15 March 2024
I still cant shake the image of Lucy Turner, Biscuit as weve been teasing her, standing in the doorway of her cramped flat, my wife Emmas eyes blazing with accusation. It all began a few months ago when the Turners moved into the flat above ours in Sheffield. Neil Turner, a lanky longhaul trucker, his wife Lucy, a sturdy country girl with a penchant for anything that can be baked, and their fiveyearold daughter, Olivia.
Emma, Neil, Lucy and I are all in our early thirties; our son, Jamie, is six. Because we share a floor, the three of us grew close quickly. Lucys kitchen always smelled of fresh scones, Victoria sponge and mince pies; the cupboards were lined with jars of homemade jam. Emma, ever the cityslicker, liked to think of herself as polished and perfectly put together, while Lucy was content in her faded housecoat and a little bob on her head. Neil was as thin as a reed, slipping away on long hauls while Lucy kept the home running like a welloiled clock.
Lucy had caught Neils eye in the village shop where she bought cigarettes. He was a stranger then, but she looked him over with that sharp rural gaze and the spark was immediate. Within nine months Lucy was pregnant with a baby she named after the route Neil drove, and Neil took both Lucy and the child to the city when he finally got a permanent depot job.
When he introduced his new family to my motherinlaw, she flatly refused to acknowledge either the country woman Lucy or the newborn granddaughter. Neil was forced to rent a modest flat for them, and the tension in the building grew. Emma never liked Lucys broad figure, poking fun at her by calling her Biscuit. The nickname stuck, and the kitchen became a battlefield of whispers about who was eating the best biscuits in the building.
A few weeks ago my mother fell ill, a light flu that required constant attention. Emma, Neil, Lucy and I all took turns looking after her. Eventually we decided to bring in a livein carer. Lucy jumped at the chance, saying shed help for a little extra cash to buy her husband a rubber fishing boat as a surprise. Dont overfeed my mother, she has no appetite, I warned Lucy, halfjoking, halfserious.
Soon after, work sent me on a long assignment to Manchester. I handed over instructions to Emma, Jamie, and Lucy, then left. A month later I returned, expecting a quiet evening. Instead, Jamie ran in, cheeks flushed, and said, Mum, make the potatoes like Aunt Lucys the ones she made with the cheese crumble. He added, Aunt Lucy brought Olivia over and took Dad with her. The comment set off alarms. Neil was on the road, I was on a business trip, and Lucy was suddenly involved in our family routine.
That night, after feeding Emma a hearty stew, I pressed her for the truth. Emma, I know everything. Jamie told me everything, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Emmas face turned a shade paler, but she shrugged. Nothing happened. Lucy just asked me to fix a leaky tap, she replied, eyes darting to the floorboards.
I tried to calm myself, muttering, Youre just being dramatic, love. Still, I noticed Emma lingering longer than usual at my mothers bedside, whispering to her, then slipping out. I decided to check on Lucys flat. When I knocked, a weary Lucy opened the door, and in the background my husbandwell, my partnerlay in bed, looking gaunt.
I left without a word, my mind racing. How could Emma, who always called Lucy a slob and a slattern, be so entangled with her? When Neil finally returned, Lucy confessed to him that she had been unfaithful. I have no idea how Neil reacted, but a week later the Turners moved out, leaving the hallway empty and echoing.
A few months later, I ran into Lucy on the high street. Hello, Emma, she said brightly, still holding a grudge? Its all right, life in the country is a neverending saga. I havent missed a beat, and your husbandhes always on the road, isnt he? You cant keep a man hungry for adventure for too long, she added with a chuckle, squeezing the hand of a little girl who looked uncannily like my own Jamie.
Looking back, I realise jealousy and suspicion are cheap replacements for honest conversation. Trust, once broken, is hard to rebuild, but the real lesson is that I should have listened to my own instincts and spoken openly much sooner, rather than letting whispers and nicknames fester. Trust and communicationthose are the real foundations of any home.
