The Other Side of the Landing

The house was warm when Helen arrived. She stood in the hall with her overnight bag against her knee, trying to remember whether she had asked the solicitor to leave the heating on. Outside, the afternoon rain had begun to seep beneath her collar. Inside, the air smelt of furniture polish and the faintly sweet dampness of clothes drying on a rack that was no longer there.

She had taken the last wash to the charity shop six weeks earlier.

On the mat lay a circular for replacement windows. She picked it up and put it on the hall table, where her mother had kept the post that required attention. Then she took it into the kitchen and dropped it in the recycling.

Three nights ought to be enough. There were the upstairs cupboards to finish, the papers in the dining room and the cabinet of ornaments which neither she nor her brother wanted. An estate agent would come on Friday morning. After that she could hand over the keys.

Martin had offered to join her. He could take Thursday off, he said, and they could do the difficult bits together. She had told him there were no difficult bits left.

She put her bag in her old bedroom.

Opening extract from the forthcoming collection The Book Had to Go Back and Other Stories.

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