The Storage Unit Auction

Storage unit sales are the same everywhere, a low-key group of scavengers meeting in an anonymous light-industrial landscape to try and make some money from other people’s detritus. There are occasional exceptions. TV crews are a good indication that you might well just have an exception on your hands. If there’s a TV crew hanging around, you’ll likely either be graced by the presence of ‘professional’ storage unit flippers filming their latest voyeuristic peek into other people’s junk, or a police line just the other side of the cameras. Fortunately, there weren’t any TV cameras this morning.

Something to be grateful for.

Nut took a last deep swig of his lukewarm coffee, put his collar up, grabbed his umbrella and left his car cocoon.

“Morning, Nut,” came a cheery greeting from somewhere deep inside the giant self-propelled raincoat emerging from the battered van parked next to him. Nodding at the umbrella, “that thing’s not going to do you much good. It’s duck weather.”

Nut shrugged. “Bit dark this morning, Darryl. Damned if I could find my good coat.”

“Hard luck, mate,” laughed Darryl with a little too much enthusiasm.

They trudged silently through the car park, the pre-dawn light eventually giving way to the unnatural orange glow of the sodium lights lining the rows of identical storage units.

Clamping the umbrella to the side of his head with his shoulder, Nut tried to clean the rain off his glasses. It was an altogether unsatisfactory experience, leaving him both wetter and less able to see than before. Darryl just shook his head.

“Hope your day gets better, mate.”

“Yeah, me too,” replied Nut. “You got any targets today?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Anything in the first six, I reckon, maybe fourteen and sixteen. You?”

“Number seven.”

“What, that’s it?” asked Darryl, after it became apparent Nut was not going to be listing any more numbers.

“Yep, it used to belong to an old friend of my aunt’s,” replied Nut

“What, really? That unit was old Mrs Cotton’s. Was she a friend of your aunt Mabel?”

“Not sure,” said Nut, “this is for Mabel’s sister Bess.”

“Ah,” said Darryl knowingly, “I heard of her. The oldest sister. She’d left town long before I was out of short pants.”

“Yeah, she’s living out east now. Got quite the shock when she called me,” said Nut. “I haven’t spoken to her in years, but she knows what I do, and she asked me to do this for her. So, I’m doing it.”

“Quite right too, Nut. I’d be doing everything that side of your family asks and not asking too many questions.”

Nut nodded. “You might want to make sure you’re the winning bid on number five, Darryl.”

“Thanks, mate,” said Darryl, putting a dot next to an item on the auction sheet.

The small group of buyers were milling around the office like a herd of cows, waiting for the farmer to emerge with the morning’s feed. Nut noted all the usual suspects, plus a few second-hand dealers from further afield. He knew everyone. He’d bought from and sold to, all of them at one point or another over the years. There were even a few he trusted.

Somewhere on the other side of the heavy horizon, the sun had come up. Maybe they’d see it later in the day? Soaked to his mid-thigh, Nut envied everyone else’s raincoats.

The world’s most bored-looking supervisor emerged in a coat so voluminous it made Darryl’s look form-fitting. The herd followed him to the first unit, and the sales began.

Maybe it was the rain, but nobody seemed particularly interested. The first two units went for a pittance, the next couple for little better. Darryl had some half-hearted competition but was able to secure number five for an amount that would leave him with a healthy profit. Number six had been a late scratching. Someone must have found the money to make their next payment. Finally, as the rain stopped falling for the first time all day, they reached unit seven.

“She was a witch, you know.”

Nut turned slowly to look at the stranger standing on his right. The stranger also had an umbrella. Nut sized him up.

“That’s just what the superstitious old men used to say,” replied Nut slowly.

The stranger laughed unexpectedly. “That they did. Old women have more sense or at least more discretion in such matters.” Turning to face Nut fully, he dropped his voice to an almost inaudible level. “I’ll cut you a deal, kid. I’m getting that unit, and you know there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it.” He continued without waiting for Nut to acknowledge his statement. “I’ll pay whatever it takes, don’t bid against me, and I’ll sell you everything else for half whatever I have to pay.”

“How much do you need from the unit?” asked Nut.

“Just the one item, kid.”

Nut remained emotionless for three long heartbeats. On the fourth, he nodded.

“Deal.”

The disinterested auctioneer went through the preliminaries. Deceased estate, no reserve. Then the auction began.

***

Late that afternoon, as the sun finally forced its way through the clouds, Darryl tapped on the passenger side window, startling Nut out of his reverie. Without waiting for an invitation, Darryl opened the protesting door and made himself comfortable. Nut gently closed the book he’d been reading.

“Thanks for the tip on number five, Nut! I think I owe you a drink, and dinner, and maybe a small car.”

Nut smiled. “Take Shirley somewhere nice, Darryl. She deserves it for putting up with the smell of wet you.”

“Bah, that’s just the smell of hard work. Nothing wrong with it” laughed Darryl.

“Nothing that a bucket of soap won’t fix.”

“Oi, I resemble that remark, young man,” replied Darryl in mock offence. Having safely discharged his social niceties duties, he launched into his real question. “I saw you cut a deal with that out-of-town fella. I don’t know what that old fool’s game was, but you know what he took in the end?”

“Yeah,” said Nut, knowing Darryl didn’t really need a response.

“Marigolds. A pot full of marigolds. I mean, what the hell is up with that, I ask you?”

“I know, right,” replied Nut redundantly.

“I know they used to say all sorts of strange things about Mrs Cotton, and your aunt Bess for that matter, but witches aren’t real, and even if they were, the marigold thing is a myth.”

“It didn’t make sense to me either, Darryl,” said Nut. “Then again, I don’t think I really understand how a pot full of marigolds survived without food or water inside a windowless storage unit for six months.”

Darryl stopped, stunned.

“It’s ok, mate,” said Nut quietly, “even if I did believe it, what does it matter? That other… whatever he was, has got them now.”

Darryl looked down at the book in Nut’s lap, an ancient, sturdy-looking, hand-bound leather tome with Bess’ Garden inscribed on the front in flawless copperplate lettering. Nut placed his hand gently over the title.

Darryl nodded slowly. “I did once hear that there were witches so powerful that they could use dried plants, or even just drawings of the damn things.”

“Really?” replied Nut carefully, “I don’t think I’ve heard those stories.”

“It was a long time ago, Nut, and I suspect my memory might not be as good as it once was,” said Darryl. “The more I think about it, the more it seems like I might have just got that confused with something else.”

“It happens to me all the time too, Darryl.”

The older man smiled. “If there was any truth in it, I wouldn’t want to be around that stranger when he finds out he grabbed the wrong flowers. He struck me as the kind of man who wouldn’t take too kindly to being duped.”

“It’s true, Darryl. People don’t like finding out that they aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

“Best to be dumb like me eh,” chuckled Darryl. “Now, I shouldn’t be keeping you. I guess you’ve got an elderly relative to visit.”

“True,” smiled Nut. “Be seeing you, Darryl. Give my best to Shirley.”

“I will do,” said Darryl over his shoulder as he climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him. “Drive safe.”

Nut gave him a friendly wave as he drove out of the car park and turned east, away from town.

Darryl climbed into his van, waggled the key in the ignition, and coaxed the old workhorse into life. Nut was right. He should get himself cleaned up and take Shirley out for dinner. The boy might be from a strange family, but he wasn’t wrong about much.