The Spare Room

The Spare Room

Richard set two rolls of wallpaper down on the hallway floor, his boots still on, and pushed open the door to the spare room with his shoulder. The door stuck on something soft and failed to budge fully. He exhaled and forced it again, feeling the familiar irritation which had dogged him all day at work tightening in his chest.

Here we are then, he said to himself, though no one else had left the kitchen yet. Again.

Inside, bulging binbags of clothing, battered cardboard boxes, an old mattress propped against the wall, and a rickety shelving unit cluttered the space. The shelves were a muddle of jars, books, and tangles of wires. A narrow path remained to the window, where a box of dusty Christmas ornaments sat on the sill.

Elizabeth appeared behind him, drying her hands on a tea towel.

Youve bought the wallpaper, then? she asked, looking not at the rolls but into the room, checking as if something new might have sprung up.

I have. And paint. And filler, Richard replied, setting the rolls against the corridor wall out of the way. But well need to get this door open properly, first.

Elizabeth bent without a word, hooked the edge of a bag, and dragged it a foot to one side. The door swung open.

Lets do this properly, she said. We clear it today. Walls tomorrow. Thats all. No more later.

Richard nodded, although a familiar reluctance churned inside him. Later was the familys way of avoiding arguments. As long as the room belonged to no one, nobody had to decide what it was for.

From the kitchen, a voice called out: Ill help, just let me know what I can touch.

That was Emily, who had been living with them for the past two years, ever since her mother died and the old flat in town was sold off. Emily was careful, quiet, her presence in the house like an extra layer of airnever in the way, but shifting the rhythm nonetheless.

Anything can go, Elizabeth replied too quickly. Then she corrected herself: Well, almost anything.

Richard, picking his way through the boxesone marked Cablesgrabbed the mattress, which stood on end, and tried to shift it. The mattress snagged on the handle of an ancient suitcase.

Mind holding this for a sec? he said to Elizabeth.

She caught the mattress, and Richard slid the suitcase free. It was heavy, corners scuffed, a thin wire twisted and looped around the clasp.

Whose is this? he asked.

Elizabeth glanced, then looked away. Mums, she murmured, as if the suitcase might have overheard.

Emily padded in, holding a bundle of old newspapers tied up with string. These to go?

Newspapers, yes, said Richard. Bag them first so they dont go everywhere.

He set the case down by the door. The wire was tightly wound; he ran his fingers over it, testing if it would come free. Elizabeth noticed at once.

Leave it, she said. Later.

Richard looked at her.

Lizzie, remember what we said. Today.

She pressed her lips together, grabbed the Christmas decorations from the sill, and marched them to the corridor, as though that were of urgent importance.

Emily quietly opened a bin bag and began loading in the papers, the rustle of newsprint somehow grating on Richard more than the mess itself.

He grabbed a box at random, labelled Ben School. The tape across the lid was peeling away. Inside, he found exercise books, a school diary, a few certificates, a plastic ruler, and, on top, a childs football shirt, the number still bright on the back.

He paused. The shirt was smallchild sized, but not for a very young child, just the right age when bright colours are worn without embarrassment.

This is he started.

Elizabeth came closer to look.

Leave that, she said quietly.

Why? asked Richard, though he knew. Were meant to be

He broke off; he wont be coming back was too harsh, even if it echoed in his own thoughts.

Emily, looking up from the dustbin bag, said softly, Ben rang yesterday. I heard you speaking to him, Lizzie.

Elizabeth spun round. Were you eavesdropping?

No, Emily answered, hands up. Its justyou were loud. He wanted to know how you are.

Richard felt something lurch inside. Ben, their son, lived in another city, working, renting a flat. He rarely visited, each return a big event for which Elizabeth readied herself as if for an ordeal. The spare room was always his room in her mind, even though a bed hadnt been in there for years.

Well? said Richard. Is he planning on coming?

Elizabeth shrugged. He said, maybe in the spring. She recited the words as if shed said them often and to herself.

Richard put the box back on the floor, not quite closing the lid. The little shirt sat on top, accusing.

Were making an office, he said. Im tired of working at the kitchen table, tired of never being able to close a door.

Elizabeth looked at him as if hed suggested tossing out something living. An office? she echoed. What if he does come? Where will he sleep?

Hell manage on the sofa in the lounge, like anyone else, said Richard. Hes grown up.

Emily cleared her throat.

You could get a fold-out chair. Or a sofa bed. There are slim ones these days.

Richard wanted to say it wasnt about the sofa. It was about Elizabeth keeping the room as a promise he never made.

He grabbed another bin bag. Old coats, scarves, blankets. At the bottom, a plastic bag with tools: hammer, screwdrivers, tape measure, a tub of screws.

These are mine, he said, pleased at something straightforward.

Elizabeth nodded. We keep those. She said it as if granting a favour.

Emily, digging in the corner, pulled out a folding table and tried to set it up.

It wobbles, she announced.

Get rid of it, said Richard.

Wait, said Elizabeth. Its still

Still what? Richard spun round. Still gathering dust? Lizzie, were not running a museum.

The words escaped and he at once regretted them. Elizabeth dropped her eyes, stacking books into a box without glancing at the titles.

Im not a museum, she whispered. I justI

She broke off. Richard saw her hands tremble as she shut the box. He wanted to go to her. At that moment, Emily pulled out from behind the shelving a flat cardboard folder.

Papers here, she said. Not sure what to do with them.

Richard took the folder, untying the string. Inside: letters in neat stacks and a few old photographs. The top letter was in Elizabeths handbut not to him.

He felt his palms prickle with cold.

Whats this? he asked.

Elizabeths face flickered with weariness, then became calm.

Its old, she said.

To whom? Richard held the letter like it could scald.

Emily, realising shed crossed an invisible line, backed toward the door.

Ill, um, make some tea, she murmured, and slipped out.

Richard and Elizabeth were left among boxes and dust; suddenly the renovation had already begun, only not on the walls.

These are from Andrew, said Elizabeth, pre-emptive. You remember.

Richard did. Andrew, her university friend, someone shed dated before Richard. Then theyd married, had Ben, led an ordinary life. Andrews name surfaced now and then, a shadow from the past, weightless.

Why keep them here? Richard asked.

Because… I couldnt throw them away. Itspart of me.

And you hold onto it, in the room we never touch, said Richard. Like everything else.

Elizabeth stepped nearer, lifted the folder from his hands.

Dont pretend youre so straightforward, she said. Youve still got that transfer application tucked in your box. I saw it.

Richard blinked. What application?

To work in London. Printed out, signed, hidden. Elizabeth spoke evenly, something dangerous underneath. Later.

A flush of anger, mingled with shame, rose up in him. He had thought about leaving once, when things had been rough at work. It got better, then he was afraid to change.

Thats different, Richard said.

No. Its not, Elizabeth shook her head. Its all the same. We stash it all in here. You, your schemes; me, my fears.

Richard glanced at the open school box.

And Ben as well, he said.

Elizabeths breath caught.

Dont.

Its not about him, Richard raised his hands. Its about us. Were keeping a place open for him, as if he werent an adult living his own life.

Elizabeth sat on the edge of the mattress. It groaned.

You think I dont know? she murmured. I do. But if I let go… itll all feel empty.

Richard sat opposite, on an awkward box.

So do I, he said. But I dont keep letters for it.

Elizabeth gazed at the folder in her lap.

You think its about Andrew? she asked. Its about the person I might have been. Sometimes Im scared Ive lived wrong. Not because of you. Because time goes on.

Richard was silent. Suddenly, he saw her not as a wife stubbornly guarding his room, but as a woman struggling with the finality of what would never return.

Footsteps in the corridor. Emily returned, mugs in hand, and set them down by the window.

No idea where to put this, she said, nodding to the folder. Want it in the cupboard?

Elizabeth looked up.

Emily, she said, her voice unexpectedly firm. You dont have to save us.

Emily hesitated, then nodded. Im not saving anyone. I just… live here. Id like to know whats happening too.

Richard glanced at her. Emily stood at the door, back straight, knuckles white where she gripped the tray. He realised that for Emily, the spare room was also an uncertaintywaiting, perhaps, to be asked to leave when real life returned.

Were doing up the room, Richard said carefully. Not to shunt anyone out. But so we canwell, live.

Elizabeth got up.

So, she said. Today, we decide what this room will be. And what it wont.

Richard nodded.

An office, he repeated, more softly. And a guest space. So Ben can stay, and Emily can close the door if she needs to.

Emily looked up. I dont need to shut myself in. But, sometimes, itd be nice to have quiet.

Elizabeth took up the tape measure from the tools.

Lets see, she said, running it out. If you put the desk by the window and a small sofa along the wall

Richard marvelled at her swift transition to practicalities. Elizabeth always coped by doing.

They set to sorting. Richard lugged the bags of clothes to the corridor. Elizabeth filtered the bookssome to be given away, some to shelves in the lounge. Emily collected glass jars and their lids in bags, in case they came in handy.

We dont need those jars at all, Richard said.

We do, countered Elizabeth. I use them for jam.

You last made jam two years ago, Richard replied.

Elizabeth fixed him with a look. Maybe Ill make more this year. If theres somewhere to keep them.

He left it; he knew the jars werent really the point.

By evening, you could finally see the floor. The old linoleum bulged in patches. In the corner, they uncovered a box of photographs. Elizabeth sat cross-legged and rifled through them.

Richard came and crouched beside her. These for keeps?

Yes, said Elizabeth. But not here. I want themaccessible, not hidden.

She picked out a few and set them aside. One was Ben as a toddler, chapped cheeks, woollen hat. Another, she and Richard, young, standing before the half-finished house that seemed then to promise everything.

Richard studied the photograph.

We thought everything would be simple, he said.

Elizabeth smiled faintly. We thought wed always have some in reserveenergy, time, room.

Emily carried in the suitcase from the hall.

Its blocking the way, she said. What now?

Elizabeth looked at the case, then at Richard.

Lets open it, she said.

Richard fetched pliers, unwound the wire. The lock clicked open, and the suitcase creakedalmost resisting.

Inside, neatly folded, were her mothers scarves, an old album, a bundle of letters, and at the very bottom, a babys blanket.

Elizabeth drew out the blanket, pressed it to her chest, eyes closed.

This is mine, she whispered. They brought me home from the hospital in it.

Richard felt a weight lift. He had expected something dreadful, but found only something ordinaryand precious.

Shall we keep it? he asked.

Elizabeth nodded.

But not the whole suitcase. She glanced round. Lets put the keepsakes in a little box, up on the top shelf. So we remember, but dont get stuck.

Emily ventured, We could label it. So we know, if we forget.

Richard looked at Elizabeth. She nodded.

Well label it, Mums. Thats all.

They packed the blanket, album and a few letters into a small box. The rest Elizabeth sorted, murmurings soft, some for the bin. Richard saw how hard it was for her, but she did itwithout tears, just slowly.

When the box was ready, Richard stood on the step stool and set it high on the shelf they decided to keep. The shelving would now stand against the far wall: the memory corner, as Elizabeth named it. Lower shelves for files and the odd seasonal boxnot more.

A rule, said Elizabeth, once they sat on the floor to rest. If anything goes in here, it must be labelled and have a review date. We check it every year.

Richard blinked.

A review date?

To stop it all becoming stagnant. She looked at him. And if anyone wants to save something just in case, they say why. Not hide it.

Emily added quietly, And check with everyone.

Richard nodded.

Agreed.

The next day, Richard ripped up the old linoleum, rolled it, and took it to the tip. His hands were sore, his back ached, but his mind was oddly settled. Elizabeth patched and sanded the walls, her nose dusted white. Emily washed the window and sill, scrubbing through the old grime.

By evening, they put up a new light fixture; Richard on a stepladder, wires bared, Elizabeth passing the electrical tape, Emily holding the torch, as the rooms light was yet to be fitted.

Ready? said Elizabeth.

Richard flicked the switch. The new light glowed steady, bright and unwavering. The room looked transformed: not spare, just a room.

They set the desk by the window. Richards laptop, which had travelled from kitchen to kitchen, found a home. Elizabeth fetched a slim sofa bed from the shop, which pulled out easily. Emily brought in a little lamp and stood it on the shelf beside the box labelled Mums.

Richard carried out the last bag of rubbish. On the landing, he paused and listened. The flat was quiet, but not empty. He went back in, closed the door behind him and saw Elizabeth standing in the new room by the window, looking at the desk.

Well then? he asked.

Elizabeth turned.

Feels like living, she said.

Emily, passing, lingered in the doorway.

If Ben does come, I can give up the room, she offered.

Elizabeth shook her head.

No need. Its not his anymore, or ours. Its for all of us. She looked at Richard. And if any of us want to stay or go, well say so. We wont pile it all up.

Richard moved to the light switch and turned off the hall light, leaving the new room shining. He looked at the square of warm brightness on the floor, at the desk by the window, the neat sofa, the labelled box on the high shelf.

Agreed, he said.

Elizabeth nodded, and before leaving, adjusted the lamp on the shelf, so it stood straight. It was a small gesture, but in it lay something new: not a safeguard of the past, but a care for whatever tomorrow might bring.