Sitting back on the bed I let out a small sigh of satisfaction at a job well done. I regard the three piles of clothes on the bedroom floor and think I should have done this years ago.
The three bundles are: keep, bin, charity shop. The throwaway pile is by far the largest; a teetering mountain of fabric in various faded hues. I will struggle to fit it all into two bin bags.
I have been going at it all morning and I am sorely in need of a cup of tea. This has been hard work. And not just of the physical variety.
Seeing particular garments again has been so poignant. I reach out to finger the tartan skirt that my mother used to wear to parties, the material now limp with age. I used to bury my face in the soft billowing flare of it when I was small and it was so wide and swishy I couldn’t get my arms all the way round.
I wish there was some residue of her perfume here but, like her, it is long gone. With regret, the empty bottle of Rive Gauche has been added to the dustbin pile.
There was a time, after I lost them both, that I would dab that perfume to my wrist, just as she did. I would wonder how my pulse could still throb with life when hers had simply … stopped. Crushed in a tangle of metal at the side of a road.
I hoped the pipe smoke aroma might have lingered in Dad’s suits too, but there is no trace now. What’s more, the moths have had rather a field day. I hold a mustard tank top I don’t remember to my nose and take a sniff, but only breathe the musty, sweetish smell of neglect.
Yes, this morning’s work has been a little melancholy but perhaps it has been therapeutic too. Terry used to grumble about the wardrobe in the spare room being taken up with all these old clothes, claiming he could find a use for the space. I stood my ground and he eventually realized that I wasn’t going to budge. But now I am the one deciding that my house needs to ‘get with the times’. It’s time I ‘moved on’ as they say.
Terry’s things went long ago, of course. I have already had one clean sweep, in a manner of speaking.
Time for that cup of tea.
I have one more look around at the fruits of my industry, picturing what the room will look like when I’ve had it decorated. I can’t remember the exact colour of the walls in Melissa’s spare room, having not been in a fit state to appreciate it when I slept there, but I did like that shade. It was so calming. I will have a look next time I am around. I have already invested in some cushions to put on the bed and I think this room is going to be quite transformed.
I don’t know where the summer weather has gone. The sky outside my window is dishwater grey so I snap on the overhead lights as I make my way downstairs, humming ‘Summertime’ as I go. I’ve always loved that tune.
Flicking on the kettle in the kitchen, I wonder what she’s up to today. Maybe I should knock up a Quiche Lorraine for her to have tonight; something nice and easy. They could have it with a salad. Although last time I was round, I did notice the pasties I’d made were sitting, untouched, in the fridge. You would think Tilly and Mark would be eating them, even if Melissa isn’t that hungry.
I can’t help a small smile when I think of how surprised Mark was to see me there, drinking tea and chatting, in the first few days after … Dorset. He couldn’t have looked more taken aback if the Duchess of Cornwall had appeared at the big stripped pine table, helping herself to a homemade macadamia cookie. Ha! It was a challenge to keep the gleam of satisfaction from my eyes.
I asked him some questions about the progress of his television programme and he was polite but obviously dying to get away. He kept shooting puzzled looks at Melissa, but she had her head down and was once again attacking her kitchen surfaces with cleaning products. She does this far too much, this excessive cleaning. They should all, and especially Tilly, be exposed to at least some germs, in order to build up immunity. Maybe I’ll find something on the internet, now I’m a ‘silver surfer’, and print it out for her.
I pretended I was interested in his silly programme, but I have my own reasons for avoiding that sort of subject matter.
***
Terry found the trips to the fertility specialist quite excruciating. The doctor we saw certainly wasn’t like Mark, with his shiny good looks and smiles. No, he was an old school consultant with horn-rimmed glasses and an imperious manner. Terry tried to joke about the squalid little side room with its mucky magazines and plastic beaker but I didn’t want to hear about any of that. I just wanted some answers. And I got them.
Terry’s sperm count was very low. He’d blushed and looked very uncomfortable when this was revealed, as though his stupid pride was the most important thing! Age was part of it, but the specialist explained he was just ‘made that way’. There was nothing technically wrong with me, but I was the wrong side of thirty-five and that didn’t help.
This seemed so very cruel, when our local high street was – and still is – jammed with hi-tech buggies pushed by women who are no spring chickens. There was a time when every single one of them felt like a painful rebuke.
When things reached their lowest ebb for me, I considered going out to some bar and having intercourse with any old man who looked fertile (although quite how I would have assessed that, I’m not sure). I got as far as looking at the sluttish dresses and high-heeled shoes they sell in that cheap Turkish shop by the bank.
Women in films are always doing things like that, aren’t they? They sit in bars and wait to be approached. But I think this may be more of an American phenomenon. The Feathers pub doesn’t look like the kind of place a woman like me would stand out. There was also the possibility that I might run into one of Terry’s friends, or even Terry himself.
So I gave up on that idea and my longing and love turned into a cold, hard stone in my chest. It was his fault. Not mine. My life could have been different. I wouldn’t have had time to get mixed up in Melissa’s problems if things had happened as they should.
Sighing, I swirl the teabag around in the cup. As the water stains russet brown, I find my mind drifting back to Melissa’s appearance when I saw her yesterday. She has definitely lost weight, which is a concern. And don’t get me started on the hair. I can’t even think about that without getting upset.
I have had moments, it’s undeniable, when I have thought about easing her burden. What good would it do now though? What’s done is done. I’ve never thought there was much point in looking backwards.
But I can’t seem to stop bad thoughts from spiralling. I sometimes picture myself walking into a police station and announcing to the desk sergeant in a clear voice that I wish to report a murder. I can picture it all so clearly.
The neatness of it pleases me. I have nothing much going on in my life, after all. Only Bertie would really miss me. I can’t imagine prison is that bad. It’s all televisions and activities these days anyway; more like a holiday camp.
But I hope it won’t come to that. As long as Melissa can stay strong.