They must have done this a thousand times. The boss, the big man with a slab of a face like a side of beef, swings himself down from the cab and scratches casually at the belt of flesh above his jeans. The couple of gangly lads he's brought with him lope round to the back of the lorry and start pulling out thick creamy dustsheets, fuzzy woollen blankets like the ones the Salvation Army used to dish out to the homeless, bundles of stout elastic cables which dangle like long-legged spiders from the youths' bony shoulders.
'Shall I put the kettle on?' I venture, pressing myself against the cool whitewashed wall of the porch as the boss pushes past me.
'Good idea, love.' He's already looking around, peering into each of the little rooms, his presence dwarfing the faint sense of home which still clings to the place. He lifts one end of the sofa, experimenting, and casts a knowing eye at the doorframe.
'Don't you worry,' he says with casual charm; 'we'll look after your things, dear.'
Within minutes, it seems, the contents of my cosy little rooms are being sucked into cavernous boxes striped with brown tape. Ornaments vanish in a froth of tissue, books are slapped into piles, stacked and sealed. The place looks like the collection centre for an emergency appeal.
I thought I'd have time to say goodbye; I thought I'd watch my belongings making their dignified departure from shelf and cupboard, giving me time to appreciate the little gap each left behind it. Instead I watch as each room is cleared like a woman being stripped of her clothing. Silent and uncomplaining, the dark ribs of the walls yield up their finery.
The removal men have done this a thousand times. It means nothing to them. The boxes disappear into the lorry, the tea disappears into the men. The teapot follows the boxes. I follow the boss. I find myself wandering behind him like a child whose world has tumbled around her, and who doesn't know where else to turn.
'We'll be waiting for you when you get to the flat,' he says kindly. 'The warden's nice, there; she'll see you're all sorted out. Who's taking you?'
'My daughter,' I croak, as my voice betrays me. 'She'll be here soon.'
He's strolling around the house now, checking for leftovers, picking up rolls of tape and bits of tissue paper.
'I didn't think it would be so quick,' I say, looking at the smudges on the walls which mimic the shapes of my furniture. A phantom cupboard, a dark ghost of a chest-of-drawers, a patch on the upstairs floorboards where the bed kept the sun off them - where I slept for all those years. Will there be a ghost of me, too, when I'm sitting in my flat a hundred miles from here? Will there be any remnant of my life?
I see them out, press a tattered fiver into the boss's hand. It's not enough, I know, but it's what they're used to from old women like me. They stand, now, like a guard of honour, watching as I stoop to pick up the little stone dog from the side of the porch.
'I'll take this with me in the car,' I say brightly, and they nod and smile.
There's a little dog-shaped shadow, now, sitting in the porch, watching as the van drives away.
'Stay', I say. 'Stay there.'
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.