Mr Lynch’s Holiday

21

He opened the wardrobe. The combined scents of dust, wood and perfume settled upon him. Here were the clothes Kathleen hadn’t needed in her final years. The best coats, the going-out dresses, the wedding hats and silk scarves. They were folded neatly on shelves or hung from good wooden hangers, some still in the polythene sheaths of dry-cleaners; after years of such delicate handling he couldn’t bring himself to let them drop into the bin bag he had ready beside him. He went over to the other wardrobe and reached for the suitcase on top. He laid it on the bed and started to fold the dresses and coats gently into it before stopping short. He would need the suitcase back and that would cause a problem at the charity shop. He pictured them tipping the dresses out into a heap on the counter and handing him the case. He wondered, should he have waited for Anne’s help before he started with all of this? He took the dresses out again and laid them on the bed. He dismissed once more the idea of the bin bag and went in search of an alternative. He settled in the end for some of the good-quality carrier bags that Kathleen used to keep in the understairs cupboard. Large House of Fraser, Marks & Spencer and Debenhams carriers she had accumulated and preserved over the years. ‘Is this what you were keeping them for?’ he asked aloud.

Back upstairs, he sat down at her dressing table. It was unsettling to see his reflection in the mirror. He was used to seeing her face framed there, engaged in various arcane ministrations. He unzipped the large padded bag in front of him and the weighted compacts and pots slid out on to the surface. Here were the tiny tools she had used to perform her adjustments: miniature paintbrushes for her eyes and lips, compounds of colour and powder, a hundred different mysteries encased in shellac. He suspected they could all go in the bin, but he would let Anne make that decision. He started opening the drawers on either side of the dresser, mechanically reaching in and pulling out the various different subspecies of underwear and letting them fall into the bag. If it had been he who had gone first, she would have had to contend with only one drawer of pants and one of socks. He did not try to fathom the purpose or classification of the different items, he knew only that some were slippery, some springy and some tendrilled and knotted.

At the back of the bottom drawer he felt something solid. He reached in and pulled out an old shoebox, the lid held on with elastic bands. He placed it carefully on the bed and studied it for a moment before removing the bands and lifting the lid. Inside were bundles of letters in faded blue Airmail envelopes. He lifted a bundle; they felt light and insubstantial. He sat on the bed, the letters on his lap. In all the years he’d seen only a handful arrive. He had thought them sporadic updates, occasional good wishes, but they were the ones that had slipped through the net. The rest had been hidden from him. Their arrival, their reading, their storage — all concealed.

Later he gathered together the eight bags he had filled, put on his jacket and cap and set off for the parade of shops around the corner. He was buffeted by a stiff breeze, the bags bumping against each other and against him, but he kept up a good pace. When they were courting Kathleen would pull back on his arm and say: ‘Can’t we stroll? Do we have to march?’ and he’d slow down for a few yards, but the brisk pace always returned.

The woman in the charity shop didn’t seem thrilled at the sight of him and his bags. She looked to Dermot like the type not thrilled by very much at all. She asked him to drop them on the floor at the rear of the shop and showed no inclination to examine their contents. When he returned past the counter he felt the need to say: ‘It’s good stuff in there, well looked after too.’

She nodded and smiled as if he were simple. As he was leaving he noticed a mannequin in the window. He imagined passing by in a few days’ time to see it dressed in Kathleen’s clothes. His wife rendered in white, polished plastic, surrounded by piles of jigsaws and DVDs, watching his comings and goings.

‘God Almighty,’ he said aloud, and hurried out.

He went home and sat, still in his jacket and hat, looking at the envelopes scattered across the bed. When it grew dark he gathered them together and put them back in the box. He felt its weight in his hands. So many words and only half the conversation.