He was still hesitating. And I was curious about his backstory. Let’s face it, I didn’t have a lot to think about all day, so imagining the stories of our customers was one of my pastimes.
I started to guess at it.
The poor man was browbeaten by an extravagant wife. She not only embarrassed him but had landed them in debt? He’d had to clear out her wardrobes so he could have some hanging space for himself, for his cheap, double-creased trousers made of too thin a fabric.
I’d already discarded the theory of divorce because of the wedding ring and the way he twizzled it around his finger, always conscious of it. No grief or fury there. Although maybe he still loved her and hoped she’d come back, even though she’d buggered off with a fancy man. But he couldn’t bear coming face to face daily with her belongings, seeing her clothes every time he opened the door, perhaps remembering painfully the occasions when she had last worn them.
Maybe he even clung to the possibility that she would come back – and all would be forgiven. He’d come back to The Green Banana and retrieve her stuff. I sneaked another glance to check while he still ruminated. He looked the forgiving sort – or rather – not the sort to make a fuss. Bereavement was lower down my list, but I tried it out anyway. She’d died tragically. Cancer or an accident. Something really sad – the story that invites the phrase, ‘she was taken from me much too soon’, with a dab of the eye. He’d simply adored her and couldn’t bear to take her stuff down to the charity shop where it would be picked over by strangers so he had boxed her belongings up lovingly and would preserve them here for ever, maybe visiting periodically to sit and remember. A ‘Lest We Forget’ pilgrimage. I sneaked another study and discarded this theory too, putting it straight in the trash bin. He didn’t strike me as a grieving husband.
So, a couple of boxes, a trunk, one or two suitcases.
Normally I could work out what stuff people were storing and why. Often they told me anyway but this one was defeating me. For now. I’d get there in the end, but he needed further encouragement to earn me my thirty pounds. So I said in my brightest, most encouraging tone, ‘Let’s take a look at the available units, shall we?’
Then he properly looked at me, a steady, slow, appraising gaze. I worried he was about to confide in me, and almost put my hand up to stop him.
Don’t tell me your backstory, I wanted to blurt out. I’d like to guess it.
‘OK,’ he said finally.
EIGHT
I locked the office door behind me and took him across the yard to the storage units, some of them no bigger than cupboards, others as big as a room, and rolled up the shutter to the vacant six-by-four. It should be easily big enough for his stuff. He studied the empty space while I waited, thinking. There’s nothing to see in there except steel sides and ceiling, concrete floor and the roller shutter. You can prowl and peer but that’s it. It’s an empty space waiting to be filled. Maybe he was picturing the contents of his three wardrobes already stashed inside and himself rolling down the shutter on them, padlocking them safely away and eventually forgetting about them. I watched him curiously and realized this was a man who concealed his emotions. His face was as expressionless as a Chinese Immortal while I, waiting for a response, mentally spending the thirty pounds, studied the interior too.
There is something coffin-like about being encased in steel. In these units you are removed from all everyday sensory stimulation. Any sound has a strange metallic echo like the introduction to a sci-fi film. I’d swept this area out only the day before. Part of my job was keeping everywhere clean. But inside, even though the roller shutter was raised, I’d felt claustrophobic, worrying it might drop, I would be unable to lift it from the inside and – encased in this metallic tomb – any shouting, any hope that someone would walk by and rescue me, would be in vain. Most of the time I was the only one here. A figment of your imagination, I’d scolded myself, as I’d swept the dust and debris into a dustpan and tipped it into a black bin liner. You can’t afford to be overimaginative.
He still stared around him with an air of sadness. I peered past him. What on earth at? There’s nothing to see.
I wanted to say something to urge him into taking the unit. I wanted my thirty pounds. Normally I’d have closed the deal by now, contract signed, thirty pounds safely in my pocket. But my new customer appeared deep in thought, his face troubled.
I waited.
What could I say to tip the balance?
There are no lights inside this small cupboard area. The only light source is from the corridor. Standing at the entrance we threw huge shadows against the metal ribs. Someone, in one of the other corridors, was lifting his roller shutter. I heard the metal clang followed by a rat-tat-tat as the shutter was raised. But it was too far away to know who had arrived. I did, however, feel reassured that we were not alone.
He looked sad. Oh dear, I thought, sorry for him now I’d worked it out. Divorce. She’s told him she doesn’t love him any more, that she wants (her fingers cruelly scratching the air) ‘space’ and she’s moved out, probably to be with a lover.
His head dropped to his chest while I further expanded on my story.
He’s waited for a while, hoping she’ll change her mind, but she hasn’t and now he needs to come to some kind of decision. He’ll store her stuff here for a year or two while he and his ex sort it all out. And then he’ll dump it, along with the wedding ring. Some to the charity shop and the rest to the municipal tip. I realized he was lost in the memory, unaware of my presence. Then he gave a little shake, turned to me and more or less confirmed my suspicions. ‘What a shame,’ he said without any explanation, and I nodded a sort of agreement, not asking the question: What? Maybe I was wrong and she had died after all. Or did he mean this empty space?
My mind had shifted from the dress I’d buy to a pair of red stilettos I’d seen in New Look. Hot as a chilli pepper. I didn’t address the question: where was I going to wear them?
Something or someone would turn up.
I came to. My client was still standing motionless.
I decided he needed a prod.
‘Minimum term six months initially,’ I said brightly. ‘You pay half upfront and after that you’re on a rolling contract. Best if it’s direct debit.’ I wasn’t going to give him a chance to back out so spoke quickly. ‘Then, when you want to leave, you just give us a month’s notice – after the initial six-month period,’ I repeated severely, so there could be no misunderstanding. His face crumpled and I changed my mind again. She’s died, I thought, enlightened now. Cancer or a horrible accident. He continues to wear the wedding ring as a tribute. Or …?
He faced me. ‘Are these sealed units?’
I frowned, not sure what he was getting at. ‘You mean airtight?’
He simply looked at me and didn’t answer, so I had to make it up. ‘They’re not quite airtight,’ I said, ‘if that’s what you mean.’ He wasn’t helping me out here. ‘Do you mean safe? Secure?’
He gave a funny little smile and I decided I needed to improvise.
‘They’re practically airtight. And they are certainly secure. Very secure.’ Spoken sternly, in my best teacher’s voice.
‘Does anyone come in here?’
What exactly was he planning? ‘Once the units are let, no one enters. The space belongs to the person who’s paying for it. We don’t come in here. We’ve no reason to.’
‘No one inspects the contents?’
‘No.’ I lifted my finger to point in the direction of the office. ‘There’s a list of banned substances.’ I smiled. ‘No drugs, livestock …’ That wasn’t what he was asking so I repeated. ‘It’s quite private.’
‘I’ll take it,’ he said abruptly.
I gave a faint smile back. D5 – let. I was thinking. Shoes. New Look here I come. Maybe I could persuade Stella or Bethan to get a babysitter and we could have a night out on the town together.
Sometimes when a client had finally made up his or her mind I’
d say, ‘Welcome to The Green Banana club,’ but it seemed inappropriate with this reserved man. So I led him back to the office and poured him a coffee while I drew up the paperwork. I handed him the sheet with our opening hours and a list of all the things he was not legally allowed to store. He scanned the list and smiled, his eyes warming. ‘None of these,’ he said, and read through the opening hours while I continued with my spiel.
‘You provide your own padlock, though we do have some for sale.’ I indicated the rack of goods with a wave of my arm, as though I was an air hostess giving the safety talk. He was still looking dubious, so I added, ‘As well as our coat and dress storage bags, cardboard boxes and wardrobes, bubble wrap and “Fragile” tape.’
He looked straight at me then and smiled again, politely. ‘No need for any of that, but thank you.’
He produced a Barclays debit card which he fingered awkwardly, reluctant to hand it over, as though he still needed convincing. Perhaps he was reluctant to part with the money. (Mr Mean aka Lee Williams was another of my failed romances.) Perhaps it was more that he felt it was severing the connection with … whatever.
‘That’ll be a hundred and fifty pounds.’
He still did not hand over the card. He was having second thoughts, so I prompted him. ‘Are you OK with that?’
Slowly he nodded and slipped the card into the machine. I inserted our code and waited for him to put in his PIN. He was still looking at me when he fed in the four numbers. I did the theatrical, I’m-not-seeing-your-PIN turnaway.
Job done. Payment authorized. I had my thirty quid and the shoes.
‘And I can move in …?’
‘Right away,’ I said, which seemed to confuse him. He frowned, looked around, and then smiled and left without another word. I stared after him. Strange guy, I thought.
I watched him to his car and read through the form he’d just filled in.
His name, Steven Taverner. His address was in Stanley, a small, pretty and exclusive village only four miles from where I lived, Brown Edge, the Edge being the edge of the Staffordshire Moorlands. The name of his house puzzled me at the time: Yr Arch. Like, The Arch in another language, I assumed. His writing was neat, almost schoolboy-round and childish, and his card had gone through OK. So far so good.
Under contents he’d written, Varied.
And under value he’d put < £1,000.
And he was prepared to pay over £100 a month to store this? Maybe he hopes she’ll come back.
Boy, I thought, she must be some person. At the time, I was touched. Sentiment, romance, love and a mystery. Don’t we all love a bit of intrigue?
NINE
I’d said he could move in straight away, but as it was I didn’t see Steven Taverner for almost three weeks. Still wondering about why he needed to rent out a unit, I focused on the people who stored their secrets in those steel sealed units.
A7 contained Stanley Evan’s stuff. His mother had died five years ago and he couldn’t bear to get rid of her belongings, he’d told me, with a sob. ‘It’s all I’ve got left of her, see?’
He was a thin man with a prematurely bent back and rheumy eyes, which he rubbed almost constantly as though that would improve his sight. He appeared in his sixties, though I suspected he’d looked like that almost from birth. His hair was sparse and almost purely white, but there was a hint that once, long ago, it had been ginger. Just a few coloured strands were left. He constantly sniffed – whether through a sinus problem or a sense of grief for the dead mother who had been the mainstay of his life, I couldn’t begin to guess. He was sweet, harmless. Outdated. Like the stuff he stored. I’d watched him and a friend move it in. Old people’s stuff – chairs upholstered in stained tapestry, a little table of some ugly, varnished dark wood, with a pale ring in the centre where – I imagined – flowers had stood in a vase. There were boxes of crockery and a lace tablecloth. All crap. But he stored it with love, as though waiting to reunite the pieces with his beloved mother: folded old blankets, the shabby three-piece suite, the prints in their thin wooden frames, photographs of people probably long dead and all the kitchen stuff, rusty enamel and well-worn plastic utensils. His mother must have been a heavy smoker. I’d visited his store not long after he’d moved in and caught a waft of cigarettes as I’d passed. The stuff stank. But however tatty it was, he loved it. It was as though he was storing his mother inside A7, paying two hundred and fifty pounds a month to preserve something of her. Perhaps he believed she would some day return to claim it, sit in those old chairs again and light up a fag. He’d have been much better off spending three hundred quid on a skip and chucking the lot in. Job done. But not Stanley. His devotion was touching. His devotion and that of his fellow renters funded our business.
The Green Banana was a tribute to sentiment. People can’t bear to get rid of things, can they? Poor old Stanley would come in, usually on a Friday afternoon. I’d see his white Skoda sidle into the yard, hear his footsteps approach the office door, watched by the cameras which swivelled to follow him. He’d swing the door open with surprising vigour and always greet me with the same phrase. ‘Another week gone, eh, Jennifer?’ And I’d smile and say, ‘Yes,’ as though it was a surprise to me too. He signed the book with another flourish – probably the only flourishes he ever managed in his life. He’d cross the yard, again watched by the eye. I’d hear the roller shutter rattle as he raised it, watch him on the CCTV, shoulders bowed as he walked inside and disappeared.
Another week gone, Jennifer. It was always the same phrase.
He never brought any more pieces; neither did he ever take anything out, so I didn’t know why the weekly pilgrimage. I assumed once inside he just sat there looking at the stuff, imagining his mother sitting on the chair or pulling a plate from one of the cupboards. He’d spend about half an hour inside before he emerged, empty-handed, leaving it all behind. Roller shutter down. Door locked. Then he’d come and sign out in the office, baggy-eyed now, looking for all the world as though his mother had just this very minute died. Maybe one day, I thought, I’d suggest he chucked the lot away and saved himself enough money to go on a Mediterranean cruise a couple of times a year. Maybe he’d meet another lady to substitute the one he’d lost.
I began to feel that I was living my life, if at all, through the customers of The Green Banana.
Who came and went.
There were a couple of failed businesses, miserable-looking guys who practically hurled the stuff into the back of the store, muttering snippets about receivers, auditors, bailiffs and bankruptcy. They were the worried ones, generally followed closely by the bailiffs who jemmied the padlocks, threw their stuff into the back of their vans and drove away, the skid of rubber their final disdainful action.
There were young couples who stored prams and pushchairs, saying ‘when they had another one …’
Sometimes they came back. Sometimes they didn’t and months or even years later returned, tight-lipped, taking the stuff out more carelessly than when they had put it in. When you walked past their open shutters you could still smell baby powder.
There were the divorced, who paid their bills with twisted lips and a scowl, muttering dark threats against the cow or the bitch, the ram or the bastard – the ‘animals’ who’d ruined their lives.
There were sad couples whose homes had been repossessed because they’d fallen into debt. They were the haunted ones.
The Green Banana was a microcosm reflecting the world outside.
And so a couple of weeks rolled by. And there was no further sign of Steven Taverner. The store was his but it remained empty. I wondered if he’d had second thoughts.
We had to turn some people away because the size of store they wanted was unavailable. As I passed D5, still empty, I wondered.
We had another police raid in late March – very dramatic, with lots of shouting and orders to me to stay inside. So I watched through the window. Battering rams (I could have told them I could probably pick the lock and save the
m the bother). The vans sped into the courtyard at breakneck speed, men jumping out with shots and shields – they suspected a couple of jihadists were storing explosives. Turned out it was nothing more than banned books and some dirty magazines. But that day went very quickly and provided me with some much-needed excitement. In general life was humdrum, though, a bit boring. Until …
It was early in April that the white Ford Focus appeared again, sliding in through the gates.
I watched him back the car right up to the roller shutter doors. I needed to remind him about signing in and out, so I locked the office and crossed the yard.
‘Mr Taverner,’ I said. ‘You need to sign in.’
He looked startled then guilty.
I glanced at the contents of his car. Two cardboard boxes taped up with a name inscribed in thick, permanent felt-tipped pen. Margaret.
He followed the direction of my gaze. ‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘Sorry. I forgot.’
‘No worries. I’ll do it for you this time.’
‘I won’t forget again.’
I smiled my forgiveness. ‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘Be sure you prop the roller shutters up. Sometimes they spontaneously fall down. There’s no way of lifting them from the inside unless you’re Hercules, so just be careful.’
He looked alarmed. ‘I will. I will. I’m a bit claustrophobic, you see. I’d panic in there and panic sets off my asthma.’
I felt bad then. Maybe I’d overstated it. ‘Just be careful,’ I said.
‘I will.’ He turned around and tried to lift one of the boxes but it seemed too heavy for him. I showed him the trolleys that released for a deposit of one pound, like a supermarket trolley, and he thanked me. Always polite, I noticed, and he spoke in a pleasant, soft voice, hardly accented.
I returned to the office and watched him on the CCTV screen. So now I knew his wife’s name. Margaret: divorcée, dead wife, extravagant hussy? If she was still around, why wasn’t she giving him a hand? It was her stuff after all. Why was it his responsibility? And if this was her stuff, surely she should have been the one to consider the storage space? And pay the bill?
The Subsequent Wife Page 5
