The hallway was bursting at the seams with boxes. Henry Bennett, flushed from the effort, forced yet another one onto the upper shelf. A thin film of dust settled on his thinning crown like a grey frost.
Why are we hoarding all this rubbish? he muttered, wobbling down the rickety stepladder.
It isnt rubbish, Ethel Harper replied softly but firmly, sitting on the floor amid an old leather suitcase stuffed with papers. Its memories.
Memories, Henry snorted. That memory is giving me a backache. Youll toss it all out in a year anyway. Theres no room.
Ethel said nothing. Her fingers brushed the worn cover of a faded photo album and she opened it.
Look, she said, as if Henrys grumbling were a distant hum. Primary school. Remember?
Reluctantly, Henry leaned in. In the yellowed photograph a little girl squinted at the sun, her hair tied with white ribbons.
I remember, he grumbled, a touch softer. You were crying because your apron kept catching on the stove.
That was the scout camp
The Brownsea camp, Henry nodded, peeking over her shoulder. You brought back that shell from there. Its still somewhere in this mess.
He went back to shoving boxes, now without his earlier zeal. Ethel turned the pages one by one: school days, university, their weddingHenry in an absurdly roomy blazer, her in a lace dress meant for a motherofthebride. Young, smooth, smiling into the camera, blissfully unaware of the cramped flat twenty years later, his perpetually sour remarks, her quiet resentment that romance had stayed on paper.
Watch out! Ethel suddenly cried.
Henry nudged a small cardboard box, and its contents spilled across the linoleum. While he grumbled and gathered the books, Ethel lifted a tiny velvetlined jewellery box from the floor. She lifted its lid.
Inside, on a bed of cotton, lay the very shell from Brownsea, a few dull scout badges, a dried mimosa twig and a folded school notebook page.
Whats this? Henry asked once the cleanup was over.
Ethel unfolded the page. In a careful childs hand it read: My wish list. 1. Become a doctor. 2. Play the guitar. 3. Visit Paris. 4. Marry for true love.
She slid the sheet toward him. He skimmed it, softened a little, then snorted:
Well, you didnt become a doctor. You cant play the guitar either. Paris isnt on the cards As for love He trailed off, rubbing his aching back. You didnt become a doctor, but now my back hurts like an old mans, thanks to your archives.
Ethel took the sheet from his hands, stared at point four, then at her husbands tired, dustcaked face, at his hands that had just been hauling heavy boxes to make a sliver of space in her wardrobe.
Marrying for true love doesnt mean perpetual romance, Henry, she said. It means when your husbands back hurts, the wife gives a massage, and he repays her by washing the dishes.
She folded the page neatly, tucked it back into the velvet box and closed the lid.
All right, she sighed. Maybe youre right about some of it. Some of this can actually be sorted out.
She set the box aside in the pile of things that would never be tossed. Then she walked over to Henry, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his scruffy stubble.
Thank you, she whispered. For everything.
Henry froze for a moment, then awkwardly ran his hand through her hair.
Come off it whats this all about? he murmured. Youll still give my back a rub, wont you?
Always, Ethel smiled, resting her head on his shoulder.
She knew the Paris trip and the guitar would stay where they belongedon that yellowed paper of a childhood wish list. But here, in the dusty, cramped hallway, the scent was not of dreams but of livedin life. And that, she thought, was a kind of happiness you cant photograph or paste into an album. It simply was. And that was more than enough.
