The box of Christmas decorations has been sitting on the dining table for three days now. I barely notice it as I walk past, brushing my hand over the battered lid before heading to the kettle. I flick the switch for the gas hob, rest my hip against the sink, and once again catch myself thinking how easy it would be just to shove the box back up into the loft.
It used to be that David and I would bring it down together at the very start of December. Hed grumble about it being too early, but hed end up clambering onto a kitchen chair anyway, fussing about with the dusty string ties. The memories tumble out: a bauble wrapped in yesterdays broadsheet, a Father Christmas with a chipped nose, tinsel that stuck to your jumper. Now the chair stands empty against the wall. Our son brought the box down after the funeral, and its not moved since.
The kettle rumbles to the boil. I spoon a teabag into my mug and flick on the lamp above the oven. The harsh yellow glare makes the kitchen feel even smaller. Four chairs are clustered around the table, the same as always. On the one by the window still hangs Davids favourite, thick, checked shirt untouched since April. I cant bring myself to hide it away in the wardrobe. Removing it and leaving the chair bare feels even worse.
My phone buzzes on the sill: a message from my son. He’s sent a picture of my granddaughter at nursery, the children building a snowman from cotton wool. Mum, how are you? Weve got the Christmas play rehearsal today Ill call later. I stare at the screen until the words blur, then reply as Ive learned these past months: Im fine. Keeping busy. Dont fuss.
My business is simple. Yesterday, a woman from the council knocked with utility bills and a form for pension calculations. I need to get to the civic centre to sign it. My blood pressure tablets have run out, and the doctor always said not to skip a dose. I know all this, but gathering myself and leaving the flat sometimes feels harder than pulling down the curtains for a wash.
The doorbell rings. I startle, set my mug down, and open up. On the doormat stands Rita, my neighbour across the landing, in a chunky wool hat, a string bag dangling from her wrist.
Hello, Mrs Hughes, she says, I was at the greengrocer theyre doing satsumas on offer. I bought too many, thought Id bring you some.
She hands me the bag. A sweet, wintry scent wafts up.
Oh, you shouldnt, I sigh. Ive got some left.
I wont eat them all anyway. Go on, take them. How are you… keeping?
She darts her eyes away, almost frightened by her own question.
Im living, I reply. Thank you, Rita. Dyou want to pop in?
No, Ill dash kids home, homework. Give me a ring if you need anything, alright? I replaced the bulb on the stairwell so its less gloomy when you walk at night. Thought youd appreciate it.
I nod, though Ive barely left home after dark lately. I close the door, lean against it, cold bag of satsumas in hand.
Back in the kitchen, I set the fruit beside the decoration box with a sigh. I drag Davids chair towards me and sit. It creaks, the wooden frame pressing into my shoulder blades in a new way. I always sat opposite, facing the window, but now, all I see is the bare wall where last years tissue-paper garland used to dangle.
The thought of putting up the garland again fills me with a shy shame. Making merry without the one who made it meaningful feels odd. Doctors and friends say I should carry on, that time heals. So far, time only marks the things best not touched.
Its three weeks before Christmas. The snow in the close lies dirty-grey, churned up by childrens fireworks. Some mornings, I watch through the window as the caretaker huffs and shovels. Then I make myself porridge and switch on the telly, needing voices in the silence. The adverts blare about deals and miracles; eventually, I turn away, almost sickened by their forced cheer.
My friend Sarah rings up. Shes not one for subtlety, but shes stubborn about not leaving me be.
Nance, I booked two tickets for the concert at the community centre on the thirtieth. Come with me. You dont want to sit home alone…
I dont know, Sarah. All the forms and tablets
The paperwork wont run away. Just pop out for an hour and see some people.
I murmur something non-committal. She promises to ring in a few days and wear me down. After we hang up, I wander to the bedroom. My gaze lands on Davids jacket, still neat on his chair. I poke inside the pocket, though I know it’s empty. My fingers brush only the lining and a crumpled bus ticket he left back in the spring.
That evening, I take the Christmas decoration box into the lounge, set it down, and open it. The musty scent of old cotton wool and glass floats up. I pick out a few baubles, tracing their glittering ridges with my finger. In my head, Davids grumble is clear as day: No, nearer the window it looks lovely from outside! I have to shut the box again and nudge it against the wall with my foot. Let it stay there.
I put off the pharmacy until Ive used the very last tablet. In the morning, the box is empty. I rummage through two more drawers, just in case theres some left. Nothing. I wrap up in my coat, hat, gloves. On the peg next to mine still hangs Davids winter coat. I find myself glancing away as I zip mine up.
The wind bites my cheeks immediately. The cold feels different sharper, or maybe its just me. I stroll slowly along the street, weaving past piles of snow, til I reach the bus stop. The pharmacys three blocks away. I walk there, letting the noisy bus rattle past, catching a glimpse of tired faces through the steamed windows.
Inside, the queue is long. Seems everyone remembers their aches this time of year. The place smells of antiseptic and cheap perfume. I clutch my handbag, waiting. To my left, a chap coughs into his scarf; to my right, a young woman scrolls through her phone.
Pressure tablets, too? someone ahead asks.
I look up. A short, grey-haired man in a green jacket, clutching a prescription slip.
Yes, I say. On them for ages now.
Ive just started, he says, sighing. Doctor says its age creeping up. Hard to believe really. Was kicking a football on the green only yesterday.
I give a small laugh, though my eyes are serious.
Yesterday! Im sixty already. Feeling like I was dropping my son off at nursery only yesterday, now Im here every month with the pills.
So were still going, then? he says. If were here, queuing.
The queue moves and the chat fades away. As I pay at the counter I hear his voice again:
You live on our close, dont you? You look familiar.
Yes. Second house.
Im in the first. See you around, then.
I nod and leave. Neither of us ask for names. Theres no need. But heading home feels lighter, as if a pane of glass between me and the world has been wiped clean.
Days slip away like melting snow on the sill. I still havent made it to the civic centre, though the form sits ready in the hall. Sarah calls me again, coaxing me to the concert. At the last minute, I use the old excuse: not feeling well. Thats not far off the truth. My chest burns, my head pounds like a cold, but the thermometer says Im fine.
On New Years Eve, I wake early. No plans. My son called yesterday, wanting to buy a ticket to bring me over for the holidays, but hes busy with his family. I told him honestly: easier for me to visit in March, less fuss. It matters to me not to be the suitcase shuttled back and forth, swaddled in concern.
I cook pasta, slice up a little ham, open a tin of peas for a salad. It fits into a tiny bowl; we used to have a great basin of it, eating leftovers for days. The bowl goes in the fridge under a plate. I dont touch the satsumas; they lie in their dish, as bright as ornaments.
Just past noon, the surgery rings to remind me of next weeks GP appointment. I scribble it in my diary. Then I unwrap a new tablecloth, bought months ago, and spread it on the table. My hands tremble near the space where Davids plate always sat. The spot is empty now.
By evening, the messages begin. My aunt from up north, the neighbour from the allotments, a cousin all sending the same digital greetings. I reply as simply as possible: Thanks, same to you. Once, the bitterness hits; someone writes, Thisll be the best year of your life. I mute the phone and leave it on the dresser.
From next door come peals of laughter, clatter of dishes, smells of roast beef drifting through the hall. Half the street must have their TVs on. I pace a little circuit: bedroom to kitchen, kitchen to bedroom, checking that everything is off though I already know it is. The kettle cools, and the extension cord sits coiled on the stool where the box used to rest.
Ten to midnight, I sit on the sofa and switch the television on, no sound. Dancers, bands, waving flags. The new year approaches without asking permission.
I stare at Davids shirt on the chair. At the empty cup in front of me. I close my eyes. The simple thought creeps in: soon the chimes, then fireworks, then the calls and messages, as though everything is unchanged, and Ill be expected to respond brightly.
The light flickers under the front door; someones heading onto the stairs. Voices echo, the lift clunks shut. Suddenly, I stand up, grab the rubbish bin, and check the bag is knotted. I slip on my slippers, throw on my cardigan. Theres no real reason, just a strong urge to step outside the closed circuit between telly and chair.
I open my door as the first fireworks crack across the town. The pane shakes. On the landing stand Rita, her husband in tracksuit bottoms, and, to my surprise, the grey-haired man from the pharmacy. Theyre leaning out the window, watching the bursts of colour over the gardens.
Oh, Mrs Hughes! Rita turns to me. Happy New Year! Off to the rubbish chute? Come see best view from here.
I hesitate, clutching my bin bag.
I was just going to throw this out.
Do it later, says the green-jacketed man. Youd be daft to miss the fireworks.
He shuffles over, giving me space at the window. I step up, set the bin down. Outside, the sky is bright with cascades. People shout hurrah on the playground, others whistle and wave phone torches.
Thats my brother, Alan, Rita says, nodding towards the man. Hes down for the holidays.
Hello, he nods. We met at the pharmacy.
I remember, I say.
We stand close together, five of us, shoulder to shoulder. The air is rich with fried food from Ritas flat, cold from the window, and the spicy tang of satsuma peel from a bowl by the radiator. Someone plays the New Year chimes on their phone. Rita pours a splash of champagne into plastic cups.
Just a sip, she says. Tradition, after all.
I want to refuse, but my fingers take the cup. I sip. The wine is sweet and far too cold, but it warms on the way down.
Well then, Alan says, Lets… keep going, as best we can.
His words hang there, untidy. No one tries to clarify. Our plastic rims touch, someone mutters Happy New Year. I half expect someone to mention David, to speak of how hard its been. But Rita simply touches my elbow and murmurs,
Pop over if you need, love. Even just for a cuppa. We were watching old films last night.”
“Thank you,” I nod.
Fifteen minutes later Im heading back into my flat, bin finally tossed. I hang up my cardigan, slide off my slippers. No desire to turn on the telly now. The fireworks hush outside, as if someone has turned down the loudness of life.
I take out my little salad, scoop some onto a plate, and try a bite. The peas crunch, the taste is almost as I recall. I eat slowly, glancing at Davids chair. At last, I get up, take his shirt down, fold it, and press it to my chest, the fabric soft and scented now only of detergent.
I bring the shirt through to my bedroom and hang it with my own jumpers, not at the back, just among them. Coming back into the kitchen, I grip the chair and drag it gently from the table to the window. The floorboards groan. I sit a while, seeing how the view looks. From here, I spot the nursery around the corner, glowing windows in other peoples flats. I imagine morning tea, watching the first cars leave the drive.
The thought of occupying his place wounds me a little, but brings comfort too. The chairs no longer untouchable, a piece carved from the past, but just a chair at the window.
After the holidays, the bustle fades. The shops pack away their bold posters; people stop hauling oversized bags. I finally trudge to the civic centre, queue for ages, sign off my pension form. Afterwards, I swing by the chemist for vitamins.
Barely any queue. The pharmacist leafs through a magazine behind the till. By the tea aisle, a woman in a puffy coat squints at the boxes.
Sorry, she says, Have you tried this chamomile? Any good?
Its fine, I say, coming closer. I drink it at night. Nothing magical, but goes down all right.
She laughs, a dry kind.
Nothings magical these days, she says. My husband died last year. I kept looking for something that would make it easier. Nothing does. Except getting up and buying tea some mornings.
She talks plainly, no tears, more like discussing the weather.
Me too, I murmur. In the spring.
We look at each other. Our gazes hold, just briefly.
Lets both get the chamomile, then, she smiles. That way we know someone else at home is drinking the same brew.
Lets.
The conversation lasts barely a minute. No names, numbers, promises. Yet as I step out, the air stings less. I find myself thinking not of rushing home to collapse on the sofa, but of popping into the bakery for bread and nipping back for some herbs for soup.
At home, I set my shopping down and glance instinctively at the chair by the window. My own woollen shawl is slung over the back, todays paper sits on the sill. I unpack, tip the leftover satsumas out, bin the wrinkled ones, put the rest in a dish.
My phone squeaks: a message from Sarah. Still alive? Im coming over next week, agree now so you cant wriggle out. I smile, typing back: Ill be in. Come round. Ill bake apple cake.
I jot my GP appointment in my diary for January, and, just below, Tea at Ritas. Rita called again in the lift yesterday, inviting me round for cabbage pasties and a war film. I told her yes, for once.
The flat is quiet, as always. But it’s no longer the frightened hush of April, my first morning without Davids snore beside me. Now this silence holds the rustle of paper, the tap of a knife, the heartbeat of a faint TV next door.
Purposefully, I move the paper onto the window chair, brew the new chamomile, carry my mug over, and tuck my feet into warm slippers. I look out.
The close is grey, snow lying smoothly. On the playground, two boys in bright bobble hats sculpt a crooked snowman. One presses a carrot nose, bursts out laughing when it tumbles off. Across the way, a woman strides by with her dog. Above the garages, someone shakes out a rug.
I sip my tea. Its plain and earthy. Im tired, but its a fatigue I can manage. Enough to wake, fetch prescriptions, welcome visitors, reply to messages. Davids absence hasnt vanished. The empty place at the table remains. But now, next to it, the window chair waits where I sit.
I flip a page in my newspaper, pausing at the TV listings. Tonight, theres an old film marked, one we used to watch together. Maybe Ill ring Rita to join; if not, Ill watch alone, wrapped up in my shawl.
An unremarkable new year stretches ahead. No promises, no postcard joy. Just days filled with errands, doctors, bits of company or guests at mine. And sometimes, when I come home, I might not mind flicking on the light.
I set my mug upon the sill, edge the chair closer to the radiator. Warmth flows over my legs. I feel, inside, that tight knot loosening not unraveling, but less rigid.
Outside, a snowball pings against the entryway glass. In my kitchen, the clock ticks. I stroke the back of my chair and think: tomorrow, first thing, Ill walk out to the shops, wander between the snow mounds, and pick up another box of chamomile. Just in case I dont feel like sitting idle.
Then Ill come home, sit at my window chair, and keep living the way I know how, now.
