GREEN SHOOTS…

The house itself is better than most of the others I’ve seen – sunny living-room, three bedrooms, though one of them is what any normal person would think of as a goodsized cupboard rather than a bedroom. It has two big plus points – it’s on Fairfax Road so not far from the shops and the station, and I can ( just about) afford it. That’s the trouble when you split the proceeds of one big house into two: Neither of you is going to end up with a mansion, are you?

I’d like to tell you that it was a mutual decision, that we’d just grown apart and decided to call it a day. But that’s not it, that’s not it at all. What happened is that, after 24-and-a-half years of marriage, at supper Rob put down his fork – still stabbed into the heart of a spinach and ricotta ravioli now dripping with blood-red tomato sauce – and said: ‘I need to tell you something.’

He’s been made redundant was my first thought. I work part-time, too, but it’s not exactly steak and Champagne every night, you know?

I turned to him, forcing a smile on my face. Be positive, I instructed myself bossily. We’ll get through this – together.

‘I want a divorce,’ Rob said. ‘I don’t love you any more.’ He paused for a second then – and this was the thing that somehow made it so much worse – he picked up his fork again and poked the ravioli

All of this, reduced to ‘Magic’s gone, innit?’

into his mouth.

No, I thought – that’s not right. He was going to tell me something about his job. I must have misheard. I’ve just misunderstood somehow. ‘ What?’ I said.

He stopped mid-chew, treating me to a close-up view of semi-chomped pasta and sauce. Lovely. Usually, I avoid looking at Rob at mealtimes as his table manners are… well, non-existent. But now, I made myself look right into his mouth, as if I were a dentist assessing his molars. If this is real, I thought, I need to remind myself what he’s really like, the pig.

‘Don’t you get it?’ He sighed, as if he were having to explain how to reboot my computer yet again. ‘I want out. End of.’ I put my fork down and took a sip of my wine. Beneath the table, my legs were shaking. Then I croaked out the only word I could manage: ‘ Why?’

He shrugged, as if it were just something small that didn’t matter – like choosing between a KitKat and a Mars at the newsagent.

‘Magic’s gone, innit?’ I snorted with laughter. I couldn’t help it. Nearly at our Silver Wedding, two wonderful, grown sons, a nice home, friends, curry night. We have a whole life, I wanted to say. We made this – you and me – together. All of this, reduced to ‘Magic’s gone, innit?’

‘Plus,’ he said, casually, as if asking me to pass the salt, ‘I met someone.’

I picked up my glass again, holding it close to stop myself from smashing it over his head. I refused to ask him about her. I would show zero interest. I sipped my wine.

He scooped up the last of his pasta, then shoved his plate away and stood up.

‘I’m off down the Queen’s Head for a pint,’ he said. ‘ We can put the house on the market tomorrow.’

I heard the jangle as he

picked up his keys from the hall table then a slam of the front door. He always slams that door – as if he’s angry, with me, with the world, with everything – even though I was the one who’d just had my whole life demolished.

Now here we are, over three months later – house sold, belongings divided.

I’ve looked at a lot of places but none of them felt right until this one. Jason, the estate agent, stops me for a moment by the back door and says, ‘Now – the garden. Thing is – don’t panic but it’s been a bit… er… neglected. But it’s a good size. Corner plot, so much bigger than the others on this road.’

Neglected. Well, you couldn’t pick a better word for how I feel about everything. Rob had neglected me for years really, never interested in what I had to say, what I thought about anything. And – I admit it – I’d neglected myself. For a long time. I’d given all my attention to Rob and the boys, the house, doing my job – all important, yes, but I didn’t do anything for me. You know, people talk about on the importance of ‘me time’ and I realise now I’d never really got what they meant. I thought it was just about taking 10 minutes to put your feet up and have a coffee. I hadn’t pictured it as a bigger thing. Deeper somehow – you know? That it might mean taking time to find out what makes me truly happy.

We step outside. ‘Neglected’ turns out to be the understatement of the century. It looks like a film set for Sleeping Beauty – with mad bramble stems flailing across what had once been a path.

I carefully pick my way along the little path I can see. He’s right – it really is a good size. Under the moss and weeds, I can see this is a decent brick path. Classy.

When I was a kid, I used to go every Sunday to help my grandad in his garden. He grew sweet peas and veg and dahlias to enter in the local flower show. I had my own little trowel and watering-can, and I loved it, pottering among the flowers, listening to him singing the old tunes learning how take cuttings, how to prune the roses.

But Rob thought a garden was just another place to drink your beer.

A flash of colour catches my eye then and I crouch down to peer below the curving canopy of a Japanese maple into the shade beneath. There’s a small cluster of violets – so delicate, so pretty, their little faces tilted up towards the light, a tiny sign of hope in the gloom. Such a small thing, I know, but somehow they give me the confidence I need. I will transform this garden and make it into something lovely and calm and good. Myself too, while I’m at it.

I turn to Jason and smile. ‘ Yes,’ I say. ‘This place. Most definitely yes.’

Growing Up for Beginners by Claire Calman is published 4 June by Boldwood Books, £8.99 in paperback original and £1.99 in eBook