Page 9 of A New Life in Amsterdam

Less than forty-eight hours later, a full seven-page survey lands in my inbox.

Before I can open the report, Gerrit’s email explains that, as he thought, everything is okay.

I open the survey to inspect it for myself; it all looks professional and has been signed off by the surveyor.

Gerrit has gone to the trouble of getting the Dutch report translated into English for me.

I scan through it, noticing phrases like ‘bilge pumps’ and how there is ‘soft wood in an area starboard aft’.

I don’t really get it, but I guess the most important part is the final line. ‘Summary: Satisfactory – good.’

With everything satisfactory, it means that my purchase will go ahead and, since I am not one to hang around, I excitedly decide to start on tackling the downsizing.

I soon learn that it is not only hard work that is involved.

It seems that downsizing comes with a barrage of emotions I had never thought about.

I have only gone through the first drawer when I find myself getting emotional as I come across hospital photos of Hannah on the day she was born, my wedding to Paul, pictures of my parents, and also my grandparents who are long gone.

Four generations all stuffed in one drawer.

Photos that are becoming faded memories.

On the first morning alone, I am reminded how much has changed in my life.

Looking at photos of my parents and grandparents is a reminder of how fragile our lives are and why I need to make the most of my time remaining on this earth.

Buying a houseboat might be my wildest idea yet, but if I don’t do it then what will my life be like in a few years?

I could be sat here alone apart from my felted animals, gossiping about who is doing what in the village and hoping I have enough money left to heat this large house, cursing myself for the money I’ve frittered away over the years.

It would be my fault entirely if I couldn’t afford heating because a friendly shop assistant had persuaded me that I needed the latest kitchen gadget or fashion accessory.

I have never needed a new start more than I do right now.

Although, as I look at the amount of work I have ahead of me, I realise that moving to another part of the world, buying a houseboat and imagining my cosy nights indoors through the autumn were the romantic parts.

Looking at this unnecessary stuff that I have accumulated over the years like some sort of deranged magpie, knowing I will have to sort and shift it all, is something else.

With a strong coffee in hand, I can see that this is a job I am going to need a little help with.

I call Debbie to see if she’s doing anything, and since she wants to escape Nigel whingeing about the football results, she tells me she will gladly help me with this mammoth task.

While I wait for her to arrive, I find a clearance company online and book them in for a week’s time, when I will have been able to sort out what I will keep – which will have to be very little – from what is to be sold or thrown out.

As with any huge job, I will have to take this step by step, and so I decide to do it one room at a time.

Despite having already made a start on the kitchen by listing the pans and a brand-new china plate set on an auction site, I decide that I probably need to leave the kitchen until last. After all, I still need to make my meals for one for a little while longer.

So, since the spare room is the place where we kept most of the junk, I decide this is the first room to start.

Debbie arrives and we both look at the wardrobe that is bursting at the seams. One of the reasons I can hardly close it is because my wedding dress still hangs there, taking up much of the space.

Until now, it never occurred to me to part with it since we had such a beautiful wedding day surrounded by my family, who were all still alive and happy back then.

But now I am finally ready to let it go.

In fact, it feels empowering to make the decision and say goodbye to it.

I don’t need a huge wedding dress to remember that day.

It is a memory that nobody can take away from me.

Besides, the dress no longer fits and there is no way I’d have space for it on a houseboat.

It’s not like Hannah would ever wear it either.

My meringue wedding dress puffs out like one of those toilet roll covers from the Eighties.

In fact, Hannah always found my wedding photos hilariously dated; she would be more of a bohemian beach bride.

Together, Debbie and I pull the dress out with all our might. It is incredibly heavy, and I am surprised I managed to wear it comfortably all day, although with the excitement I probably didn’t realise its weight.

‘How on earth was I able to breathe in this thing?’ I say, looking at the stiff boned bodice.

‘We made some pretty stupid decisions back then. Look at me, I married Nigel.’ Debbie laughs but I am not sure she is truly joking.

‘Oh, he’s not that bad.’

‘Hmm, I have days when I do wonder if I had my time again whether I’d have bothered.’

‘Really? I think I’d still have married Paul.

Even if someone had told me what would end up happening.

We had so many good years, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Besides, Hannah wouldn’t be the person she is if Paul and I had never met.

No, it’s all for the best. I have zero regrets,’ I say as I throw the dress in the pile for the charity shop.

‘Oh, look at this. I remember your mother wearing it. The colour really suited her,’ says Debbie, distracted by a pink silk blouse she finds in the wardrobe.

She pulls it out, and even after all this time we are overpowered by the heady scent of the Poison perfume Mam wore, despite being merged with the musty aroma of all the old clothes in here.

The fragrance brings back every memory I associate with her.

I immediately picture her putting her make-up on and how she used to sit at her dressing table squirting on her favourite scent.

Then, finally, I think how the smell reminds me of the time I took a bottle into the hospital during her final days to see if it would help bring her round, as if it were some sort of smelling salts.

As I remember how my plan didn’t work, I realise just how ready I am for a new start.

All of that is in the past and I have a new future to look forward to in a new country.

Then, as if it’s some kind of sign, a photo flies out from underneath a jumper.

I hold it in my hands, cherishing the memory as I look at the photo of Nicky and I standing in front of a windmill with tulips all around us.

It was a wonderful springtime trip, and I forgot how everything was so colourful and in bloom.

I press it to my heart, and it feels as though Nicky is giving me the nod of approval.

This is one item I won’t be getting rid of, and I resolve to put the photo in a frame when I organise my new home.

With renewed determination, I continue with my purge of a lifetime of clutter, and by the end of the morning I have an empty pine wardrobe that I can sell to the house clearance people.

The bedroom might look like a bomb has hit it, but I have to admire what we have achieved in a few hours.

Debbie has to head back to drop Nigel off at the pub for a rugby lunch he’s attending, but I am determined to carry on with my project for the rest of the day.

After a short break to have a couple of Jaffa Cakes for strength, I tackle Hannah’s room.

She was never planning on coming back and so, like Paul, she took everything she wanted with her, so this is probably one of the easiest rooms in the house.

Already there isn’t much left, except for a few posters on the wall of boy bands I have never heard of apart from when Hannah talked about them.

Despite having grown into a woman in this room, she never took down those posters, something Paul and I used to tease her about.

As I tear the first one down, I get another little niggle of hesitation.

All these years, she fought with us to keep these up and here I am finally tearing them down as though she was never here.

By the time I finish in Hannah’s room, all that is left are bare walls and a few bin bags for the recycling on Monday.

I place her pink dressing table stool in a corner so that it’s easily accessible for the house clearance folk.

Another room has been vacated. I smile as I look around.

I have wonderful memories that will stay with me long after this house is gone.

While the clear-out has been emotional, it feels good to take control.

Instead of drifting along, I am doing something to enrich my life.

How many people can say they do that? I feel empowered and in charge of my own destiny, instead of waiting for someone to save me.

With most of the upstairs done, it only leaves my bedroom.

This is the hardest room, and I am already feeling daunted by the drawers that are straining with the weight of all my purchases.

I daren’t look at my cupboard doors that are almost hanging off.

I worry that when I remove everything it may all come tumbling down and finally collapse under the strain it has put up with for so long.

Unlike the spare room, my wardrobe is full of brand-new clothes.

Many still with the labels on. I get that feeling of embarrassment and self-loathing again as I look at the tags.

It will be someone’s lucky day to get these items for a bargain price.

I place them all carefully in the bag for the charity shop and tell myself that I can’t turn the clock back.

I can do nothing about the past, it’s too late for that, but I can turn over a new leaf.

Looking at all the money I have squandered, I can see that it was an addiction, just like the time I spent ￡50 on lottery tickets, thinking I would win.

In that moment I had hope and excitement.

When I was buying all this stuff, I felt the same.

I had hope that I could wear that fancy new dress somewhere, until I realised that I had nowhere to go.

I was addicted to that feeling of excitement and the promise that this stuff would make me someone I’m not.

As it all lies discarded in bin bags around the floor, only now do I truly understand that none of it ever would have filled the hole in my world that my family left.

Only I have the power to make that hole smaller by making my life more fulfilling.