now. It rose up around her like huge towers, locking her in. It made her feel safe. But Gloria certainly knew – oh, she could see – that her house was a humongous mess. But she had neither the strength nor resolve to even begin the colossal task of sorting it all out now.
‘Too late for all that, dearie,’ she’d say when someone made a derogatory comment. ‘It has to stay in here, ducks! Where else can it all go?’
Even though Gloria realised what a state her house was in, she’d felt very blessed and privileged that her real family had left her this house. What a bonus! Number 75 Briar Way handed to her on a plate, it was. And no siblings to share it with either; just Arthur, when he was alive. It had been fantastic being able to escape the constant struggle to find money, each month, for their council tenancy. Getting their own real, proper house was like a dream come true for them.
‘And one less chuffin’ worry,’ Arthur used to say.
She recalled how her real ma and pa had left her the house. Well, actually, her grandmother had left it to her. She’d gotten a letter from her grandmother’s solicitor, years ago, along with the deeds to her house. She and Arthur were living in a scantily furnished council house, with their young son, whilst they tried to save up for better things. The letter also explained why she’d been given up for adoption.
Hello my darling Gloria,
Let me introduce myself. I am your grandmother, Barbara, and the purpose of my letter today is to explain some things for you.
I’m leaving my house to you in my Will on my death. As well as my house – which would have fallen to your parents on my death, and then to yourself, anyway – I wish to explain why you were not brought up by myself, following the untimely deaths of your beloved parents. I have also enclosed a couple of photographs: one of myself at a party and one of your parents’ wedding, outside the church. That’s me to the right of your mother.
Anyway, when you were a baby, the bombs started dropping on Britain at the outbreak of World War II. Your father, Walter, was working in the mustard factory and your mother – my only daughter, Emily – was a domestic cleaner. They were living with me in my house, whilst they saved up for their own family home. But en route to a rare evening out with friends, they both died tragically, in a bombing raid in Norwich, in July of 1940.
A couple of earlier bombing sessions had struck buildings and there’d been no fatalities. But on that particular night there’d been no air raid warning, either, as there sometimes wasn’t, and a lot of other mustard factory workers lost their lives that night too.
However, it was very fortunate your mother and father had chosen to leave you at home with me, that evening. I managed the daily procedures quite well at first, despite the problems that regular bombing raids brought, as well as food shortages. I even managed to find you a wet nurse. But, unfortunately, I couldn’t cope with a tiny baby by myself on account of my arthritis, which has always been a problem for me. I also didn’t want to be evacuated, so I had to make the difficult decision to have you adopted by a sweet woman I knew, Alice McKensie, who lived outside the city. (As my arthritis has recently got much worse, this letter is being transcribed by someone else.)
However, I kept in touch with Alice, your adoptive mother, and told her you’d inherit my house, on my death, when you were ready to take possession of it and as long as it wasn’t bombed during the war. She often let me know how you were doing and sent me photos.
So I truly hope you can forgive my giving you up and I hope that my gift of the house will help ease any financial burdens you might possibly have in the future. I sincerely hope you live a long and very happy existence, my darling.
Your ever-loving grandmother
Barbara xxxxx
‘Of course, I forgive you, dear grandmother,’ Gloria had whispered to the letter, as tears had flowed, unheeded, down her face. ‘It was war. It wasn’t ordinary circumstances. And at least I know my family history now.’
Her adopted mum, Alice, had always been a loving, encouraging person, so Gloria knew she hadn’t missed out by not having the chance to be brought up by her own parents. And she’d been thrilled with the life-changing gift of a house, which’d come at a time when Arthur had lost his job through a back injury and they had been struggling with their finances.
* * *
Gloria couldn’t actually remember when she’d started collecting things.
She’d always loved going to car boots for bargains. But after her beloved adopted mum died, Arthur had cleared out her council house – putting most of Alice’s things in their large shed out back. Gloria hadn’t wanted to get rid of Alice’s stuff. It made her feel like she still had her mother with her but it seemed to kick-start her collecting with a vengeance and she’d started bringing more and more stuff back from everywhere. Mainly from car boot sales but sometimes she found paraphernalia on roads outside people’s houses. They were a scruffy lot, she said, leaving three-legged chairs, old duvets or broken toys and other stuff just lying around, littering the streets.
But Arthur had gone wild about it.
‘Here, Glor, what’re you doing with all that stuff and all them house magazines? You don’t even like Changing Rooms.’
When Gloria had ignored his questioning, he’d tried a more gentle approach.
‘Yes but how much of this stuff do you really need and what do you need it for, my love?’
And when that hadn’t worked, he’d found himself close to tipping point.
‘Gloria, this’s got to stop! It’s in every room and I don’t want anything else in the lounge. Can’t see the telly! This place isn’t big enough for all this ruddy clobber.’
However Gloria had the ‘bug’ now and it was a very hard habit to break.
‘Never know when we might need some of it, though, Arth!’
Yet when Arthur got ill and his heart gave out to obesity, the hoarding just went on and on, increasing in intensity; increasing in the never-ending storing of items Gloria knew she had no intention of using or mending. But insisted she needed.
Due to the resistance she’d encountered because of the way she’d lived these past twenty years, Gloria knew folk didn’t understand why she needed to have lots of things around her. They didn’t know of her heartache when her adoptive mum died, nor how distraught she’d been when Arthur died. Distraught, especially when Arthur died because Clegg seemed to pull away from her after that. Perhaps it was the male influence he missed now Arthur was no longer here.
But it was as though, suddenly, there was no one around her who loved her and no one around her who she could love. No one was there with a friendly word or even those delicious little hugs from the grandchildren, when they’d been allowed to visit. And Arthur wasn’t there with that cup of tea he brought her, at the end of the day, and his: ‘Sleep tight, love, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
So
