The Empty Echo
It had been building for a while, weeks really. In amongst other freak outs and breakdowns. We were going back to our flat in Muswell Hill to do a final clean, despite the fact that whatever we did the agency would overcharge us for a professional clean anyway, and then to hand in our keys. We’d finally retrieve our hoover which we’d strategically hidden there when we’d moved three weeks before.
The pangs of sadness started in earnest as we came up the escalator and exited Highgate station, then waiting for a bus, then seeing the Muswell Hill Broadway and the overly familiar shops (one had turned into a charity shop in the time since we’d left) then we walk down the hill (meltdown still building). Everything was more than familiar, it was the unnoticeable wallpaper of our life. Then we came to the cluster of buildings where our flat was, still exactly the same. The people across the way were still in France on their long summer holiday, the foxes out back were still meandering without fear, the old Jack Russell Dog called Daisy was still sitting on her window seat watching the comings and goings. From outside I could see there were no curtains in the windows of our flat, none of our plants on the windowsills. Then checking the post box and coming into the hallway, then entering the flat. As husb opened the door I heard this empty echo. The rooms were entirely empty. Of course they were, all of our stuff was with us in our new flat in Margate. But the horrible shock of actually seeing it empty, I hadn’t had before.
On Moving Day, our Cheese plant had been the last one on the van…
On moving day, I had gone ahead as the moving men were packing things away in the van, hoping to beat them to Margate by train. Husb stayed behind and did a clean, getting a later train. Because of this I’d not seen the flat totally empty before. I’d seen it packed up and ready to go, of course. But I’d just not seen it so devoid of our history. They were now just rooms. The rational part of me knew this, of course. I knew where all our stuff was, I’d woken up in the bed we’d moved from here to there this morning. We’d nearly unpacked everything from here into the new flat very quickly. But there was an emotional non-rational side of me that felt like none of that had really happened. It was all too much to handle. We’d walk through that door and everything would still be there as it was. Not even on the day of the move, but as it was before we’d started packing. The non-rational part of me felt like that life hadn’t ended at all. Even if I wasn’t able to be there any longer, it would still be going on, somewhere in the background. It would continue, for better or worse. Seeing those empty rooms was the shock I needed to get onto the next stage of moving on.
Husb, obviously less of an emotional volcano was pretty fine with the whole process. He’d already been here when it was empty, he’d been here cleaning. As we were cleaning, I went through a lot of stages. Hoovering the rooms as I was weeping like a stroppy child, then mopping the same rooms as I still struggled with tears, screwing up my face like a swiftly pocketed receipt. I couldn’t believe it was all over and that this life had really just vanished like this.
“You’re going to hate me,” husb said, “but can you just go around and clean the skirting boards”
“The skirting boards? Are you joking?”
“I’ll do it then…”
“No I’ll do it.”
So there was I on my hands and knees crawling on the laminate flooring and cleaning the skirting boards of the rooms. In a way this helped, focusing on one task like this and it kind of annoyed me a bit and made me annoyed at the flat, which helped too. Fucking skirting boards, eugh. I guess I’ll just keep going. These were just rooms now but they were important to us, we’d been so happy here and instead of going when we were more ready, we’d been forced out with a no-fault eviction, being given two months to pull together a plan and secure somewhere to live.
Of course I teetered on the edge of meltdown as we left and that final walk out, from the building through the car park, looking back at that lovely flat, it was hard and I was pretty heartbroken. We’d only moved in two years ago and now we were walking together into the future, and leaving that flat and living in London in the past.
On our train back to Margate we were silly with relief. Laughing and joking as well as being utterly exhausted. It was a Friday in August but the crowds were everywhere and we were annoyed at how busy and in a rush everyone was. We realised as soon as we’d got off the train, we’d become grumpy Londoners again, people were either in our way because they were too slow (and/or tourists) or they were rudely right behind us trying to nudge around us because we weren’t going fast enough for them. Truly you can’t win.
We came into Margate and the station was busy, the security guards at the station had set up some tables and chairs in the middle of the ticket hall where one was having a serious talk with an angry looking woman. People were queuing to get their tickets and bags checked. Then we put it together, Olly Murs was playing Dreamland tonight. We weren’t interested but I was a bit worried they’d want to search our bags, one had a hoover and a single loo roll.
As we showed our train tickets we were ushered out, clearly we’d been correctly clocked as Non-Olly Murrs fans.
Then the walk down from the station to the front, ahead of us Margate sands and the swoop of the harbour arm in the distance with its concrete lighthouse. Now we lived up past the Harbour on the settlement on the cliffs above called Cliftonville. That was where our new home was and we were ambling towards it, knackered but happy, with our hoover in our bag.
