Thursday morning, the text went round:
Choir meeting Marilyn’s, Sat 9am. Don’t tell Marilyn.
Thursday afternoon, I had a phone call.
‘Faith. I need a really, really big favour. I’ve won Anton’s trainee of the month. It’s a spa day. Eight hours by myself, in a spa, being pampered and encouraged to wear a dressing gown in daylight hours! But it’s this Saturday.’
I smiled on the other end of the phone. ‘What time do you need me?’
‘Eight-thirty. If you’re sure? You’re not working? Or walking? I know it’s a big ask.’
‘I can bring the twins on my walk. Show them the river.’
‘I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘I’m pretending you didn’t say that,’ I said.
‘You know I hate asking for help.’
I pretended to be annoyed. ‘Do you know I hate not being asked to help when my friend needs it? I’m going to look forward to spending a whole day with my best buddies Nancy and Pete. Maybe I should payyoufor the privilege.’
Sixteen choir members, bin bags and dusters in hand, surveyed the mountain of mess open-mouthed. They had thought the skip Hester hired a little over the top, but not any more.
‘How long have we got?’ Melody asked, stretching out her rubber glove and letting it ping back with a thwack.
‘Eight and a half hours and counting,’ Hester barked.
‘What do we even do with all this junk?’ Rowan’s eyes boggled. ‘We can’t just throw away someone else’s stuff.’
‘We can, and we will,’ Hester ordered. ‘Five piles. Skip, recycling, give away, keep, don’t know. The don’t know pile will be the smallest, followed by the keep pile. Two sub-teams. Sort and Clean. Sort will complete the first phase in each room, Clean will then follow. Each sub-team splits itself into pairs.’
‘Sub-sub-teams?’ Millie asked.
‘If you insist. Each pair tackles one room at a time.’
‘I thought you said we could call them sub-sub-teams?’
‘Call them what you like!’ Hester’s brows beetled. ‘Just get going! It is time you ladies learned how to distinguish between what you need to keep hold of, what other people need to take off you, and what nobody needs. Too many of you have cluttered up your life with junk. Go and master the art of prioritising. Go!’
No doubt sensing some fresh tension between us since Sam had been admitted as an inpatient, Hester paired me up with April. We started in Nancy and Pete’s bedroom, letting them play in one of the cots together while we sorted through the piles of baby clothes, toys, broken equipment and 437 parenting magazines.
April was a ruthless machine. She displayed no hesitation in chucking away someone else’s belongings, refusing to acknowledge the ‘don’t know’ pile. We filled two bin bags with clothes that needed washing and two with rubbish. We created an enormous pile of tiny clothes for Polly’s as yet unnameddaughter, and made significant contributions to the recycling and give-away piles.
I nearly gagged at the state of the carpet we uncovered. It reminded me of my bedsit in London.
We took down the curtains to wash, changed the cot sheets, wiped the walls with baby-friendly detergent and disinfectant, and scrubbed every other surface until they sparkled.
Two hours later, Hester poked her head in the door. ‘Are you ready for the Clean team yet?’
‘We’ve already done it.’ April’s face shone pink. ‘All that’s left is cleaning the carpet, but we didn’t want to do that with the babies here.’
Hester’s eyes flicked over every corner of the room. Pete laughed and threw his stuffed kangaroo over the top of the cot bars.
‘Right. You’re scheduled a fifteen-minute tea break. Then you can start on the conservatory. Good job.’
We had our tea huddled on the back step, the only place free from piles, or people sorting piles.
April, who had said barely anything to me throughout the morning, peeked over her mug.
