We are standing in the kitchen at the old house. J is thirsty and I pour him a little apple juice into one of the blue dotty Bakelite cups which I wipe first with my sleeve. He puts it on the side and potters off to read or at least pull the flaps out of more of my lift-the-flap books.
I feel bad that Mum saved them so carefully and I have let J tear them up.
Dad is looking around the kitchen scratching his head. At this point, he wants to take the cabinets down. I am not sure why. He dismisses the idea for now and decided that instead we should pack up the contents of the big cupboards. Dad takes the cupboard with the white sliding doors and the colony of spiders and I take the corner cupboard with the colony of spiders.
I would prefer the opportunity to remove the spiders first but this doesn't occur to Dad. I suspect he just eats any that walk onto his hand.
Dad decants ancient Amway cleaning products into plastic boxes. There is rust on most of them. There are also unidentified jars and tins which are also placed uncritically in the box for the new house.
I take a bin bag. Almost everything in the corner cupboard that was originally food is years out of date. I find a dusty jumbo pack of plastic plates, probably from one of my birthday parties as a kid, and ditch that too.
Dad comes over to see what I'm doing. He removes from the bin bag some out-of-date oats, some out-of-date moulding icing, a crusted-shut bottle of milkshake syrup and the plastic plates and puts them into another plastic box for the new house.
He pours some unidentified clear liquid into one of the Bakelite cups and sniffs it. He is unsure what it is but to me it smells strongly of turps. I think there must be something up with his nose.
Eventually we have several grubby plastic boxes and two bin bags to take. We load them into the car and go back into the kitchen. J potters in carrying brightly coloured flaps from my old lift-the-flap books. I pick him up for a second and then put him down again and he goes to take a sip of his apple juice.
Immediately his face twists into a grimace and he cries. I realise that he drank from the wrong cup and has taken a sip of the turps. J is crying and there is no sink in the kitchen. I try to carry him to the bathroom sink but Dad is standing in the way. I ask Dad to call a doctor but he refuses. He has to get the trailer back to the hire centre by 5pm or will be charged for an extra day.
Finally in the bathroom I splash J's mouth with water and he's calming down a little. Dad is shouting at me that I want to waste his money by preventing him taking the trailer back on time. I ask him to drop J and I off at Casualty.
He tells me he's had just about enough of me and that I can get myself home. He's not interested, he's not interested.
I walk up to the village pharmacy with J. One of my old primary school friends is working there and we pretend not to recognise each other. I speak to the chemist who reassures me and says that it seems as if J spat out the turps and any residue has been rinsed away.
We need to get a bus home. It has been years since I have taken a bus from the village into town. We wait forten minutes and one arrives. I am 3p short of the fare, and I begin to cry. This is all the money I have until next Tuesday. The driver takes what I have and lets us on.
Thursday 28 February 2008
Monday 25 February 2008
Pieces of wood
We take a break from the house and trek down to the bottom of the garden. Dad wants to take the contents of the garage.
To the best of my knowledge, the garage has only been opened a few times since we moved here but Dad feels strongly that leaving it would be wasteful. The door opens a couple of inches and then jams. Inside, I hope that this will mean we can leave the garage, but Dad shakes the door until it opens wide enough to spray some WD40 on the hinges. Eventually, we manage to open the door about three feet, showering us with crumbs of rust as we edge underneath.
Around two feet of the garage is accessible, the rest of it is stacked with pieces of wood of varying sizes. These are what Dad wants to put inthe new garage. Looking around in the damp, the only light seeping in from a small, ivy covered window, I realise that not only is the new garage much smaller, but that Dad is also using it to house his favourite dinghy. A spatial logic defying feat similar to the one in the loft will be required to do this.
I begin to suspect that the job will be much easier if my brother is on side. As a craftsman, he could, at least, dissuade Dad slightly from the idea that the wood in the garage is all worth saving.
Dad insists that it is worth thousands of pounds and must be taken.
I call M, my elder brother. We discuss hiring a skip but that is too expensive. A few days later, M comes to help. He helps a little but in reality, he and Dad are alike. They fail to leave anything but household rubbish at the tip, instead coming back with interesting items they have bought.
To the best of my knowledge, the garage has only been opened a few times since we moved here but Dad feels strongly that leaving it would be wasteful. The door opens a couple of inches and then jams. Inside, I hope that this will mean we can leave the garage, but Dad shakes the door until it opens wide enough to spray some WD40 on the hinges. Eventually, we manage to open the door about three feet, showering us with crumbs of rust as we edge underneath.
Around two feet of the garage is accessible, the rest of it is stacked with pieces of wood of varying sizes. These are what Dad wants to put inthe new garage. Looking around in the damp, the only light seeping in from a small, ivy covered window, I realise that not only is the new garage much smaller, but that Dad is also using it to house his favourite dinghy. A spatial logic defying feat similar to the one in the loft will be required to do this.
I begin to suspect that the job will be much easier if my brother is on side. As a craftsman, he could, at least, dissuade Dad slightly from the idea that the wood in the garage is all worth saving.
Dad insists that it is worth thousands of pounds and must be taken.
I call M, my elder brother. We discuss hiring a skip but that is too expensive. A few days later, M comes to help. He helps a little but in reality, he and Dad are alike. They fail to leave anything but household rubbish at the tip, instead coming back with interesting items they have bought.
Friday 22 February 2008
Gaps
Gaps begin to appear in the old house. At first, small gaps appear when junk is cleared, and then larger gaps. Less gaps than holes. The opening in the worktop where the sink used to be is ringed with a dubious grime that is greenish in tone. The Aga has gone, its outline marked by the absence of paint or floor tiles.
Dad is not coping well. He has not yet plumbed the sink into the new house as the current sink unit dates from the 1950s and is too small to accommodate Dad's 1980s maxi-sink. When he realised this, he took it out immediately. Dad bought a new unit but still has not constructed it.
He is now sleeping at the new house, and has moved the dogs to their new home.
I am surprised that he can cope without a kitchen sink and the most cursory of crockery, but I am wrong to underestimate him. He has been using the bathroom sink to fetch water for the kettle and has been washing up when he has his baths.
My inclination is that he's teasing me and probably laughing at me from behind his beard. On closer inspection the bath has the kind of food-like debris that washing up usually leaves.
Dad is not coping well. He has not yet plumbed the sink into the new house as the current sink unit dates from the 1950s and is too small to accommodate Dad's 1980s maxi-sink. When he realised this, he took it out immediately. Dad bought a new unit but still has not constructed it.
He is now sleeping at the new house, and has moved the dogs to their new home.
I am surprised that he can cope without a kitchen sink and the most cursory of crockery, but I am wrong to underestimate him. He has been using the bathroom sink to fetch water for the kettle and has been washing up when he has his baths.
My inclination is that he's teasing me and probably laughing at me from behind his beard. On closer inspection the bath has the kind of food-like debris that washing up usually leaves.
Wednesday 20 February 2008
The Sink
Dad has sold the Aga.The kitchen at the old house feels even more peculiar without it dominating the kitchen. The wall tiles which were chosen to match this fiery beast now look dejected and pointless in their original packaging, covered in an ever deepening layer of dust.
I am surprised to see cobwebs in the hole where the Aga used to be.
The next thing Dad intends to take is the sink. The rest of the house is far from being packed up and he is still sleeping here, but Dad feels strongly that the sink is practically new and in excellent condition. He doesn't want to be swindled out of a perfectly good sink just because he's moving house.
The sink is brown and textured. The plugholes have lost their brown coating from too many occasions of being used to rinse away various solvents. The draining area is covered in an unkown and slightly sticky layer which will not come away despite liberal doses of bleach, white spirit, vinegar and elbow grease. It's not pleasant to look at or smell but Dad really wants to take it. He can do this because the plot rather than the house is being sold.
I am surprised to see cobwebs in the hole where the Aga used to be.
The next thing Dad intends to take is the sink. The rest of the house is far from being packed up and he is still sleeping here, but Dad feels strongly that the sink is practically new and in excellent condition. He doesn't want to be swindled out of a perfectly good sink just because he's moving house.
The sink is brown and textured. The plugholes have lost their brown coating from too many occasions of being used to rinse away various solvents. The draining area is covered in an unkown and slightly sticky layer which will not come away despite liberal doses of bleach, white spirit, vinegar and elbow grease. It's not pleasant to look at or smell but Dad really wants to take it. He can do this because the plot rather than the house is being sold.
Sunday 17 February 2008
The loft
Having made a small dent in the packing, some things have been taken to Dad's new bungalow. As it is roughly quarter of the size of the house he is leaving, most things have to go in the loft. Before we can put anything in the loft, we remove the contents of one of the attics at the old house in order to re use the boards in the new bungalow, which only has a single, unboarded loft.
Having transferred the boards, the things from the attic go into the new loft. Dad has set up a pulley system around one of the joists. He swings on it to ensure its stength. I expect the roof to fall in but the pulley holds. Thankfully the hatch to the loft is large, easily allowing various wardrobes, dressers, tables and cabinets up.
Dad is at the bottom of the ladder. It is my job to swing the furniture onto the boards and untie it. Labouriously, I push each item to the furthest edge its height can tolerate. It is tiring work but it affords me a little space from Dad as he is absorbed in the process of securely knotting of each thing onto the end of the pulley.
I come down from the loft for a break. I would like a cup of tea but there is not yet any tea making equipment here as Dad is still mainly living at the old house. I drink some of the cola I bought while Dad continues to ready things for their ascent to the new loft.
The furniture has all gone, next to go are the Pampers boxes I packed from the area that was my grandmother's sitting room. They are a good size and regular so it is quicker to shift these than the big things. Halfway through, and the boxes are stacked neatly in one corner. Dad calls up to me.
"I hope you're labelling these boxes."
I am unsure why he's asking me this, long after the boxes have been filled and sealed, but I answer the question. I answer it with a similar logic as that with which it was asked. I don't say "What?".
I say "What with?"
Dad shuffles off downstairs. I watch dust motes swirl in the light of bare bulb lamp. When he returns he climbs a few rungs of the ladder and passes me a marker pen. I should have labelled the boxes as I sealed them, but the truth is that they all contained a medley of rubbish and dust and I had forgotten any significant items. The boxes are all identical so I can't cue my memory either. He won't miss anything that's in them. He's been like an eight year old who insists he still plays with all his toddler toys at the slightest mention of getting rid of them. He won't even know they're gone.
I label the boxes. On several I write "charity shop", on others "car boot sale" and on others "tip". Dad is unaware of this but it has amused me. I suspect the next time anyone will see the boxes will be after Dad's death.
Having transferred the boards, the things from the attic go into the new loft. Dad has set up a pulley system around one of the joists. He swings on it to ensure its stength. I expect the roof to fall in but the pulley holds. Thankfully the hatch to the loft is large, easily allowing various wardrobes, dressers, tables and cabinets up.
Dad is at the bottom of the ladder. It is my job to swing the furniture onto the boards and untie it. Labouriously, I push each item to the furthest edge its height can tolerate. It is tiring work but it affords me a little space from Dad as he is absorbed in the process of securely knotting of each thing onto the end of the pulley.
I come down from the loft for a break. I would like a cup of tea but there is not yet any tea making equipment here as Dad is still mainly living at the old house. I drink some of the cola I bought while Dad continues to ready things for their ascent to the new loft.
The furniture has all gone, next to go are the Pampers boxes I packed from the area that was my grandmother's sitting room. They are a good size and regular so it is quicker to shift these than the big things. Halfway through, and the boxes are stacked neatly in one corner. Dad calls up to me.
"I hope you're labelling these boxes."
I am unsure why he's asking me this, long after the boxes have been filled and sealed, but I answer the question. I answer it with a similar logic as that with which it was asked. I don't say "What?".
I say "What with?"
Dad shuffles off downstairs. I watch dust motes swirl in the light of bare bulb lamp. When he returns he climbs a few rungs of the ladder and passes me a marker pen. I should have labelled the boxes as I sealed them, but the truth is that they all contained a medley of rubbish and dust and I had forgotten any significant items. The boxes are all identical so I can't cue my memory either. He won't miss anything that's in them. He's been like an eight year old who insists he still plays with all his toddler toys at the slightest mention of getting rid of them. He won't even know they're gone.
I label the boxes. On several I write "charity shop", on others "car boot sale" and on others "tip". Dad is unaware of this but it has amused me. I suspect the next time anyone will see the boxes will be after Dad's death.
Wednesday 13 February 2008
Starting to move.
Dad has been in the process of moving for several weeks and yet nothing seems to have changed. Realising that the task is altogether too emotional for him I offer to help move boxes.
He has not packed anything. The contents of the house is hidden beneath layers of dust, dog hairs and papers of every variety. Many of the papers look like they could be important documents so I’m reluctant to throw them away. Instead I try to keep them in a rough pile. There are also receipts and old lottery tickets. I find a receipt for a pint of milk dated 1984 and bearing the old name of the village shop, which has changed hands at least three times since. I’m tempted to keep it as an artefact but it goes in the bin along with other minor debris.
J is pottering about, still very little and often in the way, but easily entertained looking at my childhood picture books.
My system of piling up things that look like documents and throwing away things that could only be rubbish works well until Dad comes in. Apparently I am doing it all wrong and none of this should be thrown away. He takes the bin bag from me and roots through it, retrieving, amongst other things, the receipt dated 1984.
The contents and layout of this house is not really safe for a small child and Dad insists that J and I go with him to the supermarket to get more boxes. This is a pretext. He doesn’t like the idea that I might snoop or try to smuggle out items that belonged to my mother. He’s right, though, I would do both of those things, given the chance.
Dad cruises the supermarket whilst buying things he deems indispensible whilst moving house. His choice consists of kippers, grapes and oats. These items would not be on my list of moving-house essentials. I persuade him to buy some juice in cartons and some biscuits for J, who is getting hungry and fractious.
As we leave, I pile Dad’s trolley with Pampers boxes. There’s room for plenty as Dad has only bought five things.
When we get back, Dad vanishes somewhere into the depths of the house. He has been living alone here for eleven years. Prior to that it provided space enough for each individual to never see any of the other three inhabitants without actively seeking to do so. I really have no idea where he is.
J sits on the floor drinking some juice and eating a biscuit. He’s mauling at a pop-up book which probably won’t pop-up for much longer.
I begin to stack some bits of dad’s stuff into a box. Bigger things that are distinct from the mass of mess. Most of the things in this bit of the house were my grandmother’s, stained and clogged with cigarette tar. I put them carefully into the Pampers boxes, sealing them using the tape dispenser Dad has equipped me with. It was almost definitely bought from QVC.
Realising that packing in this way is not yielding quick results, I revert to clearing surfaces directly into the boxes. This makes a bigger difference and I hope that seeing the change will start to make it easier for Dad.
He has not packed anything. The contents of the house is hidden beneath layers of dust, dog hairs and papers of every variety. Many of the papers look like they could be important documents so I’m reluctant to throw them away. Instead I try to keep them in a rough pile. There are also receipts and old lottery tickets. I find a receipt for a pint of milk dated 1984 and bearing the old name of the village shop, which has changed hands at least three times since. I’m tempted to keep it as an artefact but it goes in the bin along with other minor debris.
J is pottering about, still very little and often in the way, but easily entertained looking at my childhood picture books.
My system of piling up things that look like documents and throwing away things that could only be rubbish works well until Dad comes in. Apparently I am doing it all wrong and none of this should be thrown away. He takes the bin bag from me and roots through it, retrieving, amongst other things, the receipt dated 1984.
The contents and layout of this house is not really safe for a small child and Dad insists that J and I go with him to the supermarket to get more boxes. This is a pretext. He doesn’t like the idea that I might snoop or try to smuggle out items that belonged to my mother. He’s right, though, I would do both of those things, given the chance.
Dad cruises the supermarket whilst buying things he deems indispensible whilst moving house. His choice consists of kippers, grapes and oats. These items would not be on my list of moving-house essentials. I persuade him to buy some juice in cartons and some biscuits for J, who is getting hungry and fractious.
As we leave, I pile Dad’s trolley with Pampers boxes. There’s room for plenty as Dad has only bought five things.
When we get back, Dad vanishes somewhere into the depths of the house. He has been living alone here for eleven years. Prior to that it provided space enough for each individual to never see any of the other three inhabitants without actively seeking to do so. I really have no idea where he is.
J sits on the floor drinking some juice and eating a biscuit. He’s mauling at a pop-up book which probably won’t pop-up for much longer.
I begin to stack some bits of dad’s stuff into a box. Bigger things that are distinct from the mass of mess. Most of the things in this bit of the house were my grandmother’s, stained and clogged with cigarette tar. I put them carefully into the Pampers boxes, sealing them using the tape dispenser Dad has equipped me with. It was almost definitely bought from QVC.
Realising that packing in this way is not yielding quick results, I revert to clearing surfaces directly into the boxes. This makes a bigger difference and I hope that seeing the change will start to make it easier for Dad.
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