The Spare Room

The Spare Room

Long ago, I remember, Andrew set down two rolls of wallpaper by the hallway wall and, not even bothering with his boots, pushed his shoulder against the door to what we all called the spare room. The door met with something soft and wouldn’t open all the way. He sighed and pushed harder, feeling the agitation he’d kept bottled up all day at the office start to prickle in his throat.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, he muttered, though no one else had left the kitchen. Again.

Inside, bags of old clothes, ancient electrical boxes, a battered mattress propped against the wall, and a shelf cluttered with jars, books, and a tangle of wires. The only clear path snaked its way to the window, where a dusty box of Christmas baubles sat on the sill.

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

Youve got the paper, then? she asked, not eyeing the rolls but instead scanning the room as if inspecting it for new growth.

I have. And the paint. And the filler. Andrew left the rolls by the wall, out of the way. But first, we need to actually get the door open.

Mary wordlessly bent down, grabbed the end of a bag, and tugged it back half a metre. The door gave.

Lets do this properly, she said. Today we sort it. Tomorrow the walls. And thats final. None of this later nonsense.

Andrew nodded, though a familiar reluctance rose within him. Later had always been their familys way to avoid arguments. So long as the room belonged to no one, there was no need to decide for whom it was.

From the kitchen came Janes voice:

Ill help, just tell me what Im allowed to move.

Jane had lived with them two years now, since her mother passed away and her room in the old terrace was sold. Tidy and quiet, her presence was like a second skin of the flat, not disruptive, but woven into their routines.

Move whatever, Mary replied too quickly. Then, more carefully: Almost everything.

Andrew stepped into the room, treading carefully around a box labelled wires. He grabbed the mattress standing on its side and tried to shift it. It caught on the handle of an old suitcase.

Give us a hand, he said to Mary.

She steadied the mattress, and Andrew dragged out the suitcase. Heavy, its leather corners worn, the clasp bound tight with knotted wire.

Whose is this? he asked.

Mary looked and turned her gaze away.

Mums. She said it as if the suitcase itself was listening in.

Jane entered, holding a bundle of newspapers tied with string.

These for the bin? she asked.

Chuck them, Andrew answered. Just bag them first, so they dont scatter.

He pushed the suitcase to the door. Absentmindedly, he tried to work the wire loose, but Mary noticed.

Dont. she said. Later.

Andrew met her eye.

We did agree. Today, Mary.

She pressed her lips together, took the box of baubles from the window, and left for the hall, as if that was much more pressing.

Jane stayed out of it, opening a fresh rubbish sack and emptying the old newspapers in. The paper rustled, and somehow that sound irked Andrew more than the rooms mess.

He grabbed the nearest box, the sort that might crumple if you looked at it wrong. Tom School was written on the lid, brown tape coming loose along the edge. Andrew prised it open: inside were exercise books, a diary, a couple of certificates, a snap ruler, and at the top a small football shirt with a number on the back.

Andrew stopped. The shirt was for a child, but not a little onea child at that age when colours were still worn proudly.

This is he started.

Mary drew close, looked in.

Dont touch it, she said softly.

Why not? Andrew asked. Were sorting everything out anyway

He didnt finish. He isnt coming back was too hard to voice, even if he’d thought it.

Jane looked up from the bag.

Tom called yesterday, she offered quietly. I heard Mary on the phone.

Mary turned instantly.

You were listening in?

No, Jane raised her hands. Justwell, the walls are thin. He asked after you.

Andrew felt something inside him shift. Tom, their son, lived in another city now, renting a flat for work. Visits were rare, each one treated by Mary like an exam to prepare for. The spare room was still his room to her, though there wasnt a bed in it any more.

Well? Is he coming? Andrew asked.

Mary shrugged.

Said, perhaps in the spring. She spoke as if reciting something said too often already.

Andrew put the box back, leaving the lid ajar. The football shirt stared back at him, like a silent rebuke.

Were making this my study, he said, more to himself than them. Im done with working at the kitchen table. Done not having a room with a door I can close.

Mary looked at him as though hed suggested tossing out a pet.

A study? she repeated. If he comes, where will he sleep?

On the sofa, like everyone else, Andrew said. Hes a grown man.

Jane gave a small cough.

We could get a folding chair bed, or a daybed, she suggested softly. Some are quite slim.

Andrew wanted to say the issue wasnt the furniture. It was that Mary was keeping this room as a promise hed never made.

He picked up another bag. Inside: old coats, scarves, blankets. He emptied it, found a bag of tools at the bottomhammer, screwdrivers, a tape measure, a tin of screws.

These are mine, he said, grateful for something obvious at last.

Mary nodded.

Well keep them. It sounded like a concession.

Jane, meanwhile, found a foldable table in the corner and tried opening it.

It wobbles, she said.

Bin it, Andrew replied.

Mary snapped, Wait. It still

Still what? Andrew rounded on her. Still stands there gathering dust? Mary, this isnt a museum.

He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. Mary lowered her eyes, stacking books into a box without looking at the titles.

Im not a museum, she said quietly. I just

She broke off. Andrew noticed her hand shake as she closed the box. He meant to go to her, but Jane had just pulled a flat cardboard folder from behind the bookcase.

Papers, Jane said. I dont know where these go.

A string-tied folder. Andrew took it, untied the string. Inside: a neat stack of letters and several photographs. The top letter was in Marys handwriting, though not addressed to him.

Andrew felt his hands grow cold.

Whats this? he asked.

Mary looked up. For a second he saw something tired in her face, before her expression blanked smooth.

Old things, she said.

For whom? Andrew held the letter as though it might burn.

Jane, sensing trouble, retreated to the door.

Ill put on the kettle, shall I? she said, and slipped out.

Andrew and Mary were left alone amid boxes and dustand suddenly he realised, the real clearing out had already begun, and not with wallpaper or paint.

Theyre from Michael, Mary said before he could ask. You remember.

Andrew remembered. Michael, her old school friend, the one before himself. Theyd married, had Tom, lived like everyone else. Michael only came up as a distant name, not something with weight.

Whys it here? he demanded.

Mary shrugged.

I couldnt throw it away. Itspart of me.

And that sits in the room we never touch, Andrew said. Just like everything else.

She moved closer and took the folder from his hands.

Dont pretend youre blameless, she said quietly. Your transfer forms still in that box, the one you never sent off. I saw it.

Andrew blinked.

What form?

The job in Liverpool. Printed, signedhidden away. Another later for the pile.

Anger flared, then faded with embarrassment. He had once considered leaving, when work was grim. Things got better, then change became frightening.

Thats not the same, he protested.

Mary shook her head.

No, Andrew. It is. You pack your hopes here; I pack my fears.

Andrew looked at the open box, Toms schoolbooks inside.

And even Tom, he said.

Mary sucked in her breath.

Dont.

I dont mean him, Andrew hurried. I mean us. Were holding on to a childs place. But hes living his own life.

Mary sat on the edge of the mattress, which creaked with her weight.

Do you think I dont know? she asked. I do. But if I stop holding on, all thats left feelsempty.

Andrew sat opposite her, perching on a hard box.

Its empty for me, too, he said quietly. I just dont keep letters.

Mary looked at the folder in her lap.

You think this is about Michael? she asked. Its about who I waswho I might have been. And sometimes Im scared that I lived wrongly. Not because of you. But because life just goes.

He fell silent. Suddenly he saw Mary not as a wife stubborn about his room but as a woman afraid to admit what may never return.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Jane reappeared with mugs, setting them on the windowsill.

Im not sure where to put this, she said, nodding at the folder. In the cupboard?

Mary looked at her.

Jane, she said with unexpected firmness. You dont have to rescue us.

Jane paused, then nodded.

Im not. I just live here. And Id like to know what happens next, too.

Andrew looked at Jane standing in the doorway, back straight, fingers gripped white. He suddenly realised the spare room was waiting for her as wellperhaps to see if shed be asked to leave when real life returned.

Were making this room, he said, choosing his words. Not to force anyone out. But so we can live.

Mary stood.

So lets settle this today, she said. What stays, what goes.

Andrew nodded.

My study, he repeated, but more gently. And a guest bed. So Tom can stay, and so Jane has her space if she wants.

Jane raised her eyes.

I dont need to shut myself away, she said softly. But sometimes it would be lovely, just for peace.

Mary took the tape measure from the tool bag.

Lets see then, she said briskly. If we put the desk by the window, the sofa-bed along that wall

Andrew was surprised by how quickly she took charge, but he knew: Mary always found comfort in practical steps.

They began clearing. Andrew took bags of clothes to the hallway. Mary sorted books: some to give away, others for the sitting room. Jane packed glass jars and lids just in case.

No need for these, Andrew said, referencing the jars.

Yes there is, Mary said, I make jam.

You made jam two years ago, Andrew rejoined.

Mary looked at him.

Well then, perhaps I will again. If theres somewhere to put it.

Andrew let it drop. It was easier to see, all at once, that the jar debate wasnt really about jars.

By evening, the floor was visible again. The old linoleum was rising in places. An old box of photos surfaced in a corner. Mary sat cross-legged sifting through them.

Andrew dropped down beside her.

Keep these? he asked.

Yes, Mary replied. But not hidden away. Somewhere anyone can look. Not as a secret stash.

She selected a few and set them aside. In one, Tom as a chubby-cheeked boy, all woolly hat and windburn. Another: Mary and Andrew, young, standing before the skeleton of a new housea future that looked certain then.

Andrew held up the photo.

We thought everything would be clear, he murmured.

Mary smiled a little.

We thought wed have a reserve, she said. Time, energy, a spare room for all eventualities.

Jane brought the suitcase in from the hall.

Its in the way, she said. Where to?

Mary looked at the suitcase, then at Andrew.

Open it, she told him.

He fetched pliers from the toolbox, untwisted the wire. The latch gave reluctantly, as though reluctant to let go.

Inside were her mothers things: scarves, an old album, a few letters, and at the bottoma neatly folded baby blanket.

Mary lifted it, pressed it to her chest, eyes shut.

Its mine, she murmured. Brought home in it from the hospital.

Andrew felt an unexpected ease. Hed feared ghosts and instead found plain things.

Keep it? he asked.

Mary nodded.

But not the whole suitcase. She scanned the room. Lets use a little boxtop shelf. So we remember, but dont live in it.

Jane said softly:

Shall I label it? So we dont forget.

Andrew glanced at Mary, who nodded.

Well label itMums, she said. And thats enough.

They packed the blanket, the album, a few letters into a small box. Mary sifted through the rest, a little at a time, putting most in a sack for the bin. Andrew saw it was hard for her, but she did it quietly, without tears.

When the box was packed, Andrew climbed onto a stool and stored it on the bookcases top shelfthe one theyd decided to keep. That shelf was to be, Mary had said, the memory corner. The lower shelves for files and a couple of seasonal boxesno more.

A rule, Mary said as, exhausted, they sat cross-legged on the floor. If anything goes here, we label it with a date to check again in a yearso this doesnt become a bog.

Andrew tilted his head.

A date?

Yes. Otherwise its just a swamp of old things. She looked at him. And another thing. If anyone wants to keep something just in case, they say whyout loud. Not hiding it.

Jane whispered:

And ask the others.

Andrew nodded.

Alright.

The next day, Andrew ripped up the linoleum, rolled it, and dragged it out to the tip. His hands ached, his back throbbed, but his head felt clear, oddly calm. Mary filled the holes in the walls, nose dusted white. Jane washed the window and sill, scrubbing away years of grime.

That evening, they hung a new lamp. Andrew, up a stepladder, connected wires. Mary handed up the insulating tape. Jane shone the torchthe room had no light just yet.

Ready, Mary called.

Andrew flicked the switch in the fuse box. A warm, steady light beamed down. The room was changednot spare, just a room.

They carried in the desk for the window. Andrew set his laptop upon it, no longer a nomad around the kitchen. Mary had found a slim sofa-bed from the shop; Jane brought in a little lamp, placed it on the shelf beside the Mums box.

Andrew took the final sack out. Pausing on the landing, he listened. It was quiet inside, but not empty. He returned, closed the door behind, and saw Mary in the new room, standing by the window, looking at the desk.

Well then? he asked.

Mary turned.

It feels like living, she said.

Jane, passing by, paused in the doorway.

If Tom wants to visit, she offered, I can move, of course.

Mary shook her head.

No need. Its not his or ours anymore. Its everyones. She looked at Andrew. And if someone wants to go or to stay, well talk about it. Not stuff it away.

Andrew stepped to the switch and turned off the hall light, leaving the warm glow in the room. He looked at the square of light on the floor, the desk by the window, the neat sofa, the small box on the high shelf.

Agreed, he said.

Mary straightened the lamp so it stood just right before she left the room. Such a small gesture, but it told of something new: not guarding the past, but tending to what tomorrow might bring.