POSITIVE IRONING
I must be one of the few women on the planet who actually like ironing, but I have to own up and admit that it’s the one household chore that I really, really enjoy. So today when I see that my laundry basket is full of clean laundry waiting to be ironed, I grab hold of it, as if it’s a lifeline.
I take the ironing board out of the cupboard under the stairs, fill the iron, and switch on the radio. When I hear dirge-like music on the classical station I quickly change it; today I need cheering up. If I’m in a hurry I usually put on Radio 2 and I whiz through piles of shirts, but today I’ve got plenty of time so it’s Radio 4 and a gardening programme. I pick up my favourite blouse so I can have it ready for tonight. I’m ironing round the buttons when the phone rings. It’s Sue.
“Fran,” she begins, without any preamble, “What are you doing?”
“I’m doing the ironing.”
“Oh, you’re all right then?”
She knows how I like ironing.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I thought it would take my mind off things.”
“Good idea.”
“And then tonight, Paul’s taking me out for a meal.”
“That’s nice. Where are you going?”
“He’s booked a table at the new Italian.”
“Let me know what you think of it. And, Fran, are you sure you’re okay? I can come round if you like?”
“No, Sue, I’m fine.”
“How did it go, yesterday – with James?”
“Oh, you know…we took him up there, and found the Hall of Residence and his room, and then we helped him unload all his stuff, and then we came home.”
“So you didn’t stay long?”
“No. I could tell it would be better if we left him to it – there were all these other new students around – I knew Mum and Dad would just cramp his style.”
I say goodbye and put the phone down. I don’t tell Sue how I sobbed most of the way down the motorway.
I listen to the experts talking about cutting plants back ready for Autumn, and as I iron Paul’s striped shirt it occurs to me that now I’ll have more time to spend in the garden. I enjoy gardening, so I hold that thought as I go upstairs, and past the firmly closed bedroom door that is James’ room. I take my new skirt out of my wardrobe; it could do with a quick press before tonight.
As I come down with the skirt, the phone rings. It’s Mum.
“How did it go Fran?”
I tell her the same things I told Sue, but I also tell her about the miserable journey home.
“Oh dear,” she says, “Why don’t you do some ironing – cheer yourself up?”
I tell her that that’s just what I’m doing.
“Good,” she says. “And think positive!”
Paul kept saying the same sort of things to me yesterday as we drove back home: he told me that James would be home for a weekend soon, and that the university terms were so short that we’d hardly have time to miss him before he was home again. I know all these things, but also I know that it is the end of a special time, a time that can never be repeated; when James comes home he will be different, changed, he will never be my little boy again. I’d said this to Paul in between crying into my hanky.
“Fran, he’s not been your little boy since he reached six feet!”
“You know what I mean.”
Paul had reached over and squeezed my hand. “I do know what you mean. It’s going to be hard for both of us, but at least we know he’s doing what he really wants to do.”
I do, and that makes me feel slightly better. James has wanted to be a doctor since he was six and he worked hard to get to university; I should be happy for him and I am - it’s just that I feel sad too.
I tell Mum that I will think positive, and return to the ironing, but when I start to iron the clean sheets ready to put back on James’ bed my eyes fill with tears. I don’t want to go into his empty, tidy, silent bedroom. I don’t want to see his room without his clothes all over the floor, his bed unmade, the wardrobe hanging open and the curtains half drawn. I don’t want to go in and hear the silence in his room, but already it seems to have spread into the rest of the house. There is no music playing very loudly, no mobile phone ringing, no television left on even if no one is watching it. No odd looking teenagers will turn up on the doorstep, no cereal bowls will be left on the floor in front of the television.
“Think positive,” I tell myself, “Think of the tidy house, the peace and quiet. Think of the extra time; I could help out at the charity shop, or do more secretarial work for Paul.” I blow my nose and get on with the ironing.
Today it takes a lot longer because phone calls asking how James got on yesterday keep interrupting me. My friends and family ask me how I am, and I realise I’m lucky that so many people care about me. I think that now I’ve more time, I can see more of friends and family.
It’s when I find James’ oldest T-shirt at the bottom of the basket that the tears begin again. I sit down and hold it close to me. I stay like that for a few minutes, then I tell myself to think positive, and I run the iron over it quickly and put the board away. At the very back of the cupboard I see an oblong case; it is my easel. Next to it is my old paint box, unused for many years.
I am having a strong cup of coffee when I get a text message from James.
“Am ok,” it reads. “Thanks for everything. Forget ironing. Do something exciting with rest of your life!”
It makes me smile through my tears, and it also makes me go and get my old easel and paints out from under the stairs. It’s a start.
