Dusting, because it was the quietest, became my favourite task. While the floor was creaking softly above me I would sweep a cloth over surfaces, lifting and setting down Ruth’s things, reaching behind objects and into crevices. I drew my hand across the veneers and ornaments and slipcovers of her life, and by their contours learned her ways. At 27 Cardigan Avenue she was both visionary and manager: Capability Ruth, the romantic yet practical arranger of all the miniature landscapes of her house. I could hear her scolding Arthur, telling him how upset she was about the mess everywhere. She imposed a kind of foursquare, insistent balance; she liked a vista of furniture receding into well-angled, decorous forms against warm-hued walls, she liked to frame windows in drapes tied back like garlands. Her taste veered towards the chintzy: nature improved upon and improbably floral so as to invoke stasis and order. Her cushions lay on the sofa as plump and peaceful as solid little cherubs from a pastorale, asleep on a bank. Her floors were predominantly green and gold, somewhat bleached and shady in the light of the moon. I imagined she liked carpets to remind her of moss and sand.
When I cleaned the composed and satisfied arrangements of Ruth’s downstairs rooms I moved carefully and quickly among the lamps and vases and dishes on side tables. Their settled roundness seemed slightly to reproach me for my angular, darting manner. And when my work was accomplished I took my leave like a verger, turning at the threshold for a last look, to watch emptiness flow back into the space I had disturbed. Knowing I had done all I could, I was content to leave the room to guard its own frail shadows, as though my parting gift were to stop the clocks and arrest Ruth’s hazy idyll in the dark where it could rest undisturbed. No new stark encounter on a deserted road under windblown trees could violate it now; I was keeping it safe from any further brash and irreverent tests of its flimsiness.
And oh, the repetition! Arthur would undo all my work in minutes and not even notice. Whenever I put a room to rights after one of his foraging raids on cupboards or drawers or shelves, I knew that I would probably find it all upside down again the next night. Sometimes I would stifle a sigh when I came across the kitchen or bathroom filthy again, but I didn’t really mind. The endless round of these tasks released me into a ritual both seemly and devotional, and as elevating as meditation.
I think that my grandmother found a similar, steadying comfort in housework and the mild tyranny of its routines. Perhaps housekeeping, for her, was a mundane anchoring force in a life made unstable by my mother’s erratic ways, though my grandmother herself would never have expressed it like that. All she might have said, with a sigh and a smile, was that she didn’t suppose the floor was going to wash itself.
She rolled her two main responsibilities-housekeeping and me- into one, setting about chores with her face tipped up smiling and her hands going like feelers around her, chivvying me along in the role of little helper. By touch and with great care she washed and rinsed and wrung laundry through the mangle; she hung out, folded, smoothed, and ironed our clothes and linen, and sorted it into piles for me to put away. She scrubbed floors and sinks, she dusted and polished. She timed an egg by singing four verses of “Abide With Me” while I, sometimes singing along, watched the trickle of coloured sand slip through the neck of the timer; she was never off by more than a few seconds. The rising gurgle of boiling water going into the teapot told her when she had filled it to its limit. She kept her white stick by the top of the stairs leading down to the shop; indoors she measured the distances between obstacles in counted steps.
By the scent and slant of the wind on Mondays she could judge how long to leave the washing to hang out in the back yard, and if I was good and quick and pegged up the handkerchiefs for her before I left for school, she might play our wet ghosts game, tiptoeing invisibly along on the other side of the line and keeping me guessing which of the vast, obscuring sheets she was hiding behind. No matter how I gazed I was never able to tell if this one or that twitched from a touch of the breeze, from a flick of her hand, or from the breathy sigh of a ghost. I hardly dared peep underneath for a glimpse of her splayed feet in the black shoes, for what if they were elsewhere and not planted behind the sheet that at any moment would suddenly balloon out at me? And what did it mean, the thrill and horror of the sheet’s absolute stillness; had she, like my great-uncle, gone with the ghosts at last, and become one herself? She kept me waiting, and waiting. And when I would be almost faint with dread, a wail would float from the other side of the sheet and one whole wet square would swell with the dome of her head and flap forward against her outstretched arms. Then I would lunge at her, squealing to be caught in a damp cottony hug.
One Monday she didn’t put the washing out at all. When I got home from school she told me there was grit in the wind that day. The wind was blowing from the wrong direction, carrying smoke and dust from the railway and bringing soot down the chimney. She said this as if she didn’t care. The weather, it seemed, had blown away all her briskness and left her dreamy and vague, or perhaps it was rather that the wind had brought something else to her attention. She closed the windows and told me to find the tin of polish and a duster and give the sitting room an extra going-round while she washed the kitchen floor.
I heard her sighing as she reached for a bucket and ran the tap. The wind had made me contrary, too, in the way that the wrong weather upsets young animals; suddenly I was full of a skittish, supple anger. I dug my thumb into the tin, climbed on a stool, and smeared a lump of polish along the top of the picture rail. When I got down I waved the duster a few times, then I wandered away, past the room where my mother was spending a second day in bed with a stash of bottles under the covers, up to the dull quiet of my room in the attic. I sat on my bed until I felt blank. When I came down my grandmother was smiling but her eyes were as cold as pearls. The spell of dreaminess brought on by the weather was broken. Whatever the wind had brought, she had washed it along and out of the day.
“I gave you a job to do.”
Anger gusted inside me again. “I did it.”
“It’s still dusty in here.”
“How do you know?” She didn’t reply. The lavender and beeswax air lay over us like a coat. “You can smell I’ve done it!”
She moved across to her chair and sat down. “I can see you didn’t.”
“No, you can’t! How can you?”
She was still smiling. “Aye, well, miss. I see what I see.”
“But you can’t see!”
“Even so. There are colours. Everything’s got its colour.”
“But you can’t see them,” I told her. “You can’t see anything.”
“Maybe, aye. Maybe not things. Not as such. But I get the colours for things. They go roaming about,” she said, drawing her palm across the side of her head, “in here.”
“How you can see the colours of things but not the things? That’s daft!”
“Don’t you be cheeky. Colours for things, I said, not of things. There are colours for things. And you did not dust this room.”
“All right then, what’s the colour for dust? There isn’t one!” I took a deep, brave breath and announced, “You’re just talking daft!”
“Maybe there isn’t,” she said matter-of-factly, “but there’s a colour for big fibs.” She fished with one hand for the bag of knitting on the floor under her chair and pulled it onto her lap. “Yes, and there’s a colour for a girl who cheeks her grandma. Now be a good girl and get us a cup of tea. And don’t bang the kettle.”