There's a big counter unit that stretches along one wall of our
cellar, starting at the foot of the stairs. On top of it are any
number of storage boxes: from those collapsible crates you get in the
local cheap shops, to those proper archive boxes that come from
proper stationers. The boxes are piled high, often three or four
deep, filled with the detritus of thirty years of marriage, two
children, employment histories and god knows what. The cupboards
below are full too, chock-a-block with defunct toys and games,
discarded kitchen gadgets and old clothes.
The opposite wall is piled high with old furniture and soft
furnishings: a retired dinning table and chairs, a couple of standing
lamps, retired garden games, even an old exercise bike that had never
quite achieved any level of usefulness.
I looked at it all and sighed deeply, not for the first time in my
life ruing Mary's inability to throw anything away. Oak, meanwhile,
had found a knife in his pocket and was cutting at the tape that
bound the first box. I found my breath catching in my throat as he
ripped open the first box, only to find a deadly tea service we'd
inherited from my wife's aunt.
“One down,” Oak said with a wry smile, reaching for the next.
“I'll look through the cupboards,” I replied, walking to the far
end of the cellar to bend and open the first door.
