The Hoarder

She dipped her hand into the box, like she used to with the lucky dip, with a sense of expectation and the possibility of grabbing something of worth. Her fingers wrapped around a small torn piece of paper. "Marbles at dinnertime?" She smiled at the scrawny writing and the memory of it being passed to her at the back of the class through grubby fingers. Most dinners were accompanied by a good game of marbles with willing challengers on the drain by the adventure playground. Her mind drifted contentedly back on her early years. Whilst she was absorbed this way, Tom was out kicking a football around the field with his drinking mates. Unemployment had made him docile and now he seemed unaffected by the news of the baby growing inside her. Fatherhood, she thought, seemed part of life's set pattern to him, whilst she was still coming to terms with the ways it would affect her. She was alone now with her thoughts, her memories and her unborn child.

This particular task she had put off for years. The house, small as it was, was always immaculate, if a little cluttered. Everything had its own special place, she would always say defensively, and sure enough things seemed to belong in their designated spots. She was aware of the slightly strange looks and raised eyebrows when Tom's friends came around and curiously pottered through the mound of nic-nacs in the living room, waiting for the afternoon football scores. Pieces of knarled scrap iron she had found on the beach, the times when, as a child, her father had taken her down to that estuary in Kent. Pressed dried flowers from country walks, a small tinder box containing a tooth and some bits of blond fur from her birthday dog who had died in a car accident. There were vases and the usual sort of decorative ornaments, but her personal memorabilia always took pride of place and prime position. The back bedroom had always been the big exception in the house. Left to its own chaos, it exuded a musty, unkempt atmosphere. From wall to wall were the everyday things that had charted her life to date. It was the only place where she felt completely herself, in amongst her junk as Tom had always referred to it.

The news of the baby had upset the natural flow of both of their lives, even if they hadn't admitted it to one another. It had thrown up all of the usual sorts of spontaneous questions; what sort of person would it be, would it grow up to be prime minister, a professional, an artiste? Then more practically, would it be born normal and grow up like other kids? It had to have a room, for homework, for boy or girl friends, for privacy. Since they had started living together Tom had had a grand plan to do the back room up, to use it as a guest bedroom. She had hoped to put him off, to leave it a haven, a shrine even to her past life. He had at first been cruel about her habit of hoarding, had said it contributed to her dippiness and her general forgetfulness. For her however, it felt exciting every time she opened the door and rediscovered a portion of the person she had grown to be, but he wanted to replace that excitement with blue and cream striped "masculine" look curtains and the clean lines of bare sanded floorboards. He went on and on about this future plan, but he had never quite got around to doing it and she had never quite got around to clearing it out. He blamed his inaction on her hoarding, so the onus was on her to make the first signs of change to the room. Although it went unmentioned they both knew that there wasn't really the room now and she was sure the time would come when she would have to make a break from it all. Tom could only ever see it as an annoying habit of keeping everything that she was ever given, but she had tried to explain that she just became desperately attached to it all.

Now in the safe surroundings of the room she found herself laughing out loud at her innocent and frankly mundane diaries, written as a young adolescent. "Had chips and soggy steak and kidney pie for dinner, peas were nice though, like mum does them. I've noticed Roger looking at me from table seven. Perhaps it was Katy McNee, not me". Inside shoe boxes were valentine cards from still unknown admirers, letters, pictures cut out of magazines. Everything she handled seemed so fragile and yet so special. She was sat on the floor, basking in the warm light of the sun magnified through the window. Life always seemed incongruous to her. If she had been rich or famous, a rock star or a politician, someone that was of interest to everyone, none of this would be the worthless junk that it was. She took in the yellowing, flaking boxes, the photos, the recorder, the writings, everything in that room that was a record of the person she was and said "all of this would be worth hoarding, even desirable or collectable to somebody else if only I hadn't been born me". She felt cheated. Who was to say that her life was any less interesting or valuable as the next persons. A child is just a child when it is born. Who can tell if you are encouraging a real talent or just taking pride in each small achievement? She sank back against the wall feeling upset and confused. She always thought that she was going to be special, that she would make some sort of mark on the world. The only impact she had ever made was being the school champ at marbles and winning at a charity dry cracker eating contest, because she was the only one who hadn't choked. Yet her mother had always believed in her, had kept all of her attempts at art, drama, craft and academia. Now she was to become the mother and would have to nurture talents out of her child. She felt somehow resentful. She was expected to lock away her own memories, her life story, to make way for anothers. When she thought about the challenge of guiding a new personality however, she laughed out loud and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Into her head came a snippet of a song that she remembered mentally composing whilst waiting in the car for her mother and fathers return. She had heard the regular tolling of the church bell in the town and had felt most definitely at home in the world. "The birds were singing, the bells were ringing and the whole world's singing with joy". Sensing the same unconditional happiness, she set about carefully putting all of her scattered childhood memories into black plastic sacks. Tom would be looking for something to do when he came back from his kick around and she hoped he might lay down some wood on the attic floor, so that she could keep her bags safely tucked away for some other quiet Sunday afternoon. Perhaps then they could think about bunnies, clouds and bears rather than masculine blue and cream striped curtains.

When the floor was clear, she once again surveyed that little room and closed her eyes, sighing deeply, breathing in the newly circulating air. Suddenly the breath that she took in was a sharp, panic stricken one. "My God, mother." She flew downstairs, knocking over one of the bags as she went and ran into the little kitchen. Her eyes scanned the work surfaces, the table, that spot on the fridge. Next she repeated the procedure in the front room, then ran desperately to where her coat was loping over the banister in the hall. They were there in her pocket, where she'd left them, the car keys that she never seemed able to find. She got straight in the old Mini and accelerated off at a real pace, up the street and onto the main road into town. It was her mother's birthday tomorrow and yet again she'd left it to the last moment as she always ended up doing. Tom would be returning home about now, tutting at her absence. Whilst she was in the corner shop buying a card, a pen with which to write, and a whole book of stamps because the post office was shut, her eyes caught sight of a book , "Better for Baby" which sat incongruously between the Mills and Boon and Isaac Asimovs. She wondered what wise advice for the new mother lay inside the covers that neither Mills nor Boon nor Asimov could impart. On the spur of the moment, she bought it.

She walked into the kitchen slightly puffed and flustered to find Tom sat down at the table drinking tea with a small note in front of him. A steaming cup was awaiting her. She sat down with her coat still on and giggled at him in recognition of her own scattiness. He showed her the note which he said he had found at the bottom of the stairs, probably, he thought, dropped during her clear out of the back bedroom. On a small Intaflora card were written the simple words "Please Forgive Me", sent to her after an argument they had had several years back and kept as a reminder of the only time he had apologised to her. She was about to ask about footy when Tom, in a slightly sheepish way, said "I've cleared all of that rubbish for you. I gave it to the lads to take to the dump when they dropped me off. That is what you wanted isn't it? It was all bagged up ready to go and I assumed that..." He petered out. She had not even attempted to reply or look up or anything. He had been fully aware that those bags held contents too precious to her to be thrown away, but he saw his first real opportunity to make a new start of things. Although he knew what he'd done was selfish, he saw in it the impetus for change. He rotated the card wildly between his thumb and index finger and looked into her face. He couldn't see anything; not anger, nor regret or unhappiness, but he knew there was a torrent inside. Absently she opened the baby book and read the first few lines of the page that she had randomly landed on. "As your child grows, it will need the security of an encouraging and loving family. Make your child feel special. angHang up the pictures that s(he) draws and keep those little home-made gifts that are given to you out of love. In my own experience they can be very useful to bring back out on 18th birthday celebrations!..." She thought about the irony of the situation; a new life begins and with it a whole new hoarding process, a cycle of proud parents and aspiring children. That little back room would soon be full again and maybe this time, Tom wouldn't consider it an inconvenience. Perhaps he might see them in the same precious light that she had seen her own life's ornaments. She looked up and cupped her hands around the warm mug and let the soothing heat be drawn inwards. "Well, we could definitely do with the space. I've been wondering all afternoon what to do with it all." She paused to look at Tom. "It's mother's birthday tomorrow, I almost forgot."

© Kerrie Clifford 2012