Spring Cleaning

‘My nephew,’ Hodgkins said. ‘Adopted him. Father and mother disappeared in a spring-cleaning.’

T. Jansson, The Exploits of Moominpappa

Spring came early that year, cheerful like a relative seeking to borrow money. The snow turned into filthy mud overnight, the first green shoots pushed through it, and the birds sang with a particular zeal, as if trying to convince someone of something. Julia Fillyjonsen-Dodgkins was not convinced. The kitchen window flew open with a clatter. Julia nearly leapt out of her skin and dropped the very plate she had, with so much effort, scraped free of margarine and was about to dry. And now, after all that exertion and a shocking quantity of soap, the thing had shattered on the floor tiles! To add insult to injury, it was the very last plate from the fish set! There remained only the dinner plates for meat courses, but they languished in dusty obscurity, as the household budget could not possibly stretch to so much as a chicken. She might have borne it if it had been burglars climbing in. She would have looked them squarely in the eye and informed them that there was nothing of value in the house besides herself. Perhaps they might even have taken her away… But no, it was her darling (if only he would drop dead) husband, thrusting his person in from the garden and proffering an armful of primroses, no doubt crawling with ants and other revolting creeps! And Julia had only wiped down the worktop by the window not long ago! “Spring, my dear!” The useless creature was actually smiling! “I’ve come to you with wondrous news that snow’s away, that wings of May—” A poetaster. He paused, his lips moving silently, then suddenly abandoned his floral rubbish upon the immaculate worktop and dashed for the door, his clattering footsteps ascending the stairs to his so-called “study.” There he went, struck by his “inspiration” once more. And Julia hadn’t even had a chance to give him a piece of her mind about his bouquets, about the plates, about the want of meat dishes, about… In the many years of marriage, there is always a great deal to say. Not least that Dodgkins had proved to be the wrong sort of poet entirely. Miss Julia had always understood that poets were a species whose verses appeared in multi-volume collections with print-runs in the thousands. That they worked a fashionable two hours a day, then received their handsome royalties by post, replied to their admirers' letters, and attended society events on the arm of their beautiful wives (who naturally wore diamond necklaces). That they resided in two-storey houses by a northern sea, and went for holidays in two-storey villas by a southern sea. That their portraits hung in schools and museums and were reproduced in the newspapers. So, when at a party given by her friend nemesis Gaffsie she was introduced to the two brothers (stortasses, but that had been pardonable for a fillyjonk) and informed that the elder was an inventor and the younger a poet, she had pricked up her ears (figuratively, of course) and resolved to make the acquaintance of both. But the elder brother, Hodgkins, was too bulky, baggy, reeked of chemicals, and his lectures on timing belts (whatever they might be) induced an overwhelming yawning fit. Dodgkins, however… She didn’t really understand his verses either, but why must one understand poetry? It is merely beautiful words, is it not? And he had a jeweller’s talent for selecting them: within five minutes of conversation, he declared her eyes were like the North Star, and her figure would put an antique statue to shame. He escorted her home, tapped on her window the very next morning with a posy of violets, declared his love on their second outing, and proposed on their third. He had elegant fingers and a terribly romantic hairstyle, which cleverly concealed the terribly un-romantic, droopy stortass ears. He would look magnificent in a dinner jacket. And so, Julia accepted him. And so, many years later, here she was, sweeping up the shards of a plate from the set her aunt bestowed upon them as a wedding gift. The very first time the set was used, Dodgkins managed to break the sauce boat, but declared it a fortunate omen when china breaks, which gave Julia a tiny comfort. Prematurely, as it turned out. For all the plates and cups that have shattered since, fortune remained out of reach. She had drawn the wrong sort of poet entirely. His work was published nowhere, and consequently he was perpetually broke, and worse still, never aspired to seek respectable employment (let him dabble in verse during his leisure hours, just he should bring money home!) Julia had to do day-to-day jobs as a typist to make ends meet. Nor did her husband cultivate bohemian society; he considered his fellow poets to be mere imitators and scribblers, and whenever Julia held up successful, popular poets as examples, Dodgkins would dismiss them with contempt as uninspired, mercenary hacks. If Julia lamented their absence from society, he would take her hand, gaze soulfully into her eyes just as he had at their first meeting, and declare that he needed no one but her, the sea, the sky, the spring… He did, at least, maintain relations with his brother, from whom occasional assistance was forthcoming. Material assistance. A mechanic, after all, was more in demand than a poet. At present, however, Hodgkins was at sea, serving as mechanic on a steamer, and Julia was left to manage as best she could. Today she had planned fish for lunch. Only a fillyjonk could fashion a meal for three from a single perch, two eggs, and a handful of dry bread crusts. Only a fillyjonk could keep such a dwelling all clean and tidy. Yes, it was more spacious than the attic room the family had previously rented, but also cheaper, for it was not so much a house as a ruin on the outskirts of civilisation! True, it was near the sea. A mere hundred yards distance, fifty horizontally and fifty vertically. And the noise… That incessant pounding of the surf would drive anyone to madness! It put one in mind of a lavatory cistern perpetually flushing. For the first time, Julia was starting, convinced that this was precisely the case, and would dash to check whether their son was indeed misbehaving and wasting the precious water she then had to pump by hand? But Dodgkins was content. He required, if you please, a study on the upper floor with a sea view for his inspiration! The sound of the waves uplifted him! He heard a symphony of the ocean in that noise! He has even named his collection of poems (the sole copy, unpublished) “The Ocean Orchestra.” “Mummy! Look what I found!” Julia started violently and very nearly upset the bucket of dirty water. And she had only just finished scrubbing the ground floor and restored a morsel of calm from the sight of such pristine cleanliness!… But her son, the very image of his father, had chosen the most inopportune moment to appear, while the floor was still damp. “Do not come in!” she cried. No doubt he had brought some disgusting object… And, as usual, he paid no heed. He came running, tripping over the corners and edges, straight into the kitchen: his little face was grimy, his clothing likewise, his long stortass toes leaving filthy smears upon the clean floor. And in his earth-caked palms he clutched a dead toad. Julia could not suppress a shriek, recoiled—and succeeded in upsetting the bucket after all. “Go away!” she exclaimed, clutching her heart with a damp hand. “Oh, you will be the death of me one day!” Her son retreated, muttering apologies, his face crumpling, and in a moment the tears and snivel were flowing in torrents, yet he continued to clasp that revolting toad to his chest, soiling his shirt. More laundry!… Yet another disappointment. Nothing with which she might hold up her head before neighbours and family. None of the neat little fillyjonk features, no fastidiousness, no absolute obedience. He simply dashed about in a pointless and haphazard fashion, muddling and dropping and dirtying everything in his path. And although the birth certificate recorded him as Raddjuret, Julia couldn’t force herself to call him anything other than Muddler. Those enormous droopy ears, as shaggy as a mongrel’s, that perpetually runny and ill-formed nose, those buttons forever missing from his clothes. And his preferred playthings were buttons, cogs, and other grubby trifles which his pockets were invariably stuffed with. No interest whatsoever in games with other children, in books, in study, in any useful occupation. Like father, like son. And his father was a fine one too—incapable of feeding the child, or washing him, or supervising him in any way. Once a day he might lift the boy in his arms and declaim something exalted, such as “O my heir, rise higher than I!”… And that was all. Neither of them seemed to hear a word she said. “May I bury it at sea?” Muddler sniffled, having calmed himself somewhat. “Do not dare! There’s a cliff there, you’ll fall and break your neck! Throw it over the fence!” She had to take her little misfortune by the hand, lead him to the gate, and compel him to part with the carrion. The little garden lay around, in its shameful, indecent springtime nakedness when there were neither snow nor greenery to cover its utter poverty. Julia was glad to return into the house to wash her son and change his clothes. And to ensure he remained at least relatively clean until lunch, she strictly and sternly commanded him not to leave the nursery. Now she must finish mopping the floors and dusting upstairs, turn out the bed linen and winter clothing, sprinkle them with naphthalene… And then there was lunch to prepare, but first she must clear the chaos in the kitchen!.. In short, Julia was still bristling angry sparks when she finally reached her husband’s study on the upper floor, armed with dustpan, brush, and damp cloths. A dismal, peeling cubbyhole without curtains, furnished with a table and chair, with heaps of blank and scribbled-upon paper stacked directly upon the floor. The window displayed branches just beginning to show the faintest green, the treacherous, unpredictable sea, and a sky littered with grimy grey clouds. Dodgkins sat staring out of the window, and crumpled sheets lay scattered everywhere except in the wastepaper basket. No, there was one ball visible in the basket, though it was nearly blank, bearing something resembling a stamp on one side. A postmark? Julia extracted the crushed envelope. “Hemulsberg & Co. Publishing.” What had been inside, she didn’t need to guess. Yet another rejection. “They haven’t the faintest understanding of modern art!” Dodgkins dug his fingers into his once so romantic hair in irritation. He didn’t even turn around. “They seem to think poetry ground to a halt in the eighteenth century!” Usually, Julia refrained from interfering with his artistic monologues, but today the dead toad had pushed her over the edge. “Darling, surely every single editor cannot be mistaken. They know what people actually enjoy reading!” “They can! And they are! And the majority of readers are mistaken as well!” “But they are the ones who pay!” She brought forth her best argument. “And there are other poets who do get published! Or… or consider those who write lyrics for popular songs. Why can you not write a nice, cheerful song?” “Darling, I am a poet, not a tradesman or a slacker,” he groaned, and laid his head down onto the table while Julia gathered up his drafts, occasionally smoothing out a sheet and reading. The sea! An unceasing orchestra, playing its symphony for all and for none, the same melody for a thousand years, yet different each moment. The waves rush to bow before the shore, applauding themselves, while the conductor… There now, the sea again, all that high-flown nonsense. Not a word about love, and not a single rhyme… Star-eyes either gape or wink. Comets wolf-whistle past along the ecliptic… The words were pretty enough, she supposed, pleasant to listen to on a balcony during a party while sipping punch. But all exoticism and mystery evaporates when you cannot remember the last time you’ve sipped punch or attended a party. Oh, she was occasionally invited by old acquaintances, but Julia always pleaded dire busyness and declined the offers. How could she appear, say, at Gaffsie’s in an old frock, darned stockings, and without gloves? Hmm, this particular sheet was not crumpled. It had likely simply been wafted from the table by a draught, but in such chaos, could one possibly notice anything? O you! A pinnacle of beauty! You have descended from your star, and the features of your celestial countenance are so pure, so sacred, that I fall prostrate. But with a single flutter of your lashes you revive me, O my Juliet. Ju-li-a… Oh, Dodgkins… Tears sprang to Julia’s eyes, much as they had in her youth, at the very beginning of their acquaintance. But these were different tears now: bitter, accompanied by a gnashing of teeth. Dodgkins did not love her! He worshipped some pinnacle of beauty and paid not the slightest heed to the real Julia, the one who had not tasted chocolate in three years, who battled daily against hordes of dust, dirt, and crumbs in the name of this very purity… who possessed not a single pair of intact stockings. And you could hardly wear a sheet of wasted paper in place of stockings. Rubbish. An entire room full of useless rubbish. Well, Julia was used to transform chaos into order. In venomous silence, she opened the window wide. The wind full of salt and earth smells barged inside, but today she welcomed it as an accomplice. She gathered from the table a stack of sheets, worn ragged from their lengthy pilgrimages to publishing houses, with a calligraphically inscribed title page (The Ocean Orchestra by Dodgkins), and cast them outside. The spring breeze caught these belated snowflakes and carried them off toward the sea. “My manuscript!” At last, something had pierced the great poet’s creative trance. Now, when Julia acted like an element, a force of nature he was glorifying, he would turn around and behold (and more importantly, would hear) his wife! The real one, not one constructed from words! He would understand what he had reduced her to… With a strangled cry, Dodgkins rushed from the room. His footsteps clattered down the stairs, the front door slammed, and soon Julia observed him dashing about the garden, gathering up sheets as if they were manna from heaven. But today the wind was in league with Julia and diligently swept the rubbish away from the garden, toward the sea. She stood at the window a long moment, watching the white sheets scatter. Then she turned back to her cleaning, because what else was there to do? The floor would not scrub itself. The lunch would not cook itself. The child would not… but she could not think about the child just now. She could not think at all. So she did not. She mopped the floors, prepared lunch, compelled her son to eat his portion while it was still hot, and did not wait for his father—because Dodgkins was still chasing after his rubbish. Well then, if verses could successfully replace bread for him, perhaps there was no need to feed him any longer? “Eat over your plate!” she snapped at her ‘little misfortune’, her nerves completely frayed. “Food is not to be wasted!.. Do you want to be the death of me, is that it? Hold your spoon properly! Finished? And what must one say after eating?” “Thank you, Mummy. I’m sorry,” this Muddler squeaked; at least he didn’t need a reminder to scurry off to his room, while Julia turned her attention to the laundry. Dusk was already falling, and still Dodgkins had not returned. Perhaps he had gone off to that imaginary Julia, the one who did not complain about their straitened circumstances, who did not nag him, but merely shone like a star in the night? Well, let him. One less mouth to feed. She even allowed herself a moment’s fancy, imagining how wonderfully she would manage on her own, how she would… …feed and wash her son, go out to work as a typist, scrub this dusty, crumbling house, endure the eternal roar of the sea, hide from acquaintances, and have no one to tell her she was beautiful? For who pays compliments to a married woman with a child. Julia gazed at her petticoat, fluttering on the washing line in the yard. In the twilight, no one could not see that its hem was frayed and the fabric had yellowed (but she knew it). In the twilight, the petticoat resembled a white sheet of paper, one that also longed to fly far, far away, but the pegs held it securely. In a strange trance, Julia approached the line. Slowly, she unfastened the pegs. The next gust of wind sank its teeth into the tattered hem like a mad dog, tore the petticoat from the line, and dragged it into the honeysuckle bushes beyond the fence. That piece of worn-out fabric flew so free and light as if this were the moment it had been waiting for all its bleak existence. Julia watched until it disappeared into the bushes. Then she looked down at her own hands, her own frayed, yellowed cuffs, matted fur. The wind was still blowing. So perhaps Julia could also…? As though caught up by the wind herself, she rushed into the bedroom, pulled a suitcase from beneath the marital bed, flung it open… and closed it again with a hysterical little laugh. What was the point of lugging a heavy suitcase whose handle was likely to come away at any moment, when there was nothing to put in it but a heap of rags? Her documents, a spoon and fork, a toothbrush, and the remnants of her own money for typewriting would fit perfectly well in a handbag. This was better, in fact. Lighter. Julia pulled on a reasonably presentable pair of tights over the stockings she was already wearing, donned a cardigan with the fewest snags, and her raincoat. And her hat with the veil. Her wedding ring, on the other hand, she removed (though she placed it in her handbag as well). The house immediately felt foreign, the moment she considered that she need never again dust these banisters, these shelves, these windowsills, never again wash these creaking floors. With light steps, she moved through the house, examining objects: what else might she take, what would not prove a burden? In her son’s room, she paused. The child was asleep, curled up on the floor. So small, he seemed to fit into her handbag… But not, that was not true. She knew from practice that he was too big and heavy. Dusty, ungainly. A true Muddler. Nothing in him belonged to her. Just as silent, she left—the room, the house, the garden. Like a free shadow, she walked towards the wind, towards the railway station. The air smelled of earth, wet twigs, and something rotting—spring’s other face. The evening darkness concealed her from the neighbours. No one noticed her departure, not even the sleepy, yawning platform attendant. *** Constable Bulkins mopped his brow. It had started as such a promising morning: sunshine, birds, nothing criminal expected to occur in his sleepy patch of the suburbs while the summer people (and along with them, the petty thieves) not yet arrived… And then this. A pair of terrified fishermen turned up, saying they’d spotted a body down by the cliffs. Would they think to fish the corpse out straight away? Oh no, they were too frightened, if you please! And the constable isn’t supposed to be frightened, lowering himself on a rope down a sheer cliff face at low tide?! Well, at least the corpse was genuine, and the all-knowing local ladies identified him as that unemployed poet living with his wife and child not far off. Right then, obvious enough. Springtime madness hitting the artistic mind, and now the constable had to go and break the news to the family… But when he knocked at the door of the ramshackle two-storey house, no one answered, though the linen was flapping in the yard, and the windows standing wide open, and the faint sound drifted out, sort of a child crying. The constable’s spirits sank. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the proper procedure for an official entering a dwelling without the owners' consent due to exceptional circumstances. And he was too, well… not old or fat, mind you, just a bit heavy on the uptake to clamber through windows these days. To make matters worse, a crowd of neighbours had gathered beyond the low, flimsy fence, gawking. A policeman cannot afford to lose face in the spring mud! Fortunately, the front door was unlocked. And the source of the crying was soon located: in a tiny room, little more than a cellar, a small, grubby stortass sat on the floor, snivelling. At the sight of the policeman, he bawled full-force. It took a great deal of patting on the head and soothing words before he could answer where his mother was. “She’s dead!” the constable barely made out through the choked weeping. “I’m sorry, I was bad, I… drove her to her grave!.. You come to take me away?” This was going from bad to worse. But Bulkins couldn’t get any further details out of the child. Best fetch one of the women from beyond the fence to look after the little lad, feed him, or whatever it was women did with small children. But first, he ought to examine the scene of the incident. Well now. He nodded to himself, fitting the pieces together like a puzzle in the morning paper. Neighbours had already reported, the couple quarreled often and loud. Or rather, the wife did most of the shouting at the husband, though he raised his voice on occasion too. Shards of china in the dustbin—another quarrel, you don’t have to guess. Then, poverty everywhere the constable looked, from the walls to the crockery. Add the suitcase opened and half-packed in the bedroom—wife’s tired, wants to leave. Husband finds out—artistic temperament, very unstable. Struggle? Perhaps. The whole house had been scrubbed spotless—panic, disposal of the traces and body. And finally—affect’s over, remorseful hits, the guy throws himself into the sea. The constable could begin composing the report in his head. The inspector would be chuffed. Might even earn a bonus or a mention in the county constabulary newsletter. Only… the little lad, what was to become of him? Hand him over to the city’s care services, track down any relatives of the couple. The neighbours said the poet had a brother who visited now and then, once even mended the neighbourhood’s transformer substation on his way through. And best not tell the child what had happened to his parents. Too young, wouldn’t understand, would only be upset. So what to tell him instead? That was a trickier business than writing a report. Well, let it be… the wind had carried them off. Or they’d gone missing in the course of a grand spring cleaning.