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.