Dont you dare touch my mothers things, my husband said.
That clothing belonged to my mum. Why are you packing it up? Williams voice rang out, distant and cold.
We ought to get rid of it, Will, I replied briskly, Its taking up half the wardrobe; I need the space to store the winter blankets and spare pillows. The house is a mess as it is.
Mary continued to sweep plain blouses, skirts, and summer dresses from the hangersthese had belonged to Williams late mother, Margaret. Shed always been meticulous with her things, keeping every dress pressed and every blouse carefully hung, a habit she instilled in her son. Mary, in contrast, kept her wardrobes in a state of perpetual chaos: every morning, shed rummage among rumpled skirts, lamenting that she had nothing to wear, then attempt to smooth out a crumpled top with the iron before dashing out the door.
It had only been three weeks since William had farewelled his mother for the last time. Margaret had needed treatmentmostly hopelessand rest. The cancer was ruthless, advancing far too swiftly. William had brought her to live with them and watched as she faded away within a month. Now, home from work, he found her clothing hurled in the corridor, as though it were just unwanted rubbish. Was this really it? Was that all his mother amounted toher things tossed aside, quickly forgotten?
Mary backed away, bracing against Williams stunned glare. Why are you staring at me like Cromwell at the Royalists?
He hissed through gritted teeth, Dont lay a finger on those things. Blood pounded in his temples until he felt numb from head to foot.
What do we want with all that old junk? Mary snapped, her patience unraveling. Are you planning to turn this place into a museum? Your mothers gone; you need to accept it. You ought to have cared more when she was alive, visited her a bit moreits no wonder you didnt know how ill she was.
For William, her words stung like a slap.
Just go, before I do something I regret, he breathed, voice ragged.
Mary snorted. Suit yourself. Madman.
To Mary, anyone who disagreed with her was invariably mad.
Without removing his shoes, William strode to the wardrobe by the front door, flung open the top cupboard, and, standing on a stool, retrieved one of the old tartan bags theyd used when they first moved into their flat. There were half a dozen of them. He packed every one of Margarets things inside not in a heap, but folded neatly, every sleeve arranged, every skirt squared. He placed her coat on top, along with a carrier bag holding her shoes. His young son, three-year-old Thomas, hovered nearby, helping by plopping a toy tractor into the bag.
At last, William rummaged in the hall drawer and found a key, which he slipped into his pocket.
Where are you off to, Dad?
He managed a wry smile, gripping the door handle. Ill be back soon, son. Go to your mum now.
Wait! Mary darted from the lounge, alarmed, Where are you going at this time of night? What about supper?
Im full up on your opinions, thank you.
Oh, dont be so touchy! Take your coat off and come and eat. Where do you think youre going at this hour?
Without answering, William stepped outside with the bag, started up his car, and sped towards the M25. The thrum of the motorway filled his ears, but his mind was elsewhereall his routine worries, his work deadlines, and thoughts of a summer holiday, even the silly online jokes he used to chuckle at, faded to nothing behind one heavy, unyielding thought: Mum. Everything else seemed shallow, burnt away in the fire of what mattered. His wife, his children his mother.
Guilt gnawed at him. Hed never managed to visit her enough, never phoned as often as he ought to. Work, life, social distractionsthey always came first, while Margaret quietly faded, never wanting to impose. Williams calls grew less frequent, his visits shorter.
Pulling off the road at a layby, he grabbed a bite at a roadside café and pressed on. The journey stretched ahead, dusk crawling across the fields. At one point, he caught sight of the sun rending the grey sky with fingers of scarlet as if refusing to be dragged under the edge of the earth. By the time William rolled into the villagehis own childhood homenight had fallen. He wove through the lanes until he reached his mothers house.
Shawn Ferguson, Artist.
In the thick darkness, he could barely see. Fumbling with the garden latch, he lit his way with his mobile. Five missed calls from Mary. He let the phone sleep; tonight, hed call no one. The sweet, thick scent of hawthorn in bloom drifted through the air, drawing moths to the lantern-light, its flowers shining ghostly in the night. In the panes of the house, the sky hung, cloudy and deep.
He let himself in. At the threshold sat Margarets old garden slippers. In front of the living room door: her house shoes, blue with two red rabbits atopthe pair hed given her eight years ago. He stalled, staring, then shook himself and pressed on.
Hello, Mum, did you wait for me?
No one waited for him in that house anymore.
The air smelled of old mahogany, a trace of dampnesshed need to stoke the fire so mould wouldnt set in. On the dresser lay a comb, a clutch of well-used cosmetics, and a bag of value pasta shed stashed. The newest thing in the lounge: the sofa hed bought for Margaret, along with the television. The open fridge, echoingly empty, told of the houses silence. Margarets bedroom was oppositeher bed arranged with pillows under a crocheted throw. William perched on the edge.
Once, that room had been his; his brothers bed pressed close along the wall and his own desk beside the window. Now, a sewing machine occupied the cornerMargaret had loved sewing, embroidery. The other bed replaced by a wardrobe for her things. William sat still, gazing at the wardrobe as if a ghost hovered beside it. He doubled over, pressing his face into his knees, shoulders shaking. At last he slumped onto the bed and wept.
He wept because hed never answered her, never spoken when shed gripped his hand in her last moments. Hed sat there, mute as stone, helpless as she faded, choked by thousands of unsaid words. Shed whispered, Dont, Will, dont look at me like that I was happy with you all, but hed wanted, so much, to thank her for a childhood free of want, for a home filled with warmth and safety, for that sturdy shore one could always return to, no matter the mistakes. He wanted to say thank youfor everything. But he was stone, and words seemed too trite, too old-fashioned among modern speech, as though the world had forgotten how to speak from the heart, grown sharp and false instead.
He turned out the lights and fell asleep, still clothed, careful not to disturb the tidy bed. He found a wool blanket on the chair and pulled it over himself. He surprised himself by how deeply he slept. Morning came at seven, as always. Some habits from working life, he supposed, never left you.
He stepped out to his car to fetch the tartan bag. Across the lane, birch trees, dressed in fresh green, stood in rows behind the garden fence like handmaidens of spring. The sunlight trickled through their young leaves, promising warmth. William lingered on the step, breathing the air, catching the trill of birds. He thanked fate that hed grown up here, not in the stone and smoke of London. He stretched, worked the stiffness from his limbs, and carried the bag back into the house, straight to Margarets wardrobe.
One by one, William returned her things to the shelves and hangers just as she liked, arranging shoes below. When all was in place, he stepped back to see if it looked tidy enough. In his minds eye, his mother appeared, modelling those very blouses and dresses, smiling her soft, wordless, mothers smile. He ran a hand along the line of clothes, then hugged them, breathing in their familiar scent. He wasnt sure what possible use these clothes might have now, but he left them as they were. Finally, he remembered the day, and reached for his phone.
Morning, Mr. Barton. I wont be in to work todayfamily business, Im afraid. Will you manage without me? Thanks.
He sent a quick note to his wife, Sorry I lost my temperback this evening. Love you.
Down the garden path bloomed daffodils, their trumpets bold, while tulips had only begun to open. Nearby, by the gooseberry bushes, he spotted lilies of the valley. He gathered all three to form an odd little bouquet. But at the churchyard, there were three graves waiting for him. Passing the village shop, William remembered hed not eaten. He popped in for milk and a roll, grabbing a bit of chocolate for good measure.
Oh, William! Back again, are you? the shopkeeper, Mrs. White, greeted him in surprise.
Yes, just visiting Mum, he replied quietly, not meeting her gaze.
I see. Do you fancy some cheddar? Fresh in from the farm. Your mum used to always buy from me.
He eyed her, wondering if she was making sport of him. No, she meant nothing by it.
Oh, all right then. Thank you. And you, Mrs. White, keeping well?
She waved the question away. She and Margaret had been great friends. Oh, dont ask. My Johnnys at it again, drinking himself silly.
Breakfast was spread on the grass under the old yew trees. The bouquets stood in a row: daffodils, lilies, tulips. Brother, father, mother. His brother had gone firsta fall from the barn roof while mending tiles. Just a cracked neckgone at twenty. Then his father, five years past. Now his mother. William left a square of chocolate at each grave, some cheese for his mother. Their smiles stared up from the headstones. In silence, he held counsel with them.
He remembered childhood mischief, dawn fishing trips with his father (who cast lines like a cowboy with a lasso), and his mother shouting for him at lunchtime so loudly the whole village must have heardhow mortifying, back then! If only she could call him like that now.
William stood and smoothed the wooden cross at her grave. The earth, still fresh and soft in the morning light, seemed so final.
Mum, Im sorry. I let you down. We thought we were grown, independent but life without you feels so empty. Theres so much I wanted to say, to tell you, and Dad. You were wonderful parents, the best. How did you do it? And look at us, Mary and meso selfish sometimes. Me, me, mine, what I want Thank you for everything. And you too, Alfie, brotheryou as well.
It was time to go. William headed down a footpath, chewing on sweet new grass as he walked. The first person he met was Johnny, Mrs. Whites son, looking shabbier than ever, half drunk by noon.
All right, Will, back again, are you? Johnny slurred, grinning.
Yes, visiting my family. Still drinking?
Course. Celebratory, you know.
Whats the occasion?
Johnny fished a tattered calendar from his shorts, flicking to yesterdays date.
World Turtle Day! he declared, grinning as though letting William in on some great secret.
Right, William murmured, warily. Johnny, you look after your mum. Shes a treasure. And she wont be here forever. Remember that.
He walked on, leaving Johnny scratching his head, eventually offering a slurred, Right you are. Take care, Will.
Yes, goodbye, William replied, not turning back.
