Wardrobe Space

As she drove down the slip road onto the dual carriageway Nic said,

           ‘Pick a space. Accelerate or slow down into it.’

With a little hesitation, she joined the stream of traffic and was wedged between a white transit behind her and a mini in front, other vehicles moved rapidly past in the fast lane.

           ‘Only a couple of junctions and then you reach the turn-off.’

She was gripping the steering wheel tightly and could feel damp under her arms, but he was right, it took less than ten minutes to reach the out-of-town shopping complex. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled onto the slower urban roads. She could cope with busy roads, traffic lights, junctions, and roundabouts, it was driving at speed that bothered her. She pulled into a parking space and made her way into the do-it-yourself superstore.

           Inside she inhaled the smell of insecticides, adhesives, and paint thinners. The aisles were wide and she wandered along the central one looking from side to side at lighting fittings, plumbing supplies, garden implements. Couples pushing trollies and men in paint-spattered tee shirts and baggy jogging bottoms milled around her. Above her head, large signs were suspended from the ceiling, drunkenly swinging and announcing what area was below them.      

           ‘Here it is, wallpapers.’

She walked up and down, looking at everything from elegant pastel shades to migraine-inducing patterns. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, just something ‘different’. Eventually, she whittled it down to two: one with the black outlines of flowers the size of dinner plates embossed on a white background, the other a repetitive pattern of abstract daubs of vibrant colours. She wavered between the two, before eventually plumping for the flowers.

At the till the check-out server said,

‘That’s quite a statement piece. What’ll your husband think?’

‘I’m not sure. He’s left it to me to choose.’

She decides to drive home via the longer country route, she can’t face the race track of the A road. Even so, by the time she lugs the rolls of paper in and thankfully pushes the front door closed behind her, she needs a cup of tea. Boiling the kettle she puts teabags into two mugs, but as she pours water into the first one, she remembers and leaves the second one dry. But then her eye catches the half-eaten loaf on the side. Every Saturday, she’d buy a crusty loaf from the artisan bakers, and by Monday when he went to work, they would have devoured it. She grips the worktop and then slowly lowers herself to the floor. Sitting on the cold tiles, leaning back against the cupboard, she pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and then lets her head sink onto them. Her sobs come hard and fast, racking her body, making her gasp for breath: a primeval howl.   

           After several minutes, her crying gradually subsides until all that remains is the odd shudder passing through her body and a few sniffs. Nic says,

           ‘You needed that. Next week buy a small loaf.’

Going upstairs, she heads into the bathroom and splashes her face with cold water. She walks across the landing into their bedroom and catches sight of her reflection in the glass of the built-in wardrobe’s sliding door. She’s shocked at how old and gaunt she looks. He says,

           ‘The best thing to do is to move into the other room. That way you can leave everything set up.’

She agrees, and so rolls up the king size duvet and takes it next door, dumping it on the bed. She returns and does the same with the four pillows and fitted sheet. Next, she carries the bedside cabinets, one at a time: they’re cumbersome and she waddles like a tortoise whose shell is on the wrong way round. Lastly, it’s the chest of drawers: too big to carry, she tries shoving it, but it’s too heavy.

           ‘Take the drawers out.’

           ‘Good idea.’  

The top drawer contains her underwear. When she pulls out the next one, she receives what feels like a physical slap and gasps. It contains Nic’s pants and socks. Her eyes begin to fill, and then he says,

           ‘Don’t start that again. I don’t need them. Don’t reckon you should put them in the charity bag. Just throw them straight out.’

She fetches a large plastic bag and does as he advises.

           That night she sleeps on the left-hand side of the spare bed, her side. She lies on her front, right hand outstretched so that she can touch his body. She dreams that he’s late home from work, and not answering his mobile. In a panic, she jumps into her car to search for him. She travels his route to work, nothing. Runs into his kitchen, shouting his name, he’s not there. None of the kitchen porters understand who she’s looking for. She wakes with a start and wonders where she is. The pillow beneath her cheek is damp. Then she remembers: she’s in the spare bedroom.

As she pulls on her oldest clothes. He says,

           ‘Make a list of all the things you’ll need from the garage, and then bring them up. Save your legs that way.’

She sits at the kitchen table with a coffee beside her, sucking a pencil, a blank notepad before her. He starts to dictate,

           ‘Sander, sugar soap, paint brushes –‘

           ‘I know!’ She sets to and writes her list.

When she enters his territory, the garage, she feels the familiar pain in her chest. It’s a combination of things: the sight of all his tools neatly arrayed on the shelves, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the hardware shop smell, the memory of him leaning over the open bonnet of the car. She takes a deep breath and starts to gather everything she needs.

She finds stripping the wallpaper therapeutic. She’s got the radio on and even catches herself humming along to some of the tracks, until Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing comes on. Her face crumples, an ugly gurning as the tears begin to stream down the creases of her cheeks. There’s a painful tautening of her forehead as she remembers: her 50th birthday party, how he never danced, but then when the opening cords of this track started, he allowed her to grab his hand and lead him onto the dancefloor. And then another memory pushes itself to the forefront of her mind: him holding her tight as they danced, and whispering in her ear,

           ‘Wait till I get you home.’

Through the tears a smile emerges, a weak sun breaking through the clouds on a grey winter’s day. She sighs, dashes the tears away with the back of her hand, and carries on.

The next few days she works hard. She feels guilty that she never fully appreciated how much effort he took to make their home comfortable. He’s with her all the way now: he shows her how to use a plumb bob and line to mark the wall, how to measure and cut the paper, how to paste and concertina fold it. She works slowly and carefully. In the past, she’s helped him, and been in out with tea and biscuits, but it’s down to her now. When she’s eventually finished she looks around the room with satisfaction. It’s not perfect, but she made the decisions and did it all. He says,

           ‘Good job. Proud of you.’

The next day, she drags the furniture back in. She feels a jolt as she sees the empty drawer that once held his underwear. She pauses to calm herself, and decides to put it to good use: the wardrobe would be tidier if she could space out some of the clothing in there. As she slides the mirror door to one side, she glimpses the things hanging in Nic’s side: his biker jacket, dressing gown, chef’s whites.  She thinks, ‘The cat could do with something soft to line his basket, he’d probably like kneading and snuggling down on the dressing gown.’ The thought makes her smile, she’s sure that Nic would approve. The leather jacket could be ebayed, almost everything else should go to the charity shop. The chef’s jackets have a company logo embroidered across the chest, so probably the safest thing to do would be to throw them.

           As the lid of the black bin clunks down on the discarded jackets, she expects a terrible tragedy to occur. Then, the logical part of her brain clicks in: Nic’s dead, the disaster has already occurred. Suddenly, she realises that he hasn’t spoken to her since she finished redecorating their bedroom. The familiar feeling of desolation sweeps over her, quickly followed by something else: he’s no longer physically here, but all that she learned from him is still with her, and so he will always be part of her life