Well, thats a breath of fresh air at last. Honestly, it was like a mausoleum in here! rang out the cheery, triumphant voice from the kitchenone Id recognise anywhere, no matter how many years passed.
I froze in the hallway, still clutching the heavy bags of apples and garden greens Id brought home from the allotment. The scent of Bramleys and fresh parsley was instantly swept away by the sharp, chemical tang of some trendy polish and the heady waft of expensive perfume. I slowly, almost dreamily, dropped the bags to the floor, a cold shiver running down my back. The key had turned far too smoothly in the lock, as if someone had oiled it, and the old familiar creak of the floorboard by the door was gone.
I stepped forward and glanced around. The hallway was unrecognisable. Gone was the old but sturdy oak coat standhandmade by my late husband, Nicholaswhich had been a fixture for years. In its place, anonymous metal hooks were screwed into the wall, the sort youd see in a cheap NHS clinic. Even the ornate mirror, the one Id looked in before leaving the house for three decades, had been swapped for a plain, frameless rectangle.
My heart thudded in my ribs. I walked into the lounge and gasped, pressing my hand to my mouth.
The room was empty. Or not quite empty, but its soulits warmthwas gone. The huge sideboard Nicholas and I had dragged back from Cheltenham, packed with precious glassware and the best dinner service, had vanished. The bookcases, filled row upon row over nearly fifty years, were nowhere to be seen. Not even my favourite armchair by the bay window had survived.
Instead, in the middle of the room sat a squat grey sofa, chunky and shapeless as a concrete block, and above it loomed a black monster of a television. On the floor sprawled a fluffy white rug, as out of place as a snowdrift in the desert. The walls had been painted an insipid light grey.
Oh! Mrs Hawkins! piped up Julia, my daughter-in-law, sailing in from the kitchen in a short, silky housecoat, a cup of something green clasped between her fingers. Youre back already? We thought youd be home this evening. Did your train get in early?
My son Oliver shuffled in behind her, eyes averted, slippers barely lifting from the floor. He looked both sheepish and oddly defeated.
Where? I managed to whisper, motioning to the gutted room. Where is everything?
Everything? Julia blinked her long false lashes innocently. Oh, you mean your old furniture? We did a little surprise makeover! While you were at the allotment, we freshened things up here. Isnt it great? Light, airy, so much space! Minimalism, Mrs Hawkinsits all the rage now.
Where are my things? My knees began to tremble. I turned to my son, searching his face. Oliver, wheres your fathers sideboard? What about the books? The Singer machine?
Oliver coughed awkwardly into his fist, trying to look brave. Mum, dont worry. We, um, got rid of it all.
Got rid of it? To the allotment? The garage?
Chucked out, Mrs Hawkins, Julia interrupted, sipping her green smoothie. Honestly, why keep all that tat? The sideboard was falling to bits, covered in dust! The booksno one reads dusty hardbacks now, its all on Kindle. They just breed allergies and silverfish. We couldnt stand breathing in all that anymore.
For a moment my vision darkened. I clutched the door frame to keep upright.
Thrown out? I croaked. Dads library, built up since his student days? My Singer, that I used to mend your curtains, Oliveryour trousers? The glassware Nicholas and I carried all the way from Cheltenham… wrapped in jumpers so it wouldnt get chipped?
Oh please, no one wants that stuff these days, its proper retro, Julia scoffed. These days its all about Scandinavian styleclean lines, nothing fussy. That machine was ancientcast iron! The removal men barely managed to drag it out. Youve always said the flat was crowded. We just cleared it out. Visual noise, Mrs Hawkins. Right out.
Visual noise… The phrase felt like a slap. Did you ask me, Julia? This is my flat. Mine and Olivers. But those things, they were mine.
Julia rolled her eyes. There we go again. We did this for youspent good money, maxed the credit card buying those expensive wallpapers! And all you do is complain. You old lot have a weird obsession with stuff. Its proper hoarding. Someone should get it checked.
Oliver finally looked up. Come on, Mum. It was just old stuff. The new sofas orthopaedic; youll sleep better.
I looked at my son. Not a flicker of remorse in his brown eyesjust a desperate hope the row would end, so he could get back to his new comforts. Always going along with the easiest voice. First mine, now Julias. Soft as putty.
When did you throw everything out? I asked calmly, steadying myself.
About three days ago, when we started the decorating, Julia shrugged. We hired one of those big skipseverything out in one go. Long since carted away, so dont bother searching or asking the neighbours.
I moved slowly to what was left of my bedroom. Even in here, the designers had left their sterile touch: gone was my chest of drawers, my antique dressing table. My old button tin was missing, as were my photo albums.
My photo albums? I called. Your fathers pictures?
Oh, those dusty things? Well just have them scanned if you want them. All the magsgone to recycle. Got to think green, havent we?
I perched on the edge of the unfamiliar new bed. Inside, I felt only emptiness. It wasnt just things removed, but years of my marriage, memories, little joys, all binned as visual noise.
That evening, I didnt come out for dinner. Lying in the dark, I weighed things up. Technically, the flat belonged to me. Olivers name was on the council tax, but I was sole owner. Theyd only moved in so they could save for a mortgage, supposedly. Three years nownothing saved. Always something: a new mobile, a holiday in Greece, then this renovation. I paid all the bills out of my pension, helping the kids out.
Next morning, I appeared in the kitchen. My face must have looked set in stone. Julia was flipping pancakes, humming to herself.
Morning! she trilled, as if last nights tension had vanished. Want breakfast? Theyre sugar free, made with oat flour. Good for you!
Just tea for me, I replied. Is Oliver at work?
Gone already. Big report due. Im having a self-improvement daywatching a webinar on decluttering.
Very commendable, I nodded. Decluttering is important. Julia, Im popping to my sisters in Guildford for a few days. I need to steady my nerves.
Oh, how lovely! A bit of a change will do you good. Dont worry about a thingIll keep everything in order.
I packed a small bag. Pausing in the hallway, I looked over my transformed entrance one last time.
Do you still have keys, Julia?
Of courseme and Oliver both. We didnt change the locks, just oiled them.
Good. Well, take care.
I really did head to my sisters. But not for daysjust until the afternoon, so Julia would be out, at her Pilates or beauty appointments as she always was on Thursdays.
I returned at four. The flat was emptyJulia off improving herself.
I changed into my oldest cardigan, tied on a headscarf, and fetched from the untouched utility cupboard (it had survived more by chance than choice) the heavy-duty binbagsthe leftovers from Julias clear out.
I went to their room. Id never entered before, out of courtesy. But the line had been crossed nowJulia herself had obliterated it when she binned my life.
The room was crammed with her things: beauty products stacked on the dresser, creams, serums worth hundreds, boxes of make-up, more expensive than sense. A giant circle lamp dominated the space, for her selfies.
I took the first sack.
Visual noise, I murmured, savouring the words. Too much visual noise.
In went pots and bottlesChanel, Dior, names in Korean I couldnt pronounce. I didnt care which were empty or full. I was decluttering.
Then the wardrobe. Packed solid: dresses worn once, blouses still tagged, denim in identical shades, all crushed together.
Dust traps, I said. Synthetic. Worse for the environment.
Bag after bag filled with clothes, handbags (her pride), shoestrainers on crazy thick soles, boots reaching up to heaven, heels only fit for a walk to the car.
I worked with cold efficiency, entirely without malice. I left Olivers plain shirts and suits alonejust Julias kingdom of consumption was targeted.
When the clothes and cosmetics were finished, I went for her assorted decor: Buddha heads, candles, motivational posters, dreamcatchers strung with feathers.
Tat, I muttered. Pathological attachment to things. Needs treatment.
Two hours later, the room was echoingly emptyjust a bed and a bare wardrobe remained.
Fifteen huge bags I lined up in the corridor. No, I wasnt a barbarian, so I didnt bin them. I was smarter. I called for a van and had them carted to my brothers lockup in the north of town. Let them sit there and gather dust awhile.
Once done, I washed the floors. The air was finally clearthough Julias perfume still clung stubbornly to the paint. I made myself tea, found a paperback Id picked up from my sister, and sat in the kitchen, awaiting their return.
Julia was first, floating home with bags from Waitrose, singing.
Oh, Mrs Hawkins! Back early? You said a few days. Has something happened?
Yes, Julia. An epiphany. I took your advice on decluttering.
She gave me an odd look, but said nothing. She moved to the bedroom to change.
Seconds later, a shriek that could shatter the double glazing.
My god! Where are they? Where are my things? My make-up? My coat?
I sipped my tea. No need to shout, Julia. I sorted things out. Decluttered the visual noise. You know, you were right. So much useless stuff, so many dust traps! Why do you need twenty handbags? Thats not healthy. Im helping you. Liberated some energy, as youd say.
You… youve binned my stuff? Do you know what those creams cost? That serum is probably worth your years pension! Youre insane! Ill call the police!
Go ahead, I said calmly. Theyll be interested to hear about what happened to my propertythe sideboard from Nicholas, the library. To say nothing of my sewing machine. You called it junk. I looked at your clutter and saw the same. All those chemicalsterrible for your health.
The door opened and Oliver walked in. He immediately sensed disaster. Julia was sobbing and cursing, I sat serenely.
Mum! Shes thrown out all my clothes, my make-up, everything! Julia howled. Your mothers mad!
Oliver looked panic-stricken. Mum, seriously?
Very seriously, son. A little surprise. A spot of emotional renovation. Minimalism. Now your rooms light and clean. You can meditate.
You had no right! Julia screamed. Those were my personal things!
My library was personal too, my voice was like steel. So was the sideboard. Did you ask me? No. You decided for me what mattered and what didnt. You came into my house and destroyed my life. Now were even.
Where are my things? Julia hissed. If youve put them in the bin, Ill take you to court!
Not in the bin. Im not like you. I moved them. Theyre safe. But Im not telling you where. Not yet.
What dyou mean? Oliver stammered.
I mean pack whats leftyour paperwork, toothbrushes, whatever youve still gotand go. Wherever you want. To a hotel, to Julias mums, wherever. I dont care.
Youre kicking us out? From our home?
My home, I corrected. You were guestsoverstaying, ungrateful guests who thought the old woman could be chucked out with the furniture. Youve got an hour. After that, the locksmiths changing the locks. Hes downstairs, waiting.
But, Mum Oliver whined. Weve nowhere to go. We were planning for a mortgage
Well, youd best start. Youve got plenty of motivation now. And Julia, youll get your stuff back when I get mine.
We threw it out! Julia shrieked. Its gonedumped! Recycled!
Then your things meet the same fate. Or you can chase after them. Find the tip, retrieve the lot, or buy it all over again. I dont care. Return my libraryyou can have your coats. Get me that sewing machineyouve got your make-up back.
It was a bluffthe bags were perfectly safe in my brothers garage. But I could see the war of fear and greed raging behind Julias eyes.
Youre a monster! Julia spat. Oliver, lets go! Im not staying one second in this madhouse! Well get a flatsomething decent! And youold witchstay with your bare walls!
They left within forty minutes, banging cases as they went. Julia hurled curses, Oliver kept his eyes on the linoleum.
After the door banged shut behind them, I stood by the window. Five minutes later, Uncle Mike the locksmith arrived and swapped out the barrel, as arranged.
I was alone, left in a bare, cold flat with grey walls. But the strangest thingI didnt feel lonely. Instead, I felt lighter than I had in years, like a great sack of rotting potatoes had fallen from my shoulders.
Next day, I sprang into action. I put an ad online: Wanted: old oak furniture, books, and sewing machinewill collect. Turns out, plenty of people are delighted for you to take such things off their hands, sometimes for free.
Within a month, the flat was coming back to life. Admittedly, it wasnt the exact same furniture. The new sideboard was lighter, the books different printings, but the stories the same. Another sturdy Singer, the same trustworthy sound. I wallpapered the lounge with soft beige blooms. Bought a real woolly rugone with a hearty old pattern.
Julias things I returned in two weeks. Called Oliver, gave him the garage address.
You can collect them. Ive no use for them.
He came alone, looking gaunt.
Sorry, Mum, he muttered, not meeting my gaze. Were in a rental now. Costs a bomb. Julias beside herself. Moneys tight.
Thats real grown-up life, sonexpensive.
Could we come back, maybe? Julia promises
No, Oliver. I love you. But I want to live in my own way, among my own things. You build your lifeminimalism and all.
He left with the bags, and I sat back down at my new old sewing machine. Threaded the bobbin, pressed the pedal. The comforting, familiar whir filled the room as I worked on new curtainsbright, floral, nothing at all like visual noisejust joy.
Sometimes, you need to lose something to realise how precious it was. Other times, you simply need to show people the doorso you can finally enjoy your own home, in true English fashion.
