Second-Hand Lives

I found myself lost.

Lost one day in the liminal space between waking consciousness and the beautiful, cursed lull of sleep.

Sleep has always been something I have challenged, as if I were a warrior standing before a great king or god, questioning their might and regency.

"Nowt shan't have me. Not this time."

Time had been slipping slowly by as I found myself cleaning a place that had seen so much life.

Life that was no longer present. I cannot recall whether it was through death, prolonged sickness and lack of mobility, or whether they simply moved on.

On this particular day, when I was caught between the process and inception of a thought, I stared at an old box.

A box of cardboard with various layers of tape and many dusty ghost-lines where tape had once been.

More than just the contents fascinated me. There was a mismatched array of children's books, a girl's hats crochet pattern book, an ashtray that still carried the faint smell of stale ash and burnt paper long after the tobacco had disappeared, a random copy of Woman's Weekly with Lorraine Kelly on the cover, and an old hat that read Best Grandad.

Grandad must have been well loved, I thought. Unless it was an ironic gift bought by his wife or children—or even by the man himself. No, generally speaking, the only people who receive Best Grandad caps are those who fit the role well enough.

Enough time passed as I sat imagining the lives behind these relics, these fragments of a life once lived, and I started to wonder.

Wonder if it had always been so good as it was during those early days, when a relationship and family were young and love was as fresh as spring.

Spring forward a few years and the children are at school, learning about the world and the woes of an imperfect society.

World-weary parents trying to make ends meet while perhaps losing weight or developing bad habits through stress and anxiety.

Anxiety caused by uncertainty, political unrest and inflation. Everything seemed easier in the rear-view mirror of their lives.

Life still offered its share of highs to match the lows, I imagined. A father playing with a solitary tennis ball alongside his children. It's very frayed as I run my fingers over the fibres. There are teeth marks.

A dog, perhaps.

Perhaps when the children outgrew tennis and the family got a dog, they passed the ball on for it to enjoy in the garden.

Yard sale stickers are still visible on the crochet pattern book, and many of its pages are dog-eared. Perhaps the mother used it to make hats for the little ones in her family or around the neighbourhood.

Neighbourhood Watch stickers tell me they were either good neighbours or nosey ones. Probably the sort who kept a close eye on who came and went, and on whatever happened along their street and beyond.

Beyond the box of microcosmic lives are trinkets left upon the mantelpiece: a carriage clock, a ceramic ornament resembling Vincent van Gogh with a miniature canvas of The Starry Night.

The Starry Night.

The Starry Night always makes me pause. I often imagine Van Gogh at work—tired and weary, yet still full of life and wonder as he tried to capture the awe and majesty of the sky above.

Above... above the mantel hangs a watercolour that tells a different story from the one I gleaned from the box. It depicts an older woman, perhaps a grandmother, a younger woman and two children. What catches my attention isn't the subjects themselves but their positions. The two women stand apart, separated by empty space, with a young girl to the right and a young boy to the left. Only when I step closer do I read the caption.

Florence and Constance Mildew with Abigail and Charlie, 1915.

1915. 

It's incredible what reading a single year can do to you.

I pause for a moment before making my way to the kitchen through a doorway marked with the familiar pen lines recording children's heights through the years. The hallway has been stripped of almost all personality, save for the yellowing above the wall cladding where it meets the ceiling.

One solitary drawing remains.

1916. 

Hanging is probably the wrong word. It is clinging on for dear life, frayed around the edges and stained by the same yellowing that has spread across the walls. The picture, drawn in pencil and crayon, shows a child on a swing being pushed by her father.

Swing me, Daddy. Swing me faster, Daddy. I want to reach the moon and dance on the clouds, Daddy.

I imagine her laughing those words.

Shouting.

I imagine those shouts carrying from the kitchen along the hallway to the lounge while her mother—or perhaps grandmother—cooked, cleaned and kept the house running.

Running, of course, would never have been allowed indoors. It feels like that kind of home.

Dust fills my lungs as I cough and continue into the kitchen. Kitchens are often the nerve centre of a home. Alongside the lounge or dining room, they are where life is lived and love is shared. Although most of the kitchen has been emptied of its character and many cupboard doors stand open, fragments remain.

Fragments of what came before.

Two generations of splashback tiles line the walls. One old, discoloured by the fumes of thousands of home-cooked dinners—hotpots, casseroles, soups and Sunday roasts. Smoke staining descends lower here than in the hallway, stretching from the older tiles down towards the newer layer.

Layer upon layer of memories has been etched into the untiled walls and the cupboard beside the back door. The worktops have faded, and chips scar the mosaic surface where knives once slipped while slicing meat, fruit, vegetables and bread. Coffee rings, tea stains and the occasional cigarette burn remain.

There is a persistent buzzing around the window above the sink overlooking the back garden. A fly.

It has finished exploring while my work remains, so I try to free it.

Even the fly seems to notice how much effort it takes to force the window open. It hasn't been cleaned, oiled or opened in months—perhaps years. The uPVC around the handle is scratched and marked with faint traces of nail varnish.

Once the window finally gives way, the fly and I share a breath of fresh air as dust motes drift out into the afternoon.

Houses like this are often overlooked because of an overgrown garden and windows clouded by years of neglect. I watch my winged companion settle briefly on the weeds before disappearing into the breeze.

Breeze, fresh and clean, is welcome. The house holds as many smells as it does sights and textures. Near the back door lingers the faint but unmistakable scent of cat or dog urine.

The back door itself is coated in the lives it has contained, protected and sustained. More yellow staining and faded pink and blue squiggles tie it to the rest of the house and its story. A Constable-themed calendar still hangs from it, frozen on August 2020.

X marks the spot.

X marks a forgotten date.

As I turn back towards the hallway and make my way upstairs, I notice a couple of climate change stickers on the once-brilliant white double-door fridge.

Change. Change often leaves an indelible mark on those caught in its tempest. Which is a striking coincidence as I find the staircase and, carefully manoeuvring past the first step with its loose carpet, notice a framed print of The Tempest by William Shakespeare. I think it might once have been a London playbill. I miss plays.

As I reach the landing, I notice a distinct lack of smoke staining along the ceiling. It stops just before the top of the stairs. There are four doors, the closest belonging to the bathroom.

Bathroom. The name has always intrigued me from an etymological point of view. Given my work, I've spent a lot of time considering the sort of people who call it a bathroom rather than a toilet, even when it is a full suite. This bathroom is exactly that, and it has remained in remarkably good condition. There is a strong sense of tranquillity from the doorway to the window behind the toilet.

The toilet is made of high-quality porcelain and has none of the usual telltale signs of age: no cracks beneath the bowl or along the cistern. The matching sink, with its elegant curved pedestal, has similarly escaped much of the wear found throughout the rest of the house. The flooring has shell-like tiling and the walls are painted an ocean blue, accented here and there with tasteful pastel sea creatures. I marvel at things like this. They've gone out of their way to avoid making a pattern.

A pattern would, in my mind, cheapen the theme. Above the sink hangs an almost pristine mirror, save for one small chip in the bottom-right corner. Metal mermaids appear to hold it aloft. Beneath the pedestal sits a small cabinet. It's empty now, but it still carries a faint scent of vanilla... or perhaps yoghurt.

Vanilla becomes something of an olfactory motif throughout the upper floor. A beautifully restrained cream wallpaper runs the length of the hallway, divided by a narrow central border embossed with delicate vanilla vines.

Detailing would be a good way to describe the master bedroom. From the moment I walk through the mahogany-varnished door, I am surrounded by the most sophisticated room in the house. Its final owners had carefully created a haven from children, in-laws, guests and pets without turning it into a den of iniquity. Bedrooms, after all, are never just bedrooms. During the day, when children are young, they become places to explore, to share dreams, to confess why they don't like Mrs Roberts, or to ask if you'll cut their sandwiches into triangles—even when they're far too old to need them that way.

Up above the large king-size bed is another watercolour. It's a minimalist impressionist piece depicting a woman reclining on a chaise lounge not dissimilar to the one that currently sits beneath the bay window overlooking the back garden. There is also a dressing table beside the recliner. Much like the bathroom, the dresser is in pristine condition aside from a few bleach stains and more traces of nail varnish. Sitting in the chair and looking at myself through the misted surface of the mirror, I can't recall the last time I felt such a strong connection to artefacts.

Artefacts of what I left behind so many years ago. Before the gaping void my life became from that point until now. When I'm just sitting, imagining. When the truth is, I'll never know.

There are masks on the wall—those theatrical comedy and tragedy masks—and an elaborate headless tiara stand. Between the bed, which has not lost its firmness even though sitting on it sends a wave of settled dust into the air, are four leg imprints.

Cradle or cot?

Cot.

The indents in the carpet are the same as those I find in the smallest of the other bedrooms. A pink self-assembly cot still stands against one wall with a mobile hanging above it. Shrek characters dangle overhead, and a faded red button brings it briefly to life with Smash Mouth's All Star before it slows to a halt, the bright, catchy melody mutating as it gives up on life.

Life must have been cheerful for this little one during those early years. "Emily" on a coat peg offers an insight I'm not ready to process. Instead, I turn to the bookcase and chest of drawers. I trust the team have already removed the clothes, but it would feel wrong to search through a baby's drawers anyway. So I settle for looking at the books on display. There is nothing out of the ordinary. A large book of fairy tales draws me in before I move on to the next room—the last room.

The last room is by far the plainest. It offers so little explanation that it's almost overwhelming. A single bed and a hook beneath the name Amanda are the only real furnishings.

I sit on the bed and notice a small card on the windowsill.

Darling Amanda,

We love you and always will, regardless of what happened or what may happen in the future.

Love,

Mum and Dad xxxx

Note found on windowledge

I place the card back where I found it and call the team to clear the rest of the house, carrying away far more questions than anything we loaded into the van.

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