THE SKIP
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skip appeared out of nowhere early one morning in December, looking
huge in the little village street. The first to see it were old Mrs No.
1 and her mongrel dog, Spindy. The human stared at it in surprise, then
circled it looking for some form of identification and the canine
followed, ears back and tail low. Back from their walk, they met Mr No. 6, briefcase in hand and car-key poised, eyeing the skip suspiciously. “Seen this?” he growled. “Bit odd, isn’t it, just arriving like that.” Mrs No. 1 nodded. “There’s no name or anything on it. Wonder who ordered it?” Their gaze turned to the skip. It was oblong, old and rusty and dark with dirt, but in places you could see through to its original Coca-Cola red paint. One of the shorter sides let down, like a gangplank, so you could climb in. |
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Within an hour, the younger children of the rue du Village had discovered this and embarked on a blood-curdling game of pirate ships, while their parents tried to discover who was responsible for the skip’s presence in their midst.
No one
knew anything, not even the local authorities. Rumour abounded.
Finally, Mr No. 4 announced that he didn’t care; skips were for
throwing things into and he for one meant to do just that. After all,
it was easier than lugging stuff down to the local depot. He then spent
the rest of the day throwing armfuls of old newspapers, magazines and
brochures into the skip.
Mr No. 2 shrugged. “Why not?”, he said, and proceeded to chuck in
everything in his garage he could see no use for, including several
sets of old tyres, a broken fridge and a TV that had imploded the day
George W. Bush became president.
Mrs No. 5 struggled briefly with her conscience, then threw in two
pairs of uncomfortable shoes and the floral umbrella and smart hat her
sister had given her for her birthday.
Liberated by this sisterly treason, Mr No. 5 threw in the tasteful
ties, sober socks and hemmed handkerchiefs his sister-in-law had given
him every single Christmas since their wedding. Their son, Theo, just
thirteen, marched solemnly to the skip and while the younger children
gaped, tossed in his Teddy with grown-up nonchalance. In the middle of
the night though, he dried his eyes and rushed out to rescue his furry
friend, observed only by Leo, the cat from No. 7.
Mrs No. 3, suspecting her husband of having an affair with his boss,
rolled his suits, shirts, ties and shoes up into a giant ball and
lobbed it into the skip. Mr No. 3 took his revenge and in went her
entire wardrobe. His wife smiled cat-like and manhandling the
marriage-bed into the skip, dreamt of her New Look.
The French teacher from No. 7 remarked to his wife that it was strange:
however many things those idiots threw into the skip, it was never
full. That’s because it’s magic, pronounced that lady and returned to
her book.
And on it went. Mr No. 6, considering that his recent promotion at work
required a higher standard at home, threw in the old desk and swivel
chair in his study, paused briefly, then added the standard lamp, the
bookshelves, the small sofa, the angle-poise and the desk furniture.
His wife thought of all the dinner-parties she was ordered to provide
for important clients and hurled in her recipe books and kitchen
utensils. Warming to her work, she added the kitchen furniture, cooker,
fridge, washing-up machine and micro-wave. Mr No. 6 cast an appraising
eye over their dining-room suite, found it wanting and threw it all
into the skip. His wife did the same to the living-room. Spindy,
cocking a leg, as was his habit, against the wheel of their BMW, nearly
got brained by a flying coffee-table.
Mr No. 2 declared that if the No. 6s could afford to throw away their
furniture, so could he. And set about heaving the entire contents of
his living-room, dining-room and kitchen into the skip. Mrs No. 6
returned for the bedroom suite. Mr No. 2 threw in his greenhouse and Mr
No. 6, their bathroom fittings. Mr No. 4 said it had been his idea and
he wasn’t going to be left out. In went the entire contents of his
house and garden down to the ornamental rocks round his pond, three
garden gnomes and a fake Greek statue.
During the somewhat shocked hiatus that ensued, the teacher sauntered
down the road and casually dropped in the new mobile phone his wife had
given him that he disliked so much. She, for her part, had long since
dumped in the new high-tech laptop that was to replace the friendly
little machine she found perfectly adequate for her needs.
But material had begun to run short. Visits to the skip tailed off and
ceased. On the Friday afternoon, the skip was finally full. The teacher
made the last contribution of all: a little paper flag stuck jauntily
on top of the mountain of jetsam, which read “…and one raccoon”.
Next morning the skip had vanished, as soundlessly as it had come.
There was no sign to show it had ever been there.
The end of the story? Well, not quite. With the skip’s disappearance, a
shroud of silence settled on the street. The inhabitants of Nos. 2, 4
and 6 were looking glumly round their bare homes. What had possessed
them? Where were they to sit and sleep, how were they to cook?
Fortunately, the postman brought a bumper bundle of advertising bumf,
reminding buyers that boutiques, stores and shopping malls would be
open for business that Sunday. Slowly they began to revive.
Next morning, they rose bright and early and were off into town with
their credit cards. Their departure was observed by Mrs No. 1 and
Spindy, who had only just managed to pee against the BMW before it
screeched off, showering him with gravel. He gave an aggrieved whine
and the old woman bent down to comfort her dog: “Never mind, Spinders.
They’re all mad and that’s the truth,” she confided. The mongrel licked
her hand and treated his mistress to a whiskery grin.
© Ariel Wagner-Parker, 2002 - published in "kulturissimo mensuel", December, 2002
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