The Skip - written June 2006

"Need a bin? 13 13 35" it reads. It, is a skip, what the Americans call a dumpster. This one has no lid. It has been parked in the lane behind our house for ten days. The lane services the rear entrances to two parallel lines of properties. The skip annoyingly inhibits comfortable access to our garage. The well-groomed 60-something couple who drive a large polished 4-wheel drive metal machine assured us it would be moved four days ago. It is still there this morning as I drive my youngest to school. Full to the brim with household discards.

We don't know this fashionable couple. We knew the old man who lived in that house. Jack his name was. Lived quietly. Was good to the children when they played cricket or soccer in the lane and the ball went over his fence. Never shouted, seemed almost glad when he had the chance to return the ball to them. Didn't just pass the ball over, but had a bit of a chat. It used to worry me when we moved in three years ago. "Be careful" I warned my older two. "He could be a paedophile". They laughed at me. "What, old Jack?" they said. "We aren't little children Ma, we could knock him over with a finger". I couldn't explain a mother's concern or to what degree news & current affairs has influenced me. They are teenagers, bursting with energy and a sense of invulnerability. "Just make sure the little one doesn't go into his backyard. He is only three", I said.

In early Spring, R asked me if I had seen Jack recently. I said no, he must be visiting family. In early Autumn, R wondered where Jack was. I said he must have gone on a cruise, perhaps chasing a bit of skirt the lucky old dog. For the last ten days, there has been activity in that house. Mostly involving the flash couple. And the skip has been filling up.

On returning home after school drop-off today, I stopped and inspected its contents. An old bed frame, one of those with springs in it. An older mattress, clean and in good condition. A huge radio with lots of knobs, just like the one in my grandparents house. A container full of little plastic clips which tie up bread bags. I thought of his large gnarled hands as they pruned his lemon tree, good honest hands. How carefully those hands must have collected these clips, and how carelessly they now spill everywhere. Gardening boots, a rake, a small spade. Flower pots, some pretty plants, a beautiful cactus. And so on. The material representation of a man's life - in one small skip. I remembered a Neil Diamond song, "The old man died. No-one cried..." I thought of all those times I had rushed out of the garage and Jack was on his ladder, bucket hat on his head and a huge smile on his face. I wish I had said “hello, how are you”. I wish I hadn't been so busy, with lists of chores, running around endlessly, exhausted. I wish I had invited him over for a cup of tea. I wish, I wish. And another regret darkens my soul.

It is the first day of winter. A cold and wet one. A dreary and drizzly one. When one should be curled up in an armchair, with a blanket, a book, and a hot chocolate drink. Instead and unexpectedly, I find myself kneeling in front of that skip. The atheist in me is shocked as I start praying. I cannot be sure that the wetness on my face is only the rain. "Hello Jack", I say. "Sorry, thank you, goodbye and God Bless". Somewhere, I hear a bird chirp. I walk back into the house, no longer minding the skip and how it annoyingly prevents comfortable access to our garage.