Things Instead of Love
Sally, seriously? Another tea set?
I stood in the hallway of our tiny one-bedroom flat, clutching a letter in my hand. Sally was hurriedly trying to stuff a recently purchased box into the wardrobe, porcelain cups peeking from the lid.
Oh Dave, its the Snowdrop fine china, the very last collection! Look, the roses are just gorgeous… And it wasnt expensive at all, they had a massive sale at Souvenir Heaven.
Not expensive, I repeated, quietly, almost lifelessly. Sal, we have to move out. The landladys selling up. End of the month.
She froze in place, hand on the wardrobe door. I heard something clink inside as the plates nudged each other. There were already three untouched tea sets hidden there, still boxed and wrapped in old newspapers.
Again?
Again.
Sally closed the door slowly and turned to me. At forty-seven, she suddenly looked much older. The crows feet around her eyes deepened, her shoulders slumped, hands automatically smoothing her hair.
This is the seventh flat in twelve years, she said, her voice carrying something I hadnt heard in ages. Not anger more like exhaustion.
I know.
Are we really going to keep drifting all our lives?
I looked at her, then the letter, then our little room. Twenty-two square metres. The sofa that folded out into a bed. The overstuffed wardrobe, its doors barely holding on. Boxes crowding the top shelves with her endless purchases. The windowsill lined with porcelain ornaments, three decorative plates on the wall, and a stack of Womans Weekly and Country Living magazines piling up near the door.
Sal, I started cautiously, if wed just…
Dont, she cut me off. Please, not today.
I bit my tongue. We both knew what I wanted to say: the money lost on all the must haves, the rare finds, the cant miss collectors items every single month. How we once had enough to buy our own little place at the edge of town years ago, but then there was that Victorian teapot… and then the crystal chandelier… and then…
Mum called, I said, changing the subject. Asked us over tomorrow. Said she needs to talk.
Is Ellie coming?
Dont know, didnt ask.
Ellie, our twenty-five-year-old daughter, had her own place now, renting a room in a house share, working as an office manager somewhere. She didnt visit much. Just last week Sally tried to give her a set of embroidered towels Turkish, very pretty. Ellie thanked her but left them behind, saying her room was already crowded.
Shes cross with me, Sally whispered, sitting down heavily on the edge of the sofa.
She isnt. Its just… shes got her own life.
No, she is. I can see it. The way she looks at all this, she gestured around the flat. Like Im… unwell or something.
I sank down next to her. I wanted to reassure her, to say there was nothing wrong, that plenty of people had hobbies, collected things. But I couldnt say it, because it simply wasnt true. Sally wasnt a collector. Collectors choose, learn, curate. Sally just bought whatever looked nice, whatever was marked final piece, whatever the salesgirl claimed was rare.
Tomorrow well go see my parents, I said. See what they need help with. Then, well look for a new place.
She nodded, looking away. Then rose and headed to the tiny kitchen, where yet another tea set box was already waiting on the table for its special occasion.
***
My folks lived in a 60s terrace on the edge of town. Dad, Brian, used to be an engineer, now retired with a dodgy heart. Mum, Margaret, lifelong bookkeeper. Their flat was modest but neat. Nothing out of place, no clutter.
When Sally and I walked in, Mum was laying the table. Ellie was already there, scrolling her mobile.
Oh, youre here, she said instead of hello.
Ellie, love Sally tried to hug her, but Ellie just slipped past, washed her hands.
Dad sat in his armchair watching a quiz show. When I said hi, he nodded, didnt get up.
Take a seat, fussed Mum. Teas nearly on. Made an apple tart.
We crowded round the little table. Awkward silence. Ellie gazed out the window. Sally fiddled nervously with a napkin.
Right then, Dad finally said, joining us in the kitchen. Time to talk, son.
Mum poured tea, cut the tart, then sat, her hands folded primly.
Dave, Dad began, do you remember my cousin Auntie Winnie?
Vaguely, I said. The one who lived up in Finchley?
Thats her. She passed away last month. Peacefully, in her sleep. She was eighty-six.
Sorry to hear, murmured Sally automatically.
She left a flat behind, Dad continued. Two bedrooms, no direct heirs. Her will leaves it to me.
I set my teacup down, uncertain.
So… youve got the flat?
Why do we need it? Mum interrupted. Were fine here. Sellings a faff with agents and dodgy buyers everywhere these days. Besides, its family, it feels wrong.
Anyway, Dad cleared his throat, your mum and I decided well sign it over to you two. As a gift.
Silence. Even the old wall clock was loud.
Youre… giving us the flat? I choked.
Its yours. Two beds, fifth floor, built in 72. Not the poshest part, but…
Mum, Dad… my chest felt tight this is…
Your own roof, at last, Mum smiled gently. Youve been living out of suitcases for too long.
Sally just wept quietly, not even wiping her tears.
But why…? I started. You could sell and keep the money for yourselves…
Weve enough, Dad said brusquely. Decent pensions, savings. You two need it more. Youve been through enough.
Only, Mum looked at Ellie, we have two requests.
I tensed.
For Ellie to visit more. Shes our only granddaughter and we barely see her. Its not right.
Ellie looked up but said nothing.
And the second, Mum continued, well, when our time comes… make sure the funerals proper. None of this bare minimum. We worked our whole lives. Dont let us go out looking like paupers.
Mum, dont, I muttered.
It has to be said, Dave. Were getting on. Brians heart, my blood pressure. You need to understand.
Well do it right, Sally managed, voice shaking. Thank you. Really.
Mum nodded.
Here are the keys, she pulled them out of her pocket. Its empty but a bit tatty, Winnie didnt keep it up the last few years. Dont worry, youll sort it.
I took the keys cold and heavy in my palm.
Can we see it tomorrow?
Go whenever you like. Dad handed me the address. Fifth floor. Number fifty-three. Lift still works, checked last week.
We had more tea. Conversation kept returning to the flat, documents, solicitors Mum knew. Ellie stayed quiet. When we were leaving, Mum hugged Sally and whispered:
Just get it sorted, love. Really sorted. Winnie got… odd at the end. Hoarded a bit, you know. But clear it up and youll be right as rain.
Sally just nodded.
We travelled home in silence on the Tube. Ellie got off first. Just before leaving, she turned.
Congratulations, she said. At least now youve got space for all your lovely things.
She vanished into the crowd before Sally could answer.
***
We arranged to see the flat on Saturday. I took the day off, Sally swapped some classes. Shed been teaching maths for twenty-three years. She didnt love it, but didnt hate it either. Just went, taught, marked. Never much money but at least it was steady.
Sally hadnt really slept all week. She lay awake, picturing how shed arrange the furniture, what curtains to buy, where to put all her sets so guests could admire them. Maybe build a glass unit, like a museum.
Well need to do it up, she mused to me. New wallpaper, floors maybe lay some laminate. Or a really good lino people say it looks like real wood now.
Lets see what its like first, I replied. Then plan.
The block in Finchley was a stereotypical five-storey number from the 70s. Grey, peeling, crooked porch over the entrance. The lift actually worked. Fifth floor. The corridor smelt of cats and cabbage.
Number fifty-three was at the far end. I slid the key into the lock. Door swung open.
We stopped dead.
The flat was stuffed. Not just full packed to the ceiling. The hallway was little more than a tunnel between towers of newspapers, magazines, and cardboard boxes. Bags and parcels stacked everywhere. It smelt of old dust, sour air.
Oh my god, breathed Sally.
We pressed through. The main room was worse. The bed was surrounded by heaps of clothing, duvets, pillows. Framed photos and calendars hung crookedly from the walls; shelves creaked under the weight of books and more boxes. Magazines were stacked and tied up in bundles. Womans Weekly, Country Living, Good Health. Dating back to the 70s.
Maybe the other rooms better? I whispered.
It wasnt. The smaller room held a wardrobe split open, clothes pouring out. A desk buried under jewellery boxes, biscuit tins, odds and ends. Chairs hidden under towers of crockery tea sets, pans, plates.
Sally slowly turned in the middle of the room, face pale.
Well have to get rid of it all, she said, flatly. Bin the lot.
Or sort through, I tried. Who knows, might be something valuable.
The next box I opened was full of empty glass jars. At least twenty different sizes.
We drifted to the kitchen. Tiny, barely two metres wide, but just as bad cupboards crammed with plates and mugs, sugar and pasta well past use-by.
How did she live like this? Sally murmured. How could anybody?
I didnt answer. I just stood at the window, looking down at the children and dog walkers below. Just an ordinary day. But up here was some parallel world a hoard built across a lifetime.
Well call a clearance firm, I said. Shift it all out in a week.
Sally said nothing. Her gaze landed on a shelf where a set of fine china cups sat painted with little roses, identical to the one shed bought just last week. The Snowdrop collection.
Dave, she called, quietly. Come here.
I did.
The same, she murmured. Exactly the same.
We stood without speaking. Then she wandered back to the main room, perched on the edge of the bed ever so carefully. I followed.
Mum always said Auntie Winnie was odd always hoarding, I said. I had no idea it was this bad.
Did she live here alone?
Yes. Her husband died years ago. No children.
Sally gently patted the faded bedspread.
Why did she keep all this? Why would anyone need it?
I shrugged.
Maybe she was scared of going without. You know, her generation they remembered war, rationing. Instinct to squirrel things away.
But she didnt use any of it. The plates, the clothes, all in boxes…
I didnt know what to say. Watching Sally sit on a strangers bed, in a strangers flat, surrounded by all this stuff, I realised she saw herself. She feared that could be her.
Sal, I started.
Dont, she said sharply. Lets go. Please.
We left and closed the door behind us. Sally leant against the wall, eyes shut.
What shall we do?
I dont know.
Maybe turn it down? Tell your parents we cant…
We cant, Sal. Theyve already started the paperwork. They just want to help. We owe them.
How will we do it, then? Wholl pay for the clearance? We cant even afford the back rent on the flat were in.
We stood in silence.
Well do it ourselves, I said at last. At weekends. Well manage, over a couple of months.
She opened her eyes.
You really think we can clear all this… all those years… in two months?
I didnt reply. Because I knew she didnt just mean the flat.
***
The paperwork was quick. Mums friend at the solicitors sorted the transfer in a week. The Finchley flat was officially ours. Mum and Dad called with congratulations finally, they said, we were sorted.
The landlady even agreed to wait an extra month while we sorted ourselves out. So, every Saturday and Sunday, Sally and I trekked up to Finchley with bin bags, gloves, and masks.
The first day, we just stood in the hall, not knowing where to start.
Lets clear the corridor, I said. So we can at least walk.
We began bagging up newspapers, discovering there were dozens of bin sacks, thirty years worth, all carefully tied up. Why did anyone keep them?
By evening wed filled seven bin bags and could almost get by without turning sideways. Our arms ached; we sat on the stairs with bottles of tap water.
At this rate, well still be here next year, Sally sighed.
I tried to smile, but couldnt.
The next weekend, we tackled the main room old coats, dresses, faded and frayed, neatly folded as if ready for wearing.
Look at this, Sally unwrapped a 1970s dress. My mum had one just like it.
Bin it?
Yes. Of course.
But she held onto it one more moment before it went into the sack.
By lunchtime, we’d half-cleared the room. Under the clothes, more boxes. I opened one old family photos, black and white, smiling faces, weddings, parties.
Might be worth giving these to someone? I said.
Who? Theres no one left.
Bin them then?
Sally glanced at a wedding photo a young woman in white, grinning beside a suited man. Maybe Winnie and her late husband. Happy, once.
Bin them, she whispered, and put it back.
A third weekend. Then a fourth, a fifth. The flat grew emptier, but Sally grew quieter. In the evenings, shed just sit by the window, lost in herself. Once, I found her quietly crying in our own kitchen.
Whats wrong?
Nothing. Tired, thats all.
But I could see it wasnt that.
One day, as she sorted another old box, Sally found a diary. Just a cheap school exercise book, written in tiny old-fashioned handwriting. She flicked through and started to read aloud.
Bought a new tea set today from Cooks. Blue flowers, beautiful. Proper china at last. Bill says I dont need it, but I want the house to be lovely. One day, well have a party, the table all set, everyone will see how nice it is here.
She stopped, turned more pages.
Another tea set. Cant help myself. It makes me feel better, as if Im safe, when I have enough nice things. Bill grumbles but never mind. When I have lots, Ill feel secure.
She looked up.
This was written in 1962. She was twenty-five.
And?
She lived like this her entire life. Kept buying, storing up, hoping one day it would matter. And in the end, died alone, in a flat piled up with things nobody wants.
I sat beside her.
Sal, what are you saying?
She looked at me.
That Im the same. Were doing the same. I buy all this stuff, no one uses it. Just fills up space. I tell myself a proper home will fix everything, but it wont, will it?
Why not?
Because its not the house, its me. I cant stop. I see something to buy and feel as if missing out is losing my chance at something special. So I buy, bring it home, and within a week it means nothing. But then I buy again, and the cycle goes on.
I was silent because she was right. Id seen it for years, never knowing how to help, how to stop the endless buying, debts, the reason wed never saved for our own home.
You know whats scary? Sally went on. I look at that mess and see my future if I dont change. Alone, surrounded by junk nobody wants.
Youre not alone, I said softly. Im here.
For now. Someday, youll get fed up. Or Ellie will walk away for good. Or who knows what. Then itll just be me, and my stuff, and statues.
We sat in silence as dusk closed in. The flat felt even gloomier, more oppressive.
Maybe I should try talking to someone. A counsellor.
Maybe, I said. But lets finish clearing first, yeah?
***
Three more weeks, and wed nearly done it. About a ton of rubbish cleared. Some of the old furniture left, to decide on later. The flat was bare now, echoey and hollow. Old wallpaper peeled, floorboards creaked. But it was ours.
I stood in the big empty lounge, staring at blank walls.
Shall we strip the wallpaper? Get new flooring?
Sally didnt answer. She stood at the window, watching the street below.
Sal?
I dont think we need this flat, she said quietly.
What?
I dont think we really needed this flat at all. We needed something else. We thought inheriting a home would fix things. But it doesnt. Because the problems not the lack of a flat. Its how we live.
I moved next to her.
I dont get you.
Im saying, we could move in, fix it up, set out all my stuff. But would I stop buying? Will you stop bottling things up and getting cross? Will Ellie want to see us? No. Nothing will change, well just have more space for our problems.
So you want to turn it down?
I want to work out why we even want it. If were just moving in all our rubbish, whats the point? Maybe its better to sell it, share the money with your parents, actually try and change.
Theyd be upset
I know. But we should be honest. Tell them were grateful, but we need something different.
Like what?
She faced me, tired but with a new resolve.
I need to figure out why I live like this. Why its never enough. Why I keep filling every space with things. Until I do, nothing will help.
I said nothing, because Id thought the same a thousand times just never dared say it.
And how do you save up for a flat at our age, with all the money wasted? How do we go on?
I dont know, she said honestly. But I know it cant go on like this. I dont want to become Auntie Winnie, dying in a nest of useless things.
We stood in the empty lounge as darkness fell. Somewhere below, a door slammed; someone burst out laughing.
We need to talk to Ellie, Sally said. Say sorry. For how we were. For not giving her a real home.
Shell understand.
Maybe. But I want to try anyway.
I squeezed her hand.
And my parents?
We tell them the truth: were grateful, we truly are. But we need time, to decide what to do with the flat, with ourselves, with everything.
They wont get it.
Maybe not. But it cant get any worse.
We left the flat, locked up, and took the lift down. It was chilly outside, dusk setting in. I lit a cigarette Sally never smoked, but stood beside me, leaning on my shoulder.
Im scared, she said.
Me too.
But we have to?
We have to.
After a few minutes we walked to the Tube. The old block, the flat on the fifth floor, fell away behind us. Our flat, that was meant to solve everything. But didnt. Because the problem wasnt the lack of home, but something in us.
***
The conversation with my parents was hard. Dad didnt get it, calling us ungrateful for refusing a gift most people would dream of. Mum wept, said they tried to help, and we didnt appreciate it.
We do appreciate it, I kept repeating. We just need time, to think.
Whats there to think about? Dad pressed. Just move in and get on with it!
We cant, Dad. Not just like that.
In the end, Dad said fine, do as you please, but dont ask them for anything else again. Mum hugged Sally at the door and whispered:
Just get your things under control. Its embarrassing.
Speaking with Ellie, though, was unexpectedly easy. The three of us met at a coffee shop. She listened, nodded.
About time you said this, she remarked. You know, I didnt stop coming round because I was cramped. I just hated watching you drown in stuff. Watching Dad pretend things were fine when they werent. I always thought youd never change.
And now?
Now at least youre talking. Thats something.
Sally held her daughters hand.
I want to do better. For me. Not for you or your dad. For myself.
Try, Mum. For your own sake.
Six months passed. Sally started seeing a counsellor. At first, it was awkward, embarrassing, but slowly it helped. She realised the shopping was about filling a void missing love, feeling valued. Stuff was her way of feeling safe.
Things only control us when we let them replace real emotions, her counsellor said. We fill emptiness with stuff when it should be filled with something else.
Sally started clearing her own things. Not all at once, but gradually. Gave away, sold, threw out. It hurt every time. Every surrended trinket felt like losing something important. But she kept going.
I supported her. Quietly. I admitted one day that I was at fault too hiding behind silence for so long.
Easier to stew in private than actually do anything, I told her. Im sorry.
The Finchley flat stayed empty. We didnt move, or sell it. Just left it. Maybe someday, when we were really ready.
Ellie came round more these days. Not all the time, but more. We talked, drank tea, even laughed now and then. Taking small, careful steps to be a family again.
***
Eight months after we got the keys, Sally, Ellie, and I all went back together. We climbed to the fifth floor, opened the door.
It was empty bare walls, creaky floor. One old wardrobe in the corner for now. Everything else was gone.
Well then, Ellie said, ready to move in at last?
Sally and I looked at each other.
I honestly dont know, Sally replied.
We wandered the rooms. Ellie flung open a window to let in new air. I checked the radiators warm.
Back to the empty lounge, the three of us together.
Why did we even want this place? Sally asked.
I looked at her.
Not sure. To feel safe, maybe. To have what other people have.
Was that it? Just for the sake of it? So we could say its ours?
No answer. Ellie watched us from the window.
It doesnt matter why, she said. What matters is what you do with it… with whats inside you. Four walls cant make you happy. Its not about brick and plaster.
Sally nodded, slowly.
Im scared, she confessed. If we move in, will it all start over? Another mountain of things, and in ten years, itll look just like before.
What if we dont move in? I wondered.
Maybe sell up. Maybe leave it to Ellie. Or just give it time. But I have to know I can change. I wont become Auntie Winnie.
Ellie hugged her.
You wont, Mum. You know theres a problem. She never did.
We stood there a while. Then I said:
No need to rush. Lets leave it for now. Come round from time to time, air it. When were ready, well know.
Sally nodded.
That sounds right.
We left together. Ellie went ahead down the stairs. As I locked up, Sally lingered, staring at the door marked fifty-three.
Dave… she said softly.
Mm?
Do you think well manage?
I walked over, took her hand.
Dont know. But we can try.
We went down together. Outside it was bright, spring in the air. Ellie waited by the entrance, scrolling her phone.
Shall we go for a coffee? she asked as we came up.
Lets, Sally answered.
Personal lesson: It isnt a home or a collection of things that brings happiness, but how we fill the spaces in our rooms, and in ourselves with love and honesty, rather than clutter and avoidance. And sometimes, facing what scares us together is the only way forward.
