THE BOX OF FORGOTTEN PROMISES
Lately, Sophie has started to suspect that someone else, aside from herself and her husband, lives in their home. No, not a ghost. In her mind, ghosts are far too serious for trivial matters; if they turn up, theyre usually after something substantial.
This is more of an everyday nuisancesome kind of mischievous house sprite.
It began with the disappearance of her gym socks. Just one at first, of course. If it happened in the washing machine, fineevery Englishwoman knows thats nothing new. But these socksthe white ones with the red stripe she wore to yogaalways caught her eye when she opened the drawer, as if gently reminding her, When did you last put us on?
Then, one day, gone. First one, then the other the next day.
They reappeared a week later, in the very same drawer. Rolled up like little snails. On topa crinkled bit of grey paper, printed with slightly wonky letters:
You left us untouched for 127 days. We were counting.
Is this your idea of a joke? she demanded, turning on Oliver, who was peacefully scrolling through the news on his phone. A subtle hint that I need to get back to the gym?
He just looked at her, bemused, and denied everything.
Well, if not, then not, Sophie shrugged, though she wasnt entirely convinced. Oliver loved a good practical joke.
But then, her favourite hair clip vanishedthe one that always sat atop the hallway mirror. And her luxury red lipstickher ‘special occasion’ lipstickdisappeared from her handbag.
She found them tucked away in the kitchen cupboard, wedged between the rice and the spaghetti. Complete with notes.
On the hair clip:
You really ought to decidedo you want long hair or short? Cant keep me on the bench for ages and then complain Im gone.
On the lipstick:
And when, exactly, was the last ‘special occasion’? Ill dry out at this rate.
This is getting ridiculous, Sophie snapped, shaking Oliver awake as he dozed on the sofa waiting for lunch.
Have you lost your mind? he replied, indignant. Why would I pull that sort of prank? Against my own interest?
It was a fair point. Her husband may be a joker, but not an idiotSophie felt a chill run through her.
After that, she started making mental notes of where she put things. Sometimes, she even went back to double-check. Even paid a visit to her local GP. After a round of memory tests, her elderly doctor assured her that she remembered things better than he did.
But still, her things vanished.
Favourite pens. The stripy blouse. Hand cream.
And, for the grand finalea set of keys to their cottage in the Cotswolds. That little mishap earned her a week of Olivers loaded silences.
Sophie became anxious: restless sleep, jumping at every creak, constantly giving her mobile, keys and purse new ‘safe’ places.
But this Saturday takes odd to a new level.
She sets out to tidy the wardrobea job well overdue. And there, in the bottom of an empty boot box, she finds all the missing belongings. Arranged neatly, like items in a charity shop window.
Her blouse, folded arm in arm with a pleated mini skirt. A note:
Can you still remember how to dance?
Pens, sorted by colour:
You chew us up when youre anxious. Not good for the nerves, you know.
Cottage keys, their fobs tangled together like holding hands:
We just got bored and went for a wanderno one visits the cottage any more. But unlike some, weve come back on our own.
Sophie doesnt know what to think.
Theres something witty, wise, and faintly sad about these notesas if they were written by herself in another life, one with time for heart-to-hearts with lost possessions.
Shes about to close the box when she spots a final, tiny grey square tucked deep inside. No item attached. Just a message.
The letters tremble, as if tear-stained:
You promised that girl in the mirror youd become an artist.
Im that girl.
And Im terribly lonely here, in this box of forgotten promises and broken hopes.
Sophie sits on the wardrobe floor for a long time, her back against crowded shelves, letting herself drift back.
There she is at nursery, tongue poking out in concentration as she draws a house, the sun, her parents and little sister.
School art class, the thrill as watercolours bloom on wet paper.
The scent of oil paint from the village art club. The hush of a museum. Brushstrokes like a secret melody. The lively explanations of a gallery guide.
At first, she thought painting would be her whole life.
Later, just a hobbya doorway to happiness.
And then nothing.
Not for any real reason; she simply kept putting it off, always finding something more urgent or important, until the warm sense of anticipation was gone, vanished as quietly as the socks, pens, and keys.
She runs her finger over the last note.
The paper feels alivewarmer than the rest, quivering slightly. Or maybe its just her hand thats shaking.
Has an extra hour at the shopping centre or another crime novel ever really mattered more than her dream?
That night, Sophie tosses in bed. Sleep will not come. At two, she sighs and slips quietly out from under the duvet.
Where are you going? mumbles Oliver, half asleep.
Go back to sleep, she whispers.
Im sure theres a box of old paints in the wardrobe, she thinks, and as she passes the hallway mirror, she catches the girls gaze. Frightened, but shining with hope.
