Page 15 of The House of Hopes and Dreams
I had coffee and muesli, though the only milk I could find in the fridge was soya, which tasted … different. I expect it’s an acquired taste, like the spelt bread. Further exploration revealed a lump of vegan cheese and there was a thin layer of vegetarian ready meals in the freezer on top of the home-made wholemeal bread and perfectly healthy dinners prepared and put in there by Molly.
There were boxes of things called ‘paleo bars’ in the cupboard, too. I expect palaeolithic people spenthoursbeating their nuts and seeds into neat little rectangles before they ate them.
I lifted a wholemeal loaf out to defrost and then went back upstairs to shower and dress in my workaday jeans and a warm, fleecy green sweatshirt. After that I unpacked, cramming my dumped belongings away in the wardrobe and chest of drawers in the boxroom.
I was just loading the washing machine with incongruously bright, summery holiday clothing when Molly rang to see if I was OK.
I assured her I was. ‘Actually, I haven’t seen Nat and Willow since we got back last night and now they seem to have gone out for the day.’
‘I can’t believe how callous and unfeeling they’re being,’ she said indignantly. ‘I mean, even if they’re right about Nat inheriting everything, which I doubt they are, that wasn’t the time or place to discuss it. And the way they spoke to you was disgraceful.’
‘It did totally take me aback that they were so relishing being vindictive,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m seeing Mr Barley first thing tomorrow morning so I’ll see what he says.’
‘I suspect they’re jumping the gun, because they must have to wait till probate is granted before they can do anything. But Mr Barley will tellyou your rights – I’m sure you’re entitled to some provision from the estate – and then make sure they behave themselves,’ she said confidently.
‘I hope so,’ I said, and told her about the inventory. ‘I think she’s listed the entire contents of the cottage down to the last teaspoon! And though they’re just inanimate objects, some of them have memories attached.’
‘Of course they have. And what do you do about the things you bought together, or that Julian bought for you?’
Julian and I used to enjoy going to car-boot sales on sunny summer Sunday afternoons; it was one of the things we did together. Julian loved to rummage among the books and also had a thing about carriage clocks, while I adored buying pretty pieces of old china for my dresser and unusual plates that I displayed on one kitchen wall. Who paid for what hadn’t been something we’d given any thought to.
I also collected old samplers, though you didn’t often spot those in car-boot sales. My most valuable ones were those that Julian had bought me as Christmas and birthday presents and they’d literally have to kill me to get their hands on those.
‘I’d ignore the list till you’ve seen Mr Barley,’ she advised. ‘Cheeky cow!’
‘That was my first thought, but since I expect I’ll have to move out atsomepoint, I might as well do it now,’ I said. ‘It’ll keep my mind occupied for a bit, because I don’t know quite what to do with myself.’
‘There is that,’ she conceded. ‘And if you start by crossing off everything that was already in the cottage when you moved in, that’ll speed the job up.’
‘Good thinking – and that’s most of the furniture, for a start, though there are a few good pieces that belong to me, like the Welsh dresser, the rocking chair, that funny dark wood corner cabinet with the twirly barley-sugar columns … oh, and the black wood triangular chair with the rush seat. Those were all Gran’s.’
‘I wish I could come and help, but we’re going over to Grant’s mum’s for Sunday lunch today.’
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t mind doing it alone,’ I told her and, since it was better than sinking into a black hole of misery overJulian and wondering what the future held, I got right down to it as soon as she’d rung off.
I went through the small cottage methodically, room by room, starting upstairs. There wasn’t anything in the boxroom of mine, except for the luggage and clothing recently dumped there, but I circled the Lloyd Loom chair and laundry basket in the bathroom. I’d bought them from a junk shop, resprayed them white and made a new padded lid and cushion from a small remnant of fifties fabric printed with jolly poodles and the Eiffel Tower.
There was a matching cushion on the chair in what had been our bedroom and a few pieces of bric-a-brac. In pride of place on one wall hung a framed seventeenth-century sampler that had been my thirtieth birthday gift from Julian, though the rest of my collection was in the sitting room.
Julian’s personal effects, like his watch and cufflinks, were still in his top drawer and though I cried over them, I left them where they were. They seemed to have pushed his belongings aside, rather than cleared them out like mine.
Downstairs, the oak settle, the mahogany hallstand and the splendid carpet runner up the polished floor of the hall had already been crossed off, but I’d bought the yellow Chinese pottery umbrella stand recently, because I’d been drawn to sunny, cheerful things during the dark days after Julian’s first stroke.
The cloakroom held nothing of mine except coats and boots, and the tiny room next to it had been solely Julian’s studio and den. But the sitting room, cosy and cluttered, was the one I was putting off.
Time slipped by as memories were evoked by the things we’d acquired together, even though I firmly crossed them off the list, one by one, denying Willow any opportunity to do a Judgement of Solomon and divide them into two useless halves.
The soft ticking of Julian’s row of carriage clocks on the mantelpiece kept me company, once I’d wound and reset them.
The bureau held my personal paperwork in one of the drawers. I hoped they hadn’t been through that, but I wouldn’t put it past them.
There were boxes of photographs in there, too, mainly of windows, occasionally with either me or Julian in the foreground, as well as the annual workshop Christmas pictures: me, Julian, Grant and old Ivan. Ivan’s grandson, Louis, had taken the last one. He’d hoped Julian would take him on as an apprentice when he left sixth-form college next summer, but now his future, like mine, was obscured by uncertainty.
Willow had listed every single sampler in my collection, all the antique plates hanging in the kitchen and even the bits of pottery on my dresser. It must have taken herhours, and was entirely pointless because I ringed each and every one.
How I’d loved my kitchen, with the big old wooden table and the rocking chair near the inglenook fireplace, which was big enough to take whole logs. A jewel-bright rag rug lay in front of it, made by Molly. I’d added to the crockery and utensils over the years, but who cared so much about those that they would carefully list and describe each potato peeler and mixing bowl?
Willow, apparently.
