Travelling Light
John set his toolbox down by the bedroom door and breathed out slowly. Hed spent half an hour wrangling with a stubborn wardrobe lock, and now his knees ached as if someone had strung them tight. He stood for a moment, gazing at the banister he’d carved himself thirty years ago when theyd just built the house. Back then, his hands didnt shake, and the stairs seemed not only easy but almost grand.
Now, the staircase was just an obstacle.
From downstairs, Helen called out:
John, are you up there?
Yes, he shouted back. Coming down in a minute.
But not straight away. He stepped into the bedroom, pushed the toolbox aside, and wiped his palms on his trousers. Through the window, he could see the garden: beds dug over but half swallowed by nettles. In spring, hed manage a good three hours with the hoe, but by the end of summer, hed admitted defeat. Helen hadn’t pressed him, just quietly pulled the carrots and beetroots that had managed themselves.
John!
He turned and made his way down, gripping the banister with both hands.
Helen stood in the hallway, coat on, phone in hand.
The estate agent called. Theres a flat on Rose Lane, three bedrooms, fourth floor, with a lift. We can have a look tomorrow.
John nodded. They’d been talking about this for a month now, but every conversation fizzled out halfway, as if neither dared make a final decision aloud.
Do you really want to? he asked.
Helen looked at him for a long moment.
I want to not worry about shovelling snow right up to the gates each winter. I want to be able to walk to the doctor’s in ten minutes, not stand around for a bus for half an hour. I want us to have time just to live not spend every day working on the house.
John nodded, slow and deliberate.
Lets go see it, then.
The flat on Rose Lane was bright, with generous windows and a fresh lick of paint. Helen wandered through the rooms, peeked in the kitchen, opened the built-in wardrobe in the hallway. The estate agent chatted about council tax and the neighbours but Helen listened distractedly. She was picturing where their old settee would go, how John would put up his bookshelves, how shed hang new curtains.
Theyd have more than enough space. Maybe too much.
Out on the pavement, Helen checked her phone and saw a missed call from their daughter. She rang back.
Mum, is it true? Abbys voice was tense. Paul said youre planning to sell the house?
Helen paused at the gate, John waiting beside her. Shed let it slip to Paul last week that they were considering moving closer to town, nearer the surgery. She hadnt thought hed immediately tell his sister.
Were thinking about it, she said carefully. Its getting hard, love
Hard? Youve lived there your whole lives! Thats our home, where we grew up, where the grandkids come
Abby, listen
No, Mum. How can you? Youre giving up!
Helen tightened her grip on the phone.
Were not giving up. Were choosing how we want to live.
Abby was silent, then replied in a dull tone:
Ill come round Saturday. Well talk.
Helen put her phone away and glanced at John. He was quiet, but his face said hed heard every word.
That evening, they sat in the kitchen. John made tea, Helen sliced bread, but neither touched their plates.
Maybe shes right? Helen said softly. Maybe we are rushing it?
John shook his head.
Its not rushing. Weve just decided its time. Im tired of hauling logs, patching the roof, worrying about getting snowed in. I want us to have energy left for outings, the theatre, a stroll in the park. Not just fixing leaks and keeping fit for the sake of the house.
Helen chewed her lip, listening.
But the kids
The kids are grown. Their lives are their own now. They drop by a couple of times a year, sometimes not even that. Were here every day.
Helen nodded, a knot of anxiety still twisted inside her.
Saturday came and both Abby and Paul arrived. John laid the table, Helen baked pies. Everyone sat down but the meal couldnt shake the tense air. Abby looked strained, Paul sulked.
Finally Abby put down her fork and asked:
Mum, Dad just tell me. Do you really want to leave this house? The house you built, where we all lived?
Helen let out a long breath.
Abby, I know its hard for you. She paused. But were not abandoning the house. Were choosing how we spend our years. Were both getting on. The stairs tire me out, your fathers knees are suffering. Winters mean half a day clearing snow. The doctors a fair distance, the shops too. She gazed at her daughter. We want our retirement to be living, not a daily slog.
Paul chimed in:
But its home for the family! The grandkids come
They come for a week once a year, John said. And its awkward for them too: no Wi-Fi, ancient plumbing, an hour to town by bus. Were keeping all this not for them, but because weve convinced ourselves the house means something more. The point is to live, Paul, not hold onto symbols.
Abby had gone pale.
So youve made your minds up?
Helen looked to John, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Yes, she said. We have.
Abby stood from the table.
Well, do what you want. But I dont get it.
She left the kitchen. Paul sat for a moment before mumbling:
I need to think, and he followed her out.
Helen and John sat alone. The pies cooled untouched.
It took two weeks to sort the paperwork. The house was bought by a young couple from town, the same age Helen and John had been thirty years before. They wandered through the garden in awe, chatted about raised beds and greenhouses. Helen handed over the keys and couldnt watch.
The move was in October. The removal men hauled out furniture, boxes, odds and ends. John wandered the empty rooms, tracing the marks in the walls, the scratches on the floor. Helen stood in the hallway with the new flat keys in her hand.
Time to go, she said quietly.
John nodded, locked the door, and slipped the old keys into his pocket.
For the first week in their new flat, John woke at night disorientated. The silence was strange: no creaky floorboards, no wind rustling the trees. He got up, wandered the rooms, stared out at the towns streetlights.
Helen missed the garden too. The apple trees, the morning chorus of birds when shed open the window. Now, it was just a courtyard, cars, neighbours voices.
Gradually, they settled in. John found he could walk to the doctor in five minutes, and there was hardly ever a queue. Helen discovered a library with a reading room nearby and started popping in. They took evening strolls in the park now just round the corner.
One day Paul called.
Dad, all right. Maybe youre right. Just dont go missing on us, okay?
John smiled.
We wont disappear.
Late November. Helen poured the tea, John put out some biscuits. On the shelf stood a framed photo of the old house: two-storey, dormer windows, the porch draped with old vines.
It was beautiful, Helen said.
It was, John agreed.
They sat in companionable silence.
You know, I reckon we could go down to Cornwall in the spring, John said. Weve wanted to for ages.
Helen nodded.
And I spotted a poster at the library theres a literary club on Tuesdays. Fancy coming along?
Lets do it.
The doorbell rang. Helen answered: Abby stood there with her son and daughter, clutching a bag of homemade pie.
May we come in? Abby asked quietly.
Of course, said Helen, stepping aside.
The children shucked off their coats. Abby placed the pie on the table and glanced around the flat.
Feels really cosy, she said.
Helen smiled.
Yes. We like it here.
John fetched extra chairs, Helen put on a fresh pot of tea. The grandchildren settled on the sofa, Abby sat close to Helen.
Mum, Im sorry, she said softly. I understand now.
Helen put an arm around her shoulders.
Thats all right, love. What matters is were together.
They drank tea and chatted about school, Abbys job, plans for a trip to Cornwall in the spring. Outside, drizzle tapped at the window. Helen got up and took the old house photo from the shelf, looked at it, then put it back. John poured her another cup. Abby hugged her mothers shoulder again.
Mum, can we come here for Christmas this year?
Of course, Helen said.
