“House Clearance” – a short story

House Clearance

The rocking chair. That was the hardest part to watch as it was manoeuvred through the doorway and out onto the stone terrace. Careless hands grabbed the polished mahogany arms and caught, without a care, at the seam where the gently worn fabric was starting to fray. She closed her eyes briefly and tried to imagine herself away, somewhere else, somewhere less painful, somewhere less…now. When she was a little girl – fluffy-haired, freckled, fragile – that rocking chair had seemed so enormous; its unpredictable lurching back and forth when she moved had felt like some under-the-surface creature, tethered and angry, ready to consume her. Then she’d curl up on her father’s knee, wrapped in the gentle tendrils of his pipe smoke, her head buried in his scratchy waistcoat, and she’d feel safe. He tamed the monster and rocked it steadily back and forth until her eyelids drooped and she rolled with the smooth waves into a dreamless sleep.

Her father had died in that chair; he’d quite simply stopped breathing, and the chair had quite simply stopped rocking. That moment when she’d lifted her eyes from her book and glanced over at him across the room stayed with her forever – a perfect moment of stillness and peace that held itself, like a breath; it settled around her and the lingering smell of his pipe tobacco had drifted into the corners of the room where it curled up and rested, undisturbed.

Now those corners were being turned inside out, contents dragged into the light and forced to confront the glare of the day as it bit into the protective solitude of the cottage, her cottage. She watched from the little bench by the stream, her pale face tilted up across the tangled garden, as the men dismantled her life, piece by precious piece. Beside her, the peaty, brown water gurgled unconcernedly along the edge of the common land. It was just a small patch of blackberry bushes, brambles, wild roses and a somewhat incongruous buddleia to which a kaleidoscope of butterflies was drawn each summer, delicately patterned wings fluttering against its purple flowers. She’d always kept a pathway clear through it so that she could make her way down from the terrace in front of the house to this clearing, and look back up to the warm, grey stones which had kept her safe for so, so many years. Sun-soaked and weather worn, they had stories to tell; she held each memory in joyously painful detail, and now they flickered across her cold eyelids like a disjointed movie reel of days passed.

A heavy thump and a sharp, mirthless laugh forced her eyes open. The rocking chair had been flung into the back of the truck and one of the men was rubbing his ankle as the other, the one with the grubby white scarf tied round his neck, mocked and sneered. Two others emerged from the house with heavy boxes of books straining the muscles in their arms, their necks, their backs. One of them grunted and dumped a box on the ground, kicking it towards the truck. She winced. Every word in every one of those books was part of her life. She saw herself lost in the Swiss Alps with Heidi desperately seeking the approval of the embittered old grandfather; she was flitting across waves towards a deserted island in a little sailing dinghy called Swallow, ready to do battle with piratical amazons; then, later, she was a quiet, frightened orphan called Jane whose misery and loneliness found love in the arms of gruff Mr Rochester. Her parents had filled the house with books and she lived in each and every one of them, becoming and being the hero, the heroine, the victor, the loser until one day she read The Story of My Life by Helen Keller and wrote in the cover ‘The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched – they must be felt with the heart.’ Her path was set and she had chosen to dedicate her life to the teaching and nurturing of blind children, bringing home to her cottage their each and every small step, and feeling each and every one of their struggles in her heart. It now all seemed such a long time ago, and she searched again for the answers to her lonely questioning about whether the sacrifices had been worth it; worth this as she watched what was left of her life being boxed up and carted away. There was no one else to want it, love it, care what happened to it. And that hurt, deeply.

She gave a sudden gasp as her Bible, beautifully bound in deep blue and gold, a present from her father on the day of her First Communion, was kicked carelessly into a nearby box of crumpled paper and debris. Cold, pale lips pressed together; fingers anxiously twisted the little gold cross on a chain at her still throat. This was so heartless. How had it come to this? To them, ‘the men’, these were just things, pieces and parts that held nothing other than potential profit. The threads of time and life that bound it all together in her heart, in her soul, meant nothing to them. But then, why should they? It was her life that was being picked over like the dusty, white bones of some forgotten creature, the remains of lonely years and fractured dreams strewn out across the ground for predators to devour. She was allowing it to happen, unable to take control.

In the window above the front door sat Jennifer, staring down at her; eyes a hazy green, hair the colour of polished conkers, a slight blush to her porcelain cheeks. Her dress was a faded buttercup yellow and the sun caught on the tiny little shamrock charm which she wore around her neck. She’d loved Jennifer for as long as she could remember. Her father had bought her at a local antique fair, the lady wrapping her in pale pink tissue paper and matching ribbon, and he had carried the doll as carefully as a newborn. It was the best birthday present she’d ever had. She watched now as heavy hands lifted Jennifer from the windowsill and she wanted to call out, warn him about the arm which would fall if he didn’t take care, the arm which was broken when her mother, in one of her fits of fury, had flung Jennifer against the stone chimney breast. She remembered so vividly the silence which had suffocated the room, and she remembered so vividly that she had shed not a tear over the twisted body of her beloved Jennifer. She never cried. Ever. What was the point?

She watched as Jennifer disappeared from view.

The soft rustle of a breeze trembled down the valley and for a few moments the sun hid its face behind a cotton-grey cloud, almost embarrassed, ashamed to be a witness to this unfolding chapter of a lifelong story with such an ignoble ending. In sudden silence, an osprey appeared overhead; soaring effortlessly on a current, it surveyed with disdain the world beneath it. She held it in her gaze and watched its freedom as it cut through sky, dismissed cloud, prey, light and shade. Its intent was focused and fierce. The one with the grubby white scarf tied round his neck looked up as the osprey shrieked its high-pitched call. He shielded his eyes with his hand and tracked the bird across the light, his head slightly cocked to the beautifully dangerous sound, then turned as if to tell his co-worker. But for some reason he changed his mind, looked once more into the sky and then returned to the task of throwing a copper coal scuttle into the truck. She watched him, a cold tear on her pale cheek.

Onto the terrace emerged one of the men, tripping slightly on the slate step, and in his hand he held her precious suitcase. She curled her fingers as if wrapping them around the smooth, woven handle. Even from where she sat she could make out the gold coloured clasps on the suede straps, the bold stitching, the soft cocoa-brown leather. She breathed in deeply, searching for that rich, warm scent of the leather, willing it to drift down from the devastation above her. She’d found the case in a sale – too expensive otherwise. It was tucked away on a shelf and its old-fashioned design found it overlooked and reduced. She remembered staring at it in the shop, lost in the opportunities it presented, a symbol of dreams and plans – adventure, friendship, courage, the future; it was a passage to India, the Oregon trail, a room with a view, a gateway to the world. The one with the grubby white scarf tied round his neck took it, looked at it appraisingly, shook it. It might be worth something – ‘Vintage, maybe?’ It had clearly never been used; still brand new.

She shuddered. The water attempted to soothe her spirit and she steadied her hands in her lap then, one by one, tuned out each of her senses until all that remained was the calm pulsing of the water over the rocks. It flowed ceaselessly from the hills above, wrapping itself around rocky outcrops, curling under bridges and through gullies, until it arrived here, briefly, in front of her lonely bench, before continuing carelessly on its sinuous way to a far off sea. She allowed the sound to fill her, consume her, transport her. With a laugh and a gurgle, it twisted and turned for a moment in a small pool, calling to her. She reached gently forward with her thin, pale fingers and her spirit lifted with a grace and ease that had evaded her for most of her life. Why was she afraid to go? The translucency of her hand trailed lightly across the pale grass, brushed the top of a milky white daisy, and she allowed herself to disconnect gently from the world to which she was fearfully clinging. She’d thought to stay, allow her ethereal presence to watch over strangers as they breathed new life and love into her home. But this was too painful. Whatever was there, on the other side, couldn’t be as difficult as this; she just had to be brave, leave it all behind. She gave in to the pull which had tugged at her since that simple funeral and then, on the breath of a subtle breeze, she flowed to the water and settled her soul on its welcoming ripples; free, gone, at peace. The carefree stream took her willing spirit, dancing and laughing its way to the ocean.

Up above on the terrace in front of the cottage, the one with the grubby white scarf tied round his neck paused as he lifted a large, willow-patterned vase into his arms; his eyes flickered, momentarily unfocused and confused. He finally settled his gaze on the little bench down by the stream, still unsure about what had caught his attention, what had disturbed the air. He paused and everything went still, just for a brief moment; even the birds stopped their chatter in the nearby fir tree. Then he blinked. It’s just a bench, not even worth very much; just leave it where it is. The stream chuckled on, the birds sang in the fir tree, the osprey soared.