The Spare Room

The Spare Room

Today, I set two rolls of wallpaper down in the hallway and, barely bothering to wipe my boots, gave the old spare room door a shove with my shoulder. It refused to budge, something soft wedged behind it. I let out a sigh and pushed harder, the frustration Id been trying to ignore all day at work catching thick in my throat.

Honestly, I muttered, though no one else had left the kitchen. Again.

Inside was the usual chaos: bin bags filled with old clothes, boxes once home to computers or kettles, an abandoned mattress propped against the wall, and a shelving unit crammed with a jumble of jam jars, books, and stray cables. Between it all, a narrow path wound to the window, where a dust-coated box of Christmas decorations had come to rest on the sill.

Natalie appeared behind me, drying her hands on a tea towel.

You already got the wallpaper? she asked, eyes drifting past the rolls toward the room, as if checking if some new monster had grown in there.

Yes. And paint, and filler, too. I leaned the wallpaper against the corridor wall, out of the way. But itd help if we could actually get the door open.

Natalie bent down without a word, grabbed a bag by its edge and dragged it half a metre. The door, gratified, swung wider.

Lets do it properly, she said. Today we sort it. Tomorrow, the walls. And thats it. No later this time.

I nodded, but inside I felt the old resistance stir. Later was our family peacekeeping tactic. So long as the room belonged to neither of us, neither had to decide whose it was.

From the kitchen, Veras voice chimed in:

Ill help, just let me know what Im allowed to touch.

Vera had been living with us for nearly two years, since losing her mum and selling their room in the shared house in Manchester. Always tidy and gentle, her presence in the flat felt like another layer of air; never in the way, but subtly changing how everything moved.

Anything, said Natalie too quickly, then, correcting herself, Almost anything.

I stepped into the room, skirted a box labelled Cables and lifted the mattress. It snagged on the handle of an ancient suitcase.

Give me a hand, I asked Natalie.

She braced the mattress while I wriggled the suitcase free. It was weighty, scuffed at the corners, its lock bound in a twist of wire.

Whose is this? I asked.

Natalie glanced, then looked away. Mums. She said it as if the case itself might overhear.

Vera came in balancing a stack of newspapers, bound up with brown string.

Do these go out?

Yes, I said, but bag them so they dont scatter. I set the suitcase by the door, and, almost absent-mindedly, tested the wire to see if it would uncoil. Natalie saw me.

Dont, she said. Later.

I looked up at her. Natalie, we agreed. Today.

She pressed her lips together, picked up the decorations box, and carried it out, as if that move were more urgent than our conversation.

Vera, keeping out of it, opened a rubbish sack and started bundling up the papers. The rustle seemed more aggravating to me than the sight of all the clutter.

I grabbed the nearest box. SamSchool was scribbled on the side; the tape sealing it had peeled, so I lifted the lid. Inside, exercise books, a journal, a few certificates, a plastic ruler, and on topSam’s old football shirt, the number faded but still bright.

I stopped short. The shirt was too small for an adult, but large for a childthe kind of age when they still wore bold colours without embarrassment.

This is I started.

Natalie stepped closer, saw what I was holding. Dont touch it, she said, softly.

Why not? I asked. We wont

The words Hes not coming back almost slipped out, but I caught them just in time.

Veras voice broke the silence. Sam called last night, she offered carefully. I heard you talking with him, Natalie.

Natalie wheeled around. Were you listening?

No, Veras hands went up. You were just loud. He wanted to know how you are.

I felt something shift inside me. Sam, our son, lived in Leeds now, had a job, rented a place. He didnt visit often, and every visit turned into an event for which Natalie prepared like it was a job interview. The spare room was still his, at least in her mind, though there hadnt been a bed here in years.

And? I asked. Is he coming?

Natalie shrugged. He said, Maybe in the spring. No inflection; shed clearly replayed those words in her mind a dozen times.

I put the box back without closing it. The shirt stayed on top, an unspoken reproach.

Were making it an office, I said. Im tired of working at the kitchen table. Im tired of having nowhere to close a door.

Natalie looked at me as if Id just suggested tossing a living creature out.

An office, she echoed. And if he comes home? Wheres he supposed to sleep?

On the sofa in the lounge, like anyone else, I said. Hes a grown man.

Vera coughed politely. You could get one of those chairs that fold out, she suggested. Or a small sofa. You can get those really slim ones.

I almost said it wasnt about the bed. It was the fact that Natalie kept holding on to this room like a promise I never made.

Next, I tackled a bag full of old coats, scarves, blankets. Underneath, a carrier bag held tools: a hammer, some screwdrivers, a tape measure, a box of screws.

These are mine, I said, glad for something I could claim.

Natalie nodded. They stay. She made it sound like a concession.

Vera, meanwhile, had unearthed a folding table from the corner and tried to set it up.

It wobbles, she announced.

Bin it, I said.

Natalie bristled. Wait. It might still

Might still what? I snapped. Might still stand around collecting dust? Natalie, this isnt a museum.

I regretted it even as I said it. Natalie averted her eyes, packing more books into a box without checking the titles.

Im not a museum, she said softly. I just

She left it there. I noticed her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she closed the lid. For a second, I wanted to comfort her, but then Vera drew a flat folder out from behind the shelves.

There are papers here. Im not sure where to put them.

The folder was tied up with strings. I untied them, inside were letters, all stacked neatly, and a clutch of old photos. The topmost letterNatalies handwritingbut not addressed to me.

My hands turned cold, just from holding it. Whats this? I asked.

Natalie glanced over, a flicker of exhaustion in her face, then nothing.

Theyre old, she said.

Whose are they? I clutched the letter as if it might burn me.

Vera, seeing the moment, retreated. Ill put the kettle on, she said, slipping out.

So it was just me and Natalie, sitting among the boxes and dust. I realised the renovation was already underwayjust not on the walls.

Theyre from Andrew, Natalie said, before I could ask. You remember.

I did. An old uni boyfriend; years ago. Wed married, had Sam, settled in. Andrews name was just a shadow in conversations, a relic.

Why keep them here? I pressed.

She shrugged. Because I couldnt throw them away. Because theyre part of who I was.

And you keep it in here, this room we avoidjust like everything else, I said.

Natalie took the folder from me. Dont pretend youre so straight-laced, she said. Ive seen your transfer application form in your box. The one you never sent. You printed, signed, then hid it. Later.

I blinked. What application?

To work in London. When things were bad at your job. Then things got betterthen it was too scary to change.

Thats different, I muttered.

It isnt, she shook her head, voice steady and dangerous. Its the same. We both put things in here. Youyour plans. Memy worries.

I glanced at Sams old schoolwork box. And Sam, too, I said quietly.

Natalies breath caught. Dont you dare.

I dont mean him, I protested, I mean us. We keep his place here, as if hes still a child. But hes out living his life.

She perched on the mattress. It creaked beneath her. You think I dont know? I do. But if I let go, itll feel empty.

I sat opposite her, perching awkwardly on a hard box.

Me too, I confessed. But I dont keep letters for it.

Natalie eyed the folder in her lap.

You think its about Andrew? she asked. Really, its about who I could have been. Sometimes Im scared Ive lived wrong. Not because youre bad. Because life just moves.

I was quiet for a while. Suddenly I saw Natalie not as a stubborn wife clinging to his room, but as someone scared to admit whats lost and gone.

Vera returned with mugs of tea, balancing them on the window ledge.

I dont know where to put this, she said, indicating the folder. Cupboard, maybe?

Natalie looked up.

Vera, she said, with genuine firmness, You dont have to rescue us.

Vera paused, then nodded. Im not rescuing. I just live here. And Id like to know, too, whats happening.

I looked at her. Vera, standing by the door, back perfectly straight, knuckles white from clutching her fingers together. Maybe, for her, the spare room felt like waiting too. Waiting to be asked to leave, whenever real life started again.

Were making a room, I said, choosing my words. Not to push anyone out. Just to live.

Natalie stood up.

Lets do this, she said. We decide tonight what stays, what goes.

I nodded.

An office, I repeated, not so sternly. And a guest bed. So Sam has somewhere, and Vera, you can shut the door if you need.

Vera smiled faintly. I dont need to close the door. But sometimes its nice, just to be quiet.

Natalie fetched the tape measure from the tool bag.

Measurements, she announced briskly. Desk by the window, a small sofa along the wall

I was struck by how quickly she shifted into practical mode. Thats always been natalies anchor: action.

We set to work, clearing out the clothes bags to the hall. Natalie sorted books: some boxed up to give away, some for the front room shelves. Vera packed up glass jars and lidsjust in case.

We really dont need all those jars, I said.

We do, she replied. I make jam in them.

You made jam two years ago, I pointed out.

She looked at me. Well, maybe Ill make some this year, if theres somewhere to keep it.

I let the argument drop. The fight about jam jars was not about jam jars.

By dinnertime, the floor was visible in places. The linoleum was ancient, bubbled in spots. In the corner we found a photo box. Natalie sat beside it and started picking through.

I came and knelt next to her. Do these stay?

They do, she said. But not here. I want them accessible, not hidden away.

She picked out a few and laid them aside: one of little Sam in a bobble hat, cheeks red from the cold; another of us, much younger, posed in front of a half-built house we once thought was our future.

I took one and studied it.

We thought everything would be clear, didnt we?

Natalie gave a half-smile. We thought we had a surplus: of strength, of time, of rooms.

Vera came in, rolling the suitcase. Its in the way. What about this?

Natalie considered it, then looked at me. Lets open it.

I fetched pliers from the tool box, untwisted the wire, and the lock popped. The case opened reluctantly, as if it too wanted this business left alone.

Inside: Mums thingsa pile of scarves, an album, some letters, and at the bottom, a carefully folded baby blanket.

Natalie picked it up, held it to her chest, closed her eyes.

Thats mine, she whispered. They brought me home from hospital in it.

A surprising lightness eased through me. Somehow, Id half-expected to find something worse.

Shall we keep it? I asked.

She nodded. Just not the whole case, she said, scanning the room. Lets make a small box, for the things that matter, and put it on the top shelf. We rememberbut we dont live in the past.

Vera, gently: Shall I label it? So we dont forget what it is.

I looked at Natalie. She nodded.

Well label it: Mums. And thats it.

Together we boxed up the blanket, the album, a few letters. The rest Natalie sortedsome to throw away. It was clearly hard, but she did it, dry-eyed and determined.

When we finished, I climbed onto the stool and hoisted the new Mums box onto the top shelf of the remaining unit, now tucked by the distant wall, a memory corner, as Natalie said. The bottom would hold folders and seasonal gear. Not more.

New rule, Natalie announced, sinking onto the floor for a breather. Everything kept here gets a label and a review dateone year on.

I blinked. A deadline?

Yes. So it doesnt just become a swamp. She fixed me with a look. And: if someone wants to keep something just in case, they say what for. Out loud.

Vera added, softly, And checks with the rest first.

I nodded. Fair.

Next morning, I ripped up the old linoleum, rolled it, dragged it to the skip. My back ached and hands stung, but my head was unclouded for the first time in a while. Natalie skimmed the walls with filler, powdered dust on her nose. Vera scrubbed the window ledge, elbow-deep in suds.

By evening, a new lamp was ready for hanging. Balancing on steps, I held wires while Natalie passed the insulating tape. Vera held the torch since there was still no light up yet.

All yours, said Natalie.

I flicked the fuse. The bulb glowed steady, not a flicker. Suddenly, it wasnt a spare roomjust a room.

We set up the desk at the window; my laptop finally got a real home. Natalie brought back a slimline sofa bed from the shop. Vera added a small lamp to the shelf, beside the Mums box.

As I binned the last bag of rubbish, I paused on the landing, listening. The flat was quiet, but not empty. I returned, pulled the door closed behind me, and saw Natalie in the new room, gazing at the desk.

Well? I asked.

She turned to me. Feels like living, she said.

Vera hovered in the doorway. If Sam comes, she said, Ill move out.

Natalie shook her head. No need. Its not his or ours anymore. Its all of ours. She glanced at me. And if anyone wants to go or stay, we talk about it. We dont just store it away.

I switched off the hallway light, leaving a pool of brightness on the spare room floor, picking out the desk, the neat sofa, the carefully labelled box above.

Agreed, I said.

Natalie straightened the lamp on the shelf before leaving, a tiny gesture, but it felt different: less like guarding the past, and more like taking care of tomorrow.