Sleight of Hand by Nick Alexander Page B

friend’s mother’s clothes and moving her clutter to boxes in the attic, slowly but surely erasing the traces of her life.
    Jenny notices every single change – I can sense the way each vanished object makes her skin prickle. Occasionally she asks questions such as, “It
was
you that took her toothbrush, right?” and I nod sadly and stroke her arm.
    â€œGood,” she says. “Just checking.”
    My final push to de-grannify the house comes on Friday.
    With Sarah at nursery and Jenny insisting she wants to go to her appointment in London on her own, it’s the perfect opportunity.
    I blitz the house removing as many traces of Marge’s personal possessions as possible. Of course this being Marge’s house,
everything
was a personal possession, but I try to remove anything that only she would have used and anything someone of my generation simply wouldn’t give houseroom to. Outgo doilies beneath pot plants, and a few of the plants themselves. Out go antimacassars from chair backs, a flowery pink umbrella, some unfinished knitting, a calendar in the kitchen on which the days had been crossed out, ceasing on the sixteenth of September. From the kitchen I bin half a jar of Horlicks, a mug marked “Grandma” and a copy of
Diet For Life - Live to a hundred by eating nature’s superfoods
. I roll rugs and cart them up to the attic. I move furniture to new, less satisfactory but at least different configurations.
    In her bedroom I remove everything except the furniture which I inexplicably wash down before rotating the entire contents of the room ninety degrees clockwise. I strip the bed, flip the mattress and put the curtains in to wash before covering every available surface with the few possessions I have in my own bag. Even being in the room still gives me the shivers, but Jenny said she thought it might help if I made it my room, so that’s what I attempt to do.
    By the time I have finished, the house looks as different as I can make it look without actually redecorating the place.
    I sit back and wait for Jenny to return, a little exhausted but pleased at how uncluttered the place suddenly feels. And then I start to worry. I start to think that I have maybe gone too far and that Jenny will walk through the door and have a nervous breakdown.
    When Jenny
does
arrive she looks grey and drawn. She looks like she doesn’t have the energy for a breakdown.
    She looks around, blinks twice, and says, “Can you pay the taxi somehow? I’ll get it back to you, but right now I just need to sleep.”
    As she climbs the stairs to her own unchanged room, I head out to the waiting black cab, fumbling in my wallet and counting the change from my pocket as I walk.
    â€œAlright mate? How much is it?” I ask, working out that I have just under nineteen pounds.
    He winks at me and taps the top of the meter. It reads £137.50
    I laugh. “You’re joking, right?”
    â€œNope,” he says. “No sense of humour, me. You can ask my missus.”
    I frown at him. “That is … Is that pounds?”
    â€œNah mate, it’s Pesetas,” he says.
    â€œWhere did she … ?”
    â€œLondon. St Thomas’ Hospital. Door to door.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI told her the train was cheaper, but you know women.”
    â€œRight. Umh … Jesus.”
    He beckons to me so I lean in the window.
    â€œI don’t think she’s well, mate,” he says in a confidential tone. “I don’t think she could face public transport if you know what I mean. Don’t give her a hard time – I don’t think she’s having a very good day.”
    â€œWell no,” I say. “No, of course. It’s just that, I, um, don’t have that kind of cash.”
    But the cabby takes Visa, Mastercard and just about any other method of payment on planet Earth, so I stick it on one of my cards and wish him a safe journey