The Writers' Circle

Leaving Home

Margaret looked in the mirror as she checked her silver hair, adjusted the hand painted silk scarf around her neck and applied the perfectly matched shade of plum tinted lipstick to her lips.  "Hmm. Well, you'll just have to do." she said to herself as she picked up her toolbox and left the flat.

She didn't care if people thought it strange that an elegantly dressed, past-middle-aged woman walked across the square carrying a decrepit old toolbox.  She'd just recently moved into the sheltered housing scheme and only then to placate her daughter. "Mum, I know you don't 'feel' 70 but let's face facts, you can't manage the stairs anymore and if you won't come and live with us, I'd feel happier if I knew there was someone on hand if you had another fall. This way you still get to keep your independence ."

Margaret remembered that conversation clearly.  She knew she shouldn't feel piqued that it hadn't occurred to her one and only child, that she needed to be in her own home. The home she had moved into as a new bride, with her beloved Arthur.

"I know what you are saying, darling, but all my memories are here of your Dad and us - you were born here. And what would I do with all my things?"

"You don't need all these things, Mum, when was the last time you did any painting or read one of those books?" Kathryn gestured towards the neatly arranged bookshelves in the smart south facing front room.  She was silent for a moment as she allowed herself to look outside the bay window, remembering happy childhood moments.

"That's not the point and you know it. I like looking at the books on the shelves and I know they are there if I need them. And I may take up painting again." Margaret barely kept the hurt from her voice.

"Mum" Kathryn gently placed a hand on her Mother's shoulder "you haven't painted since Dad died two years ago." Her heart hurt as she could feel the barely there tremor from her Mum's shoulder. "Just think about it.  Look, I have to go otherwise I'll be late picking Oliver up. Please give it some thought, Mum.  Love you." 

"I love you too, darling. I will think about it. I promise."

Kathryn closed the front door behind her and rested against it for a moment. Images appeared in her mind of her Mum sitting at the kitchen table, pulling out her paints and settling down for an afternoon of artistic bliss.  She could almost hear her Dad's tuneless whistle as he bustled around the room. Her parents weren't tuneless, though. Just being in the same room was like listening to a harmony being played. Mum would get up to put the kettle on for a pot of tea. The hum of the kettle played in the background as Dad would chink the porcelain cups and milk jug together as he prepared them. No fuss, just a timeless harmony played out together without the need for words.  Kathryn's eyes smarted.  She cleared her throat and went to collect her son.

The toolbox was heavy.  Margaret wished she hadn't filled it so much.  Thoughts about the last week in her lovely semi-detached home made it easier to ignore the fact that she felt there were several sets of day-glo white nets twitching as she got closer to her destination.

Everything happened so fast.  It seemed that the moment she agreed to sell her home and move into Roseclifton Retirement Homes, she'd stepped onto a speeding train, which wasn't going to stop until it reached the final station.  

Kathryn helped her to sort out her belongings into three rooms: one room for recycling, one for charity and the smaller room for what was to go with her. Nothing prepared her for the frustration, hurt and helplessness she felt when having to decide what to keep and what not to keep.  She had to downsize from a three bedroomed house with a garage and shed to a one-bedroom ground floor flat which had a small patch of grass outside the front door. She thought her heart would break with each item she placed in the recycling and charity rooms.  Oh, she knew that many people would benefit from the donations of her not-needed furniture, books, knick-knacks and clothes but her memories were so very clear of buying or receiving each item. And she suddenly felt very old.

"Mum, do you want this dented old toolbox to go in the recycling room or the charity room?" said Kathryn, as she was about to fling a battered toolbox, which had seen better days.

"I'm keeping that" Margaret said, a little too curtly.

"Mum - are you sure? It's of no use."

"Of course I'm sure!" Margaret snapped now "I can't have your Dad and I can't have my home but I can have the toolbox that your Dad used to use to keep our home nice." The tears she had been fighting for so long finally fled from her eyes.

"Oh Mum. I'm so sorry. I didn't, I mean I should have.I was insensitive.I" Kathryn held her mum and sobbed with her.

"I'll make us a cup of tea." Kathryn gave her Mum a tissue and placed the toolbox in the 'keep' room as she made her way to the kitchen. She folded her arms across her chest and rocked in pain as she thought back to when she was in this kitchen as a five year old. "Daddy, can I help you?"

"Yes, Kathryn. Will you hold this piece of sandpaper for me and give it to me when I'm ready, please?" Kathryn held the sandpaper with pride and watched as her Father opened his shiny new blue toolbox that he'd received the week before.  Kathryn had made her Mum seek out and visit every DIY shop in Inverness to find the right toolbox for her Dad's birthday. When she saw it she knew it was 'the one'. It was blue annealed metal and when you opened the handles out, the box opened up to another layer underneath that could be removed to reveal a larger space.  The way the box opened and closed up fascinated the little girl and she wanted her Daddy to have this box. 

"Thought you'd like a toasted teacake too, Mum" said Kathryn, handing a steaming cup of tea and a hot teacake, glistening with melting best butter. They sat for a while, drinking, eating and talking about the man in their lives who they missed dreadfully.

Margaret was surprised to find she was at the Roseclifton Activities Centre already.  The door was open and inside she could hear the hum of conversations. She jumped a little as she heard a voice "Hello, are you the new lady from number 34? I'm Joan, I live just opposite - see that door there with the hanging baskets?" The woman smiled at Margaret.  Margaret looked at Joan's flat.  There were hanging baskets on either side of the door.  A pretty cast iron bench sat under the front window with tubs of prolific petunias spilling from them.  The patch of grass didn't look like a patch of grass. Bordered with neat sections of small flowering shrubs, it looked lovely.  Joan's house looked like a home. Margaret's eyes filled up.  

"Come on" said Joan, kindly, we all muck in together here. "If you want any help getting your garden going we all have spare bedding plants." Her voice quietened. "It feels very strange at first but you do become accustomed to it. And if you're really lucky Fred down the road will knock up a bird table for you" she said kindly.

Looking around at the other flats, Margaret saw that many of them had a bird table, whittled from wood.  They were all different but seemed to fit in with the character that emitted from each little garden.

Following Joan into the main activity hall, Margaret allowed herself to be led to an empty table and chair. She felt a little like how she remembered Kathryn looked on her first day at nursery school.

As Margaret placed her toolbox on the table, the tutor came over and introduced herself.  "Hello Margaret.  I'm so glad you decided to join us.  Like I said on the telephone, we have some materials here but most people do like to bring their own."

Margaret opened up her toolbox, lovingly. "Yes" she smiled as she looked at the tubes of paint neatly placed in the trays.  There was even room for her paintbrushes in the compartment Arthur used to store his screwdrivers. "I prefer to paint using my own things".

She sat down and placed her small canvas on the table easel.  Everyone around the room was nodding a hello and smiling at each other and to her.  

"Ok everyone, if we can begin by sketching the still life you can see I've set out for you." Margaret smiled as the tutor's voice filtered through the harmony of future friends chatting as she settled down for an afternoon of artistic bliss.