they didn’t belong to a stranger, either—because the boxes meant something to Hugh Bennell.
Her guess was that they belonged to a woman. The magazines, toiletries... But who?
His wife? Ex-wife? Mother? Sister? Friend?
So—with enthusiasm—April had decided to solve the mystery of the boxes.
But with box after box the mystery steadfastly remained and her enthusiasm rapidly waned.
On the radio, a newsreader read the ten o’clock news in a lovely, clipped British accent.
Only ten a.m.?
Her self-determined noon lunchbreak felt a lifetime away.
April sighed and straightened her shoulders, then carefully sliced open the brown packing tape of her next box.
On top lay empty wooden photo frames, one with a crack through the glass. And beneath that lay two phone books—the thick, heavy type that had used to be delivered before everyone had started searching for numbers online.
The unbroken wooden frames would go to the ‘donate’ box, and the phone books into the recycling. But as she walked out into the foyer, to add the books to the already mountainous recycling pile, a piece of card slipped out from between the pages.
April knelt to pick it up. It was an old and yellowed homemade bookmark, decorated with a child’s red thumbprints in the shape of lopsided hearts.
Happy Mothering Sunday!
Love Hugh
The letters were in neat, thick black marker—the work of a school or kindergarten teacher.
And just like that she’d solved the mystery.
She started a new category: Hugh.
She wasn’t making a decision on that bookmark, no matter what he said.
She’d let him know in her summarising email that evening.
* * *
The email pinged into Hugh’s inbox shortly before five p.m. As it had the previous two days at approximately the same time, with the same subject line and the day’s date. Exactly as he’d specified—which he appreciated.
She did insist on prefacing her emails with a bit of chatter, but she’d stuck to his guidelines for updating him on her progress.
Which was slower than he’d hoped. Although he didn’t think that was April’s fault—more his own desire for the house to be magically emptied as rapidly as possible.
That option still existed, of course. He’d researched a business that would come and collect all his mother’s boxes and take them away. It would probably only take a day.
But he just couldn’t bring himself to do that.
He hated those boxes—hated that stuff. Hated that his mother had been so consumed by it.
Despite it being junk, despite the way the boxes weighed so heavily upon him—both literally and figuratively—it just felt...
As if it would be disrespectful.
Hi Hugh,
I’ve found a bookmark today—photo attached—and I’ve put it aside for you. If I find anything similar I’ll let you know.
Otherwise all going well. About two thirds through this room...
Hugh didn’t read the rest. Instead he clicked open the attachment.
A minute later his boots thumped heavily against the steps up to his mother’s front door. It was freezing in the evening darkness—he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat for the very short journey—but the foyer was definitely a welcome relief as he let himself in.
April was still in the kitchen, her coat halfway on, obviously about to leave.
‘Don’t panic—I didn’t throw it out,’ she said.
‘Throw what out?’ he asked.
He hadn’t seen her since that first morning, and she looked different in jeans and jumper—younger, actually. Her cheek was smudged with dust, her hair not entirely contained in the knot on top of her head.
‘The bookmark,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go grab it for you.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’
She’d already taken a handful of steps, and now stood only an arm’s length before him.
‘Okay,’ she said. She inclined her chin in a direction over his shoulder. ‘It’s in a box out there. I’ve labelled it “Hugh”. I’ll just chuck anything in there that I think you should have a look at.’
‘No,’ he said again. ‘Don’t.’
Now she seemed to realise what he was saying. Or at least she was no longer wilfully ignoring him. He knew how clear he’d been: with the exception of any paperwork that included personal details, April was to donate or trash everything.
‘Are you sure?’
Hugh shrugged. ‘It’s just a badly painted bookmark.’
Up until a few minutes ago he’d had no recollection of that piece of well-intentioned crafting, so his life would definitely be no lesser with it gone.
‘I wasn’t just talking about the bookmark,’ April said. ‘I meant anything like that. I’m sure more sentimental bits and pieces are going to turn up. And what about photos? I found some photo frames today, so I expect eventually I’ll find—’
‘Photos can go in the bin,’ he said.
Hugh shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. Again, he just wanted to be out of this place. But he didn’t leave.
April was watching him carefully, concern in her clear blue gaze. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Fidgeting. He never fidgeted.
He wasn’t himself in this house. With all this stuff. Now that the boxes had necessarily flowed into the foyer behind him the clutter was everywhere.
April had left an empty coffee mug on the kitchen sink.
Now he skirted around her, making his way to the other side of the counter, grabbed the mug and opened the dishwasher. It was empty.
‘I’ve just been hand-washing,’ April said. ‘I can wash that before I go—don’t worry about it.’
Hugh ignored her, stuck the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water. Beneath the sink he found dishwashing liquid, and squirted it into the steaming water.
As the suds multiplied he was somewhat aware of April shrugging off her coat. He had no idea why it was so important for him to clean this mug, but it was.
‘You can go,’ he said, cleaning out the coffee marks from inside the mug. He realised it wasn’t one of his mother’s—it was printed with the logo of a Fremantle sporting team he didn’t recognise and had a chip in the handle. It was April’s.
He rinsed the mug in hot water and placed it on the dish rack.
Immediately it was picked up again—by April.
She was standing right beside him, tea towel in hand, busily drying the mug.
He hadn’t noticed her move so close.
She didn’t look at him, her concentration focused on her task. Her head was bent, and a long tendril of dark hair curled down to her nape.
This close, he could see the dust decorating her hair, a darker smudge creating a streak across her cheekbone.
She turned, looking directly at him.
She was tall, he realised, even without her heels.
Today her lips weren’t glossy, and he realised she probably wasn’t wearing