An unfinished thing

Nell repaired books for a living and postponed things for free.

She postponed learning to swim. She postponed a trip to the coast. For fourteen years she postponed finishing the story she had started in a yellow notebook, although she continued to carry it everywhere, as if proximity might eventually count as progress.

The notebook came back to her on a Tuesday.

This was surprising because it had been in her bag on Monday, and the parcel on her workbench had arrived by post. The wrapping was brown. The handwriting was hers.

Inside was the yellow notebook, still carrying the little coffee stain beside the spine. The first thirteen pages held the beginning of her story. The fourteenth held a drawing of a door.

Underneath, someone had written: You can come in whenever you like.

Nell touched the small brass handle drawn in blue ink. It moved beneath her finger.

She snatched back her hand.

A perfectly sensible person would have closed the notebook. Nell considered herself a perfectly sensible person. She put on the kettle, made tea, washed a spoon and telephoned her sister to discuss the weather.

Then she turned back to page fourteen and opened the door.

On the other side was a room with a high ceiling and a large table. A suitcase stood in one corner. Beside it were a pair of swimming goggles, a walking stick and a red guitar.

At the table sat a girl of about eleven, wearing Nell’s old school jumper.

“I wondered when you’d get here,” the girl said.

Nell looked at the suitcase. It was the one she had bought for the trip to the coast.

“What is this place?”

“The waiting room,” said the girl. “You’ve been putting things here for years.”