Short story: All that remained, by Krysana Hanley

2026-02-20 - 17:06

Rose was suddenly very aware that she was alone with her grandmother. She’d visited while she was at university and stayed for a weekend here and there with her siblings, but she could recall only one other time she had been alone with Grandma Philippa. A local fundraiser had put out the call for a plate of baking with an underwater theme. She and her grandmother were going to make blue-wave, orange-fish and pink-coral biscuits. If they had enough dough left over, they were going to attempt a mermaid. Once the various shapes had been given to the oven to swell and brown, Rose got distracted. While her grandmother put the kitchen back in order, she inspected the miscellany of collectibles around the house. The spoons on the wall with their enamel discs; the collections of porcelain girls, birds and woodland creatures gathered on shelves and windowsills; the various tea towels and handkerchiefs folded and stacked just so in the linen cupboard. Rose spotted a lovely statuette high on a bookcase. Taking great care, she summitted an arm of the couch and brought the figure down into her lap. The statuette was a young milkmaid complete with a pink bonnet tied with a ribbon. Upon closer inspection, Rose found the milkmaid’s fine details harboured collections of dust, so she took her fingernail and tried to remove the debris. It was everywhere: in her eyes, the curls of her small nostrils, the folds of her apron and the loops of the bow under her chin. Rose was gentle – the statuette looked older than her. She didn’t hear her grandmother come around the corner. Fingertips damp and corrugated, Grandma Philippa tore the milkmaid from Rose’s hands. All she’d seen was Rose determinedly scratching at the face of her perfect collectible. Embarrassed, Rose decorated the biscuits in silence. She felt her grandmother occasionally peer sideways at her shaking her head. Over the years, Grandma Philippa had retold the story at various family gatherings. No matter how many times Rose tried to advocate for herself, the truth mattered less and less. Her grandmother held onto her version of the story like a grudge. From then on, Rose hadn’t touched another of the precious items that adorned her grandmother’s home. Twenty years later she would be forced to. * When her grandmother opened the front door, a wave of rotten air rolled out. Rose knew it had gotten bad over the last few years – her mum had told her of the increasing clutter in the background of Grandma Philippa’s video calls – but what she saw in the lounge before her was overwhelming. Cardigans and plates and yellowing papers and wool, magazines and broken CD cases and books. A thin trail of carpet curved past where she assumed the La-Z-Boy recliners still sat, disappeared into the kitchen and branched off to the right towards the hallway; arterial routes that allowed this heaving landscape to be navigated. She’d been sent here to help, but the more she saw, the less she was inclined to believe help would be accepted. Rose began to mouth breathe, taking slow, shallow breaths. Looking up, she noted the spatter pattern of mould left to grow undisturbed. Something knocked her shin, and she winced at the crack and snap of CDs toppling over each other. “What was that?” Her grandmother turned, looking concerned. “Sorry! I knocked some CDs over. I’ll move them off the floor.” Rose put down the shopping bags she’d been carrying and moved to restack the CDs. “No, no, leave them. I was just sorting them. I forgot I put them there.” Her grandmother turned and continued to navigate the path to the kitchen. Rose tried to put the CDs somewhere that wasn’t the floor. She couldn’t. She noticed an old photo frame lying flat on a pile of newspapers. Growing up, she’d seen this photo of her grandparents many times. Her grandmother wore a short blue dress that showed off her tanned legs. Next to her, Rose’s grandfather. He smiled just past the camera like the photographer had told a good joke. Rose took her sleeve and wiped the glass clean. She heard a shuffling behind her. “Come on, the milk’s getting warm.” Her grandmother attempted a smile, raising the hand holding the shopping bag. Rose lingered in the lounge. “There’s a bit of a smell. Can I open a window?” “Oh, oh yes, I suppose so.” She went to turn and then added, “I have ornaments on some of the windowsills, so—oh Rose, not that one, the vase will fall in the wind.” A delicate, breakable item sat on every windowsill. “I’ll crack the ranch slider instead, hey?” A little too quickly she stepped her way back to the door and slid it as far as it would open. “Okay, that’s good. Watch for the neighbour’s cat. If it comes in, we’ll have to catch it.” As she spoke, a gust of wind picked up a few pieces of paper and threw them from their perch. “Shut the door a bit, it’s windy!” Her grandmother waved her free hand, stress plain on her face. Rose collected the pages, casting her eye over their contents. Emails printed out to be read and reread, pages of Facebook posts and strangers’ comments beneath them. Rose put them back on the pile they’d flown from and tried not to wince at the number of similar piles she saw around the room. More printouts, collections of newspapers, magazines and TV guides. Books tucked between piles that had been tucked between older piles of belongings. The longer she looked, the deeper the strata went. She left the ranch open as much as she dared and followed her grandmother into the kitchen. Grandma Philippa was bent over her shopping bag on the floor. Rose didn’t have to look to know there wasn’t any bench space. A cursory glance confirmed the sink was full of dishes, and the bins were overflowing. With a box of pasta in-hand, her grandmother opened a cupboard of fine bone China. She assessed the cupboard before trying to slide the box into a gap beside the plates. “I’m not sure that goes there, Gran.” Rose kept her voice light, unworried. “It used to.” Boxes for microwavable frozen dinners and takeaway containers surrounded the recycling bin. “Should I take the recycling and rubbish out, Gran?” She didn’t respond. Rose continued. “Why don’t we clear out the kitchen a bit tonight, and then I can take us out for some fish and chips or something.” Her grandmother muttered something. “Pardon?” “I meant to do the dishes before you arrived.” Rose stepped over the groceries towards her grandmother. “We’re worried about you here on your own. What if you had a fall? Or something . . . fell on you?” “What if I had a fall?” She looked at Rose then. “What do you care? I haven’t seen you in months—years!” Her voice gathered momentum. Each word sat on the one before. “I do care.” Rose hated how petulant she sounded. “I’m here now. We’re worried about you.” “You’re worried, are you? I bet your mother put you up to this. Did she? Well, if she’s got a problem with me, she can come and tell me herself.” “Gran, please. Let—” “I don’t need your help. I don’t want it! I saw the look on your face. You’re disgusted, aren’t you?” Rose took a step back. “I don’t want your pity. I didn’t want it when your grandfather died, and I certainly don’t want it now.” She was out of breath, her cheeks colouring. Rose reached out as if to touch her grandmother’s arm. “Don’t touch me. I’m disgusting.” “I never said—” “You didn’t have to. I’m going out. Stay or go, I don’t care.” She passed Rose, limping her way through the lounge. “Gran, please. That’s not fair, I’m not—” Without turning, she spat, “Life’s not fair. Grow up, Rosie.” She slammed the ranch slider behind her. The air became still and suffocating. Rose let the silence ring through her. Around her salt and pepper shakers, enamelware, cereal boxes, biscuit packets, cups, bowls, pots and cookbooks dared her to move. Her lungs burned and she realised she’d been holding her breath. Carefully, removing novelty salt and pepper shakers from the windowsill, Rose opened the kitchen window and took a deep breath. The latch was covered in a thick grease. She followed the trail of carpet to the ranch slider and opened it once more. Darkness began to fill the corners of the house. She went back to the kitchen to put the cold things in the fridge. She opened the fridge door, bracing herself for containers, tubs and jars of expired mush, but the shelves were completely bare. In a drawer she found black garbage bags and emptied the rubbish and recycling. She donned rubber gloves and put the detritus from the floor in the bag, too. She made a couple of trips to the bin outside and then prepared herself to clear the spare room so she could stay the night. Black bag in hand, she found little resistance as she pushed the door open. Her head spun at the sight. The faded yellow duvet, the teddy bear on the pillow, the cream dresser with photos of her mum and uncle as children – everything was exactly as she remembered it. The carpet was clear, the walls were clean. The spoon collection hanging on the wall above the bed took pride of place, unaware of the warped imitation game happening in other rooms of the house. If she walked in and shut the door, she could pretend the house was as it had been before her grandfather had died. She checked her phone and saw a missed call from her mum. She tapped out a message to the family group chat and took a few photos. The betrayal she felt for outing her grandmother was only slightly soothed when her mum replied to say she would drive up the next day to help. Rose made a deal with herself to continue clearing the kitchen for the next hour, if Grandma Philippa wasn’t back by then she’d go out after her. Most of the dishes around the sink were unsalvageable. Those that were she left soaking in hot water while she began to sort through the clutter on the bench. She made piles on the floor: to be chucked, to be cleaned, to be discussed, cookbooks, and miscellaneous. The countertop underneath resembled a brown, yellow and black inkblot image. A small swarm of dead fruit flies populated the corners where the wall met the bench. Bits of cardboard remained where Rose had prised boxes off the countertop. She sprayed the bench down with three different spray-and-wipe cleaners and hoped they would melt off most of the grime. As if by another small act of mercy, the dishwasher was empty. She gave each dish a scrub, loaded it into the washer and put it on a hot cycle. Her grandmother had been gone for over an hour, and Rose was torn over whether it was better to stay put or go out and search in the dark. If something happened to her gran, it would be her fault. She sent her grandmother a text just in case she’d taken her phone with her. It pinged in the lounge. Resigned to searching, she debated whether she should shut the window. An unkind part of her thought that the smell alone would ward off any thieves casing the place. She closed the window, replaced the salt and pepper shakers and grabbed her handbag. Turning to leave, she froze as she found herself face to face with Grandma Philippa. Rose hadn’t heard her come back. She watched her take in the scene behind her. The organised piles around the room, the sink empty of dishes, the benchtop clear, still wet from being scrubbed. The corners of Grandma Philippa’s mouth turned down, her eyes squeezed shut, and a horrified groan filled the room. The sound came from deep within her, like an old wound had been ripped open. When she ran out of breath, she looked at Rose and spoke. “I suppose you want me to thank you for this,” her voice was hoarse. “But I won’t.” The dishwasher whirred. “Okay,” said Rose, her face hot. “I assume you’re staying tonight, but I need you gone in the morning.” She swayed and grabbed the counter. Rose cleared a chair from around the small dining table and lead her grandmother to it. “Mum’s coming tomorrow,” Rose tried. Her grandmother pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I can leave with the house like this. You need our help.” She paused. “What would Grandad say if he saw this?” Her grandmother lifted her eyes to meet hers. “He’s dead.” “Okay.” “Go away.” “Okay.” Rose took herself to bed, leaving Grandma Philippa in the dining room. Lying over the covers, she pretended to read a well-thumbed copy of Enid Blyton’s Bedtime Stories while she listened for the sound of footsteps down the hallway. About an hour later, Rose heard Grandma Philippa talking as she shuffled past her bedroom. Rose watched shadows pass under her door and wondered if her mum had come tonight instead. She slipped off the bed and opened her door wide enough to see her grandmother stroking her grandfather’s dressing gown, still hung over their bedroom door. “They’re coming, Tama. Rose has told them what I’ve done . . .” Rose strained but couldn’t hear the rest. She watched Grandma Philippa take the dressing gown down and put it on. She sat on the end of her bed and begin to cry. She spoke again. “They’re going to take you from me.” Rose shut the door and pushed her back against it. Under the bed she spotted a cardboard box and pulled it out. Inside she found her grandfather’s crossword books and reading glasses, his dictionary and favourite mug. At the bottom, wrapped in a couple of old t-shirts: the milkmaid statuette. Rose handled it carefully, turning it over in her hands. On the bottom, she saw an inscription: For your collection, love. Happy anniversary. —Tama 1968