The Spare Room
Simon dumped two rolls of wallpaper onto the hall floor and, without taking off his shoes, gave the spare room door a hearty shove with his shoulder. It clunked stubbornly against something squishy, refusing to open all the way. He exhaled, then shoved harder, feeling the day’s irritation carefully hidden at work rising stubbornly up his throat.
Well, brilliant, he announced, although nobody else had emerged from the kitchen yet. Here we go again.
The room was a riot of bin bags full of clothes, empty appliance boxes, a beaten-up mattress propped against the wall, and an ancient shelving unit heaving under a jumble of jars, books, and mysterious cables. The only access was a skinny footpath leading to the window, where a box of Christmas decorations had developed a fine dust crust.
Natalie appeared behind him, drying her hands on a tea towel.
Youve already bought the wallpaper? she asked, eyeing the inside of the room rather than the wallpaper, as though checking to see if anything new had sprouted.
Yeah. And the paint. And the filler, Simon replied, parking the wallpaper upright in the corridor so it wasnt in the way. But first, well need the door to actually open.
Natalie wordlessly bent down, snatched the corner of the closest bag, and heaved it half a metre aside. The door yielded.
Right. Lets do this like civilised people, she said. Today, we sort. Tomorrow, we redecorate. Thats it. No well do it later.
Simon nodded, though inside he felt the usual resistance. Later was their familys way of not arguing. While the room didnt belong to anyone, there was no need to decide whose it was.
From the kitchen floated Veras voice:
Ill help just let me know what Im allowed to touch.
Vera had been living with them for two years now, ever since her mum died and her childhood room at her old flat was sold. She was precise and unobtrusive; her presence in the flat was like an added layer of air: barely noticeable, but just enough to shift how you moved.
Anythings fair game, Natalie said a tad too quickly, then corrected: Almost anything.
Simon tiptoed into the room, stepping carefully over a box labelled Cables. He grabbed the mattress balanced on its edge and tried to tip it aside. The mattress caught on the handle of a scuffed old suitcase.
Hold this, will you? he said to Natalie.
She took the mattress, and Simon managed to wriggle the suitcase free. It was heavy, with battered corners and a lock bound up with a twist of wire.
Whose is this? he asked.
Natalie looked, then averted her gaze. Mums, she murmured, as if the suitcase might be eavesdropping.
Vera entered carrying a bundle of newspapers tied with string. These for the bin? she asked.
Yes, bin them, Simon replied. But bag them up dont want them everywhere.
He set the suitcase down by the door. The wire was twisted tight, and Simon, without realizing, absentmindedly tried to see if he could loosen it. Natalie noticed.
Dont, she said. Not now. Later.
Simon looked up. Nat, we agreed. Were doing it today.
Natalie pressed her lips together, grabbed the box of Christmas bits from the window ledge, and carried it out as if it was a sacred task.
Vera, staying out of the squabble, opened a bin bag and started piling in newspapers. The papery rustle irritated Simon more than the state of the room itself.
He picked up the nearest box. Sam School was scrawled across the top. It was sealed with tape, but the tape had given up the ghost over the years. Simon flipped open the lid. Inside were exercise books, an old report card, a couple of achievement certificates, a plastic ruler, and perched on top a kids football top with a number on the back.
Simon froze. The shirt was child-sized, but not little-little: that awkward in-between age, when neon colours are still cool, not embarrassing.
This he started.
Natalie stepped closer and peered in. Dont touch that, she said quietly.
Why? Simon asked. I mean, were meant to
He didnt finish. The words hes not coming back were too brutal, even if he’d thought them.
Vera looked up from the bin bag. Sam called yesterday, she said, treading carefully. I overheard Natalie speaking to him.
Natalie spun around. You were listening in?
No, said Vera, hands up defensively. Its just you were loud. He wanted to know how youre getting on.
Simon felt things shifting inside him. Sam, their son, lived in another town, worked, rented a flat. He rarely visited, and whenever he did, Natalie acted like it was a royal occasion. To her, the spare room was always his room despite the lack of a bed for years.
So? Did he say hed visit? Simon asked.
He said, maybe in spring, Natalie answered flatly, as if reciting a phrase shed rehearsed hundreds of times.
Simon put the box back on the floor, but left the lid open. The football shirt lay defiantly on top.
Were making it a study, he declared. Im done working in the kitchen. I need a door I can actually close.
Natalie gave him a look, as though hed just suggested binning a beloved pet.
A study? And if he does come? Wheres he going to sleep?
On the sofa in the lounge, like anyone else, Simon replied. Hes not a toddler.
Vera coughed gently. You could get one of those folding chairs or a small sofa-bed. They do narrow ones.
Simon wanted to say it wasnt about sleeping arrangements. Natalie treated this room as a promise hed never actually made.
He opened the next bag. Old coats, scarves, blankets. Near the bottom was a carrier with tools: a hammer, screwdrivers, tape measure, a tub of screws.
Thats mine, he said, oddly grateful for something unambiguously his.
Natalie nodded. Well keep that, she said, as if granting him a rare favour.
Meanwhile, Vera discovered a rickety folding table in the corner, which she tried to open up.
It wobbles, she said apologetically.
Bin it, Simon said.
Natalie bristled. Hold on. It could still
Could what, Nat? Sit and collect dust? Were not running a museum.
As soon as he blurted it out, Simon wished he hadnt. Natalie dropped her gaze and started stacking books in a box, not bothering with titles.
Im not a museum, she said, barely audible. I just She trailed off. Simon watched her fingers tremble as she shut the box. He wanted to go over but just then, Vera pulled a large, flat folder from behind the shelves.
Papers, she said. No idea what to do with these.
It was one of those cardboard files with string fastenings. Simon undid it. Letters, stacked, some photographs. The top letter was in Natalies handwriting, but addressed to someone else.
Simons hands went cold.
This is? he asked.
Natalie looked up, fleetingly tired, then steeled herself. Old stuff, she said.
To whom? Simon held the letter like it might snap at any second.
Realising shed stepped into a minefield, Vera edged towards the door. Ill go pop the kettle on, she announced, and vanished.
Now it was Simon and Natalie, alone amid the boxes and dust and Simon felt, with abrupt clarity, that theyd started renovating things other than walls.
Its from Andrew, Natalie said, before he could ask. You remember him.
Simon did. Andrew was an old uni boyfriend, pre-him. It was ancient history. Theyd married, had Sam, lived the usual muddle. Andrews name would crop up now and then, more a relic than a threat.
Why keep this? Simon asked.
Natalie shrugged. I couldnt throw it away. Its part of who I was.
And youre keeping it in this room, sealed up with all the rest.
She closed the folder and took it from him. Dont act so righteous, she shot back. Youve got that old transfer request stashed in your box. The one you never sent. I saw it.
Simon blinked. What request?
For that job in Manchester. You printed it, signed it then buried it in your papers. Another later.
Anger and shame pricked him. He had planned to leave, back when things at work were rubbish. Then things picked up, and suddenly uprooting seemed scarier than staying.
Thats not the same, he argued.
It is, Natalie insisted. We just keep piling things in here. You your plans. Me my fears.
Simon looked at the open box of Sams old notebooks. And Sam too.
Natalie sucked in her breath. Dont.
I dont mean him, Simon lifted his hands, surrendering. I mean us. Were reserving a place in here like hes still a boy. But hes miles away, living his life.
Natalie sat on the mattress, which sagged beneath her. You think I dont know that? she asked. I do. But if I stop holding onto it she faltered, itll all feel empty.
Simon perched on a box that was, frankly, not built for comfort. Me too, he admitted. But I dont hang onto old letters.
Natalie gazed at the folder in her lap. You think its about Andrew? she said. Its about remembering that, once, I might have been something else. Sometimes it scares me maybe I got things wrong. Not because youre bad. Just because life moves.
Simon said nothing. Only then did he see Natalie not as the stubborn wife defending his room, but as a woman afraid to admit so much had already slipped away.
Footsteps in the corridor: Vera, returning with mugs, placing them carefully on the window ledge.
Not sure where to put this, she said, nodding at the folder. Cupboard?
Natalie looked up, her voice suddenly steady. Vera, you dont have to fix us.
Vera went rigid. Then she nodded. Im not trying. I just live here. And I want to know whats going to happen too.
Simon studied her. Veras shoulders were set, but her fingers were laced together, knuckles white. He realised Vera, too, had been waiting perhaps waiting for the day someone would tell her to go, so real life could resume.
Were making the room, Simon said finally, choosing his words, not to shove anyone out but to actually live.
Natalie stood up. Heres the deal: by tonight, we decide what stays, what goes, and what this rooms for.
Simon nodded. A study, he repeated, less firmly. And a spot for guests. So Sams got somewhere. And Vera can have privacy if she wants.
Vera looked up. I dont need privacy, she said then, quietly, although sometimes a bit of peace would be nice.
Natalie fished the tape measure out of the toolbox. Lets check the size. Desk by the window, sofa-bed by the wall
Simon marvelled at how quickly she got down to brass tacks. He knew Natalie coped by acting.
They began clearing. Simon shunted the bags of clothes into the hall. Natalie sorted books: a charity-shop pile; a few back to the lounge. Vera bagged up jars and their rusted lids, in case theyre useful.
Were never using these jars, Simon protested.
We are, Natalie said defiantly. I make jam.
You havent made jam in years.
She gave him a look. Maybe I will this year. Once Ive got somewhere to keep it.
Simon didnt answer. He knew this wasnt really about jam.
By evening, there was visible floor. The old lino heaved up in places. In the corner, they found a box of family photos. Natalie plopped down and started to sift.
Simon squeezed down beside her. Keeping these?
Yes, said Natalie. But not in here. I want them easy to reach. Not hidden away like secrets.
She picked out a few and set them aside: Sam, young and flushed in a woolly hat, them as newlyweds in front of their half-built house, which then felt impossibly full of promise.
Simon studied one. We thought wed have all the answers, he remarked.
Natalie smiled wryly. We thought wed have spares. Spare energy, spare time, spare rooms.
Vera dragged the suitcase from the hall. This is in the way. What shall we do with it?
Natalie glanced from the suitcase to Simon. Open it.
Simon got the pliers, unwound the wire. The lock popped with a reluctant click. Inside were keepsakes: her mums scarves, an old album, letters, down at the bottom a neatly folded baby blanket.
Natalie scooped it up, hugged it, eyes closed. This is mine. Mum brought me home from hospital in this.
Simon felt something in him release. Hed expected ghosts, but found something simple.
Keep it? he asked.
Natalie nodded. But not the whole case. She looked around. Lets make a small memory box. Just for the important bits. Put it out of the way, but not hidden.
Vera added gently: Shall I label it? So were not racking our brains later.
Simon looked to Natalie, who nodded.
Well label it: Mums. Thats all.
They packed the blanket, the album, a few letters in a shoebox. The rest Natalie sorted, some for the bin. Simon could see it was a struggle, but she did it not in tears, just steadily.
When they were done, Simon clambered onto the step-stool and put the box on the highest shelf of the bookcase they were keeping. The bottom shelves would hold admin folders, a couple of boxes of seasonal stuff. No more.
One rule, Natalie announced when they flopped down for a breather. If you put something here, you label it and give it an expiry date. We sort it again in a year.
Simon blinked. An expiry date?
Yes. Or else were just storing it for nostalgias sake. She looked at him. And if anyone wants to keep something just in case, they say why out loud. No sneaking.
Vera, quietly: And ask the others.
Simon nodded. Deal.
The next day, Simon yanked up the old lino and dragged it to the tip. His arms hurt, his back ached, but his head felt strangely clear. Natalie filled in the cracks in the wall, plaster dust on her nose. Vera scrubbed the windowsill, wiping away years of grime.
By evening, a new light fitting was up. Simon balanced on a stepladder with the wires; Natalie handed him tape; Vera, torch in hand, hovered since the bulb was still not in.
Ready! Natalie called.
Simon flicked the mains. Light flooded clean and steady the room was suddenly, well, a room.
They lugged in a table for the window. Simon set up his laptop, liberated at last from the kitchen. Natalie brought in a slender sofa-bed. Vera carried in a tiny lamp, placing it beside the Mums box on the top shelf.
Simon took out the last bag of rubbish. On the landing, he paused, listening: the flat was quiet, but not empty. He came back, shut the front door, and found Natalie in the new spare room. She was surveying the desk by the window.
So? he asked.
Natalie turned. Feels like living, she replied.
Vera hovered in the doorway. If Sam comes, she offered, Ill swap rooms with him.
Natalie shook her head. No need. It’s not his anymore or ours. Its everyones. She looked to Simon. And if anyone ever wants to go or stay we talk. We dont just store it away.
Simon turned out the hall light, leaving just the glow in the room. He looked at the neat patch of light on the floor, the desk by the window, the sofa-bed, the little labelled box on the top shelf.
Agreed, he said.
Natalie nodded and before leaving, straightened the lamp on the shelf so it sat just right. It was a tiny gesture, but somehow, it felt like something new: not guarding the past, but caring for what comes next.
