Things in the Barn

The couch was the kind of over-stuffed only an old couch can achieve. The pillows bursting at the seams with the life and loves of its past owners. The upholstery was a faded velvet of indeterminate colour and was deeply brocaded. It had come with two throw pillows that were a vibrant yellow. They had faded to a mustard due to dappled sunshine and grime.

What once was a household pride and joy was now regulated here. To the barn.

Everything that was once loved ends up in the barn eventually. The building itself was a relic of times gone by. The kind of picturesque red barn that only exists in post cards these days.

But now, the paint was flaking, and had faded closer to pink than red. The wood was rotted through, if one was to lean against the barn, they would be in danger of falling through the wall. By what could only be a miracle, it was stable enough to remain upright. Which was lucky, for where else would the rejected bobs, things and bits go, but the barn?

The couch had been carted from the house into the barn just this morning. Two young men, shirts tied around their heads in makeshift turbans, shielding against the summer heat and their own sweat, the taller had called “let’s just dump it here,” and his brother had agreed. It was too hot and the couch too heavy, to carry it into the barn properly. Which is why the couch sat just within the doorway, forlornly.

It is not an easy thing to be abandoned, this is equally true for furniture as it is any living thing. Furniture is what makes a home, this is true. But what is also true is that a home is what makes furniture. Without their home they are just a thing. A thing that goes in a barn and is forgotten.

The owner of the couch had been an old lady of the kind of indeterminate age only truly old people can achieve. She had bought the couch the day she settled her purchase of the farmstead. It had been the center piece of her home. The first item, which all other items and furniture were carefully curated to match and coordinate with.

She had lived in the homestead for thirty-six years, had moved in just after her only daughter had moved out of home. No longer needing to be close to the bustle of city life, for school and activities, she had chosen to go rural.

Her name had been Maureen.

She had gone to the regional council meetings every Thursday with a tray full of fairy bread and another laden with triangular sandwiches. Every meeting for thirty-six years she objected to the highway build. Which required total support from residents to go ahead. There was no one stopping this project from going ahead now.

The couch knew that the dining table was solid oak.

It was made by Maureen’s neighbor from a felled tree on her property. He had free use of the remaining wood if he made something for her. She had been expecting a small whittled sculpture. It had taken four men, rounded up from nearby properties, to carry the piece into her dining room. It had looked stunning in her open plan, newly renovated kitchen-dinning space.

There were only two brothers.

The couch watched as they grumbled to themselves. That is until the shorter one had spotted that the legs could be separated from the finished oak. This was how it was taken to the barn. In pieces. The couch softly mourned for an old friend.

The brothers had been hired by a young couple. They’d never met in person, all conversations happened over the phone in short burst of instructions and requests for payment. They had not been made aware of the true magnitude of the job and it was evident they were considering quitting for the day. The read out on the car dash was 40 degrees and the sun was high and bright in the sky.

The fabric of the couch faded further.

The younger one downed a bottle of water, shoving his phone back into his pocket. There was still no text from his wife. Why would there be? She had left the divorce papers on the kitchen bench this morning and bolted. Not a single reason why.

He had yet to tell his brother.

Perhaps, the couch mused, people could be lost things too.

The picture frames were ornate, the kind that Pinterest mums would buy for a more than they were worth. The older one pulled the pictures out, chucking them into a cardboard box, and stacked the frames separately. Taking a careful picture of the stack he uploaded a new listing to Facebook marketplace.

While he was at it, he placed a vase and several knick-knacks into the box too. Then he walked out to the barn and placed the box carelessly onto the couch.

A whole life in a single box.

The photographs had been of Maureen’s daughter – Josie. They hadn’t spoken in twenty years. Neither could remember why anymore, but pride was a spiteful thing and so they both held out. Josie had yet to be notified of her mother’s passing. By the time she could make it to the farmstead, the pictures were waterlogged and stained.

The couch knew the dresser to be weeks old.

From Ikea of all places. It had looked out of place in the rustic bedroom, but needs must. Maureen had accumulated a wealth of jewelry and make up that required a dedicated storage unit.

She had detested the entire shopping experience from start to finish. She hated driving and the store was 40 kilometers away from the farmstead, it had been over crowded and she hated crowds, the lights had given her a migraine and the food was – as she defined it later to a friend – inedible slop. Nonetheless, she had persisted through the ordeal and had come out victorious. With a brand new Malm. Or maybe it was a Hemnes.

The brothers had rejoiced when they had come to the dresser. The first piece of furniture that did not weigh over twenty kilos. Because of this, the dresser was deposited well inside the barn. Such that it was not visible unless one had a torch. Solitary.

The final piece of furniture the brothers moved was the bed. They were on day two of working and they were exhausted, thankfully, like the table, the bed disassembled easily. Provided they used a hammer. Which they did.

If the bed was taken to barn in splinters, who was to know?

Their only witness was an overstuffed, faded couch, collapsing under the weight of an entire life in a box.

Maureen was not the first person to have lived in the farmstead, nor was she the first person to have their life moved out. The homes of many lived on quietly in abandoned disarray inside the barn. One day, the couch thought, the brothers would return to move out the young couple that hired them. And then their belongings, their life, their love and their home would be things in the barn too.