CLEARING OUT
George found joy in collecting odd items, but one discovery changed everything
George was no compulsive hoarder, nothing so extreme, but in the decade since retiring he’d become a regular at the local car boot sales, and he roamed them religiously for knickknacks, oddities and items that his wife would’ve surely categorised as tat. Norma was in the ground now, neighbour to the headstone that had marked their only daughter’s vacant grave for 50 years, so she no longer had to bear her husband’s clutter. For George though, the man left behind, life felt increasingly empty, so he liked to keep the bungalow filled.
He was glad to see on Sunday morning that Frank Casswell, one of the regular traders, had returned after a long hiatus. Or, at least, Frank’s table had returned; operating his pitch today was a stranger of about 16.
“Don’t tell me Frank’s earning so much from this that he’s hiring help now?” George said as he approached.
The young man smiled wanly. “No.
I’m Danny, Maude’s lad. Uncle Frank had a stroke.”
“Jesus. Is he…?”
“Won’t ever walk again. Won’t speak again either.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’ve never been that close, but since Mum’s his only relative, it has all kind of fallen on us. His house, all this, it’s all got to be sold for his care costs.”
“A sad state of affairs. He was always such a character around town.”
George sighed, scanning the tabletop, the evidence of a lifetime laid out in bric-a-brac. “A lot of gear he left behind.”
“Mum’s filled three skips already. He’s up at Bradley House now. You know it?”
“I do.” George surveyed trays filled with smaller tools – “50p each or £5 job lot” – and some well-used spades. After the tools, the items became more niche. He leaned closer to the stacks, bemused.
“All of this came out of Frank’s house?” “Yep. I reckon he was one of them Doomsday preppers. Planning for the apocalypse or something.”
George studied the merchandise: yellowing paperbacks concerning foraging, snare traps and butchery; water purification tablets and tinned rations; gas masks, glowsticks, wire saws, fishing equipment; twines, chains and ropes.
“Apocalypse indeed,” George muttered, reaching through the jumble. “I haven’t seen one of these in decades.”
“It’s legal,” Danny said. “We checked online. Mum says I have to get rid of it though.”
“I’m not surprised.” George butted the crossbow into his right shoulder and checked the sights. “My older brother used to have one for hunting rabbits. Different times.”
“Forty quid and I’ll throw these bolts in too. That’s a decent price.”’
“I’m sure it is,” George laughed, carefully placing the bow back onto the pile. “Now this is more my cup of tea. What a beauty…”
His gaze had fallen upon a vintage steel toolbox.
“Doesn’t open. We found the key, but it won’t budge.” “You don’t know what’s inside?” “Nope. Feels empty to me.” George gave the box a shake. It certainly didn’t contain tools, despite the enormous amount Frank had collected, and there was something strange about that. He jiggled the key. Nothing. He rummaged through the neighbouring baskets and retrieved an oily rag, a bradawl and a can of WD-40.
“If you break that, I think you’re going to have to buy it.”
George smiled. “How about this? If
I get it open, then I’ll buy it for double the asking price, whatever the contents. So, you can either take home a locked box, or you can roll the dice on a 10-pound sale. What do you say?”
Danny considered him. “Deal.”
George sprayed lubricant into the lock and then scratched at the grime of decades, periodically pausing to wipe the bradawl clean with the rag. He polished as much of the workings as he could get to, and when he tried the key once more, it turned with a click. “Aha.”
“Hey, if that thing’s full of cash, then the deal’s off.”
Grinning, George opened the box. No cash, although the box was far from empty.
Danny peered inside. “Looks like a tenner’s worth of rubbish.”
George frowned. The toolbox was filled with brightly coloured ribbons tangled together. His initial thought was that these must’ve been gifts from Frank’s courting days, some secret ritual akin to love letters. Then his eyes locked onto something within the tangle, and the world around him dropped away.
His arthritic hand went slowly into the box. Before he’d even made contact, he knew how the pink ribbon would feel between his fingertips. Even after 50 years, he knew.
It was embroidered with yellow chicks and made of the softest silk. It was just how he remembered it.
Blood rushed into George’s head and his legs gave out. A passer-by caught him from behind. A voice yelled, “Get him some water!”
When his vision finally cleared, George saw the ribbon wrapped tautly between his fingers. It was the ribbon his wife had embroidered herself. The ribbon George had tied in his daughter’s hair on Easter Sunday 1972. The ribbon Sally had been wearing when she vanished without a trace. It had been in here for 50 years. Here, with so many keepsakes. So many ribbons…
Somebody asked if George was OK.
He regained his balance and, instead of answering, took out his wallet. A crowd had gathered, and concerned eyes watched the pale old man hand over a £50 note.
“For this,” George said, closing the toolbox. “And this too.”
Hesitantly, Danny took his money. “Are you alright?”
George tied the ribbon to one of his purchases. “Your uncle. You said he’s up at Bradley House? I think I’ll stop by and see him this afternoon. Have a catch-up.”
“You should.” Danny brightened a little. “Only, like I said, he can’t talk any more.”
“That’s OK,” George said. “He won’t really need to.”
He walked off, parting the crowd with the toolbox in one hand, and the crossbow in the other, his lost daughter’s ribbon hanging down from the trigger guard, rippling in the air as he went.
Life felt empty, so he liked to fill the bungalow up…