text: > look around
  Sometimes you think this room is made entirely from memories: the barometer on the wall that has indicated rain for years; the picture of your daughter, staring defiantly at the camera, flanked by the peaks of mountains; the wood paneling, a forgotten texture below the bookshelves; the books themselves, all green and blue leather - alphabetised soldier-sentries; a balding sofa and chair where Derek spends most of his evenings staring at the TV mounted to the wall.
  The too-small window overlooks the front driveway and lets in only just enough light.
  
  The TV spills sounds and flickering images into the room.
  
  > turn off the tv
  You switch the TV off.
  
  > Go north
  All the bric-a-brac on the sideboard has been packed away for the move, leaving only dusty imprints on the wood. It had been filled with colourful plates and cups and seldom-used cookery books and odds and ends that the family had brought back from various holidays that couldn't find another home. Now the brown boxes on the floor and table, taped and anonymous, only serve to remind you of how much there is left to do before the removal van arrives next week.
  
  It hadn't been your idea to sell the house. Now, with the move only a few days away, the sheer volume of things you have accumulated as a family is entirely daunting. You have tried to pack, but instead, half way through filling a box, you find yourself wandering around the house with an ornament or a lamp or a small table in your hands, wondering where to put it.
  
  When he gets home from work, Derek doesn't say anything, but you can sense his frustration that the pile of packed boxes in the dining room hasn't grown.
  
  > look at the sideboard
  This was your mother's, who had got it from her mother. It covers most of the wall against which it stands. You can't remember a time in your life when it wasn't present in your home.
  
  Your mother gave it to you when you were first married, and had moved into the little flat over the shop. "A good start," she had said, "something to build on."
  
  It had been far too big for your tiny new home, but you and Derek, laughing, had maneuvered it into place. You remember it had covered half of the kitchen door, so you both had to enter the room sideways.
  
  > go east
  The kitchen is due an update - it feels very seventies, with a faux marble worktop, dark wood-effect cupboards and garish tiling. The refrigerator is covered in scraps of paper and bills, all held in place by magnetic capital letters. The back door leads out of the east wall into the garden.
  
  The kitchen in the new house is smaller than this. That's OK, though. You don't spend as much time in here as you used to when the kids were at home. Derek usually doesn't get home until after he's eaten. The last time you cooked a proper meal was probably a couple of months ago. Before Sam left. You had cooked her favourite, lasagna, because she said she didn't feel well, and she had looked so tired and unhappy. You wanted to cheer her up. Straight afterward, she had run to the toilet to throw it all back up again.
  
  A calendar on the wall shows a grid of boxes for the month, all covered in small handwriting.
  
  On the refrigerator is a yellow post-it note.
  
  The clock on the wall ticks the seconds away into the air.
  
  > look athe post-it note
  "I'll be home at 7.00 pm. Derek."
  
  That's so like Derek. To put his name. As if you wouldn't know who had written it.
  
  > examine clock
  The clock reads 3:13 pm.
  
  > Examine calendar
  Today your only job, according to the calendar, is to pack.
  
  > look at the fridge
  The fridge has become Derek's filing cabinet. It's where he puts all the unpaid bills and reminders and bank statements, all held in place in some sort of order by a magnetic alphabet.
  
  On the refrigerator is a yellow post-it note.
  
  > open the fridge
  The mostly empty shelves remind you that you need to tell Derek to go to the supermarket on his way home from work tomorrow. When you let go of the handle, the fridge door closes by itself.
  
  > open the door
  You open the back door.
  
  > Go east
  High fences surround the garden, giving it an air of privacy, sheltered from the street and any watchful eyes peeping from behind curtains in the neighbour's windows. A small patio area, attached to the side of the house, on which is a table and a set of peeling wooden chairs gives way to scrubby grass that you haven't quite got around to cutting for far too long.
  
  Derek calls this your "little patch of wilderness". That's his half-joke that isn't a joke at all, but instead, really it's a cutting indictment wrapped up in humour - contempt masked with levity.
  
  "You can't even look after the bloody garden," Derek snapped at you once, after an argument about something you can't even remember. "It's what you wanted. It's why we moved here for goodness sake."
  
  When you were first married, gardening had been your passion. You inherited it from your mother, you suppose, whose own garden was, each year, a wondrous mass of colour and life.
  
  > go to the west
  The kitchen is due an update - it feels very seventies, with a faux marble worktop, dark wood-effect cupboards and garish tiling. The refrigerator is covered in scraps of paper and bills, all held in place by magnetic capital letters. The back door leads out of the east wall into the garden.
  
  A calendar on the wall shows a grid of boxes for the month, all covered in small handwriting.
  
  On the refrigerator is a yellow post-it note.
  
  The clock on the wall ticks the seconds away into the air.
  
  > close the door
  You close the back door.
  
  > look at the clock
  The clock reads 3:23 pm.
  
  > Go west
  All the bric-a-brac on the sideboard has been packed away for the move, leaving only dusty imprints on the wood. It had been filled with colourful plates and cups and seldom-used cookery books and odds and ends that the family had brought back from various holidays that couldn't find another home. Now the brown boxes on the floor and table, taped and anonymous, only serve to remind you of how much there is left to do before the removal van arrives next week.
  
  > go south
  The glassed front door leads directly south onto the driveway, and carpeted stairs angle up to the first floor. Doors lead east to the lounge and the dining room to the north. The room is bare except for an occasional table next to the front door in the southern wall, on which the telephone and answering machine squat.
  
  > Go south
  (first opening the front door)
  
  Bounded by small grass borders that, via some unseen line down the middle, demarcate your house from the next, the driveway stretches out onto the road to the south. The open plan nature of the street is disconcerting.
  
  You're still not used to it, this openness of space, and this sharing of communal grass. When you grew up, each house in your terrace had its own little square patch of front garden bounded by a low stone wall. Sometimes with iron railings, painted green, or rusty, or shining black. Each garden had been a little statement by the house owner or tenant. Some had been lush bursts of colour in the spring and summer, some unkempt and weed-choked. Others had only been bare flagstones, empty and stark.
  
  It had been a matter of pride for your mother, that little twelve foot by twelve foot patch of space. Your father had the back yard reserved for his chickens and vegetables. Your mother owned that front space. It was hers entirely. She made it reflect herself.
  
  Your car is parked here.
  
  > examine the car
  Just a small grey car. You can't even remember what make and model it is. Nor can you remember the last time your drove it anywhere. Derek occasionally takes it out for a spin "to stop it seizing up."
  
  > get in the car
  The car is locked.
  
  > Unlock car
  You don't have the keys. It's been so long since you've driven anywhere that you're not even sure where they are.
  
  > close the front door
  You close the front door.
  
  > Go east
  The bathroom is all in pale green. The toilet, sink and bath were here when you moved in, and there never really seemed to be a reason to change them. The mirrored cabinet above the sink steams up when anyone has a shower and because of the poor ventilation through the small fan in the window, the grouting between the tiles has always had mold problems.
  
  > go east
  The old clock in the corner punctuates the seconds with its deep bass ticking. All the pictures are still on the wall - lined up ancestors and forgotten relatives mixing with cheap reproductions of Monet's landscapes. A musty old sofa against the wall is lit up by the one window. A door to the south leads into your Aunt's front room.
  
  The room feels empty somehow, as if all the life in it has drained away.
  
  > Go south
  Despite her age, Aunt May keeps her home spotlessly clean. The window allows her to watch the comings and goings in the street from her strategically positioned armchair. An old dresser holds brass ornaments and a selection of glass flowers. The only door leads back out into the hallway.
  
  The room feels empty somehow, as if all the life in it has been used up.
  
  On the dresser is an old folk's home leaflet.
  
  > Go south
  The window is shut: you'd break the glass.
  
  > go north
  The bed under the window seems further away today. The floor, uncluttered with Sam's possessions, has stretched slightly during the night. You used to be able to touch the empty desk from the door, and the walls, bare of brightly coloured posters, appear taller - the ceiling more distant.
  
  > Look
  You see that since yesterday, there is a new door on the west wall of the hallway, and a new door east of the Main Bedroom.
  
  > go to the east
  Sometimes you think this room is made entirely from memories: the barometer on the wall that has indicated rain for years; the picture of your daughter, staring defiantly at the camera, flanked by the peaks of mountains; the wood paneling, a forgotten texture below the bookshelves; the books themselves, all green and blue leather - alphabetised soldier-sentries; a balding sofa and chair where Derek spends most of his evenings staring at the TV mounted to the wall.
  The too-small window overlooks the front driveway and lets in only just enough light.
  
  > examine barometer
  This was your Aunty May's. It's never worked. The needle has always been stuck halfway between rain and drizzle.
  
  > talk to Derek
  To engage in a conversation, try to ASK Derek ABOUT something, TELL Derek ABOUT something, or SHOW Derek something. Or, even, try saying "hello". Once you are chatting, you can just use "ASK ABOUT something", or if you are feeling confident, as a short hand, just "A something". You could also ask Derek to do things using: Derek, GO SOUTH for example.
  
  > ask Derek about the work
  "Hi," you say.
  
  "Hmm?" he replies non-commitally, his eyes not leaving the TV.
  
  "How was work?" you ask.
  
  Derek shrugs. "It was ok. Nothing exciting to report."
  
  > tell Derek about May
  When you first told Derek about Aunt May being shipped off to a home, he had been furious. "Why didn't you tell me," he had said, barely containing his anger. "She could have come and lived with us. You know you would have liked that. You and May have always got along."
  
  "I thought you would have been against it," you had said, weakly.
  
  Derek had sighed. "Don't put this on me." You haven't really spoken about it since, and Derek looks so tired you're too nervous to bring it up again.
  
  > ask Derek about the move
  "Are you looking forward to moving?" you ask.
  
  "It will be nice to get out of this place and start afresh," says Derek. "We need to hurry up with the packing though. The movers will be here next Tuesday."
  
  > tell Derek about the projector
  You start to tell Derek about the white room, and the plinth and the projector. But something holds you back. You realise you don't want to. That this is somehow too private to share with this man, even though you've been married all these years.
  
  Derek switches over the channel.
  
  > ask Derek about food
  "You need to go to the supermarket tomorrow," you remind him. Derek grunts in acknowledgement.
  
  > Tomorrow
  In your dreams, you are running towards something, but it is constantly moving away from you. There is a hand reaching out, but it is just out of reach and someone is calling you but you can't quite make out if it is a child or just the wind blowing through a partially open window.
  
  The morning has disappeared. You don't know where it went. The house continues its inexorable growth. Earlier, when you were dusting the upstairs hallway it seemed to take so much longer than usual, and a new door had appeared through which you were sure you could hear muted voices.
  
  Actually, you had woken late, and, slightly disoriented by the brightness of the morning, it had taken you a while to get your bearings. The phone had been ringing. You lay in bed and let it go to answer phone.
  
  As you drifted in and out of a doze, you listened to Aunt May pottering about the house. She tends to rise early. Ever since she moved in, each morning, you lie in bed listening to her moving about. It's comforting somehow, and, with Derek working so many hours, it's been nice to have someone to share the last days in the house with.
  
  The kitchen is due an update - it feels very seventies, with a faux marble worktop, dark wood-effect cupboards and garish tiling. The refrigerator is covered in scraps of paper and bills, all held in place by magnetic capital letters. The back door leads out of the east wall into the garden.
  
  A calendar on the wall shows a grid of boxes for the month, all covered in small handwriting.
  
  On the refrigerator is a yellow post-it note.
  
  The clock on the wall ticks the seconds away into the air.
  
  > read the note
  I have to work late tonight. I'll stay in town. Derek.
  
  > Go west
  All the bric-a-brac on the sideboard has been packed away for the move, leaving only dusty imprints on the wood. It had been filled with colourful plates and cups and seldom-used cookery books and odds and ends that the family had brought back from various holidays that couldn't find another home. Now the brown boxes on the floor and table, taped and anonymous, only serve to remind you of how much there is left to do before the removal van arrives next week. The pile of boxes seems to be higher than yesterday, but that's ok, because the room seems to have grown to accommodate them.
  
  On a plinth in the corner, a rubber plant brushes the ceiling.
  
  > examine the plant
  Since being moved into the sunlight of the dining room, the plant seems to have had a new lease on life. Its leaves stretch above your head, oriented toward the warming sun through the window.
  
  It was Aunt May's doing, moving the plant into the dining room. As soon as she had seen it on the upstairs hallway, she had cried out in horror and insisted that you move it immediately. Derek wasn't too happy. He doesn't like clutter. But you have to admit, in the sunshine, the plant transforms a little. Leaves that were dull greyish green suddenly sparkle in the sun. You could almost imagine it sighing with relief.
  
  > Open boxes
  They are securely taped shut and there's nothing in there that you really want to have to pack again.
  
  In the distance, you can hear the phone ringing.
  
  > go to the south
  The glassed front door leads directly south onto the driveway, and carpeted stairs angle up to the first floor. Doors lead east to the lounge and the dining room to the north. The room is bare except for an occasional table next to the front door in the southern wall, on which the telephone and answering machine squat.
  
  The display on the answering machine flashes with the number 1.
  
  You hear noises coming from the room above. Aunt May keeps unconventional hours. Sometimes you will hear her moving about the house in the early hours of the morning. Some days she stays in bed till lunchtime and the house remains quiet. Most days, she stays in her room, sitting in her chair and watching through the window. Her presence is comforting somehow, and you know you can always pop in and have someone to talk to.
  
  The phone on the hall table rings insistently.
  
  The phone stops ringing.
  
  > press the button
  A briskly impersonal voice says "Hi, Mrs Paterson?" There is a pause. "It's Churchill's removals, you were going to call to arrange a time for pick up on Tuesday. Can you give us a call please and ask to speak to Karen. Thank you."
  
  The machine whirrs on to the next message.
  
  Derek's voice, made small by distance, says "Hi Elaine, it's me. I just got a call at the office from the removals people. I guess you forgot to ring them. I told them to turn up at about 10 am on Tuesday. See you tomorrow night."
  
  The machine falls silent.
  
  > Tomorrow
  In your dreams, you are running towards something, but it is constantly moving away from you. There is a hand reaching out, but it is just out of reach and someone is calling you but you can't quite make out if it is a child or just the wind blowing through a partially open window.
  
  The morning has disappeared. You don't know where it went. The house continues its inexorable growth. Earlier, when you were dusting the upstairs hallway it seemed to take so much longer than usual, and a new door had appeared through which you were sure you could hear muted voices.
  
  Actually, you had woken late, and, slightly disoriented by the brightness of the morning, it had taken you a while to get your bearings. The phone had been ringing. You lay in bed and let it go to answer phone.
  
  As you drifted in and out of a doze, you listened to Aunt May pottering about the house. She tends to rise early. Ever since she moved in, each morning, you lie in bed listening to her moving about. It's comforting somehow, and, with Derek working so many hours, it's been nice to have someone to share the last days in the house with.
  
  The kitchen is due an update - it feels very seventies, with a faux marble worktop, dark wood-effect cupboards and garish tiling. The refrigerator is covered in scraps of paper and bills, all held in place by magnetic capital letters. The back door leads out of the east wall into the garden.
  
  A calendar on the wall shows a grid of boxes for the month, all covered in small handwriting.
  
  On the refrigerator is a yellow post-it note.
  
  The clock on the wall ticks the seconds away into the air.
  
  > Go south
  The glassed front door leads directly south onto the driveway, and carpeted stairs angle up to the first floor. Doors lead east to the lounge and the dining room to the north. The room is bare except for an occasional table next to the front door in the southern wall, on which the telephone and answering machine squat.
  
  The display on the answering machine flashes with the number 1.
  
  You hear noises coming from the room above. Aunt May keeps unconventional hours. Sometimes you will hear her moving about the house in the early hours of the morning. Some days she stays in bed till lunchtime and the house remains quiet. Most days, she stays in her room, sitting in her chair and watching through the window. Her presence is comforting somehow, and you know you can always pop in and have someone to talk to.
  
  > Call removals company
  Your fingers hover over the buttons, but you can't bring yourself to dial. The thought of speaking to a disembodied voice fills you with dread.
  
  > press the button
  A briskly impersonal voice says "Hi, Mrs Paterson?" There is a pause. "It's Churchill's removals, you were going to call to arrange a time for pick up on Tuesday. Can you give us a call please and ask to speak to Karen. Thank you."
  
  The machine falls silent.
  
  > Wait
  Time passes.
  
  > Wait
  Time passes.
  
  The phone on the hall table rings insistently.
  
  > answer the phone
  You move towards the phone, but you just can't bear to speak to a disembodied voice right now.
  
  The phone on the hall table rings insistently.
  
  The phone stops ringing.
  
  > look at the answering machine
  The display on the answering machine is flashing with the number 1. The play messages button is right next to the display.
  
  > press the button
  Derek's voice, made small by distance, says "Hi Elaine, it's me. I just got a call at the office from the removals people. I guess you forgot to ring them. I told them to turn up at about 10 am on Tuesday. See you tomorrow night."
  
  The machine falls silent.
  
  > Go up
  The hallway has no windows. It's always been a dingy place when the doors to the bedrooms are closed, but the open door allows some light to creep in. Pictures line the walls, barely illuminated. To the south of you is Aunt May's room, opposite it, Brady's room and the hallway stretches toward the east side of the house. A flight of stairs leads down into the entrance hall, and the new white door hangs open next to the staircase to the west.
  
  > Go east
  The hallway stretches endlessly from east to west through the house. The blank white walls are broken only by a door to the north.
  
  You can hear voices, low and muted,  coming through the  door.
  
  > go north
  As you walk through the entrance, the air seems to shimmer
  somehow.
  
  You recognise this place. It's been months since you were here, but this is where you brought Samantha after she had told you. There she is, sat in the same chair, shoulders sagging sullenly, face turned away from you, chin in her hand. She looks so young.
  
  (first opening the reception door)
  
  The reception area is painted a clinical light green and smells of disinfectant. Rows of chairs line the walls. A reception desk in the corner hold pamphlets and leaflets. The only other door apart from the one back into your house is in the opposite wall.
  
  You pause at the entrance for a moment. The only sounds in the room are the clicking heels of the nurse behind the reception desk. The cold air in the room makes you shiver.
  
  The receptionist stands behind the desk staring out into space.
  
  Samantha sits quietly on one of the chairs. She barely glances up at you as you enter the room.
  
  At first, Samantha had not wanted you to come. Sat at the dining room table, she had hid her face behind her hair when she told you. "I've got an appointment at the Doctor's," she had said. "I guess you won't be coming."
  
  But you had surprised yourself. "Of course I'm coming," you had replied. "You're not keeping it," you said, before you had even thought what that would mean. The words had come directly out of you, an unintended accusation.
  
  Samantha's head had jerked upwards. "It's my baby," she said, "I'll do what I want."
  
  The Doctor had been kind, if a little distant. Samantha had trembled next to you while he outlined her options, each more distressing than the last. When he had asked her what she wanted to do, Samantha, her face white and close to tears, had not replied. She had turned to look at you, her eyes beseeching you to answer for her. "What do you think, Mum?" she had said. You hadn't replied straight away.
  
  > ask Sam about the baby
  "Hey, Sam," you say.
  
  "Yeah?" replies Sam.
  
  "When did you know?" you say.
  
  "I suppose I guessed when I took the pregnancy test," replies Sam, sarcastically. You restrain the urge to shout at her. There's so many things you could say.
  
  Samantha sighs with irritation and rubs her face.
  
  "What do you think, Mrs. Paterson?" the doctor had asked you, eventually. "This is Samantha's decision, but I'm sure she would like your guidance and support."
  
  You had answered him. Samantha had burst into tears and ran from the room.
  
  It's my choice," Samantha had screamed in the car on the way home. And then she had left. Gone to live with her boyfriend. When Derek had come home, you had hesitantly told him about Sam's condition, and the row. Derek had been furious. Not about the pregnancy, that he had accepted without comment. He had been furious with her because she had left home. "Of course we would have supported her," he had said. "Whatever she decided."
  
  You had kept quiet.