Transferware

by Ellie Pritchard

“Thomas? Thomas come here!” Amanda called from the kitchen, sounding alarmed. He hastily squeezed himself down the hallway between the stacks of boxes. In the kitchen, Amanda was kneeling beside an opened box. “Look, it all got crushed.” “What? How?” He knelt beside her, and they began carefully removing the shattered crockery from the box, keeping as much of it as they could within the little newspapered bundles. “I don’t know, we packed all the boxes in so neatly and neither of us heard anything as we drove. I really don’t know what happened.” “Perhaps it was at the bottom and we stacked too much on top? Is it the only one that got crushed?” “It’s the only one I’ve opened. I knew it had the crockery in, I was going to make us a quick brew before bed. I haven’t checked any others.” Amanda’s eyes welled as she moved to check the other boxes, so meticulously marked as ‘fragile’, as Thomas sorted through the first box to see if anything was still whole. Very little was. All their white mugs were smashed to pieces, as were the highball tumblers, and one of the martini glasses his mum has gifted them on their tenth anniversary not long before. There was one set of crockery in particular that he was hoping wasn’t in this boxThis set had been purchased soon after the last hospital appointment. It had been unsurprising when the doctor had told them that they would never conceive naturally. They’d been trying for so long, with tips and medications recommended by various people. Even before that final appointment, there’d been plenty of late-night crying sessions, Amanda’s tear-stained face pressed into his aching chest. It had been even worse afterwards. The finality of the doctor’s tone, the sympathetic way he’d offered to explain IVF possibilities, and the crack in Thomas’ voice when he’d replied thanks, but they already knew they could never afford it. They’d got home and Amanda had barely said a word for days. He’d cooked every meal, and she’d been grateful but pushed it aside after scarcely a few mouthfuls. After about a week, however, he’d come downstairs to find her humming softly while she made coffee. She’d said that she’d simply had enough of being sad.