Story - The Worn-Out Thing

Story - The Worn-Out Thing

Mara works at the charity shop on Tuesday evenings. She sorts the donations. She does this because someone has to, and because the worn-out things need handling.

The shop is on a street that has been quiet for years. The bell above the door works when it wants to. The fluorescent light in the back flickers at a frequency that makes her teeth feel it. She has mentioned this to Derek, who manages the shop on weekdays, and he has said he'll look at it, and he has said this for the eleven months she has volunteered here, and the light still flickers, and her teeth still feel it.

Tonight's donations: three bin bags and a box. The bin bags are soft - clothes. The box is heavy - books. She starts with the clothes.

The first thing she pulls out is a coat. Wool, dark green, patched at the left elbow. The patch is a different green, darker, stitched in a thread that doesn't match. She checks the seams. The seams are sound. The lining is torn at one pocket. She turns the coat over and finds a small stain near the hem - something that was spilled and not quite washed out. She holds it up. It is a good coat. It has been worn and patched and worn again. Someone wore this coat for years and then gave it away. Or someone died and someone else cleared the closet. She cannot know which. She puts it on the rack.

The second thing is a jumper. Cream-coloured, pilled at the cuffs, a small hole at the neckline. She folds it. The third thing is a pair of trousers, pressed and folded with a care that makes her throat tight. Someone folded these trousers with attention. Someone pressed them. Someone put them in a bin bag and drove them to a charity shop on a Tuesday. She puts them on the rack.

She opens the box. The books are in good condition - spines uncracked, pages clean. Someone did not read these books. Someone bought them and did not read them and gave them away. She opens the first one. There is no name in it. She opens the second. No name. She opens the third.

There is a name in the third. Blue ink, first page. The handwriting is careful, the kind of careful that means the writer was proud of the book. She reads the name. She does not recognise it. She puts the book on the shelf with the others.

She reaches the bottom of the box. There is a child's toy - a wooden horse, the paint worn off the mane and the face. The wood underneath is smooth where small hands held it. She turns it over. On the belly, someone has written a date in pencil. The date is twenty-three years ago. She puts the horse on the shelf with the toys.

She is sorting the last bag when she finds it. A coat. Wool, dark green, patched at the left elbow. The patch is a different green, darker, stitched in a thread that doesn't match.

She holds it up. She checks the seam. The stitching is hers. She did this stitch. She patched this elbow eleven years ago, the winter the heating broke, the winter she wore this coat every day, the winter the coat wore through at the elbow and she sewed the patch in the evening with the thread she had, which was the wrong colour, which was the only colour.

She has not seen this coat in nine years. She gave it to the charity shop when she moved. She put it in a bin bag and drove it here on a Tuesday evening and left it at the door after hours because she did not want to explain why she was giving away a coat that was still good.

The coat is still good. The patch has held. The stain near the hem is still there. The lining is more torn than she remembers. Someone wore this coat after she did. Someone else patched the other elbow - a different stitch, a different thread, but the same gesture. Someone wore this coat and then gave it away. Or someone died and someone else cleared the closet.

She puts the coat on the rack. She does not take it home.

The bell above the door rattles. No one comes in. The wind, or the bell working when it wants to. She goes back to sorting. There is a shopping list in the coat pocket. Bread, eggs, milk. The eggs are circled, twice, in a hand that is not hers. She folds the list and puts it in the bin. She puts the coat on the rack. She moves to the next bag.

The light in the back flickers. Her teeth feel it. She keeps sorting.