift them out of the constant calculations – whether they could afford new school shoes for John, whether the washing machine could last another year, whether they could manage a holiday this summer or if that money would be better spent on the roof repairs they’d been putting off.

“Mum?” Wendy appeared beside her, homework folder clutched to her chest. “Is Dad okay? He seems really cross.”

Mary looked down at her daughter, so serious and thoughtful for twelve years old. Wendy had George’s dark hair but Mary’s grey eyes, and lately she’d been watching the adult world with an intensity that made Mary uncomfortable. Children shouldn’t have to worry about their parents’ moods, shouldn’t feel responsible for maintaining family peace.

“He’s just tired, love. It’s been a long week at work.”

“Is it about money again?”

The directness of the question caught Mary off guard. “What makes you ask that?”

“I heard him on the phone with Grandad last night. Something about the bills and whether they should sell the house.” Wendy’s voice was carefully neutral, but Mary could see the worry in her eyes.

Mary’s heart sank. George’s parents lived in a three-bedroom semi in Bromley that had been their home for thirty years, but his father’s pension barely covered their expenses, and his mother’s health was declining. The house was worth a considerable amount now, but the thought of them having to sell it, to move into some cramped flat or sheltered accommodation, was eating at George.

“Grandad and Grandma are fine,” Mary said, hoping her voice sounded more confident than she felt. “Your dad’s just helping them sort out some paperwork. That’s what sons do.”

Wendy nodded, but Mary could see she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Can I ask you something, Mum?”

“Of course.”

“Are we poor?”

The question hung in the air between them. Mary felt the familiar ache in her chest, the one that came whenever she was reminded of how much her children noticed, how carefully they watched the world of adult concerns that she thought she’d been hiding from them.

“We’re not poor, sweetheart. We’ve got a roof over our heads, food on the table, clothes on our backs. That’s more than a lot of people have.”

“But we’re not rich either, are we? Not like Amy’s family.” Wendy named her best friend, whose parents had recently moved to a larger house in Dulwich Village. “Amy’s mum doesn’t work, and they’re going to France for their holidays.”

“Money isn’t everything, Wendy. What matters is that we love each other and look after each other.” Even as she said the words, Mary felt their inadequacy. Love didn’t pay for school uniforms or fix the leak in the roof.

“I know,” Wendy said quietly. “I just… sometimes I wish Dad didn’t look so worried all the time.”

Mary pulled her daughter close, feeling the sharp angles of childhood giving way to the soft curves of adolescence. “Your dad works very hard to take care of all of us. Sometimes that makes him tired and grumpy, but it doesn’t mean he loves you any less.”

“I know that too,” Wendy said, leaning into the embrace. “I just wish I could help somehow.”

The simple statement nearly broke Mary’s heart. Twelve years old, and already Wendy was taking on the weight of family concerns. It wasn’t right, but Mary didn’t know how to shield her without lying, and she’d never been good at lying to her children.

“The best way you can help is by being the wonderful girl you already are,” Mary said. “Now, go and wash your hands. Tea’ll be ready in five minutes.”

Back in the kitchen, Mary drained the potatoes and began mashing them with rather more vigour than necessary. The shepherd’s pie was browning nicely, and she’d managed to stretch the mince with plenty of vegetables – a trick her own mother had taught her during the lean years. The children never complained about the meals she put in front of them, though she sometimes caught them looking wistfully at the packed lunches their better-off classmates brought to school.

George reappeared as she was setting the table, having changed out of his suit into jeans and a jumper. The transformation always made him look younger, more like the man she’d married.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, coming up behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders. “Didn’t mean to bite everyone’s heads off.”

“Long week,” Mary repeated, leaning back against his chest for a moment.

“Anderson wants me in tomorrow. Saturday. Something about a deadline that’s suddenly become critical.”

Mary felt her heart sink. “But you promised we’d go to Greenwich tomorrow. The children have been looking forward to it.”

“I know, I know. But if I don’t get this sorted…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but they both knew what he meant. George’s job, whilst well-paid by their standards, was far from secure. The financial services industry was ruthless, and men of George’s age were increasingly expendable.

“Right, troops!” Mary called out, forcing brightness into her voice. “Tea’s ready!”

The children appeared with the speed that hot food always prompted, John helping Michael wash his hands whilst Wendy gathered up her homework. They settled around the kitchen table – the front room was too small for a proper dining table – with Nana taking up her usual position by the door, hopeful for scraps.

“Smells brilliant, Mum,” John said, which earned him a smile.

“Yeah, proper starving,” Michael added, attacking his plate with seven-year-old enthusiasm.

George served himself more carefully, his accountant’s precision evident even in the way he cut his food. “Good shepherd’s pie,” he said after a few bites, and Mary felt a small glow of pleasure. George wasn’t given to casual compliments.

“Dad,” Wendy said, “Mrs Collins says there’s going to be a parents’ evening next Friday. For the Year Eight parents.”

“Next Friday?” George looked up from his plate. “What time?”

“Seven o’clock. But you don’t have to come if you’re too busy,” Wendy added quickly.

Mary saw the flash of hurt cross her daughter’s face and the way George’s jaw tightened. Another working parent’s dilemma – present for the big moments but absent for so many small ones.

“Of course I’ll be there,” George said firmly. “Work can wait for once.”

“Really?” Wendy’s face lit up, and Mary felt that familiar tug of love and sadness. Such a small thing, having both parents at a school event, but for Wendy it clearly meant the world.

“Really. Though I might be a bit late – depends on the trains.”

“Mrs Collins says I’m doing really well in English,” Wendy continued, emboldened by her father’s attention. “She thinks I might be able to take my GCSE early if I keep improving.”

“That’s brilliant, love,” Mary said. “What about maths?”

“Getting better. Mr Peterson says I just need to practice more.”

“I could help with that,” George offered. “If you want.”

Wendy nodded eagerly, and Mary felt a small spark of hope. These moments of connection between George and the children were becoming rarer, squeezed out by work pressures and financial worries.

“What about you, John?” Mary asked. “How was school today?”

“Alright. We did about the Romans in history. Did you know they had central heating?” John’s eyes lit up with the particular enthusiasm he reserved for interesting facts. “They had this system called hypocausts where they heated air under the floors and – “

“That’s why they conquered half the world,” George interrupted with a small smile. “Superior plumbing.”

“Actually, Dad, I think it was more about their military organisation and road-building techniques – “

“Course it was,” Michael piped up. “Romans were dead good at fighting. Tommy Burrows says his brother’s got this computer game where you can be a Roman soldier and fight barbarians and everything.”

“You’re not having computer games, Michael,” Mary said automatically. “We’ve been through this.”

“But Mum – “

“No buts. We can’t afford it, and besides, you’re too young.”

Michael’s face fell, and Mary immediately felt guilty. It seemed like she was constantly having to say no to things that other children took for granted. Birthday parties at expensive venues, school trips, the latest toys and gadgets – all the small markers of childhood that required money they didn’t have.

“Tell you what,” George said, clearly seeing Michael’s disappointment, “maybe we could go to the library tomorrow and get some books about Romans. Better than computer games anyway – you’ll actually learn something.”

“But you said you had to work tomorrow,” Wendy pointed out.

George paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Mary could see him calculating – the pressure from Anderson, the disappointed faces of his children, the promise of a day out that had already been broken too many times.

“Maybe Sunday then,” he said finally.

“If it’s not raining,” Michael said, but without much conviction.

The conversation lapsed into the comfortable sounds of a family eating – cutlery against plates, the soft thud of Nana’s tail against the floor, the distant hum of traffic from the main road. Mary looked around the table at her family and felt the familiar mixture of love and anxiety that seemed to define her existence these days. They were healthy, they were together, they had enough. But ‘enough’ felt increasingly precarious, a balance that could be upset by any number of things – George losing his job, one of the children getting seriously ill, the boiler finally giving up the ghost.

“Mum, can I have pudding?” Michael asked, having cleaned his plate with characteristic efficiency.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please?”

“Go on then. There’s yoghurt in the fridge, or some of those biscuits from yesterday.”

Michael disappeared towards the fridge whilst John began clearing plates without being asked. Wendy had returned to her homework, spreading papers across her end of the table with the focused concentration she brought to everything she cared about.

George pushed back from the table and rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m going to have a quick look at some papers before bed,” he said.

“George, it’s Friday night. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Anderson wants everything ready first thing Monday morning. If I don’t get a head start now…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Mary understood. The perpetual anxiety of the modern worker – always one step behind, always catching up, always afraid that this would be the mistake that cost him his job.

“Right,” she said, beginning to clear the remaining dishes. “But not too late, yeah? You look shattered.”

George nodded and disappeared into the front room, where she could hear him shuffling through his briefcase. The children dispersed to their various evening activities – Wendy back to her homework, John to his books, Michael to the complicated Lego construction he’d been working on all week.

Mary washed up at the kitchen sink, looking out through the window at the darkening garden. The rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy with moisture. Nana scratched at the back door, and Mary let her in, the dog immediately seeking out the warmest spot near the radiator.

By half past eight, she’d got Michael bathed and into his pyjamas, helped John with his reading, and supervised Wendy’s final preparations for Monday morning. The house had settled into its evening rhythm – quieter but not quite peaceful, the television murmuring in the front room where George had finally abandoned his papers.

“Right, Michael, time for bed,” Mary called up the stairs.

“Aw, Mum, can’t I stay up a bit longer? It’s Friday.”

“Up you come. You know the rules.”

Michael appeared at the top of the stairs in his Spider-Man pyjamas, dragging his feet with theatrical reluctance. “Will you read to me?”

“Course I will. Have you brushed your teeth?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

Michael’s guilty grin was answer enough. “Go on then, properly this time.”

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting on the edge of Michael’s narrow bed, reading from one of the Roald Dahl books that all three children loved. Michael’s room was the smallest of the three bedrooms, barely large enough for a single bed, wardrobe, and chest of drawers, but he’d made it his own with drawings stuck to the walls and collections of interesting stones and bottle tops arranged on the windowsill.

“Mum,” Michael said as she closed the book, “when I grow up, will I have to work in London like Dad?”

The question caught her off guard. “You can work wherever you want, love. That’s years and years away yet.”

“But will I have to wear a suit and carry a briefcase and look tired all the time?”

Mary felt her heart contract. “Your dad’s not always tired, Michael. He’s just been working very hard lately.”

“But he is though, isn’t he? Always tired, I mean. And sometimes he gets really cross about nothing.”

“Sometimes grown-ups get worried about things, and that makes them tired and cross. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”

Michael nodded solemnly. “I know he loves me. I just wish he wasn’t so worried all the time.”

From the mouths of babes, Mary thought. “Your dad loves all of us very much. That’s why he works so hard – to make sure we’re all looked after.”

“I’d rather have him not worried and not have so much money,” Michael said with seven-year-old certainty.

Mary kissed his forehead, breathing in the clean smell of soap and shampoo. “Sleep tight, monster. Sweet dreams.”

“Night, Mum.”

She left the door slightly ajar and went to check on John, who was already in bed but still reading under the covers with a torch.

“Come on, lights out,” she said gently.

“Just finishing this chapter, Mum. It’s really good – it’s about this boy who finds a time machine and – “

“Tomorrow, love. Your eyes’ll be knackered if you keep reading in that light.”

John reluctantly switched off the torch and settled under his duvet. At ten, he was old enough to appreciate a longer bedtime but young enough to still accept parental authority without too much argument.

“Mum?” he said as she reached the door.

“Yes?”

“Is Dad okay? Really, I mean?”

Mary paused. John was the most perceptive of her three children, the one who noticed everything and worried about it all. “What makes you ask?”

“He just seems… I don’t know. Sadder lately. And he gets cross about things that wouldn’t have bothered him before.”

Mary came back to sit on the edge of his bed. “Dad’s got a lot on his plate at the moment, love. Work’s been difficult, and he’s worried about Grandma and Grandad. But that’s not your job to worry about, okay?”

“But I do worry about it. About him, I mean. And about you.”

The admission broke Mary’s heart. “Oh, John. You’re ten years old. You should be worrying about football and whether you’ve done your homework, not about your parents.”

“I can’t help it though. I see things.”

“What sort of things?”

John was quiet for a moment, and Mary could see him trying to find the words for feelings that were probably too complex for his years. “Like how you always check the bills twice before you pay them. And how Dad sits at the kitchen table sometimes just staring at nothing. And how you both stop talking when we come into the room sometimes.”

Mary felt tears prick her eyes. They’d thought they were protecting the children, but clearly John at least had been watching, cataloguing all the small signs of adult anxiety.

“Sometimes grown-ups have conversations about boring grown-up things,” she said carefully. “That’s normal.”

“I know. But sometimes it feels like more than that.”

Mary reached out and smoothed his dark hair back from his forehead. “Your dad and I love each other very much, and we love all three of you more than anything in the world. Sometimes we have to make difficult decisions about money and work and things like that, but that’s our job, not yours. Your job is to be ten and read too much and know more about Romans than anyone else in your class.”

John smiled at that. “I do know quite a lot about Romans.”

“You know loads about Romans. Now go to sleep before I have to get cross with you.”

“Night, Mum.”

“Night, love.”

Wendy was still at her desk when Mary looked in, bent over her English homework with characteristic concentration. At twelve, she was edging towards the independence of adolescence but still young enough to accept parental oversight.

“How much more have you got to do?”

“Just finishing this essay. It’s about heroes in literature. I’m doing Jane Eyre.”

“Very ambitious. How much longer?”

“Ten minutes? I just want to get the conclusion right.”

Mary nodded. Wendy’s perfectionist streak was both a blessing and a worry – it drove her to excel academically, but Mary sometimes wondered if the pressure she put on herself was healthy.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay? And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“I won’t, Mum.”

Downstairs, George was slumped in his armchair, the television flickering unwatched whilst he stared at a sheaf of papers. Nana lay at his feet, her massive head resting on his shoes.

“How bad is it?” Mary asked quietly, settling on the sofa.

George looked up, seeming to focus on her with difficulty. “Anderson’s talking about restructuring. ‘Streamlining operations,’ he called it.”

Mary felt her stomach drop. “Redundancies?”

“Possibly. Nothing definite yet, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m not exactly indispensable, am I? Plenty of younger blokes who’d do the job for less money.”

“You’ve been there eight years. That has to count for something.”

“Experience costs more than inexperience. That’s the problem.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken fears filling the space between them. Mary thought of the mortgage payments, the children’s school expenses, the small but constant outgoings that kept their household functioning.

“We’ll manage,” she said finally. “Whatever happens, we’ll manage.”

George smiled, but there was no humour in it. “Will we though? I mean, really? My dad worked for the same company for thirty years. Pension, job security, steady progression up the ladder. That world doesn’t exist anymore.”

“No, but we’ve got other things. We’ve got each other, we’ve got three beautiful children, we’ve got – “

“We’ve got a mortgage and monthly payments and three children who are going to need new school uniforms and university fees and – ” George stopped abruptly, running his hands through his hair. “Sorry. I’m not being fair. It’s just…”

“I know,” Mary said quietly. “I know it’s hard.”

“Sometimes I look at other people – at the partners in the firm, at Anderson with his house in Surrey and his kids in private school – and I wonder what I did wrong. I work hard, I’m good at my job, I’ve tried to do everything right. So why does it feel like we’re always struggling?”

Mary didn’t have an answer. The question haunted her too, the sense that they were running hard just to stay in the same place whilst others seemed to glide effortlessly ahead.

“Maybe we should think about moving,” George said suddenly. “Somewhere cheaper. Further out.”

“The children are settled here. Wendy’s doing so well at school, and John’s got his friends…”

“I know. I’m not saying we should, just… maybe we should think about it.”

Mary nodded, though the thought of uprooting their family filled her with dread. This house might be small and in need of repair, but it was home. The children had grown up here, taken their first steps on these floors, marked their heights on the kitchen door frame.

“Let’s see what happens with work first,” she said. “No point making decisions before we have to.”

George nodded and returned to his papers. Mary watched him for a moment, this man she’d loved for fifteen years, and felt a complex mixture of affection and frustration. She knew he was doing his best, working as hard as he could to provide for them all, but sometimes she wished he could find a way to be more present, less consumed by worry.

“I’m going to make some tea,” she said. “Want some?”

“Please.”

In the kitchen, Mary stood waiting for the kettle to boil and found herself looking out at the dark garden, thinking about the conversation with John. How much did the children really understand about their family’s situation? How much should they understand?

The sound of footsteps on the stairs told her Wendy had finally finished her homework. A moment later, her daughter appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing the oversized t-shirt that served as her pyjamas.

“All done?” Mary asked.

“Finally. I think Mrs Collins is going to like it.”

“Course she will. You’re brilliant at English.”

Wendy smiled and came to stand beside her mother at the counter. At twelve, she was almost as tall as Mary, all long limbs and sharp angles. In a few years, she’d probably overtake her entirely.

“Mum, can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Are you and Dad okay? I mean, are you happy?”

The directness of the question took Mary’s breath away. “What makes you ask that, sweetheart?”

“You just seem… I don’t know. Worried all the time. Both of you. And sometimes you look at each other like you’re having conversations without talking.”

Mary felt the familiar weight of trying to shield her children from adult concerns whilst also being honest with them. “Marriage is complicated, love. Your dad and I love each other very much, but sometimes we have to deal with difficult things, and that can make us seem worried or sad.”

“What sort of difficult things?”

“Oh, grown-up things. Money, work, boring stuff like that.”

Wendy nodded, but Mary could see she wasn’t entirely satisfied with the answer. “I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here. I know I’m only twelve, but I’m a good listener.”

The offer, made with such serious intent, nearly broke Mary’s heart. “Thank you, love. That means the world to me. But it’s my job to look after you, not the other way around.”

“I know. But families look after each other, don’t they? That’s what you’re always telling us.”

Mary pulled her daughter close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “You’re wise beyond your years, Wendy Darling. But you’re still twelve, and you should be worried about twelve-year-old things.”

“Like whether Jamie Fletcher fancies me?” Wendy said with a grin.

“Exactly like that. Does he?”

“Maybe. Hard to tell with boys.”

Mary laughed, feeling some of the tension of the evening dissolve. “They don’t get any easier to understand when they grow up, I’m afraid.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

They chatted quietly whilst Mary made the tea, and for a few minutes the kitchen felt like a refuge from the world’s complications. But even as she laughed at Wendy’s stories about school politics and teenage drama, Mary couldn’t shake the feeling that her daughter was growing up too fast, taking on emotional burdens that should still be years away.

“Right, bed for you, madam,” Mary said eventually. “It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

“Can I stay up until ten-thirty? It’s Friday.”

“Go on then. But brush your teeth first.”

Wendy disappeared upstairs, and Mary took George his tea. He accepted it with a grunt of thanks, barely looking up from his papers. The television continued its quiet murmur, some late-night quiz show that neither of them was watching.

Mary settled back on the sofa with her own mug and tried to focus on the screen, but her mind kept wandering. Tomorrow George would work, despite his promises about Greenwich. Sunday would be taken up with laundry and shopping and all the domestic tasks that filled their weekends. Another week would begin on Monday, and they’d start the cycle again – work, school, the constant juggling of responsibilities and worries.

Sometimes she felt like they were all trapped in a machine that demanded constant motion but never offered any sense of progress or arrival. Just the endless necessity of keeping going, keeping the plates spinning, keeping the family fed and clothed and housed.

At half past ten, she went upstairs to check on the children one final time. Michael was fast asleep, one arm flung over his pillow, his face peaceful in the dim light from the landing. John had managed to hide his torch again and was clearly still reading under the covers, but Mary decided to let it slide for once. Wendy was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth with the methodical concentration she brought to everything.

“Don’t stay up reading too late,” Mary said as Wendy passed her on the landing.

“I won’t, Mum. Night.”

“Night, love.”

Back downstairs, George was finally packing up his papers. The television had moved on to the late news, full of the day’s disasters and political machinations.

“Coming up?” Mary asked.

“In a minute. Just want to catch the weather.”

Mary nodded and headed upstairs, leaving him to his small rituals. In the bedroom, she changed into her nightgown and began the process of preparing for another night’s sleep. The house settled around her with its familiar creaks and sighs, the central heating clicking off, the sound of traffic on the main road gradually diminishing.

When George finally came upstairs, she was already under the covers, reading one of the paperback novels that were her small luxury. He moved quietly around the room, hanging up his clothes and brushing his teeth, the domestic choreography of fifteen years of marriage.

“Kids all settled?” he asked, getting into bed beside her.

“Yes. Though I think John’s still reading under the covers.”

“Little bookworm. Gets that from you.”

Mary smiled. “Nothing wrong with loving books.”

“Never said there was.”

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, Mary reading and George staring at the ceiling. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the windows slightly. The weather forecast had promised a clear weekend, but Mary could hear the threat of rain in the way the trees moved.

“Mary?” George said quietly.

“Mm?”

“Whatever happens with work, with money, with any of it – we’ll be alright, won’t we? The family, I mean.”

Mary closed her book and turned to look at him. In the dim light from her bedside lamp, he looked younger and more vulnerable than usual.

“Of course we will,” she said. “We’ve got each other. We’ve got three wonderful children. Everything else is just details.”

George nodded, but she could see the worry still etched in the lines around his eyes. “I just want to do right by you all. Provide properly, give the children opportunities, make sure you don’t have to worry about money all the time.”

“You do right by us every day,” Mary said firmly. “You work harder than any man I know. The children adore you, even when you’re grumpy. And I love you, George Darling, stress and worry and all.”

“Even when I’m being an arse about the dog knocking things over?”

“Even then. Though you could be nicer to Nana. She’s part of the family too.”

George smiled ruefully. “I know. It’s just… everything feels so precarious sometimes. Like we’re balanced on a knife’s edge, and one wrong move will send us all tumbling.”

Mary reached over and took his hand. “We’re stronger than you think. All of us. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

George squeezed her fingers. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

They settled down to sleep, and within minutes Mary could hear George’s breathing deepen and slow. He’d been exhausted, running on worry and caffeine for weeks. Sleep would help, though she knew he’d wake up tomorrow with the same concerns, the same sense of swimming against a tide that seemed to grow stronger every day.

Mary lay awake longer, listening to the familiar sounds of her house and family settling into night. Somewhere below, Nana would be curled up in her basket, one ear always alert for any sign of trouble. The children slept safely in their beds, surrounded by the accumulated treasures of their short lives – books and toys and drawings, the debris of happy childhoods.

This was what mattered, Mary told herself. This moment of peace, the knowledge that everyone she loved was safe and warm under the same roof. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but tonight they were all together, all accounted for.

She had no way of knowing that by tomorrow night, that certainty would be shattered forever.

The last thing Mary remembered before sleep finally claimed her was the sound of the wind picking up outside, rattling the windows like fingers trying to find a way in.

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Continue to part 2 ►

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | 🌐 Translate

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