Poor Mr Price

Many people think it's a depressing job clearing people’s belongings when they die, but Wills have to be proved and relatives want their inheritance. Life goes on.

It’s hard and often dirty work emptying a lifetime’s possessions from a home and not many relatives want to do it. Mum reckoned it was an invasion of privacy, but I didn’t see it that way, because what can be more private than death? Although I have to confess I felt decidedly uncomfortable the first time I went into a home and had to decide what was rubbish and what I could sell for profit. But I soon learned to be businesslike, although it always upset me when I came across old photograph albums that had been left behind. All those faded faces; loved ones from the past, forgotten and discarded. It seemed heartless to dump them, so I used to take them home.

There were places where I found myself looking over my shoulder. The house would have an uncomfortable atmosphere and more often than not I would discover from neighbours that the owner had been unhappy, or unloved, or was sadly just not a very nice person.

Thankfully, most of the homes felt empty and peaceful and I’d quickly begin to get the feel of the man or woman who’d lived there. A sideboard drawer crammed with cast aside bits and pieces can tell you a lot about a person. While I emptied cupboards and sorted I would come across their hobbies and interests, so I suppose mum was right about privacy in a way.

Then one day the phone rang. It was a son needing his father’s house cleared.
The tiny brick terrace was dingy and neglected. Inside there were a few bits and pieces of china and glass, half a dozen bits of furniture and some odd and ends upstairs. Not much that was saleable, but just enough to make a small profit.
Looking sleek and prosperous, Mr Price nodded at the price I offered and I wondered how many more quotes he’d obtained before mine.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I want it cleared tomorrow morning. I’ll be here to let you in.’ It was a bit sudden, but the customer is always right.

When I arrived the next day there were half a dozen expensive cars parked outside the house. A middle-aged woman elegantly dressed in black opened the front door. Mr. Price hovered behind her. ‘We’re in the living room having a cup of tea to warm us up before we go to the cemetery. You can start upstairs,’ he said
That was a first. They hadn’t even buried the poor soul yet!

As I made my way up the steep, narrow stairs carrying two boxes and a roll of black sacks, a middle-aged man carrying a heavy cardboard box was coming from a bedroom.
‘Ah --- yes, I'm just taking the few little things that were promised to me by uncle,’ he stuttered.
I reached the landing and peeked over his shoulder. The bedroom was empty of the few saleable bits and pieces that meant the difference between profit and loss.
Shielding the contents of the cardboard box, he brushed past and made his way downstairs.
Luckily I hadn’t paid Mr. Price yet.

We stood in the dark, narrow hallway, where the scent of expensive aftershave fought a losing battle against the overpowering smell of poverty and neglected old age, and I wished I was a hundred miles away.
‘We agreed on a price for the contents yesterday, but the family is still taking items from the house,’ I said.
Mr. Price frowned. ‘It is usual for relatives to take a little memento in remembrance.’
‘But that’s before you get quotes, not after. The council charges to put un-saleable goods on the tip. You’ll have to pay me if there‘s nothing left to cover my expenses.’ I looked at his smug face and felt my patience snap. ‘Look – this really isn’t the time. We don’t usually clear houses on the day of the funeral. I’ll come back when everyone has finished taking what they want,' adding under my breath, 'in your dreams.'

I had just turned ready to leave, when raised voices erupted from the living room.
‘I tell you he promised these bits to me!’
‘I've got more right to them than you have,’ someone replied.
‘Oh yes, and when was the last time you saw him?’ Another shrill voice joined in.
There was the sound of a tussle, and the tinkle of broken china.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’

Just then the doorbell rang. Because I was nearest I opened the door.
Parked in the middle of the road was a hearse and on the doorstep a funeral attendant with a suitably sorrowful expression on his face began to lift his top hat. But before he could open his mouth to speak, more shouting echoed down the passageway.
‘I’m not with them,’ I blurted and like an idiot, found myself opening my hands and patting my pockets to show I wasn’t leaving with a little something to remember Mr Price by.
The attendant shrugged, lifted his eyes heavenwards and walked slowly back to the hearse. He’d evidently seen it all before.

As I opened the garden gate, something jutting out from under the lid of the dustbin caught my eye. It was an old photograph album and I wondered how many pictures of poor old Mr Price it contained….So I took it.























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