The Woman Who Kept Everything. Jane Gilley

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      ‘Oh yeah,’ Jocelyn continued, excitedly. ‘I went to see what was going on, like, with Big Doreen from next door. And it was right astoundin’ it was. Big lorries arrived and people with weird-looking gear on and masks over their faces. And they kept going in and out, and gettin’ stuff and dumpin’ it in the lorries. Just chuckin’ it in, like. Stuff was crackin’ and breakin’. And people were gawping at what was goin’ on. You’d’ve be in the nursin’ home by then. And after that the electricity people went in, to fix up your Big Bang. Then there were decorators and floorin’ people. Gawd! It looked like a ruddy crime scene, it did, with all the vans and people swarmin’ all around!’

      ‘Crikey, Joss. That sounds like a whole load of crumblies!’

      ‘Yeah, it was, Glor. But, you know, if you saw your place now you wouldn’t recognise it. All your stuff’s gone. To the dump, Tils says. He says it’s all painted up, now: white walls and you’ve got a new kitchen and new bathroom. He snuck in and saw it after it was all done up. Plus there’s three For Sale boards outside. They’re sellin’ it, Glor. Looks like Cleggy’s sellin’ your house from under ya, love.’

      ‘He’s what? No, he can’t be! Don’t be silly. He’s meant to be sorting it all out for me. Not sellin’ it, love! He didn’t tell me he was sellin’ it, Joss,’ Gloria said, suddenly feeling sick. That couldn’t be what was happening, surely. ‘Crikey, ducks, are you sure?’

      ‘So why else would there be sale boards outside it, then?’

      ‘Definitely outside my place?’ Gloria gasped. ‘Not next door?’

      ‘I seen ’em with my own eyes, Glor!’

      She’d been told they were looking for the electrical fault. She’d never been told that Clegg wanted to do anything else. He told her he was going to put things right and she’d thought that meant that, once things had been sorted out, she’d just move back in and things would continue as normal. But, if what Jocelyn was saying was true then there’d be nothing left to go home for because ALL her stuff had apparently gone. To the DUMP. And new stuff was replacing her old things.

      So maybe that’s what was going on. Her son, Clegg, was trying to sell her house, on the quiet! Gloria felt weak with worry. Oh my God!

      No, it couldn’t be. Jocelyn must’ve got it wrong! Why would Clegg do something like that, without telling her? Why would he think it was okay to do something like that without telling her? Or did he just want her to live with them? They hadn’t discussed anything like that. And no! Gloria didn’t want to live with them – even though they were the only family she had now. She’d dreamt about it in the early days after Arthur died, of course, but it wasn’t something she’d contemplated for a long time now. She’d grown to like living by herself. Plus there’d be rules at Clegg’s and Tilsbury wouldn’t be allowed to visit, for one thing.

      Or else – no! Surely not!

      A chill ran through Gloria. Surely he didn’t want to put her back into Green’s Nursing Home, did he? Or did he want to put her somewhere else, out of the way, so she’d be no trouble to anyone? Away from the people she loved and cared about …?

      What if that was his plan? They’d never really got on, mother and son, had they? Not really. It’d been much better and easier when Arthur was alive. Clegg had respected Arthur. But since then …

      Or maybe that was his plan? To put her in an old people’s home – sitting there, alongside moaning old folk, just like in that Waiting for God programme, and visited even less by her family. They had busy lives; Clegg was always telling her that. And then, eventually, she’d be forgotten …

      No, Clegg! Surely not that!

      How she used to laugh at that show! But it didn’t seem quite so funny now she might end up in that same situation.

      Realisation suddenly dawned that she was nearly eighty. She would eventually become a bind to her son and his family, so it would definitely be something they’d be discussing with her in the not-too-distant future, of that she was sure. It also hit her that they might be contemplating where to put her at this very moment in time, especially with this new problem of her house. Gloria knew she didn’t feel ready for that kind of conversation. She was still able-bodied and, as far as she knew, she wasn’t starting to lose her marbles just yet. And even though she could see she was seventy-nine on the outside, she certainly didn’t feel like an old woman on the inside.

      ‘You okay, Glor?’ asked Jocelyn in a small, worried voice.

      No, Gloria Frensham was not okay. A tear dripped slowly down her cheek. She thanked Jocelyn, with a watery, ‘Yeah but I, I gotta go now. So ta-ra, love. We’ll speak soon.’ And she put the phone down.

      She simply couldn’t believe what Jocelyn was suggesting, but Jocelyn wasn’t prone to lying. Yet it really didn’t seem feasible that Clegg would go behind her back and sell her property or get rid of all her belongings, without her knowledge. Would he? Did he really care so little for her feelings? Her mind was buzzing with all the questions, flying around inside her brain.

      She desperately hoped that Jocelyn had got it completely wrong.

       Chapter 8

      Gloria slumped onto the stool by the phone in Clegg’s hall, dumbfounded, trying to make sense of Jocelyn’s news. She wiped her tears away, on the back of her sleeve.

      She had to think this through.

      She didn’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion about her son. Relations between them were strained at best and, anyway, she had to live with him and his wife for the moment. But the more she thought about it she realised that no one had actually mentioned anything to her about her either returning to her own home, after the electrics had been fixed, or staying with them on a more permanent basis. They hadn’t had any meaningful conversations with her about anything relating to her future. Or were things still being decided between them. Maybe that’s what all the pussyfooting around was about?

      Right, well, she had to get to grips with this. She had to get things clear in her own mind. She had to look at the facts. Fact One, she thought, taking a deep breath.

      Her ruddy, difficult and annoying yet occasionally affable son; the son Arthur and she had tried to guide and love, despite his failings, had now, supposedly, in some wild turn of events decided to get rid of everything she’d ever owned. What? Even her jewellery? And what about all her precious photo albums? Some of her most valuable possessions were what she could see in those albums.

      And there was lots of other stuff she really wanted to hold on to. There was Cleggy’s little red three-wheeler tricycle that she’d kept, for starters, and the old Singer sewing machine for stitching Arthur’s work shirts. Oh yes and then there was Cleggy’s little finger paintings he did when he was at school and all those Plasticine models he made. And there was Arthur’s collection of World War I planes and oh, there were lots of things she wanted to keep. Memories were attached to all of them. And memories were all she had left now. No! He couldn’t have! He wouldn’t have done all that, surely?

       Would he?

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