UKAuthors - The Bedsit

It was a poky bedsit within long walking distance of the University, and the only option Maggie had. She'd already shuffled through several streets, that day four weeks ago, scanning the windows of numerous, identical houses in search of 'To Let' signs. University students fluttered in the periphery of her vision like brightly feathered birds, chattering and quick, merging with the brilliance of falling autumn leaves. When she finally noticed a sign which had been posted on the very glass through which she peered now, it was obvious she'd found the one she could afford. The building itself was sound, but in need of repair, the window frames faded and peeled and sharp slivers of roofing tiles littered the walk. The landlord would ask no questions and the notes she had hidden within her handbag, the last remains of her savings, would seal the bargain quickly. No references were needed for this letting, she'd thought and she'd been right.

The fee was low and she paid immediately, as if fearing a band of students would charge through the foyer, at any moment and relieve her of her claim. Boxy and small, the room was hardly meant to house the treasures of a lifetime, the keepsakes of children and friends. The walls, forever damp, made autumn's chill seem deeper than winter's freeze. It was the temporary caul of these walls which told her daily that she was in transit, in a surreal purgatory, from which she never fully emerged. Parting the lace curtains now, she rained a fine sheen of dust upon her head, from the crevice between window and moulding, which she shook and swatted to dispel and wiping the grit from her eyes, she searched the street below; each muted figure rushing to mirthful destination and warm solace, making her eyes leap in staccato quivers. Blue twilight drank the little remaining colour of the day as she left the window long enough to fill the kettle, tightening her cardigan against the chill.
Maggie had done her best to make the bedsit cosy during this first long month; unpacking as many keepsakes as she could, but bearing in mind that clutter was inevitable. There was little space left beyond necessity, for decorating. A double bed was out of the question, but she'd managed to secure an old occasional bed from a second hand store and when opened, it covered the only available floor space. She'd found that if she inched to the foot of the bed and stood on one leg, she could just reach the loo by holding the door jamb and swinging into place on her second foot. The bed, along with a small bedside table which could only be used as such when the bed wasn't open (and which held a plaster of Paris, 1950s era lamp), were the main components of the sleeping area. She moved the table each night, inside the toilet, making it impossible to shut the door and placed the lamp on the windowsill, within switching distance. There was also an old, battered four drawer chest which completed the suite but that stood in the corner beyond the toilet door and doubled as a book case; her books stacked on top as high as she could place them without toppling each time she chose to read. Beneath this mountain of hardcover's, she laid a lace runner, which she smoothed daily, recalling how once, it had appeared upon her dressing table, decorated with fine glass and decanters.

Across the room, which was less than ten feet, stood an ancient cooker, sadly yellowed and threateningly devoid of temperature gages. Beside this, and close enough to absorb the heat from the oven (making most of her cooled foods weep) was a flat sized refrigerator painted, a dull green and bearing a bumper sticker which read 'I Love Sheffield.' She supposed, if she were an eighteen-year-old student, whose main use of the fridge was a cooler for lager, it would serve an unquestionable purpose. Above the fridge was a framed and dingy poster, a legacy from one of the more intellectual tenants, who had occupied these quarters: 'For want of a nail a shoe was lost, for want of a shoe a horse was lost, for want of a horse a rider was lost, for want of a rider the battle was lost, and all for the want of a nail. Maggie decided to leave it there; it's nursery rhyme irony eliciting a latent sympathy from clouded emotion.

Once she had acquainted herself with her allotted space, Maggie had diligently tried to decorate the walls and windows with fragments she'd brought from David's home; small framed photos flanking the single window and a tea set, precariously perched atop the tiny fridge. She knew the familiar trappings of the past, which served to make up her personality, would remain battened in boxes for as long as she remained in the bedsit. She couldn't believe how many things she had taken away with her, removing them gently and storing them with care. Indeed, after she was finished removing her pictures, her photos, her knickknacks and books, David was left with the job of finding replacements to fill the empty shelves and wall space. Now, as she gazed about her, at the twenty odd boxes stacked neatly, floor to ceiling against the bit of wall at the foot of the bed, she realised her entire life was condensed to the contents therein. Of course, beginning a whirlwind love affair on the dark side of fifty had been questionable from the start, her friends and family warning her of the dangers of involvement and, after all, it is expected that one grows more cautious, not less, with the passing of years. But David was different, eliciting a trust Maggie had never really given anyone else, before.

They had met at a dinner party; well meaning friends classically trying to pair off suitable, unattached singles in the hope of keeping an even seating arrangement. She always felt out of her element in these situations, as if she were the trump card in some esoteric card game. But she came along to have an evening out; her children all grown and her life before her, she had nothing better to do that Saturday night than check estate listings, for a new place to live. Her mind had been open to possibilities of finding a seaside cottage and settling into comfortable seclusion; a long held dream place where she could pursue her writing with perfect daily inspiration, but her income was modest and she was already allowing herself to consider other options. She could no longer afford the big, old house in which she raised her children. She knew she would need to settle upon an affordable place soon. She had no thoughts of a man in her life, on a permanent basis. Her marriage, long ended, had proved to be the stock of situation comedies and torrid romance novels, a total sham. With the little savings she had, she had hoped to find a suitable place, one she could afford while trying to sell her work. She'd long set aside any hope of perfect partners as the stuff of youth and looked forward to a future with the reliable, contented company of self, in modest surroundings.

Placed at David's right that evening, Maggie was immediately impressed with his conviviality. Everyone adored him, especially women. This was quite obvious, by the way every couple's female half fawned over him. He was shy and unassuming, yet witty and opinionated. His table manners were impeccable and when the conversation turned to wines, he knew all the best ones. He was well read, travelled extensively and was a highly respected member of the University staff; his postgraduate studies and thesis creating theories never imagined. He was sporty and casual, even while dressed for tea and seemed as if he'd be just as comfortable wearing old trainers, as he would wearing Gucci's. This was the man she was paired with for the evening and as it turned out, with whom she stayed. 'Hello!', he'd said, with mock surprise. 'You must be Margaret. Renee told me all about you!" Caught unaware, she gasped a breathy response. 'Just Maggie. Everyone calls me Maggie." 'Ah! But you really are truly a Margaret. Too much depth for a 'Maggie.' I shall call you Margaret then, shall I?” He talked with her the entire night and as he helped her into her coat asked if he might dine with her one evening and that had been the beginning.

They had stayed together for almost three years, seeing each other as often as possible, talking on the phone when they couldn't, even when he was out of country and it wasn't long before he said they should live together. Such horizons had never been on her agenda, but all seemed perfect with David. Here was the fairy tale of youth Maggie had relinquished, arrived incarnate as a dinner guest, tangible and loving, the other half of her soul, which she could never deny without denying herself. So when David said that she should move in within a few months, making her wait a bit longer as he had teaching assignments which delayed his plans, she remained in the old house and waited, slowly using her savings. When the few months were up, she had already packed most of her things.
'Oh luvy!", he said," one evening as he stirred white wine into one of his favourite sauces, "Margaret, you can't possibly bring all of your things. There simply isn't enough room!” David usually didn't talk while he cooked; it distracted him from gourmet perfection. Maggie left the kitchen quietly and began making a list of things to be rid of.

That's when she slowly began to sell and give away almost everything in anticipation of the move. At the end of two years, Maggie thought she had made great progress. ‘There really isn't anything left, Darling," she said one night while sipping the Chardonnay he had poured into her glass from his private stock. 'I only have the few antique pieces and the desk my Mum gave me as a child,"

David's face clouded as he drew his wine glass slowly beneath his nose. 'Something wrong with the wine?’, she asked.
'No, no, Sweet. It's just that I don't see how we can arrange that heavy old furniture here. There isn't room, and what's more, it simply wouldn't match. Can't you let some of it go?" So she had. She let it all go, except for her childhood desk, which she gave to her granddaughter, remembering as she did that she had written her first stories on it; all the time spending more and more money to keep herself in the now huge and empty old house. At one point, about two and a half years into their relationship, she offered to find a small and affordable place of her own until he was ready, while already wondering how she would manage with her dwindled savings.

But he was adamant. He begged, he pleaded, he promised to finish his work and make more room, if only she would live with him. He pledged his eternal love and faithfulness and so she waited and finally, David was ready. 'Be careful, Maggie" her friend Renee told her over tea one afternoon while they sat on two of the cardboard boxes containing her belongings. 'David has changed his mind before. Are you certain he means it?"

What could she say? 'Well, of course he does. He couldn't possibly not, after I've done away with everything, could he. Besides, I honestly don't have any other place to go now, after all. I've very little money left." Renee shook her head. 'You know mate, I'm really beginning to feel guilty about having introduced the two of you." Maggie smiled reassuringly. 'Not to worry. He won't let me down."

And he didn't. He was true to his word. As soon as he returned from his latest research trip, he came to her empty old house to collect her. 'I'm ready lover. Let's do this!” he said excitedly. So almost three years into their relationship and having waited for two and a half, she announced her plans to those closest to her, taken the plunge and moved in with him. In a few days, she had decorated his house with her things and those they had collected together and he beamed at her progress. But sure enough, in a few weeks and before the last boxes even arrived, David had a change of heart. He announced his feelings one night after lovemaking, as he lit a cigarette and paced the bedroom floor.

'I can't do it. I just can't. I just don't feel passionately in love with you, anymore. If I did, I'd want you here with me, wouldn't I?” he'd said, as if needing her confirmation. "I need my space!” Those were the words which sent her in search of the bedsit.

'Good God, woman, don't you know male mid-life crisis when you see it?” her friend Renee had asked over a pint one night, before her move. She was obviously trying to lighten her mood and hadn't succeeded. "He'll get over it. You wait and see."
'Get over it?” she queried. 'Renee, I'm going to be living in a room, which isn't large enough for a house pet! I think I'm going to be one of those old women who live in a bed-sit, with a number of cats and talk to flowers on the wallpaper. How on earth am I going to face my friends, my children?" Renee swore herself to secrecy and let her sob a bit on her shoulder. 'Have another pint on me, luv?" she said, I think you need it,"

Still, she had no choice. No amount of explanation or excuse would be strong enough to save her pride, so without telling anyone else, she leased the bedsit and attempted to begin a new life secretly. The odd thing was that as soon as she moved in, David began to call. In fact, he'd called every night and phoned as well. She'd returned his key, but it seemed he had no use for it, as he came directly to her place before and after work, squeezing his six foot frame into the little cubby she called home and rambling on about his plans, events, and work adventures, while she cooked dinner for them both. He perched on one of the two flimsy chairs, pressed close enough to the cooker to raise concern for his igniting his fleece and pointed to his back, with a pleading expression. "The passion is still there, luv. It's never stale with you," he said, while she rubbed his shoulders with one hand and stirred gravy with the other.

The crushing walls trapped cooking odours in earnest and she'd placed a number of air wicks in her single closet, in hope of keeping her clothes from smelling like a fast food chain. She supposed she was lucky to have a bath en suite, despite her hitting her head against the shower wall when she bent over to reach the soap. At least there was a washbasin. It was a place to clean the dishes, which the other bed-sits in the building didn't have. She couldn't help thinking how much easier it would have been, combining both their incomes, making a new home as a couple, the way he'd promised; something they could decorate together and free from past memories. It would be theirs, from which to create new ones, and all that time to share. Ah, well.

This evening, her efforts to provide a nice dinner were hindered by the old cooker, which now gave off a warning scent of slightly burned roast. She side-stepped the tiny two-seater table to reach the oven, just in time to rescue the nub of meat, which she'd bought reduced. She stopped thinking that perhaps David might one day cook for her, this being something he did when they lived apart and during her brief stay at his place. It seemed this task was relegated to her now, as well as providing the meals. The room was beginning to darken when she set the table and heard his knock. His coat was off in no time and he ate with the meticulousness of gentlemen, while he commented that the meat was a bit charred. Another evening of listening to him expound the virtues of his colleagues, his students, his University, his home. He was quite proud of his new roof and his staircase decoration; quite cheerful to suggest some mat colours she might try on the bedsit walls.

'Perhaps I will try those," she said between bites, "when I can afford it"
"Oh, yes. Quite right. Well, Margaret, you will need to be very frugal, really," he said. 'You might have made out better with a less expensive bedsit, in an area you could better afford. Of course, it wouldn't be the best of areas though." A totally innocent statement, totally void of sensitivity. David's home was in an affluent area, of course. She wondered how much better she might have done, than this. She chewed her food slowly, listening to him with the vacant perception of one who has attended a funeral. 'No telly yet?” he asked, dabbing his lips with his napkin. She smiled softly. 'No. Not yet. It's on my list of must do's."

When he had finished and drank his fill of lager and she had long since cleared away the dishes and bathed, she found him sitting on the occasional bed, already opened. He had placed the bedside table in the toilet, making it necessary for her to leave the door open and sidle her way round it to the door. She peeked out at the expanse of bed, standing on one leg, holding the door jamb with both hands. He was patting the mattress. 'Time for some sleep. Let's cuddle," he murmured. She bent forward and crawled across the bed from the foot, making her way beneath the covers, her back to the dampness of the wall. She lay on her right side to give his body purchase of the remaining space, his sleepy voice whispering against her; 'You do know, it wasn't really you, luv. I just need some space."

He'd lit a candle and as he curled about her body, fitting himself to her familiar spaces, she read silently by the candle's light, the yellowed bit of poster above the fridge. 'For want of a nail, a shoe was lost,......." Quietly savouring the aches and trembles of middle age, the only bastion of reliability left, she turned the words to her fancy and whispered; 'For want of some space, a trust was lost, and all for the want of some space.' Hearing her whisper, David murmured, as his eyes fluttered shut, his breath moistly warming her breasts as he fell into a contented sleep, long before her ambiguous hand ever reached his thigh.

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