'He sleeps deeply while I lie in the valley of death'

Monday evening. We moved house this morning.

It was the culmination of an arduous physical process which began six months ago, and a febrile emotional one that began long before that.

Now, at midnight, my husband and I are lying in bed, upstairs in the new town house we’ve rented for a year while we build, and my thoughts are turning dark.

My husband sighs deeply. Surely it cannot be that his thoughts are dark, too.

He sighs deeply again. It would be most untimely, I think, staring at the ceiling, if his thoughts were to be dark right now. I need his thoughts to be so light as to be brilliant, that they might shine onto mine, for mine are becoming dark, very fast indeed.

“Fantastic shower,” he sighs, “now that’s what you call a power shower. I feel as if all the stress of the move has been washed away.”

“I fear the real culmination of moving house,” I say, “might not, in actual fact, be moving house. I fear the real culmination, for me, might be a heart attack instead.”

“You’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like a different person,” he says, “no old house with old house issues, just a new house with no issues at all.”

“Feel my heart,” I say, “it’s banging like a drum.”.

He yawns, then feels my heart. A moment passes. He holds his hand very, very still on my heart.

There is a pregnant silence. It must be as I feared: I am having a heart attack. His hand lies there, as still as stone. The silence grows, oppressively.

Another moment passes. Then he snores, gently.

“There’s only one thing worse than having a bloody heart attack,” I think, “and that’s having a bloody heart attack while your husband falls asleep.”

He sleeps deeply, while I lie in the valley of death. And wait for rigor mortis to set in.

Tuesday morning, 8am. I am brushing my teeth over the sink in the bathroom, when I notice a little pull–cord dangling below the box–mirror–unit. I pull it. The mirror lights up from within; waiting all night for rigor mortis to set in has taken its toll: I look like a beast. I re-enter the bedroom.

“How are you this morning?” my husband says, “feeling more chirpy?”

“On the upside,” I say, “I didn’t die in the night, but on the downside, we have 14 boxes to unpack today.”

The order of the day is chaos; but I am in no mood to embrace it. Instead, I put myself, husband and four grown-up children to the task of embracing order. For six hours straight, with, apparently, my ‘drill sergeant’ face on.

Tuesday midnight.

We are in bed. I’ve just had a shower. I’ve never had a shower so good; I’ve washed all the stress of the move away with half a bottle of my new lemon verbena shower gel.

My daughter is using the other half in the bath which she has just run.

“What’s this metal button on the bath?” she shouts from the bathroom.

“I think you press that button if you want the water jets to work,” my husband shouts back.

“Water jets?” she shouts. “What water jets?”

“They’re the metal round things on the sides of the bath,” he shouts.

“I was wondering what they were for,” she shouts.

“I think the letting agent said you press that button so that the water bubbles up while you’re in the bath. like a little jacuzzi.”

“Like a what, did you say?”

“A jacuzzi,” he shouts.

“Bet that’s one sentence you never thought you’d say,” she shouts. “I can’t wait for this.”

“My feet are hot without lighting a fire,” I say.

“And everything seems to work. Not like in an old farmhouse. I feel like a different person.”

“Told you you would,” he says.

“I feel like I’ve come back from that weird place I’ve been living for the past six months.”

“What weird place?” he yawns.

“Over the edge,” I say. “Impossible to describe what it’s like.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what ...”

“Only people who’ve gone over there and lived there for a while understand what it’s really like.

“And you’ve never been near it.”

There is a peaceful silence, during which I think, what a shame it would be to die of relief and happiness, just after having come all the way back from over the edge.

“The cooker works,” I say, “did you notice?”

“And all the doors close properly,” he says.

“We are now living in the world of ease and convenience that was hidden away from us, that other people knew about, that was there all along. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so at peace. I feel peace in my bones. Do you feel peace in your bones?”

“I can’t wait for this,” my daughter shouts, “watch out, jacuzzi, here I come.”

“Yup,” he says, “I feel peace in my bones.”

And we lie side by side, enjoying the peace in our bones for 30 seconds before there is an apocalyptic explosion in the bathroom, followed by the sound of water falling. After which, we are plunged into darkness and the fire alarms go off.

*To be continued.