Flat Pack by Kate Whittington

To Do:

Build Poang chair

Build chest of drawers

Build bed

Phone internet company

Get keys cut

Clean windows - outside/ inside

I sit on the hard synthetic carpet and slice another box open. I scan the instructions, looking for the text. There is no text. Just diagrams and a strange smiling cartoon man. Each screw is illustrated with a number next to it. The cartoon man is suggesting you make sure all screws are accounted for before starting. I lay them all out on the cardboard in size order and stare at them for a few seconds. The next picture shows the three main pieces of the chair coming together in mid-air with the help of a floating Allen-key. I check the small empty plastic bags again and tip the box upside down. The cartoon man said the Allen-key would be included, but it’s nowhere to be seen. He seems so real I almost ask him for help out loud. The task suddenly feels overwhelming, even though I can count at least two other occasions I’ve put together a Poang chair. I text Paul.

“Do you have the tool-box and drill?”

Three dots … he’s typing.

“Yes. They were my Dad’s remember”

“I think I’ll need the drill for my furniture. Can I borrow it today?”

…

“Sure I can drop it round now if you send me your address”

…

“I want it back though”

I don’t know how to reply. I type “Sure x” and then delete the x, but this seems too cold so I type “of course” instead.

I add ‘buy tools’ to my list.

The room feels hollow. The cheap grey carpet doesn’t quite reach the edges of the skirting, and is curling up. The sad beige curtains are stained, and a couple of inches too short for the window. I head to the kitchen to turn the kettle on and start unpacking a box on the side while I wait for it to boil. A wooden elephant I bought in South Africa fifteen years ago with one tusk snapped off; a picture frame with a photo of the children smiling; a jam jar holding pens wrapped in bubble wrap; a collection of postcards and photographs taken off the fridge. All items I’d thrown in hastily, at the last minute, before I left. The picture on the top is a child’s drawing. Four stick people and a dog stood underneath a rainbow. ‘Poppy Age 7’. I fold it up and put it in an empty drawer. I wonder if the children will be confused by how many stick people to put in their drawings from now on.

I add ‘check on delivery of fridge’ and ‘buy curtains’ to the list.

On top of the pile now is a photograph of the children on a beach a couple of years ago. They’re both huddled under the same towel with gap-toothed grins and cheeks smudged with ketchup. I remember that moment vividly. It was one of those August barbecues, predictably cut short by heavy rain. They were finishing their dinner while we scurried around packing up all our soggy possessions to the sound of their giggles. The moment felt so heavy with joy. I remember stopping to take the photo, to freeze time so I could add it to a future slideshow of highlights. The rose-tinted reel I’d look back on when remembering those early days of family life. Except the reel ends there. I’d blown the whole thing apart.

The doorbell rings for the first time. A shrill reminder.

“Hi, that was quick” I say, trying to sound cheery.

“It’s closer than I thought”

“I thought it would be handy for now…for the kids I mean. How are they?”

“They’re ok…considering” he says, standing firmly on the spot. I realise he isn’t going to come in. He isn’t ever going to come in.

“When can I see them?”

He shoots me a hurt look I know all too well by now.

“You’re the one who left, Cass” he hisses, forcing the toolbox into my hands and turning to leave.

“Call me when you’re ready, when the kids are ready…I’m getting their room sorted” I call after him.

I head back inside and add ‘find local handyman’ to the list.

Edited by Tillie Holmes