Cleaning

Sarah looked down at the ironing basket and was surprised to find she’d nearly reached the bottom of it. She could see the white linen table cloth from last Christmas – or was it the Christmas before – lying there, rigid, like a relief map of the Himalayas. She considered tackling it – she was in the mood.

A week after Paul had left, she’d finally moved her quilt from the sanctuary of Lily’s nursery, stripped the linen from the double in the master bedroom and turned the mattress. The large hollow on Paul’s side was now facing the floor. Strengthened by this decisive act, she had moved to his bedside table and emptied the residual debris of ticket stubs and receipts into a bin bag along with his ageing stack of What Car magazines. Then she’d started on the wardrobe – dumping handfuls of empty wire hangers onto the floor and spreading out her own clothes to fill the vacuum.

She’d been spring cleaning ever since. Sarah loathed housework usually but now she felt compelled, calmed by its brainless monotony and satisfied by the ensuing sense of order. She knew it wouldn’t last – she’d felt like this once before, when she’d been expecting Lilly. Now, she was simply nesting in reverse.

Finally, she’d confronted the slag heap of crumpled cotton that was the ironing basket.

Sarah fished out the neglected table cloth. As she did, a shirt, compressed to the width of a pancake, fell to the floor. She picked it up and shook it out. It was one of Paul’s – cheap thin cotton, well-worn, with one button missing. It was a pale jade green. It had been his favourite but he’d stopped wearing it a long time ago. As his business had improved, so had the quality of his shirts and this one hadn’t made the grade.

Sarah sat down with the shirt in her lap and lined up the buttons. It was a shame. She’d liked him in that shirt – she’d liked him better then.