Grandad was a hoarder. He picked up the oddest things at second-hand shops, and charity places, and car boot sales, always saying. “You never know when something like this will come in handy.”
Everything was then taken down to the old shed at the back of the garden, where no one but Grandad ever went. It was probably stacked to the ceiling with old fruit juice presses, and wood clamps, and bicycle wheels. Melly was not looking forward to dealing with that, on top of everything else.
Especially the everything else of losing Grandad. Even now, two weeks after his funeral, it felt wrong to be in his house without him.
It felt even more wrong that he’d left the house to her. It should have gone to James, with his wife and two kids, all but bursting out of their apartment. Except James didn’t agree. “Seriously Melly, what am I going to do with an old place in the middle of nowhere? The commute would be a nightmare, Reba would be bored silly, we’d have to switch the kids’ school, and I don’t have the time or money to spend on the renovations.”
He was more than happy with the stock portfolio Grandad left him. Turned out the old man had been quite a canny investor. Nothing outrageous but enough to take the edge off unexpected bills and allow for slightly more luxurious holidays than he’d taken the family on before.
So the house, and garden, and the old shed, were Melly’s, and it was past time she confronted the last one, and at least got a feel for the size of the rubbish skip she’d need to order in.
It was empty. Or all but. Just a few strange contraptions on the shelves above the tidy workbench. Where had all the junk gone?
The DNA of Stories 