Things Instead of Love
17 March
“Anna, are you being serious? Another tea set?”
Harry was standing in the doorway of our little rented flat in Lewisham, holding a letter. Anna hurriedly shoved a newly bought box into the cupboard; painted teacups poked from the sides.
“Haz, it’s the ‘Winter Rose’ porcelain, the latest collection! Just look at the roses… It was such a bargain too, ‘Bargain Castle’ had a huge sale.”
“A bargain,” he repeated softly, his voice almost lifeless. “Anna, we need to move out. By the end of the month. The landlords selling.”
She froze, clutching the cupboard door. Somewhere inside, the plates clinked ominously, dishware bumping dishware. Inside that cupboard, three complete sets already stood unused, in cardboard boxes shrouded with newspaper.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Anna gently closed the cupboard and turned to me. She was forty-seven, though at moments like this she seemed even older. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her slumped shoulders, her hands automatically tidying her hair.
“This will be our seventh flat in twelve years,” she said, and there was something in her voice I hadnt heard in ages. Not irritation, not anger. Despair.
“I know.”
“Is this how were going to spend our whole lives? Always moving on?”
I looked at her, then at the letter, then around our shoebox of a home. Twenty-two square metres. The sofa that unfolded into a bed. The cupboard so overstuffed, the doors barely closed. Overhead shelves, crammed with boxes of her purchases. On the windowsill, a parade of porcelain figurines; three decorative plates hanging on the wall. In the corner by the door lay a towering stack of *Good Housekeeping* and *Homes & Gardens* magazines from the past five years.
“Anna,” I began quietly, “if only we hadn’t”
“Dont, please,” she cut me off. “Not today, Haz. Please.”
I fell silent. We both knew what I wanted to say. That money slipped through our fingers every month. That buying a place of our own at our age was impossible when part of every pay cheque went to another “pretty thing,” a “rare find,” the “last in stock.” That once, eight years ago, we could have just managed to buy a tiny place in Zone 4but there was the antique kettle then, and the crystal chandelier after, and then…
“Mum rang,” I said, changing the subject. “Wants us to visit tomorrow. Says she needs a serious chat.”
“Will Emily be there?”
“No idea. Didn’t ask.”
Emily, our daughter, twenty-five, had moved out three years ago, renting a room near Camden and working as an office manager somewhere. She didn’t visit often. Last week, Anna tried to gift her a set of Turkish towels with gorgeous embroidery. Emily thanked her but refused them, saying her place was cramped enough already.
“Shes angry with me,” Anna whispered, sitting at the edge of the sofa.
“Shes not angry. She just… has her life.”
“Shes angry. I see how she looks at all this.” Anna gestured around the room. “Like Im unwell.”
Harry sat beside her. He wanted to say nothing was wrong, that collecting was just a hobby, that lots of people do it, just bits and bobs. But even he couldn’t say it. Because it wasnt true. This wasn’t collecting. Collectors select, study, catalogue. Anna just boughtanything beautiful, on sale, or when the shop assistant claimed “last one left.”
“Tomorrow, well go see my parents,” Harry said. “See what they need, then we’ll start looking for a new place.”
She nodded without looking at him. Then she stood and went into the tiny kitchen, where a new boxed tea set waited patiently on the table for its time.
***
Harrys parents lived in a post-war council flat on the outer edge of Croydon. John and Margaret, both retired, one a former engineer, the other an accountant. Theirs was a neat two-bedroom, spotless and orderly, everything in place; no clutter anywhere.
When Harry and Anna arrived, Margaret was already laying the table. Emily sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone.
“Oh, youre here,” she said, instead of any warm hello.
“Emmy” Anna tried to hug her, but Emily quickly sidestepped and went to wash her hands.
John sat in his armchair in the lounge, watching some quiz on TV. When Harry greeted him, John nodded but didn’t get up.
“Come on then, have a seat,” Margaret fussed. “Ive baked a Victoria sponge. Make yourselves at home.”
They all sat together. Awkward silence. Emily stared out the window; Anna nervously twisted her napkin.
“So,” John finally said, striding into the kitchen, “lets get to it, son.”
Margaret poured the tea, sliced the cake, and sat, hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes on her husband.
“Harry,” John began, “you remember my cousin, Aunt Edith?”
“Sort of,” Harry replied uncertainly. “The one who lived near Dagenham?”
“Thats the one. Died last month. Peaceful, in her sleep, age eighty-six.”
“Rest her soul,” Anna murmured automatically.
“Left her flat to me,” John continued, matter-of-factly. “A two-bed. No direct heirs. Im the inheritor.”
Harry slowly set his cup down.
“You mean… youve inherited her flat?”
“We dont need another place,” Margaret cut in. “Ours is fine. Selling, though. Its such a hassle these daysagents, paperwork, scammers everywhere. Plus, its family, after all.”
“In short,” John cleared his throat, “weve decided. Well sign it over to youmake it an outright gift.”
The silence was deep enough to hear the mantle clock ticking.
“You what?” Harry exhaled.
“The flats yours, mate. Fifth-floor, post-war block, 1972, fifty-two square metres. Not the poshest part of town, but”
“Mum, Dad,” Harry felt something clench inside, “its just…”
“A roof over your head,” Margaret finished for him. “Finally. Time you were settled. Renting all your lifes not a life at all.”
Anna sat perfectly still as tears slid silently down her cheeks. She didnt even bother to wipe them away.
“But why would you…” Harry started.
“Were fine,” John said shortly. “Pensions are good, enough savings. But you lotwell, youve been chasing your tails for years.”
“Only,” Margaret looked at Emily, “just two things. Requests, not conditions.”
Harry tensed.
“See Emily more often,” Margaret said softly. “Shes our only grandchild. These days, we see her once every two months. That wont do. Family should be together. Visitsboth ways.”
Emily glanced up at that, but said nothing.
“And the second,” Margaret continued, “when our times come… please give us a proper funeral. Dignified. The worksa decent coffin, a proper wake. Weve worked hard all our lives, dont want to be seen off like paupers.”
“Mum, lets not,” Harry replied.
“We must. No use in pretending. Were old now. Ive got my heart, your dad has his blood pressure. You need to know where you stand.”
“We will,” Anna said, voice shaking. “We promise. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Margaret nodded.
“Here are the keys,” she pulled a bunch from her pocket. “Flats empty, furnitures mostly old. Edith struggled the last years, couldnt keep it tidy. But thats nothingyoull tidy up. Important thing is, its yours.”
Harry took the keys. They were cold, heavy.
“Can we go see it?”
“Tomorrow if you like. Heres the address,” John handed over a slip of paper. “Fifth floor, number seventy-three. Lift works, I checked.”
They lingered for tea. The conversation twisted and turned, always returning to the question of the flat, paperwork, a mate at the solicitor firm. Emily said little. When it was time to go, Margaret squeezed Anna tightly.
“Just promise to keep it tidy,” she whispered. “Edith became odd near the end, collecting things. But clear it out, itll be fine.”
Anna nodded.
On the Tube ride home, they rode in silence. Emily exited early, at her own stop. She looked back before leaving.
“Congratulations,” she called. “Now youll have a place for all that stuff.”
Anna didnt manage to reply before Emily melted into the crowd.
***
We went to see the flat on Saturday. Harry took leave, Anna arranged a substitute at the school. Shed been teaching maths in a local comprehensive for twenty-three years. She neither loved nor hated her work; it was simply her routine. The pay was modest but reliable.
All week Anna barely slept. She lay awake, imagining arranging furniture, choosing the curtains, setting all her tea-sets out beautifully. Maybe a display cabinet with glass doors, museum-styleguests could come and admire.
“Well have to do the place up,” she remarked to Harry. “New wallpaper, new floor. Maybe laminate? Or is lino in fashion again? They say it looks just like parquet these days.”
“Lets see whats there first,” he replied.
The block in Dagenham was a classic post-war five-story slabgrey, peeling, with a dodgy porch over the entrance. The lift, oddly, did work. They rode to the fifth floor, where the corridor smelled of cats and boiled cabbage.
Flat seventy-three was at the far end. Harry turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
They froze at the threshold.
The flat was stuffed. Not just filledabsolutely packed, top to bottom, with things. The corridor was a narrow trail between islands of newspapers, magazines, cardboard boxes. Along the walls, bags and bundles. The smell was heavy, stale, tinged with vinegar.
“Good lord,” Anna whispered.
They ventured in. The first room was worse. The bed in the center, towered over by mountains of clothes, duvets, cushions. On the walls, pictures and calendars. Groaning shelves, stuffed with books and boxes. The floor vanished beneath magazine stacks tied with string. Harry bent and read the covers: *Good Housekeeping*, *Womans Own*, dating back to the seventies.
“Maybe the second rooms better?” Harry said quietly.
It was smaller but no better. A creaking wardrobe spilled its contents. The table was hidden under trinket boxes, tins, jars. Chairs, piled with dishware. Tea sets, saucepans, plates.
Anna turned slowly in the middle of the room, her face pale.
“All this will have to go,” she said eventually. “The whole lot out.”
“Or sorted,” Harry opened a nearby box. He peered in: a jumble of empty jam jars. Twenty of them, at least, all shapes and sizes.
Silently, they navigated to the kitchen. Six square metres, and filled to the brim. Cupboards gaping, crammed with plates. Boxes of sugar, rice, pasta on the tableexpiry dates a decade past.
“How did she live like this?” Anna asked. “How could anyone?”
Harry didnt answer. He stared out the window to the drab communal garden where children played, someone took their labrador for a walk. An ordinary day in an ordinary block. Up here, though, something elsea parallel, suffocating reality built of decades of accumulated things.
“Well have to get a skip,” he said. “Move it all to the tip. Could get it done in a week.”
Anna was quiet. She stood at the kitchen threshold, gaze fixed on the shelf. There, painted porcelain cups with roses perched. Exactly the same set as she’d just bought last week: “Winter Rose.”
“Harry,” she whispered. “Look.”
He came over.
“The same. Exactly the same.”
They stood before it in silence. Then Anna walked back into the front room, sat on the edge of the bed, wary of the heaps around her. Harry followed.
“Mum always said Aunt Edith was odd,” Harry said. “That she kept everything. Didnt think it was this bad.”
“Did she live alone?”
“Yes. Her husband died ages ago, no children.”
Anna stroked the faded bedspread.
“Why did she keep all this? What for?”
Harry shrugged.
“Perhaps she was afraid of doing without. People from her timethey remembered the war, the shortages. Maybe it became habit, to stockpile.”
“But she didnt use any of it. All those plates, still in boxes. Clothes still in bags. Why?”
He had no answerjust watched his wife, sitting on the bed in a strangers hoard. And realised: she was picturing herself. This could be herwould be her, if she didn’t change.
“Anna,” he started softly.
“Dont.” She got up suddenly. “Lets go. Please.”
They left, shutting the door behind them. Anna leaned, eyes closed, against the wall.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should refuse. Tell Mum and Dad that we can’t.”
“We cant, Anna. The paperwork is already in motion. They mean well. We cant just…”
“But how do we empty it? All this? We dont have the moneywhat about the rental arrears for this place, the deposit for the next?”
A pause.
“We could do it ourselves,” Harry said. “Weekends. Two months, perhaps?”
Anna opened her eyes.
“Two months,” she echoed. “Can you clear out an entire life in two months?”
He stayed silent. She was speaking about more than just the flat.
***
The paperwork was sorted quicklyDads friend at the law firm managed everything in a week. Suddenly, the flat was legally theirs. John and Margaret were thrilled, phoned to say now they could sleep at night, their son finally settled.
Our landlady agreed to give us a months grace, so we set about going to Dagenham every Saturday and Sunday, armed with bin bags, gloves, face masks.
The first day, we simply stood in the hallway, lost. The scale of it was overwhelming.
“Lets do the corridor first,” Harry suggested. “At least to make a path.”
We carted out bags of crumbling newspapersthirty years worth, neatly tied in bundles. *The Times*, *The Telegraph*, *The Sun*. Why keep them?
By the end of the day, seven bin sacks stood by the door. The corridor felt a fraction less claustrophobic. Our backs ached, our arms throbbed. We sat on the stairs, drinking tepid water from a bottle.
“At this rate, well finish when were ninety,” Anna groaned.
Harry tried to smile, but failed.
Next weekend, they tackled the front room, sorting old coats, frocks, and skirtsmost moth-eaten, faded, out of date, but all carefully folded as if awaiting a special occasion.
“Look,” Anna said, unfolding a dress. “From the seventies, Id bet. My mum had one just like it.”
“Bin?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
Still, she cradled it for a moment longer before stuffing it into a black bag.
By lunchtime, theyd cleared half the room, exposing more boxes underneath the clothes. Inside, old black-and-white photos: people in 1960s suits and party dresses, children, weddings, Christmas lunches.
“Relatives, maybe,” Harry guessed. “Should we keep these for someone?”
“Who? She had no one left. We barely knew her.”
“So, bin as well?”
Anna took a photo of a young woman in white beside a smiling man. Possibly Edith and her husband. She put it back in the box.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Third weekend. Fourth. Fifth. The mountain of things thinned, but slowly something changed in Anna. Harry saw her grow more withdrawn, quieter in the evenings, staring out the window, once catching her crying on their flats kitchen floor.
“Whats wrong?” he asked.
“Nothingjust tired.”
But he knew it wasn’t just exhaustion.
One day, among yet another box in Ediths flat, Anna found an old notebook. An exercise book, tiny handwriting scrawled across the pages. She started reading aloud.
“Bought a tea set at ‘Family Store’ today. Such pretty blue flowers. Finally, real porcelain. Brian says what on earth for, but I want our home to look lovely. One day well host friends, and everyone will see how nice our things are.”
Anna flicked forward a page.
“Bought another tea set. I know Brian will moan, but I cant help myself. When I have lots of pretty things, I feel safer. Like I have a reserve for rainy days, like no matter what, Ill be all right.”
She shut the notebook.
“She wrote this in 1962,” Anna said. “She was twenty-five.”
“And?”
“She lived like this all her life, didnt she? Buying, storing, hoping it would one day matter. And in the end, she died alone, in a flat bursting with things no one wanted.”
Harry sat by her.
“Anna, what are you saying?”
She looked at him.
“That Im doing the same. Hoarding tea sets, bits and pieces no one uses. Imagining that once we have a real home, itll all make senseeverything will be better. But it wont, will it?”
“Why not?”
“Because its not about having a home. Its about me. I cant stop. I see something lovely and panic, thinking Ill lose out if I dont buy it. Then its just another box, another cupboardand its never enough. Then I go and get something else. And so it repeats.”
Harry said nothing. She was right, and he knew it. For years, hed watched their money dribble away, watched her fill the shelves, watched the dream of their own place recede further each month.
“Do you know what scares me most?” Anna said. “That I look at this mess and see my future. If I dont change, Ill end up the same. Old, alone, in a sea of things no one needs.”
“Youre not alone,” Harry whispered. “Im here.”
“For now. But one day youll get fed up. Or Emily will cut us off for good. Or something else. And then Ill be herejust me and my teapots and glass birds.”
They sat in silence as dusk thickened outside, the empty flat gloomier and heavier than ever.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Harry ventured. “A counsellor?”
“Maybe,” Anna agreed. “But lets finish clearing up here first. Get this job done, then see.”
***
Three more weeks, and the place was almost bare. Loads went to the tip. They left the old furnituredecision for later. The flat felt empty, echoing, walls stripped. It was theirs. At last.
Harry stood in the big room, gazing at the bare walls.
“New wallpaper needed,” he said. “And the floor. Maybe put down a carpet.”
Anna said nothing. She stood at the window, watching the playground.
“Anna?”
“I think…” she said softly, still not turning, “I think we dont need this flat.”
“What?”
“We dont need this flat. What we needed was something else. We thought inheriting a flat would fix our lives, that everything would fall into place. But it didnt. Because the problems not in the lack of walls. Its in the way we live.”
Harry came over.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we could move in here, redecorate, put up all my tea sets for display. But what then? Will I stop buying? Will you stop bottling things up? Will Emily want to come over? Nonone of that will change. Well just keep filling a bigger space with our problems.”
“Anna, do you mean… turn down the flat?”
“I mean, we need to ask what its for. If were only going to shift our clutter to new shelves and carry on as before, whats the point? Maybe itd be better to sell, split the money with your parents, and try something different.”
“Mum and Dad will be upset.”
“I know. But we need to talk truthfully. Tell them were grateful, but what we really need isnt bricks and mortar. Itswell, ourselves. Sorted.”
“What does that mean?”
She turned back. Her face was tired, but her eyes burned with a new resolve.
“It means I need to work out why I live this way. Why its never enough. Why I compulsively buy things I dont need. Until I figure that out, no house will help.”
Harry was silent. For the first time, he understood it toothe truth hed kept silent about, dreading to say aloud.
“How can we ever save for our own home when it all goes on rubbish?” he asked, softly. “How do we move on?”
“I dont know,” Anna answered honestly. “Only that we cant go on like this. I dont want to be Aunt Edith. I wont die buried under things that matter to no one.”
They stood in the bare room. Outside, evening had arrived. Someone in the block slammed a door, laughter echoed from below.
“We should talk to Emily,” Anna said. “Say sorry. For being like this. For never giving her a proper home.”
“Shell understand.”
“Maybe. But we have to try.”
Harry took her hand.
“What do we say to Mum and Dad?”
“The truth. That were grateful and appreciate their help. But we need time. To work out what to dowith the flat, with ourselves, with everything.”
“They wont understand.”
“Maybe not. But it cant be worse than this.”
They left, locking the door. Rode down in silence. Outside, the air was sharp; the evening had just begun. Harry lit a cigarette. Anna didnt smoke, but stood close beside him.
“Im scared,” she said quietly.
“Me too.”
“But we have to try?”
“We have to.”
They lingered a moment longer before heading for the Underground. Behind them, the five-storey block loomed, flat seventy-three a silent shell. The flat was supposed to fix everything. It hadnt. Because the real issue wasnt being without a home. It was everything churning inside.
***
The conversation with Harrys parents was painful. John didnt get itsaid we were being ungrateful, refusing what others only ever dream of. Margaret cried, told us they only wanted to help, and that we didnt understand how lucky we were.
“We are grateful,” Harry kept repeating. “We just need time. Were not refusing forever. We just need to figure things out.”
“Figure out what?” John demanded. “You have a flat. Move in!”
“We cant just… move in, Dad. Not just like that.”
In the end, John said, “Do as you like, but dont expect any more help from us.” Margaret hugged Anna goodbye and whispered, “Just sort your things out, love. Its embarrassing.”
The conversation with Emily was unexpectedly easy. We met up in a café, the three of us. Emily listened in silence, then nodded.
“Its about time,” she said. “Finally, you get it.”
“Are you angry?” Anna asked.
“No. I just couldnt stand visiting. Seeing you buy trinkets, Dad pretending its all fine. Thought itd never end.”
“And now?”
“I dunno. But talking about it is something. Thats new.”
Anna squeezed her hand.
“I want to change. Dont know if I can, but Im going to try.”
“Try for yourself, Mum. Not for me, or Dad. For you.”
Six months passed. Anna started seeing a therapist. At first, it was hard admitting her problem, but it gradually became lighter. She realised buying things was her way of filling a void left from childhood a lack of love, belonging, meaning. Each new thing brought a fleeting sense of control, stability, a better future.
“Things take over only if we let them stand in for feelings,” the therapist told her. “We try to fill with things what should be filled with something else.”
So Anna started sorting through her possessions. Gently, bit by bit. Donated, sold, threw out. It hurt. Each thing felt precious, every decision like a small loss. But she pressed on.
Harry supported hersilent, steady. One evening he admitted he too was to blame; that it was easier to stew in silence than try to change.
“It was simpler being quietly cross than actually doing anything,” he said. “Sorry.”
The Dagenham flat stood empty. We hadnt moved in or sold it. It just waited. Maybe, one day. When we were ready.
Emily visited more often now. Not every week, but regularly. We talked, drank tea, even laughed. Small steps but importanttowards being a family again.
***
Eight months after the keys arrived, we went back to the flat together, the three of us. Up to the fifth floor, through the echoing corridors.
The flat stood empty. Bare walls, cold floors. In one corner, the old wardrobeeverything else was gone.
“So,” Emily said, “are you moving in?”
Anna and I glanced at each other.
“I dont know,” Anna replied honestly.
We wandered the rooms. Emily opened a window, letting in cool, fresh air. Harry checked the radiators: they were working.
We gathered in the main room.
“Why did we want this flat, really?” Anna asked.
Harry looked at her.
“For a home,” he said. “To call our own.”
“But for what? To be happy? Feel safe? Or just for the sake of having it?”
No answer. Emily stood at the window, gazing at us.
“You know,” she said, “I think the question isnt why you needed this flat. Its what youll do with whats in here” she gestured at the emptiness, “inside you. A house is just walls. Life happens elsewhere.”
Anna nodded slowly.
“Im afraid,” she admitted. “Afraid if we move in, nothing changes. Ill start buying again, fill it up, and in ten yearsback where we began.”
“And if we dont?” Harry asked. “What then?”
“I dont know. Sell, maybe. Or leave it for you, Em. But first, I need to prove to myself I can stop. To know I wont become Aunt Edith.”
Emily came over and hugged her mum.
“You wont,” she said. “You see the problem. Edith never did.”
We stood a moment longer. Harry spoke first.
“Why rush? Lets leave it as it is for now. Visit now and then. Well see.”
Anna nodded.
“Yes. Thats best.”
We left. Emily went ahead down the stairs. Harry locked up. Anna stood for a moment, staring at the number seventy-three.
“Harry,” she asked quietly.
“Yes?”
“Do you think we can do this?”
He joined her, took her hand.
“I dont know. But we can try.”
We went down together. Outside, the spring air was sweet. April was in the air. Emily waited by the entrance, looking at her phone.
“Fancy a coffee?” she said as we drew close.
“Come on then,” Anna replied.
