The Woman Who Kept Everything
The Lady in the Van meets The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry in this uplifting, funny and moving debut novel about a 79-year-old hoarder who is convinced the world is against her.79-year-old Gloria Frensham is a hoarder. She lives amongst piles of magazines, cardboard boxes and endless knick-knacks that are stacked into every room of her home, and teeter in piles along the landing and up the stairs.She hasn’t left the house in years, but when a sudden smell of burning signifies real danger, she is forced to make a sudden departure and leave behind her beloved possessions.Determined she’s not ready for a care home, Gloria sets out to discover what life still has to offer her. It’s time to navigate the outside world on her own, one step at a time, with just one very small suitcase in tow…Heart-warming and poignant in equal measure, this is a story about the loneliness of life, the struggles of growing old, the power of kindness, and the bravery it takes to leave our comfort zones.** Early praise from NetGalley reviewers **‘This book has to be in my top best loved books of 2018. I enjoyed every single page. There was never a dull moment.’‘Without a doubt, readers will be charmed by the many colourful characters and their relationships with each other, as well as where life takes Gloria next.’‘This delightful book will enchant any reader who has a soul.’‘Fans of A Man Called Ove and Three Things About Elsie will find comfortable, enjoyable ground here.’‘It would make a great and inspired book club read.’‘A beautiful, charming, witty story’‘This is a novel that perhaps we all need to read. It is a realistic look into aging with humour and some sadness, that all too many often forget to see.’
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THE WOMAN WHO KEPT EVERYTHING
JANE GILLEY
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Jane Gilley 2018
Cover design © Becky Glibbery 2018
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock
Jane Gilley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © December 2018; ISBN: 9780008308629
Version: 2018-09-13
Table of Contents
The boiling hot water splashed over Gloria’s fingers. ‘Waargh!’
She did a little agony dance whilst she waited for the pain to ease, blowing on her fingers. Damn. She’d need to get outside to dunk her hand in the cold water barrel.
Her oldest friend, Tilsbury, was always harping on about that darned pan; said that using it, without a lid, instead of a kettle, might prove disastrous one day. Gloria wouldn’t buy a kettle, though. Said she didn’t have the money for expensive items like that. Well, her son, Clegg, had given her a credit card for ‘essential items’ but she never went anywhere to use it. In fact, she rarely went out at all. She didn’t really need to.
Today she’d knocked the pan by accident, reaching over to check the potato soup she was cooking for their lunch. These days she was always eating potato soup, on account that she had a large sack of them, out back, that Tilsbury had got from someone in the know. She liked that it could be a cheap nourishing meal when she had onions, carrots and a good stock in it.
But, today, she only had potatoes. Add a bit of salt and it would have to do, she’d thought. Anyway, the hot water for their tea, boiling away in the pan next to the soup, had sploshed onto her left hand as she’d leaned over the grimy stove to stir their meal.
Gloria grunted as she hitched up her Crimplene dress and clambered over the piles of squashed cardboard boxes and magazines, nearly slipping on mouldy teabags, decomposing potato skins, marmalade-smeared crusts and other detritus around the kitchen sink unit. She no longer noticed the stink like rotting cabbage. Empty, dripping or congealed milk cartons, plastic bags and other household rubbish also littered the floor – more obstacles to tackle – in order to get to that cold water barrel, outside by the back door. The original Georgian taps in her kitchen sink had long since seized up. So the only water she could use was in that rainwater barrel, outdoors: for cooking, for occasional washing, for everything really.
But, at seventy-nine, she knew she was getting too old for all this.
Her fingers were blistered from similar events. A kettle would make things easier, of course. But it wasn’t just the money. She felt pretty much housebound now, more from lack of motivation and despondency than anything else. There wasn’t anything physically preventing her from doing things. She occasionally forgot things but she wasn’t an invalid and she didn’t need to use a walking stick yet, even though she was a bit wobbly on her feet sometimes. So she could go down to the shops if she wanted. She just didn’t want to, any more. Anyway, Tilsbury would pop by and get her the things she really needed, when she needed anything.
‘Go fetch us a tub of marge,’ she’d say to Tilsbury, when he came round to see what else she needed before he went to fetch her pension for her. ‘Bit of honey wouldn’t go amiss, either. And get me a bar of that Imperial Leather soap. I likes that, for a treat, I do.’
So Tilsbury, duly, got all the bits she needed from the corner shop and collected her pension as well. And her son, Clegg, got her teabags, carrots, eggs and bread, when he remembered to come see her. He hadn’t been to see her in a while, though. Three weeks four days, to be precise, Gloria noted, missing him. She crossed the white squares off on the calendar board attached to the back of the door – the calendar board Tilsbury had made and put up for her – in between her son’s sporadic visits. She counted the days until he reappeared at her door, hopefully with another bag of groceries or provisions in hand.
