Well, at least now you can finally breathe in here it was like a mausoleum before, honestly came the bright voice from the kitchen, that Sarah would have recognised anywhere.
I stood in the hallway, clutching my heavy bags of allotment produce, not even lowering them to the floor. The fragrance of apples and fresh dill Id brought back with me instantly dissolved into a chemical scent of some modern polish and the unfamiliar, sharp note of expensive perfume. I placed the bags down cautiously, shivering as a chill crept up my back. The key had turned in the lock far too smoothly, as though freshly oiled, and the familiar groan of the floorboard at the entrance was gone.
Taking a step in, I looked around. The hallway had changed. Gone was the sturdy old coat rack my late husband John had made with his own hands in its place, some soulless metal hooks, the sort youd see in a bargain dentists. Even the ornate mirror Id checked each time before leaving the house for the last thirty years had vanished, replaced by a bland, unframed rectangle.
My heart thudded against my ribs. I stepped into the sitting room, gasping as my hand flew to my mouth.
The room was empty well, not empty exactly, but all of its warmth, its heart, its memories were missing. The big oak sideboard the one thatd held my china and Johns crystal glasses was gone. The bookcases, with their neat rows accumulated through half a century classics, odd finds, oddities from jumble sales missing. My favourite rocking chair by the window, gone too.
Instead, a squat grey sofa sat in the centre, looking for all the world like a block of concrete, and a monstrous black television dominated the wall. A fluffy white rug sprawled awkwardly on the floor, looking as misplaced as snowfall in July. The walls had been painted a cold eggshell-grey.
Oh, Mrs. Turner! floated the voice from the kitchen out walked Rebecca, my daughter-in-law, in a short floral robe, holding a mug filled with some green concoction. Youre back! We didnt expect you till later. Did the train arrive early?
My son, Simon, shuffled after her, guiltily avoiding my eyes.
Where I managed, gesturing weakly, where is everything?
What do you mean, everything? Rebeccas lashes fluttered in the most innocent surprise. Oh! The old furniture, you mean? It was meant to be a surprise! A bit of a make-over. While you were off at the allotment, we spruced things up in here. Doesnt it look great? So much space! Airy, you know? Minimalism thats the style nowadays.
Where are my things? I could feel my knees beginning to shake. I looked to Simon. Simon, wheres Dads sideboard? The books? The sewing machine?
He coughed awkwardly into his fist. Mum, dont be upset. We well, we cleared it all out.
Cleared out? You mean moved to the garage? Shed?
No, Mrs. Turner, Rebecca said, sipping her green smoothie. We took it to the tip. To be honest why did you need all that old junk? The sideboard was falling apart, that crystals just dust magnets. Nobody reads paper books these days, its all online. Theyre just things that make you sneeze. Its so much nicer now, dont you think?
The room seemed to dim. I clung to the doorframe.
To the tip? I whispered. The library John spent decades building? My Singer, the one I used to mend your curtains and his trousers? The crystal John and I brought home wrapped in tea towels so it wouldnt chip?
Oh, that old crystals so passé now and the sewing machine, honestly, it was like hefting an anvil, even the movers said so, Rebecca laughed. You always complained it was cramped in here, so we sorted it out cleared the visual clutter. Thats what designers call it.
Visual clutter,” I repeated. The phrase stung. Did you even think to ask me? Its my flat, Rebecca. Mine and Simons, but those were my things.
Here she rolled her eyes. And here it is, not even a thank you. Simon, didnt I say she wouldnt appreciate it? Older people are just hoarders, honestly, its a syndrome now. Needs treatment.
At last Simon spoke, raising his head. Mum, honestly, it was all tired and old. The new sofas really nice orthopaedic, even, for your back.
For the first time I really looked at him. There was no regret, no understanding there. Only a faint hope Id stop complaining so he could get on with his comfortable life. Hed always just gone along with things first with me, now with Rebecca.
When did you throw it away? I asked, my voice brittle.
Few days back, when we started decorating. Rebecca gave a dismissive flick of her hand. Got a big skip, just chucked everything in. Long gone by now, so dont embarrass yourself with the neighbours trying to find it.
I walked to my room or what had been my room. The designers hadnt spared it either: my calm, lived-in bedroom was now a stark box. My jewellery box, the one Id kept since I was a girl, gone. The photo albums, gone.
The albums too? I called. My husbands photos?
Those dusty old things? Rebecca answered breezily. Well scan them someday, if you really want. Put all the magazines out for recycling, too. Got to think of the environment.
I sat on the edge of my new, impersonal bed. Inside, I felt hollow, like someone had torn out thirty years in one sweep. No tears came. Just a hot, prickly knot of fury. Down the corridor, I heard Rebecca scolding Simon for buying the wrong kind of milk, chattering about how now the energy in the flat would finally flow.
That night I didnt join them for supper. Instead, I lay awake in the dark, weighing my options. The flat was mine outright Simon on the paperwork, but I was the legal owner. Id only let them move in so they could save for a deposit. Three years later, theyd saved nothing always some excuse, a new phone, a holiday, now a refurbishment. I paid the council tax, the bills, everything.
In the morning my face was perfectly composed as I headed to the kitchen. Rebecca was making breakfast, singing to herself.
Morning! she trilled, as if nothing had happened. Fancy pancakes? Ive made them sugar-free, with oat flour. Super healthy!
Ill just have some tea, I replied evenly. Is Simon at work?
Ran off in a rush hes got a deadline. Im in all day for a webinar. Organising your space, actually!
Sounds useful, I said carefully. Organisation really is important. Rebecca, Im popping to my sisters for a couple of days to calm my nerves, you know?
Good idea! she exclaimed, sounding delighted at the prospect of having the flat to herself. A change will do you good. Ill keep things ticking over here!
I packed a small bag and paused at the door. Have you got a spare key?
Oh, me and Simon have both got one. We didnt change the locks, just oiled them.
Right. Well then, take care.
I did go to my sisters, but only until evening. What I needed was for Rebecca to head out as she did every Thursday manicure, exercise class, whatever the latest thing was. Sure enough, by four in the afternoon, the flat was empty.
I changed into old clothes, tied my hair back, and fetched the heavy bin bags from the storeroom for once, untouched by Rebeccas improvements. I walked into what had been the young couples room. Normally I wouldnt, but boundaries seemed meaningless now Rebecca had smashed them when she binned my life.
The place was stuffed. Rebecca adored shopping and every possible beauty treatment. An ocean of creams, serums, little pots, some easily costing a weeks pension. The ring light for her endless selfies took up half the space.
I picked up the first bag.
Visual clutter, I said, savouring the phrase. Far too much visual clutter.
Bottle after bottle went into the bag: Chanel, Dior, obscure brands. I didnt inspect whether they were full. I was only organising the space.
Then I turned to the wardrobe: packed so tight I could barely move the hangers. Dresses worn once, blouses with labels, jeans indistinguishable from one another. In went the lot.
Dust traps, I observed. Synthetic, bad for the planet. Got to think of the environment.
Designer handbags, towering trainers, those heels Rebecca wore just from car to door followed suit. The process was methodical, cold, as if I were a surgeon excising a tumour. Simons shirts and suits I left untouched. But Rebeccas shrine to consumption was no more.
The decorative clutter came last: little Buddha figurines, scented candles, motivational posters in cheap frames, dreamcatchers.
More rubbish, I muttered. A real illness, this obsession with objects.
After two hours the room felt startlingly empty. Only the bed and Simons clothes remained.
I hauled fifteen huge bin bags into the corridor. But Im no vandal: I didnt dump them in the rubbish. I ordered a man with a van and asked him to take everything to my brothers garage across town. Let it all sit there in the gloom.
Once done, I washed the floors. The air felt fresher despite the lingering whiff of Rebeccas perfume. I brewed a pot of tea, opened my paper book (what a joy the smell of real print!) and sat calmly at the kitchen table.
Rebecca was first to return. She flounced in, bags from Sainsburys in her arms, humming.
Oh! Mrs Turner, youre back! I thought youd be away for days. Did something happen?
Yes, Rebecca. Clarity happened. I took your advice time for organising the space.
She gave me a suspicious look, but went straight to her room. Seconds later came a scream so loud I feared the windows would crack.
Where?! Where are my things?! My make-up?! My coat?!
Sipping my tea, I replied, Rebecca, please lower your voice. I did some tidying, got rid of visual clutter. You were quite right, there was too much stuff. Why do you need twenty bags? Its unhealthy. Im just helping the energy flow.
You you threw away my things?! Do you know what that cost? One of those serums costs more than your pension! Youre insane! Ill call the police!
Call them, I shrugged. They might even tell you what its called, throwing away someones treasured belongings without asking. My books, my sewing machine, the china. You said it was junk. Well, I saw all your bottles same thing. Full of chemicals, bad for you.
Right then, Simon came in. He looked from Rebeccas mascara-streaked face to my calm one.
Mum, what did you actually?
I actually did. A bit of soul-clearing, you might say. Minimalism. Now youve plenty of space in there, time to meditate.
Rebecca yelled, You have no right! Those were mine!
The library was mine, I said quietly but firmly. So was the sideboard. You made yourselves judges of what I was allowed to own. Came into my home and erased my life. Well, now were even.
But where are my things? Rebecca hissed. If you took them to the tip, Ill sue!
Not the tip, I said, smiling. Theyre somewhere safe but Im not giving you the address. Not yet.
What do you mean? Simon asked, confused.
I mean you should pack whats left and go. Wherever you like a hotel, Rebeccas mums, a rented place. I dont mind.
Youre throwing us out? Rebecca gasped.
Im sending you out of my flat, I said. Youve overstayed any welcome, tried to write me off with my furniture. You have an hour; then Im changing the locks. The locksmiths already waiting downstairs.
Simon whined, But where are we supposed to go? We were saving for a mortgage
Then now youve got a real incentive. As for your things, Rebecca youll get them back if you can return what you destroyed of mine.
We binned it! she screeched. It was taken away! Probably recycled already!
Then your things may have the same fate, or you can search for them, or buy more. Its all the same to me. If you return my library and sewing machine, you have your bags and bottles back.
Of course, it was all bluff: I wasnt so heartless Rebeccas property was safe in the garage. I watched the struggle in her eyes fear and greed mixed.
You youre a monster! she cried. Simon, were leaving! Well have a nicer flat than this anyway and you, old witch, can rot here amongst your precious bare walls!
In forty minutes, they were gone. Suitcases banging angrily; Rebecca cursing, Simon silent.
When the door finally closed, I stood at the window. Five minutes later, good old Mr. Jenkins the locksmith came up, and changed the locks.
Now, alone in a flat stripped bare and grey, I felt lighter than I had in years. It was as if Id shrugged off a sack of rotten potatoes.
The very next day, I got to work. My first step: an advert online, reading, Wanted for small sum or to collect, vintage British furniture, books, and a Singer sewing machine. Turns out there was no shortage people are always looking to clear their attics, some even gave it willingly.
Within a month, the flat was coming alive again. Not my actual items, no a lighter oak dresser, different books with familiar titles, another sturdy Singer, ticking like a heart. I wallpapered over the grey, brought home a thick wool rug with deep reds and soft designs.
Rebeccas things all of them I returned after two weeks. I called Simon, gave him the address.
Collect them. I dont want anyone elses clutter.
He came alone, thinner, worn.
Im sorry, Mum, he said, not meeting my gaze. Were renting now. Its expensive. Rebecca says we havent got enough for half what we want.
Oh well, Simon. Thats life expensive, sometimes.
Could we move back in? Rebecca promises
No, Simon. I love you, but I want to live in my own home with what I hold dear. You can build your own minimalism.
He collected the bags and left.
And I turned, content, to my warm, familiar flat. Sitting at my new-old Singer, I threaded the bobbin and pressed the pedal. The gentle rhythm filled the room as I stitched new floral curtains nothing but happiness in every stitch.
Sometimes, you dont appreciate what you have until its snatched away. And sometimes, you just need to usher out those who dont value you. Only then does the house truly find its peace a real English feng shui, if there ever was one.
