She was having to give up so much, but there were some things she would have forever
BY GILLIAN HARVEY
Just one shelf to go,” Maria said, pulling the first of twenty novels from the oak bookcase and reading the blurb. She dropped the paperback into the box destined for the charity shop, feeling the pang of regret she often felt when throwing out a piece of her past.
It was meant to be a pleasant thing, downsizing, decluttering. The magazines were full of it. Expert tips on what to keep and what to chuck, psychologists waxing lyrical about mental health benefits of clean, open spaces.
Well, Maria didn’t buy it.
Yes, her shelves were packed with ornaments, keepsakes and rows and rows of books, but each item had been selected by her for a reason. They were her things. This was her history.
“You’ll love it, Mum!” Rae had told her, laughing when she’d shared her concerns. “You just wait until you realise how little dusting you’ll have to do.”
She’d laughed along at the time; even thought that Rae might be right.
Besides, she’d keep the most sentimental of her items – her collection of porcelain houses, the crystal animals the children had bought her for Christmas all those years ago. She’d keep her collection of poetry and the novel signed by her favourite author.
The old books and other knick-knacks were dust-gatherers. She knew that. She knew, too, that she hadn’t pulled most of these books from the shelves for years.
It still felt painful and personal, though, to consign them to the box, the words that had spoken to her as she’d read, the adventures she’d shared with them cast aside as if they were nothing.
“Just popping up the tip,” William said, picking up his own box with a groan. “Reckon we’ve got a carload now.”
She nodded.
“OK,” she said. “I’ll try to get these done by the time you’re back.”
He laughed. “You always were ambitious!” he said, looking at the tightly packed paperbacks.
She laughed and made a face, then turned back to her shelf as he made his way to the front door.
It was just as he’d left the room when it happened. She lifted a book – an old copy of Great Expectations and a folded scrap of paper slipped from between its pages and fluttered to the floor.
She looked at it from her position on the chair. It was probably an old receipt she’d used as a bookmark.
Still, curiosity got the better of her and she climbed down and
