Just This Old Clobber (Short Fiction)
20th July 2025
In: Short Stories
‘Well, you can’t bring all this.’ My son swept an arm to encompass the dazzling array of garments I had spread over my bed, hooked over door frames, and laid across any other available space. There were drawers still stuffed with accessories — scarves, gloves, socks etc., plus frilly nonsenses of underwear bought too often on a whim following some fantasy that I might one day have some occasion to wear them, and always denying I need the merest fraction of it, seeing as age and health were busy catching up, ruining my body, slowing and stooping me as if to make it obvious I was no longer a spring chicken.
He bent down and lifted the lid of a large ottoman. It was crammed with shoe boxes, almost all new, the contents unworn. ‘Good God, Mother! I’m sorry, but we just don’t have space for all this — you know it’s a smallish house. Judith’s cleared the guest room for you, but it’s really not that big. A few things might fit in the loft, but there’s no way we can store all this.’ Again, his arm was out and circling to emphasize his point.
I nodded, as though agreeing. He’d only stated the obvious after all, that was understood. But he didn’t understand what he was asking of me. He had no concept of what it would cost me. He stood, waiting for me to do more than just nod. I pushed a few garments into a heap, so there was room for me to perch on the edge of my bed. ‘I need to have some idea how much I can take, so I can begin to sort it.’
‘Less than half, I would guess — or nearer to a third would make things easier.’
Easier for whom? I wondered, crushed by the vision of boxing and giving away outfits so carefully chosen and saved for an imagined occasion they’d have been perfect for. The thought of someone else — a person perhaps entirely unappreciative of their quality and style — throwing on an elegantly-cut suit or dress, treating it like it was no more than a cheap chainstore rag, revolted me. Every thread was personal to me, to me and no one else. Selected, paid for, stored away for a special event. It seemed a sort of sacrilege to let a stranger soil them.
‘I’ll come back Thursday. That gives you two days to sort out what you’re taking. Okay?’ He lingered by the door. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you know how things are. If we had a bigger house...’
‘Yes, yes,’ I sighed, wishing he would go without the need for more pointless chat. I picked up the burgundy two-piece. Pure silk, the label Dior. It held memories. I draped it against me. A faint wine stain near the hem made it more special. I had spilled it when he’d made me laugh. A famous man long-dead.
My son had left me a small mountain of cardboard boxes, graded and nested according to size. I began sorting and packing, tough with myself, trying to be practical. It took less time than I’d imagined. The modest pile left on my bed was all I would be taking with me. A small fraction that would last me — sensible everyday clothes. Nothing dressy or chic.
The landlady had been considerate and given me a full six months notice, acknowledging the thirty-plus trouble-free years I had lived there. She was retiring, selling the property and moving back to her home town up north somewhere — I didn’t recognise the name. I tried the letting agencies first, but all the properties were short lease, and their rents out of my price range. I was grateful when my son stepped in, surprised even, and doubtful Judith would be entirely happy with the arrangement, but he insisted she was fine with it. I would be made very welcome.
Wednesday night, late, I went out into the back garden. It was a decent-sized plot, and went right up to the railway line. An old shed contained a mower, various garden tools, and an incinerator I’d seen dragged out each autumn to deal with garden debris too big, awkward or unsuitable for composting. A simple enough contraption, firelighters in a bag nearby, it was ideal for my purpose, and not too heavy for one woman to move on her own.
I sited it well away from the wooden shed then, checking the windows behind me were dark, fetched matches and the first box. I fed the incinerator steadily over the next few hours. It became a ritual — a cleansing that changed as it progressed until I almost embraced it. I began to feel free — liberated from these things that had weighed on me, and labelled me eccentric, even ridiculous in my obsession. The fire took almost everything except a few belt and shoe buckles, metal buttons or other trims. I left the ashes to cool and went to bed as dawn was breaking.
My son arrived around midday, Judith in tow, thinking she’d be needed to help shift numerous boxes. There were only five, of medium size, already stacked and waiting in the hall. From the top of the stairs, I heard her comment ‘Huh! This all there is, then — just this old clobber?’ She has no class, Judith. Dead common. My son said nothing.
He bent down and lifted the lid of a large ottoman. It was crammed with shoe boxes, almost all new, the contents unworn. ‘Good God, Mother! I’m sorry, but we just don’t have space for all this — you know it’s a smallish house. Judith’s cleared the guest room for you, but it’s really not that big. A few things might fit in the loft, but there’s no way we can store all this.’ Again, his arm was out and circling to emphasize his point.
I nodded, as though agreeing. He’d only stated the obvious after all, that was understood. But he didn’t understand what he was asking of me. He had no concept of what it would cost me. He stood, waiting for me to do more than just nod. I pushed a few garments into a heap, so there was room for me to perch on the edge of my bed. ‘I need to have some idea how much I can take, so I can begin to sort it.’
‘Less than half, I would guess — or nearer to a third would make things easier.’
Easier for whom? I wondered, crushed by the vision of boxing and giving away outfits so carefully chosen and saved for an imagined occasion they’d have been perfect for. The thought of someone else — a person perhaps entirely unappreciative of their quality and style — throwing on an elegantly-cut suit or dress, treating it like it was no more than a cheap chainstore rag, revolted me. Every thread was personal to me, to me and no one else. Selected, paid for, stored away for a special event. It seemed a sort of sacrilege to let a stranger soil them.
‘I’ll come back Thursday. That gives you two days to sort out what you’re taking. Okay?’ He lingered by the door. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you know how things are. If we had a bigger house...’
‘Yes, yes,’ I sighed, wishing he would go without the need for more pointless chat. I picked up the burgundy two-piece. Pure silk, the label Dior. It held memories. I draped it against me. A faint wine stain near the hem made it more special. I had spilled it when he’d made me laugh. A famous man long-dead.
My son had left me a small mountain of cardboard boxes, graded and nested according to size. I began sorting and packing, tough with myself, trying to be practical. It took less time than I’d imagined. The modest pile left on my bed was all I would be taking with me. A small fraction that would last me — sensible everyday clothes. Nothing dressy or chic.
The landlady had been considerate and given me a full six months notice, acknowledging the thirty-plus trouble-free years I had lived there. She was retiring, selling the property and moving back to her home town up north somewhere — I didn’t recognise the name. I tried the letting agencies first, but all the properties were short lease, and their rents out of my price range. I was grateful when my son stepped in, surprised even, and doubtful Judith would be entirely happy with the arrangement, but he insisted she was fine with it. I would be made very welcome.
Wednesday night, late, I went out into the back garden. It was a decent-sized plot, and went right up to the railway line. An old shed contained a mower, various garden tools, and an incinerator I’d seen dragged out each autumn to deal with garden debris too big, awkward or unsuitable for composting. A simple enough contraption, firelighters in a bag nearby, it was ideal for my purpose, and not too heavy for one woman to move on her own.
I sited it well away from the wooden shed then, checking the windows behind me were dark, fetched matches and the first box. I fed the incinerator steadily over the next few hours. It became a ritual — a cleansing that changed as it progressed until I almost embraced it. I began to feel free — liberated from these things that had weighed on me, and labelled me eccentric, even ridiculous in my obsession. The fire took almost everything except a few belt and shoe buckles, metal buttons or other trims. I left the ashes to cool and went to bed as dawn was breaking.
My son arrived around midday, Judith in tow, thinking she’d be needed to help shift numerous boxes. There were only five, of medium size, already stacked and waiting in the hall. From the top of the stairs, I heard her comment ‘Huh! This all there is, then — just this old clobber?’ She has no class, Judith. Dead common. My son said nothing.