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Ted gives me a nod of empathy and understanding, and I feel the depth of compassion in his eyes, none of the pity or embarrassment I usually see when I tell people about my mother.
‘Anyway, I suspect it’s easier to sort through a stranger’s things,’ I say, clapping decisively, returning to the task at hand. ‘We’ll make piles; Keep, Bin, Recycle, Sell, that’s the way to do it.’ It’s already 11.30 p.m., but having felt tired at Jasper’s house, I now feel a second wind of energy with the prospect of being helpful to Ted.
We work in companionable silence, occasionally holding something up we’re unsure of, waiting for the other to point to the pile they think it should go in. I feel useful, filling bin bags and folding clothes for the charity shop.
Picking up a box of videos, I flick through the titles. ‘Psycho, Strangers on a Train, To Catch a Thief, someone really is a Hitchcock fan, then.’
Ted leans across to look, then he spreads his legs wide on the floor and pulls the box between them.
‘I used to treasure these,’ he says, picking one out, tapping the label fondly. ‘These were my teenage years – Hitchcock on a Friday night, Mum baking wonders for my friends in the kitchen.’ His eyes sparkle as he turns the VHS case over in his hands. ‘I went to this special screening of Vertigo a few years ago. As soon as the film started, I could have sworn I smelled fried dough.’ He spreads his fingers in front of his face and inhales, as though replicating the experience. ‘Your mind can play tricks on you like that.’
‘What’s this?’ I ask, holding up an old-fashioned frame with a photo of Ted dressed as a boy scout, with a terrible, crooked bowl haircut. ‘So, you were a boy scout. I’m guessing you failed to get the Cut Your Own Hair badge,’ I say with a laugh.
‘That is embarrassing,’ says Ted, his eyes creasing into a smile as he holds out a hand for it. ‘That will be first on the bonfire pile.’
‘No! I like it, you look cute.’ I pout at the photo, ‘I almost wouldn’t have recognised you without all the facial hair.’
In the same box, I find another faded photo of a small boy holding a stick in his mouth, wearing a felt headband with paper ears pinned to it. I start to laugh. ‘Oh Ted, this is the most tragic fancy-dress outfit I think I’ve ever seen.’
Ted reaches across for the photo and grins when he sees it.
‘This wasn’t fancy dress. When I was six, I was so set on getting a pet, I basically became a dog called Leonard for a month until my parents relented and got me a real one.’
‘Aw, you were the weird dog boy as a child, that’s adorable.’ I make a face of mock pity.
‘OK, no more photos for you,’ he says, taking the box away from me, his hand brushing against mine. ‘I’m guessing there are no embarrassing photos of you in the world then, Lady Muck?’
‘Oh no, there are definitely some bad ones. I had a full-on head brace at one point. I had donkey teeth as a teenager.’ I stick my teeth out over my bottom lip to illustrate. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand across his lips to hide a smile.
‘No, you still look good, even when you do that. No sympathy points for you.’
It’s interesting to watch someone else ride the emotional seesaw that is excavating the life of a loved one. Ted’s mood shifts from fond recollection, as for the videos, to laughing with me over old photos, through to frustration at the sheer volume of junk, back to melancholy over finding his mother’s kitchen scales at the bottom of a damp box. I find I already know the nuances of Ted’s facial expressions. His brow furrows into two distinct lines between his eyebrows when he’s concerned or upset, but when he frowns in jest, only one of those lines appears. So much about him feels familiar to me somehow, even though I’ve only known him such a short amount of time.
After about an hour, I look at the progress we have made, but notice Ted has added nothing to the ‘Keep’ pile.
‘You’re not keeping anything?’
‘I don’t want any of it. It’s depressing, that a life boils down to this,’ he says, waving an arm across the room.
‘You have to keep something, surely? How else will you remember?’
Ted rubs his face with both his hands.
‘I don’t see my mother in these things; I don’t see Dad here either. This is just life’s detritus, the rubbish we leave behind.’ His voice becomes sharper. ‘Mum’s gone, and now Dad’s going to have to try and sleep in an unfamiliar bed, and for all his bluster, I can see he is terrified, because he knows I am taking him to that place to die—’ Ted thrusts both palms into his eye sockets and lets out a low, guttural sob that takes me by surprise.
‘Oh Ted,’ I shuffle over next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. ‘I know, it’s hard.’ He leans into me, and we just hold each other for a moment. But then I become aware of the smell of his neck. It feels heady and intimate in a way I hadn’t intended, and I pull back, self-conscious. Standing up, I cross the room, to put space between us.
‘Now, what is all this?’ I say, with forced brightness, as I pick up a large jar full of multicoloured sea glass. ‘Was this your mum’s?’
Ted looks at the jar. ‘Yes, she collected tons of the stuff over the years.’
‘Right,’ I say, ‘and I saw your face when you first told me about sea glass and your mum – that’s a happy memory. You should pick a few pieces to keep, and the rest we’ll scatter back on the beach tomorrow, let someone else have the fun of finding them.’
His mouth nudges into a smile, and I feel pleased that I might have said something helpful.
‘My mother’s scent,’ I say, ‘it’s the strongest memory I have of her. I keep a bottle of her perfume by my bed at home.’
‘Patchouli soap, floury hands, and Elnett hairspray,’ says Ted, ‘that’s what my mother smelt of.’ He picks up a small, quilted bag from the pile next to him. ‘She loved anything and everything patchouli. She even tried to get Dad into patchouli tea at one point, but he was having none of it.’
