they were a series of visual clues but then I remembered they had been acquired over a period of years and were unlikely to be connected.
I took Circe down cautiously – it was a heavy frame – and placed her with the other pictures, resolving to find a home for them at my place.
That was it for the living room, so I made my way slowly round the house through the hall and dining room into the kitchen then upstairs, methodically taking down all decorative items.
Two hours later I was in Mum’s old bedroom. Though that was a bit of a misnomer as the bed was downstairs. Because of her illness it was more convenient to use the dining room for sleeping so the upstairs room was more of a storage space.
But it smelled of her: Chanel Number Five and Yardley – English Roses or something. I closed my eyes and remembered being wrapped up in her lap. Her skin had been so soft then. Her clothes light and fragrant. There was a rocking chair and a song she sang as she kissed my hair. Oh Mum, life is so much colder since you went away. And I thought of her and I remembered her hug and wondered what she would say to me, if I could see her.
She’d undoubtedly want me to get things done and continue on my way.
So, I put down the feeling that was about me and walked into the room. A practical, methodical approach was what was required now. I needed to shut out all sentiment. So I lifted my chin with purpose and hardened my heart. Then I went into the middle of the room.
On the opposite wall hung a huge framed map of south-east England, which had appeared about eleven or twelve years ago when Mum first got interested in walking. The exercise helped her mental health and she’d often take herself off for a couple of days. It was too big for me to handle on my own so I left it up there and turned my attention to her wardrobe.
I opened the double doors hiding the old unwieldy closet that stretched the length of the room. At the far end I came across some of her old gladrags. They were dusty, long-unused gowns of their time: a few glitzy evening dresses complete with sequins and shoulder pads; one classic black velvet number; several skirts that spanned different fashion trends; cotton maxis and some old suede coats with real fur collars.
At the back of the closet inside a plastic sheath was her wedding dress. It was a floaty romantic thing that reflected the romanticism of the seventies: a wide gathered neckline dropped off the shoulders and dripped down in light chiffon over an A-line skirt. An ivory lace, wide-brimmed floppy hat finished it off. I loved it. There was no way I was sending it to a charity shop, so I took it downstairs and placed it beside the pictures.
When I returned the room was darkening; dusk becoming night. Yet as I walked through the door I was able to see, two feet away from the open closet door, my mother’s jewellery box.
I hadn’t put it there.
At least, I didn’t remember doing so. Perhaps I had dislodged it as I rummaged through the clothes?
The lid was open. I went over and touched the ballerina set into its middle. Slowly she began to rotate. The cobwebs about her twisted and pulled free, encasing her in a dusty veil. A mechanical melody jingled through the air. I recognised the rhythm and then moments later recalled the old song:
Pale and wild pale and wild
The witch did leave the child
She watched her grow and put her down
The willow’s leaves wrapped round and round
Her evil cries filled the air
And so did end the bad affair
Pale and wild pale and wild
The witch did up end the child
For a moment I was transfixed by the song and the box, hurtling back through years. This time to a forgotten teenage scene: Mum talking about the jewellery, insisting if she were to die I take the box and … I couldn’t remember what she told me. I had been too consumed with envy, hypnotised by the sparkle of her few jewels.
The ghostly music tinkled. I looked on as the plastic ballerina turned and jerked on her spring. Bending over, I closed the lid and delicately picked it up. As I did, part of it, the base, came away and clattered to