The Woman Who Kept Everything. Jane Gilley

was working in the mustard factory and your mother – my only daughter, Emily – was a domestic cleaner. They were living with me in my house, whilst they saved up for their own family home. But en route to a rare evening out with friends, they both died tragically, in a bombing raid in Norwich, in July of 1940.

      A couple of earlier bombing sessions had struck buildings and there’d been no fatalities. But on that particular night there’d been no air raid warning, either, as there sometimes wasn’t, and a lot of other mustard factory workers lost their lives that night too.

       However, it was very fortunate your mother and father had chosen to leave you at home with me, that evening. I managed the daily procedures quite well at first, despite the problems that regular bombing raids brought, as well as food shortages. I even managed to find you a wet nurse. But, unfortunately, I couldn’t cope with a tiny baby by myself on account of my arthritis, which has always been a problem for me. I also didn’t want to be evacuated, so I had to make the difficult decision to have you adopted by a sweet woman I knew, Alice McKensie, who lived outside the city. (As my arthritis has recently got much worse, this letter is being transcribed by someone else.)

       However, I kept in touch with Alice, your adoptive mother, and told her you’d inherit my house, on my death, when you were ready to take possession of it and as long as it wasn’t bombed during the war. She often let me know how you were doing and sent me photos.

       So I truly hope you can forgive my giving you up and I hope that my gift of the house will help ease any financial burdens you might possibly have in the future. I sincerely hope you live a long and very happy existence, my darling.

       Your ever-loving grandmother

       Barbara xxxxx

      ‘Of course, I forgive you, dear grandmother,’ Gloria had whispered to the letter, as tears had flowed, unheeded, down her face. ‘It was war. It wasn’t ordinary circumstances. And at least I know my family history now.’

      Her adopted mum, Alice, had always been a loving, encouraging person, so Gloria knew she hadn’t missed out by not having the chance to be brought up by her own parents. And she’d been thrilled with the life-changing gift of a house, which’d come at a time when Arthur had lost his job through a back injury and they had been struggling with their finances.

      * * *

      Gloria couldn’t actually remember when she’d started collecting things.

      She’d always loved going to car boots for bargains. But after her beloved adopted mum died, Arthur had cleared out her council house – putting most of Alice’s things in their large shed out back. Gloria hadn’t wanted to get rid of Alice’s stuff. It made her feel like she still had her mother with her but it seemed to kick-start her collecting with a vengeance and she’d started bringing more and more stuff back from everywhere. Mainly from car boot sales but sometimes she found paraphernalia on roads outside people’s houses. They were a scruffy lot, she said, leaving three-legged chairs, old duvets or broken toys and other stuff just lying around, littering the streets.

      But Arthur had gone wild about it.

      ‘Here, Glor, what’re you doing with all that stuff and all them house magazines? You don’t even like Changing Rooms.’

      When Gloria had ignored his questioning, he’d tried a more gentle approach.

      ‘Yes but how much of this stuff do you really need and what do you need it for, my love?’

      And when that hadn’t worked, he’d found himself close to tipping point.

      ‘Gloria, this’s got to stop! It’s in every room and I don’t want anything else in the lounge. Can’t see the telly! This place isn’t big enough for all this ruddy clobber.’

      However Gloria had the ‘bug’ now and it was a very hard habit to break.

      ‘Never know when we might need some of it, though, Arth!’

      Yet when Arthur got ill and his heart gave out to obesity, the hoarding just went on and on, increasing in intensity; increasing in the never-ending storing of items Gloria knew she had no intention of using or mending. But insisted she needed.

      Due to the resistance she’d encountered because of the way she’d lived these past twenty years, Gloria knew folk didn’t understand why she needed to have lots of things around her. They didn’t know of her heartache when her adoptive mum died, nor how distraught she’d been when Arthur died. Distraught, especially when Arthur died because Clegg seemed to pull away from her after that. Perhaps it was the male influence he missed now Arthur was no longer here.

      But it was as though, suddenly, there was no one around her who loved her and no one around her who she could love. No one was there with a friendly word or even those delicious little hugs from the grandchildren, when they’d been allowed to visit. And Arthur wasn’t there with that cup of tea he brought her, at the end of the day, and his: ‘Sleep tight, love, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

      So Gloria realised that having things around her made her feel safe when there was no one else around her to make her feel that way. It was almost as though she’d created walls to protect herself, she thought. Yet these walls were made from magazines or old boxes. Yes, that’s how she’d describe it. But even though Tilsbury had tried to make her see how alienated everyone else felt about what she was doing, she simply couldn’t bring herself to stop doing it.

      The only room relatively free from junk was the bathroom now. It was always quite an arduous trip to get into the bathroom and even when she was there, the bath was stacked high with newspapers so she couldn’t use that any more. But at least she could wash in the sink, if she wanted, and use the loo. Or at least she could use them, after she’d stumbled over knick-knacks cluttering the stairs. And climbing over unruly piles of old clothing, including all Clegg’s baby clothes, which she’d kept in case she’d had more babies (unfortunately, it hadn’t happened) and heaps of towels and surplus carpet rolls, which she’d kept in case the carpet wore out.

      Tilsbury said he didn’t mind the state of the place, though. Said it made the place warmer, cosier somehow.

      ‘Saves on washing and cleaning and all that crazy shite.’

      But the following day there was a loud bang when Gloria turned one of the hob rings on and tried to heat the remaining potato soup from yesterday. The small kitchen was quickly filled with the nasty smell of something burning.

      Tilsbury was hopping around in mild terror.

      ‘Ooo, my love! You gotta get the electricity people out now. Could be a fire! You insured?’

      ‘Wouldn’t know, Tils. Never really pay for anything any more, do I, ducks. S’all set up out of me bank account or summat. Cleggy sorted it all out for me after Arthur went, as you know. But I can smell summat singeing! Get hold of me son for me, will ya, ducks? Cleggy’ll sort it all out. Bit worried about being burned alive in my bed. You hear of it happening.’

       Chapter 3

      A few days after the people from the electricity board came to check on the situation, three people from social services turned up; one with a clipboard. They looked official, to Gloria, with their curt smiles and long dark coats. She would’ve said they were calm and sympathetic, if someone’d asked. But they didn’t look that way after their first encounter with 75 Briar Way.

      They came into her house, sniffing the air and gagging for some reason. One of them, a man, ran out muttering something. Gloria found it amusing. Tilsbury went round shrugging.

      ‘Must’ve eaten summat off before they came here.’

      The plump, friendlier woman who finally arrived later that first day, Diane, was the most understanding, but even she