It did not seem fair to involve James in her mother-in-law’s unexpected packing but James presumed himself involved, and Julia was grateful. Whatever mattered to Julia was drawn without question into the inner circle of James’s concern, a way of his she’d noticed and admired, early on. In any case, without his and Nathan’s assistance the team would comprise only tiny, slender Julia herself, arthritic and unsteady Philip, and a queasy and evermore distractible Gwen, who at present did everything with irritating, self-satisfied lassitude. No doubt she would find several opportunities throughout the day to remind them that she couldn’t lift heavy objects because she was pregnant, she couldn’t join them for too many coffees or cups of tea because she was pregnant, she couldn’t leave them a moment’s peace to forget she was pregnant, because she was pregnant. For lightening the load and the atmosphere they needed James, even if no one else in the family would admit it.
The furniture would go with professional movers the following day, which was the formal date of sale, but there remained the stuff: velvet cushions the removal men were not permitted to touch; framed prints and pictures; three drawers of splitting Kodak photograph packets spilling muddled, slippery negatives; a great deal of musty, unused but beautifully pressed table linen; a white archive box of ancient telephones, from a black, midnineties cordless all the way back to an avocado Bakelite rotary, which enchanted Gwen. Supermarket bags of unidentifiable wires and chargers for items long discarded. Shadeless lamps in which expired bulbs wore a gray fuzz cap of static dust. A printer. A scanner. A cumbersome fax machine of sickly oat-colored plastic with which Iris could not be enjoined to part, though it transpired that she only exchanged faxes with Philip, whom she also e-mailed, texted, and instant messaged. Box files containing hundreds of sallow, fading newspapers in which Iris had a byline. And books, and books, and books. Iris had supposedly been sorting and packing (certainly she had made frequent reference to her toils) and yet the house looked discouragingly unaltered. It had been the Alden family home in one configuration or another for decades. Julia had known of her mother-in-law’s intentions for barely a fortnight, and this final exodus was supposed to be accomplished in a day.
“They’ll do it all tomorrow if we add a few more hours to the booking,” Julia ventured for the final time. She, James, Nathan, and Gwen had arrived early as planned, armed with tape dispensers and scissors and marker pens, but she still nurtured the wild hope that Iris would permit the professional movers to do it all, and they could instead go to South End Green for eggs Benedict and cappuccinos. The man on the phone had quoted for the lot. They were thorough, he told her, she needn’t lift a finger. His boys even packed the toilet paper off the holder, don’t you worry, love. Iris was having none of it. Boxes and bubble wrap had already been delivered.
“Darling, I won’t have unknown gentlemen fishing around in my possessions,” trilled Gwen. Everyone laughed except James, who would not, Julia knew, have dared even to smile at Iris’s expense. Instead he rolled up his sleeves and began to construct the flat-packed cardboard boxes that were leaning in the hallway.
“Well, I won’t,” Iris said, with an elegant and unapologetic shrug. She had dressed for the occasion in black slacks and a narrow-ribbed black cashmere sweater with a high turtleneck, unseen since the early years of their acquaintance. Unfamiliar enameled bangles in cobalt and emerald clinked on her knobbed, narrow wrists—clearly this move had unearthed some long-lost, once-loved treasures. “It would be ghastly to have them poking about. They’d manhandle everything and mix it all up and break things. I’d really much rather the family did it.” She kissed Julia, embraced Gwen, and gave James a dry and unprecedented peck on the cheek. Julia felt briefly touched, until she remembered that Iris must also realize that James’s presence was essential. “Is Philip here yet?” she asked, prompted to remember the sweetest and most ludicrous manual laborer among them.
Iris kicked off neat, black pumps and stalked back to the kitchen. Julia and Gwen followed her. “Philip Alden’s not here at present. Shall we start upstairs? Or here? Shall I make us some tea?”
Gwen sagged into a kitchen chair. “It’s so hot,” she said, which was true for no one except herself. “I’m roasting.” She pulled her sweater over her head and fanned herself. Julia averted her eyes in irritation. On the phone earlier Iris had made an unforgivable joke about giving Gwen the heaviest trunks to lift.
Iris nodded. “Very well. Why don’t you label boxes for us; that’s a good, nonstrenuous task. But you’ll need to ask me as you go along, because the most important thing is to mark clearly the name of the room it’s headed for, or it will all end up in the hallway there and be nightmarish. The rest of us can start in the bedroom, I’ve prepared piles. I’m rather pleased with my winnowing; there’s a vast heap of objets to go to Norwood.”
“Shouldn’t the writing be Philip’s job? Maybe Gwen can fold things. He’s been terribly elusive, by the way, is he alright? He’s not answering my calls.”
“I’m sure he’s right as rain. I didn’t want to trouble him with all this; he’s not coming. He can’t lift anything anyway; he’d have been less than useless and got under our feet. And he hates me throwing anything away. We’d only have rowed.”
Julia started to say that she was sure Philip would nonetheless want to be included, but something in her mother-in-law’s expression cautioned her, and she stopped.
“I don’t see that it should take all that long if we’re efficient. If you’ll all come up with me, perhaps someone could dismantle the computer, and then we’ll start at the top.”
“I can do the computer, Granny.”
Gwen set off, and in the hall could be heard to inform Nathan that they were all to begin at the top of the house. Julia began to tidy the kitchen, which was strewn on all surfaces with piles of bills and letters beneath yellow sticky notes. On the kitchen table was a stack of hardbacks in various conditions, Lucky Jim, Women in Love, The Rainbow, Anna Karenina, Les Fleurs du Mal. Julia ran her fingers over their spines.
“Giles’s. They’re all first or early editions. I thought I’d give them to Camilla.” Camilla was Giles’s daughter, a journalist who lived in Brighton and kept urban chickens in an egg-shaped fiberglass hutch in her tiny backyard.
“That’s thoughtful.”
“She’s got most of his others, they ought all to be together. He left his collection here, moldering in my office when he moved to France—oh, don’t be so childish, when he actually moved to France. I kept saying he ought to take them; after all, why own them if you don’t look at them? But he insisted I be custodian, and then he filled that house with cheap paperbacks instead. Typical Giles,” she finished, fondly.
“Shall we post these or is she coming up soon?”
“Just pop them aside, I don’t think we ought to trust them to Royal Mail, not that I wouldn’t willingly see Lawrence dispatched into oblivion. We’ll carry them loose.” These last were the ominous words Iris had spoken about a great many possessions. Julia imagined a column of hundreds of people moving like a line of toiling ants from Parliament Hill to the new flat, each ferrying one teaspoon or a single mug.
“How much is actually packed?”
“Oh, there’s barely anything left, I’ve worked and worked. Look, I’ll show you.” Iris tripped lightly across the kitchen and flung open the pantry door to reveal a tower of neatly taped brown boxes. Julia felt a wave of relief.
“Shall I start taking these out? James found a parking space right outside. It might be good to get things out of the house.”
“That would be lovely, darling, and now I must go and supervise; God knows what the children are doing with my belongings. I’ll send Thing to help you with your labors.” Iris then swept out, and Julia surveyed the contents of the pantry. P.A.’S BOOKS, was scrawled across the top of one box. P.A.’S CLOTHES. P.A.’S MED. TEXTBKS. P.A.’S TENNIS R. AND SPORTSWR. P.A.’S PAPERS. And on the side of each the words, SECOND BEDROOM. SECOND BEDROOM. SECOND BEDROOM.