Fiona
(edited extract)
The house seems so still after Jack and the movers leave at the same time. It suddenly feels so real – that I’m here, alone, and that this is my home again, and I have to sort all of this dusty chaos into order somehow. The immensity of the challenge is overwhelming. Thinking about it is like flicking an elastic band on my wrist – a flash of discomfort to distract myself from thinking about the truly painful things in my life.
Now that my belongings have arrived, I find the box of linen to make up my bed so it’s ready for tonight. I set up an electric oil heater in my room and turn it on high. There’s not much I can do about the chill in the air throughout the rest of the house until the firewood arrives, so I pull on an extra jumper. At least the room will be toasty by the time I go to bed.
On my way back downstairs I stop to wind the grandfather clock, smiling to myself as the second hand immediately begins to tick. The hourly chimes were part of the soundtrack to my childhood – maybe I’ll notice them when I’m trying to sleep tonight, but they’ll quickly fade into the background just as they did when I was a kid. I head back to the kitchen and pause long enough to raid the groceries I picked up this morning, which I’ve stashed in the old ice chest to keep them safe from potential rodents. I succumb to the temptation of potato chips, but promise myself this will be the very last time I eat like a teenager. I have a fridge now, so tomorrow I’ll stock it with lean protein. Green things. Grown-up food.
I look around the long kitchen, cast in shades of yellow from the new bulbs in the dusty pendant lights, and a smile breaks over my face, despite the mess. I’ll replace the glass in those long windows – maybe the same style, if I can get them double glazed. I’ll redesign the cabinets. Maybe add an era-appropriate rug under the farmhouse table, and some stronger lighting, and a fresh paint job.
In time, it’s going to be amazing. For now, I need to tackle the mess in that disaster of a pantry, so I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
As the last light of the day fades, the house seems to come alive. It’s noisy in old houses – wood that expands during the day contracts during the night, so there are cracks and pops and mystery sounds as the cold night air settles. It’s charming at first but it doesn’t take long before I’m startling a little at the louder cracks, and straining to make sense of the quieter sounds. It doesn’t help that the house is bitterly cold, and I don’t even have a radio or television to turn on to distract me. I spent sixteen years here and I don’t remember being aware of those noises before, but the house must have always been noisy like this. I’ve just forgotten. That’s all.
I take a breath and calmly acknowledge that this is going to feel very odd until I get used to the house again. The only way out is through, as Tad would have said. I just have to ride out the first few days…
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