I drove up
north at the weekend to do the last bit of clearing in my brother’s house. When
he left at the beginning of May, there was still some tiny question about
whether he’d be back; I think we all knew really that he wouldn’t but it seemed
important to leave it open to the just-in-case and the maybe.
And there
was so much stuff to pack – his entire past life, really. He’d had a lot of cupboards
and storage hidey-holes that I had not even known about. All full of old
clothes, photographs, postcards, badges, the memorabilia of a lifetime. Lots of
things I recognised from all our years together. I hadn’t even known they were
there until the last days of helping him get his stuff together for the move. Seeing
them was like a punch in the chest, a physical recall of the old Nick and how
he used to be. Funny, lively, engaged - a collector, a cyclist, a clubber, a
baker. A reader, a thinker, a dandy and a ladies’ man.
I had
carefully organised all the things he now used on a daily basis, and the range
was increasingly small so packing was fairly simple. But coming upon so many
treasures from a time when he was fit and active was a shock, a bit
overwhelming for us both, and suddenly it felt too much to move absolutely
everything in one go.
It was a
bit daft when we’d got a professional removal company putting everything in
boxes for us on the day of the move, and it wouldn’t have taken two minutes for
them to pack these things up with all the rest, but that’s how our minds were
working.
So we’d
left a few things behind– all his old photography and darkroom equipment; a
stack of his old framed photos and our dad’s paintings; a big suitcase full of
dress shirts, silk ties and beautiful suits from his days as a hotel manager.
We left them as guardians of the space, so Nick hadn’t left entirely.
I have
missed the drive up the A1 so much, the long straight road and those big skies
gradually opening up ahead, the signs for The North and a sense of coming home
the way I never feel going south. But as I stopped at the usual service station
for a coffee and a wee, I could feel myself reluctant, stalling for time.
I realized
that I didn’t really want to go back into that empty house. It was the house
that had seen Nick’s slow decline but he’d been happy there too. I dreaded
seeing it so bare and desolate.
Nick’s ex,
Nikki, was going to come and meet me there as she still lives locally and is
supervising the rebuilding work. Naturally she was late – she’s always late –
but it helped to know that someone else would be there.
It was a
beautiful day, the key was still there in the keysafe and the front door opened
easily into a room full of sunlight. Inside, the house felt calm and welcoming.
Bare, and barely recognisable – such a big light space with no furniture and
the ceiling stripped right back to the beam. No radio. No cats. No Nick in his
chair.
Lots of
dust balls and curling pizza flyers but no ghosts in the house.
By the time
Nikki arrived I’d disposed of three bin bags of crap and put all the suits and
the pictures and the boxes in the car. Almost as an after thought (ain’t it
always the way) we opened the meter cupboard in the hall to check there was
nothing left inside, and under a pile of Christmas paper was a box of ring
binders full of Nick’s old letters and diaries. Letters from me, our parents and from Nikki
– and that’s when it did feel as if we were encountering the ghosts of our
former selves as well as his.
So many
memories. Nikki said she felt a bit of a shudder as she realized that it was
exactly the time they had got married, 17 years ago to the day. The richness of
their lives together, all the people they had known and the places they had
been. All this, still existing somehow in a parallel universe where she and Nick
might have grown old together.
We put all
the last bits and pieces in her car for the charity shop and went to the Grey
Horse for a gin.
