The Spare Room

The Spare Room

I dragged two rolls of wallpaper across the hall floor, barely bothering to wipe my shoes, and pressed my shoulder into the door of the spare room. It stuck against something soft. I let out a sigh and pushed harder, irritation knotting in my chest just as it had all day at work.

Here we go again, I muttered, though no one else had left the kitchen yet. Its the same every time.

Inside was the usual chaos: bags of old clothes, cardboard boxes from appliances, a faded mattress propped against the wall, and a rickety shelving unit crowded with jars, battered books, and some tangled wires. There was a narrow path to the sash window, where a box of Christmas decorations gathered dust on the sill.

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

Did you get the wallpaper? she asked, but her eyes flicked beyond me, scanning the room as if something might have sprouted in the clutter overnight.

I did. And the paint. And the filler, I replied, leaning the rolls against the corridor wall to clear my hands. But well be lucky if we can even get the door fully open first.

Natalie didnt answer, just bent down, grabbed a bag, and dragged it half a metre away. The door finally swung wide.

Lets do it properly, she said. We start sorting today. Walls tomorrow. And thats it. No more later.

I nodded, though inside, the old resistance surfaced. Later had become our familys way of avoiding conflict. As long as the room stayed no ones, we didnt have to decide whose it was.

From the kitchen, Veras voice carried out:

Ill help, just point out whats fair game!

Vera had lived with us for nearly two years, since her mother died and shed had to sell her tiny room in a shared house. She was careful and quiet, her presence always felt like an invisible buffer: never in the way, but shifting the rhythm nonetheless.

Anythings fair game, Natalie answered too quickly, then corrected herself, Well, almost.

I stepped into the room, tiptoeing over a box marked wires. I grabbed the mattress, planted on its side, and tried to shift it. It snagged against the handle of an old suitcase wedged behind.

Hold this for me, I called to Natalie.

She gripped the mattress while I extracted the suitcase. It was weighty, corners worn, lock banded with twisted wire.

Whose is this? I asked.

Natalie looked away. Mums. She said it like the suitcase would take offence.

Vera appeared with a bundle of old newspapers tied with string.

Do these go? she asked.

Yes, but bag them up or theyll fly everywhere, I told her.

I plunked the suitcase by the door. The wire was wound tight around the lock, and I ran my fingers over it, half-wondering if I could untwist it. Natalie noticed.

Leave it, she said sharply. Later.

I looked up. Natalie, we agreed. Today.

She pressed her lips together, gathered the box of decorations from the window, and whisked them into the corridor as if that chore trumped talking.

Vera silently unrolled a black bin bag and began scooping in newspapers. The papery rustle grated on my nerves more than the rooms mess.

I picked up a box at random, marked Sam School. The tape holding it was loose. I opened it; inside were exercise books, a diary, a couple certificates, a plastic ruler, and on top a small football shirt, number stitched on the back.

I froze. The shirt was small, too small for an adult but just right for that liminal age when a child still cherishes bright colours.

Thats I started.

Natalie came closer, saw, and said quietly, Dont touch it.

Why? I asked. Were clearing everything anyway

I didnt finish. Hes not coming home was too brutal, even if it echoed in my mind.

Vera looked up from her bag. Sam called yesterday, she said softly. I overheard Natalie talking to him.

Natalie spun round. You were eavesdropping?

No Vera lifted her hands. You were just loud. He was asking how you were.

I felt something shift inside. Sam, our son, lived in another city, renting a flat and working. He almost never visited. Whenever he did, Natalie prepared as if for an exam. For her, the spare room always stayed his, though the bed had long since vanished.

Well? I said. Is he coming?

Natalie shrugged, her voice flat, as if quoting something shed memorised. He said, Maybe in the spring.

I set the box down, lid still open. The shirt glared up from the top, an unspoken reproach.

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

Natalie looked at me as though Id suggested throwing out a living thing.

An office? she echoed. But what if he visits? Where will he sleep?

The sofa in the lounge, like everyone else, I replied. Hes grown up now.

Vera cleared her throat. You could get a fold-out armchair, she suggested. Or a little sofa bed. There are ones that dont take up much space.

It wasnt about the furniture, of course. Natalie kept the room as a promise she never meant to name a promise Id never made.

I reached for another bag: old jackets, scarves, throws. At the bottom, I found a bag of tools: hammer, screwdrivers, tape measure, a box of screws.

These are mine, I said with relief, grateful for something simple.

Natalie nodded. Well keep those. She said it like she was granting me a concession.

Meanwhile, Vera unearthed a folding table from the corner and tried to unfold it.

It wobbles, she said.

Chuck it, I said.

Hang on, Natalie snapped. It might

Might what? I cut in. Might stand there gathering dust? Were not running a museum, Natalie!

The words shot out faster than I could stop them. Natalie dropped her gaze and began piling books into a box, not bothering to check the titles.

Im not a museum, she murmured. I just

She trailed off. I saw her fingers quiver as she shut the box. I wanted to reach out, but then Vera pulled a slim cardboard folder from behind the shelf.

These are papers, she said. No idea where they should go.

The folder was tied with string; inside were letters stacked up, and a few photos. The handwriting on the top letter was Natalies, but it wasnt addressed to me.

My palms went cold. Whats this?

Natalies face flickered with something fragilea sort of exhaustionbefore it settled into calm.

Its old, she said.

To whom? I held the letter as though it burned.

Realising her misstep, Vera slipped to the door. Ill, um, put the kettle on, she said, and retreated.

I was left with Natalie among the dust and boxes, the sense that repairs had already started, only not on the room.

Its from Andrew, she said without waiting for my question. Remember him?

I remembered. Andrew, her university boyfriend from before we married and had Sam. His name sometimes came up, a harmless artifact from the past.

So why keep them? I asked.

She shrugged. Because I couldnt throw them. Theyre part of me.

And you keep them here, I said, gesturing at the spare room, with everything else we cant face.

Natalie took the folder from my hands, gentle but firm.

Dont pretend youre so above it, she said quietly. Ive seen that job transfer application in your box the one to Manchester. The one you printed, signed and hid away for later.

My face mustve betrayed me.

What application?

For that job in Manchester. You printed it off, signed your name, stuffed it away. Thats your own later.

Anger and shame tangled inside me. I had wanted to leave once, when things got tough at work. Then it improved, and I was afraid to change it all.

Thats not the same, I said.

She shook her head. It is. We just pile our plans and regrets in here. You with your plans, me with my fears.

I glanced at the open box of Sams school things.

Him too, I muttered.

She inhaled sharply. Dont you dare.

Its not about him, I lifted my palms in surrender. Its about us. Were keeping a space for him like hes still a child. But hes out living his own life.

She sat down on the edge of the old mattress with a tired creak.

You think I dont know that? she whispered. I do. But if I let go, itll just feel empty.

I sat on a box opposite her, hard and uncomfortable.

Its empty for me too, I said. But I dont keep any old letters for it.

She looked at the folder in her lap.

You think its about Andrew? she asked. Its about a version of me I barely remember.
Sometimes I wonder if I made all the right choicesnot because youre not good enough, but because life moves on, and sometimes I worry I got too safe, too soon.

I was silent. Suddenly I saw Natalie, not just as my wife, stubbornly guarding the spare room for Sam, but as someone scared to admit that plenty would never return.

Footsteps in the hall; Vera was back with mugs, setting them on the window ledge.

I dont know where to put this, she said, nodding to the folder. Shall I pop it in the cupboard?

Natalie lifted her chin, her voice surprisingly steady. Vera, you dont have to save us.

Vera paused, then nodded. I know. Im just living here as well, and Id like to know whats what.

I looked at her. Vera stood by the door, palms clasped so tightly the knuckles were whiteit struck me she must wait for the day shes told its time to move on when real life returns.

Were making a room, I said, searching for words. Not to edge anyone out. Just to get on with life.

Natalie stood. Lets do this, she said. Today, we decide what this room is. And what it isnt.

I nodded.

An office, I repeated, more gently now. And a guest bit. Sam can visit. Vera can have some space if she needs it.

Vera looked up. I dont need space, she startedand then admitted, Although sometimes itd be nice to sit in peace.

Natalie picked the tape measure from the tool bag. Lets measure up. If we put the desk under the window, and the small sofa bed along the wall

I was amazed at how quickly she locked onto practicalities. But thats how Natalie copesby moving ahead.

We got stuck in. I hauled bin bags of clothes down the corridor; Natalie sorted books: some into donate, some onto the front room shelf. Vera packed jars and lids just in case.

We dont need any jars, I grumbled.

We do, Natalie argued. I make jam.

You made jam two years ago, I said.

She gave me a pointed look. Perhaps I will again. If we have somewhere to store it.

I let it goit wasnt about jam, really.

By evening, the floor was finally visible. The old lino was peeling and lumpy. In the corner, we found a box of photos. Natalie sat on the floor and leafed through them.

I joined her, crouched beside her. Keep or go? I asked.

Keep, she said. But not hidden away. I want these where we can see them. Not a secret hoard.

She picked a few and set them aside. One of Sam, small, in a bobble hat, cheeks rosy. Another of us, younger, outside the half-built house we once thought was our whole future.

I looked at the photo, then at her. We really thought everything would be simple, back then.

Natalie smiled faintly. We thought we had a surplusof strength, time, even of rooms.

Vera brought back the battered suitcase. Its in the way. What shall we do?

Natalie looked from the suitcase to me. Lets open it.

I grabbed the pliers, bent the wire straight, and snapped the lock. The lid creaked open as if reluctant.

Inside were Mums bits: paisley scarves, an old photo album, a handful of letters, and beneath it all, a neatly folded baby blanket.

Natalie hugged the blanket to her chest, eyes shut. This is mine. She brought me home from hospital in it.

A simple keepsake, not the ghost I had been bracing for.

Shall we keep it? I asked.

Natalie nodded. But not the whole suitcase. She scanned the room. Lets make a small memory box for the shelf up top. So we remember, but dont get stuck there.

Vera suggested, Lets label it, in case we forget whats what.

I looked at Natalie. She nodded, Well label itMums. Thats all.

We boxed the blanket, album, and some letters. The rest, Natalie carefully sorted, some for the bin. I saw how hard it was, but she managed no tears, just slow determination.

When we finished, I stood on a footstool and tucked the box onto the highest shelf of the bookcase wed decided to keep. That shelf was to become the memory corner, as Natalie called it, with just a couple of boxes and space for seasonal stuffnot more.

One rule, Natalie called as we flopped on the floor. If we put anything up here, we label it and set a date by which it needs reviewing. No swampy backwaters in our home anymore.

I blinked. A date?

Yes. Otherwise nothing ever moves on. She met my gaze. And if anyone wants to keep things just in case, they say so out loud. No hiding.

Vera said quietly, And ask the others.

I nodded. Agreed.

Next day, I ripped out the lino, rolled it up, and carted it down to the skip. My hands ached, my back was murder, but in my mind there was an odd quiet. Natalie was filling cracks in the wall, dust caking her nose. Vera washed the window, scrubbing grime away with the sponge.

By evening, wed hung up a new light fixture. I stood on the step-ladder, wrangling the wires; Natalie passed the insulation tape; Vera held a torch, the room still powerless.

Try it, Natalie said.

I flicked the switch. The light glowed clean and steadynot the spare room any longer, but simply a room.

We shuffled the desk under the window. I set my laptop down, triumphant to finally claim it from the kitchen. Natalie came back with a slim fold-out sofa from the shop. Vera fetched a little desk lamp and placed it next to the Mums box on the top shelf.

I carried out the last rubbish sack. On the landing I paused, listening. Inside, the flat was quiet, but not empty. I came back, shut the door, and saw Natalie standing in the new room, looking at the desk.

So? I asked.

She turned. It looks like a life, she said.

As Vera walked past, she lingered in the doorway. If Sam visits, Ill step aside.

Natalie shook her head gently. You dont need to step aside. Its not his room, not ours. Its everyones now. She glanced at me. And if anyone wants to go or stay, well say it. No more hiding away.

I reached for the hall switch, clicked out the corridor light, and left the room aglow. The floor, the desk by the window, the sofa bed, and that careful box on the highest shelfall caught in a bright, clear patch of light.

Deal, I said.

Natalie nodded, and on her way out, angled the desk lamp so it stood just rightan insignificant gesture perhaps, but something in it felt new: not just a defence of yesterday, but a quiet hope for tomorrow.