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1
The house I grew up in is full of ghosts.
Well, not ghost-ghosts. I’ve seen plenty of scary things in my thirty-two years on this planet, but none of them supernatural, I don’t think. You know what I’m talking about, right? The lingering things that trigger memories; things that, to the untrained eye, don’t seem like things at all.
In the kitchen pantry, on the inside edge of the doorframe, there are the markings Mum used to make to document mine and my sister’s heights as we were growing up. To a stranger, these markings must seem pretty straightforward, but when I look at them, I remember how competitive Jess, my younger sister, and I used to be. Bizarrely, we always strove to be the shorter sibling so, when the time came for Mum to check our heights, we would always try to find ways to make ourselves appear smaller. It doesn’t make much sense to me now, although, funnily enough, Jess does still love to shrink away from things.
Take today, for example. Emptying Mum’s house – a large detached in the heart of picture-perfect suburbia – is a huge job. You would think my only sibling would be here to help but she’s MIA. I could give Jess the benefit of the doubt, perhaps she’s not here because it’s a difficult thing to do, taking all of Mum’s things out of the house that she lived in before either of us were born, loading them into the van that’s going to take them away. Perhaps that’s why she isn’t here. Of course, it’s equally likely Jess hasn’t turned up because she’s had a better offer. Either way, she should be here. It’s not fair to leave this all for me to do.
I’m currently emptying the fridge and the freezer out into black bags. Bloody hell, there’s a jar of Branston pickle in the back of the fridge that looks like it’s been there since I sat my A Levels. I’d imagine she got it for Dad, back when he was still around. It’s been a long time since he lived in this house, and even he is managing to find a way to linger.
With everything bagged up, apart from the single white chocolate Magnum I found, I drag the bags out into the back garden and place them in the wheelie bin. I unwrap my ice-cream and take an enthusiastic bite. It’s December, and chilly outside today – it’s cold inside too, given that there’s no heating on and all the doors are open. Either way, it’s a bit cold for ice-cream, but I’m starting to feel hungry from all the hard work, plus I can’t quite bring myself to throw chocolate in the bin.
There are a few things I’m keeping – not just chocolate. I’m taking some sentimental things from my old room home with me, as well as an impressive collection of boardgames amassed over the years, and an old Nintendo Wii that would otherwise end up on a scrapheap somewhere. It’s amazing how it hasn’t worn as well as the edition of Monopoly that Mum and Dad had before I was even born, but I’ll see if I can get it working one day when I’m bored, perhaps.
‘Hello, Billie,’ I hear an unfortunately familiar voice call out.
Now, there’s something I’m glad to be leaving behind.
I’m so close to the back door. I could probably ignore him, save myself from one last encounter with everyone’s least favourite neighbour, if I just pick up the pace.
‘Oi, Billie,’ he says, his voice much louder this time.
I may as well get it over with. After today, I’m never going to see him again.
‘Hello, Mr Baxter,’ I say, trying to mask a sigh.
Elliot Baxter has been a pain in the arse for pretty much as long as I can remember. He’s our seventy-something neighbour from up the street, except, because the road curves around, it means that his back garden backs on to ours. I thought sharing a garden with him was stressful. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be next door to him.
Elliot just loves to complain, it’s his all-time favourite thing. Whether it’s because his neighbours’ dog does its business too close to the boundary fence or the kid with the ‘especially noisy bike chain’ who rides past his house, Elliot always has a problem and when Elliot has a problem, the whole street knows about it.
‘What’s up?’ I ask him, hoping he makes this quick. I’m really not in the mood.
‘Finally sold the house,’ he says. I can’t tell if he’s making a statement or asking a question, but I know it’s probably the former. There’s no way he doesn’t know. He makes it his business to know other people’s business and, let me tell you, it’s a full-time job that he works hard at.
‘Yep,’ I reply. The less I say, the less he has to work with.
‘New people moving in?’ he asks.
‘I would imagine so,’ I say – although, you know, that is typically the idea when someone buys a house.
‘The, er, the new people,’ he starts.
I raise my eyebrows expectantly, bracing myself for whatever Elliot is about to say next. He always has the same look on his face, he looks as though he’s just been slapped but he doesn’t understand why.
‘What are the new people like?’ he eventually asks.
‘Oh, I don’t know them,’ I reply.
‘But what are—’
‘I’m really sorry, I need to go help the removal men,’ I insist. ‘All the best, Mr Baxter.’
Honestly, if that’s the last time I ever have to speak to him, then it’s not all bad news today.
I don’t give Elliot a chance to reply. I hurry indoors and up the stairs where I find one of the removal men in my old room.
It’s strange, seeing it being emptied, my memories slowly being stripped away, resetting the room for the next person who will occupy it. With every item that is removed, it’s like I hardly recognise it. It isn’t only my things that are being removed, it’s me.
