Black Bin Bag

'I'll take them on Thursday,' I said, 'if that's ok.'

'Yes, whatever. Thursday's fine.'

'Or do you need me to take them today? I can take them today if you need me to. But they'll have to sit in the boot for a couple of days.'

'No, no, come and get them on Thursday. They're not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere.'

'I could try and get back tomorrow but I can't promise. I'll try. But I can't promise.'

'Thursday's fine.'

He sniffed and started to tie the top of the bin bag closed. Then he opened it again and smoothed the top of the pile flat.

'They're all clean,' he said. 'All clean and ironed.'

'Of course. I know.'

He turned and closed the wardrobe. As usual the door swung open again. He pushed it shut and turned the key in the lock.

'Will you try and get out a little, Dad? You need to get out in the fresh air.'

'I went out yesterday.'

'Did you?'

'Yes, took a turn in the garden. I'm all right. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Well, I do, Dad. Of course I'm concerned. You've lost a bit of weight the last couple of weeks. You look pale. I don't like to see you looking so pale.'

'Yes... well.... Thanks for that.'

'So, of course I'm concerned.'

He turned and went back downstairs. So I followed him down and into the kitchen. He took the kettle from the side and dipped it under the tap. I saw him glance up the garden as he stood waiting for the water to run faster.

'Grass needs a cut.'

'Yes... Well I can do that for you on Thursday, too. If you like.'

'I'll do it.'

'It'd only take a minute.'

'I'll do it.... Must fix this tap washer,' he said. 'Your mother keeps on at...' He realised what he was saying. I saw his jaw set and a look of irritation come over his face.

'Bloody leylandii!' he said. 'They should bloody get that thing chopped down. Look at it. Blocks all the sun out this time of day. Look at that bloody shadow. I'm going to have to tell 'em again. Bloody antisocial. Should be a ban on the bastard things.'

He placed the kettle on its stand and flipped the switch. But the red light didn't come on.

'Oh bloody hell, what's the bloody problem now?'

He picked up the kettle and put it back down.

'Bloody cheap kettle. I said we should get the Russell Hobbs.'

At last the light came on and the growl of the water heating steadily grew.

'What'll you eat tonight, Dad?'

'Oh, I'll be all right. You don't need to concern yourself. I'll find something in the cupboard. You don't need to worry.'

'I can cook you something if you like.'

'No, no, no – I've got something in the cupboard. You get off. You need to get off home. Sylvia will be wondering where you've got to, won't she. You get yourself off home.'

'She knows where I am. I said I was coming round.'

'Well... you get off home. I'll be fine. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Ok. Well, I'll be back on Thursday, then. Ok?'

'Ok. I'll see you Thursday. I'll probably have sorted a little more out by then. You come on Thursday. It'll all be ready for you on Thursday.'

'Have you got enough bin bags, Dad?'

'Oh, yes. I've got plenty. Plenty. I'm going to put some stuff in the big suitcase anyway. They can have that an' all.  I'll not need it anymore.  I'll put the dresses and things in there and her unde...'

He bit the words back. I could see them ricochet around his mind. His hand went to his face as if he could pull the veil of sadness from his nose and mouth. His palm rasped on his unshaven chin. I put my hand on his arm. I couldn't find a word. My own throat was clammed tight.

'Yes, the other stuff... I'll put the other stuff in the bin bags. If they don't want them they can recycle or just chuck 'em. They're no use to me. And her shoes.'

He opened the cup cupboard and took out two mugs. He poured boiling water into them and dropped a tea bag in each. Went to the cutlery drawer and found a teaspoon and dabbed at the teabags in turn, forcing the brown liquid out of them.

'Fifteen pairs of shoes, she's got. Fifteen. I haven't had fifteen pairs in my whole life, but she's got fifteen sat there in the wardrobe. Who needs fifteen pairs of shoes?'

'Imelda Marcos.'

'Eh?'

'Imelda Marcos. In the Philippines. She had thousands of pairs.'

'Did she indeed?'

The tea was thick and brown. He hooked each bag in turn with the teaspoon, squeezing it against the side of its mug before pulling it out and dropping it into the pedal bin. ' Well, I think it's daft.'

'Yes. But Mum liked shoes.'

'She did... she did.' He slowly stirred milk into the tea.

'Not too much for me, Dad.'

'Hm?'

'Milk – not too much milk. I'm intolerant. Lactose.'

'Oh. Right.'