Welcome to the world of
Michael G Kimber
Michael G Kimber
The Nightwriter
Atlas And The Chest Of Drawers
I have mentioned earlier there was always laughter in the house, and I count myself lucky to have been born into such a happy environment. Despite so many difficulties, or maybe in some way because of them, my parents had the capacity to see the funny side of things, and my mother in particular had a very responsive sense of humour. She was not afraid to laugh out loud when reading an amusing story, or if watching the television; neither would she be embarrassed to show her feelings if for example something funny happened in the street, or was said in conversation. If caught in a silly mood, she could be reduced to helpless laughter, and anyone in her company would stand little chance of avoiding the same fate. Hilarious laughter was common and infectious. Complete loss of control all round was not unknown, sometimes accompanied with the spontaneous crossing of legs, which, if one or more of those assembled was not successful in their attempt to stop the flow, would only increase the level of hilarity; much to said person’s discomfort.
Despite this she was not a frivolous person, nor did her capacity to see the funny side of life dominate. More than anything it was a safety valve from the serious business of getting on with life, which was seldom compromised; her sense of values never at risk. She was far from woolly headed, and was the rock upon which the family had been built, and on whom we all relied.
Never-the-less laughter was a part of her make up and it didn’t seem to matter what started it off; if something caught her off guard she would soon have everyone laughing.
I remember that there were many silly half hours, but because so often the triggers were in themselves insignificant, little of the ‘contents’ remain in the memory. One that does however, is of a time when her laughter might have witnessed a tragedy, and, but for an unknown guardian angel, I might have been the victim.
Furniture, in my early days, was acquired on a simple get what you can basis, and if at all possible for free. Raising a family and keeping a home was a major undertaking for most people in those difficult times, stretching everyone’s resources, and their ingenuity. Few people had the money for new, nor any place for pride.
As a painter and decorator my father would sometimes be offered an item no longer required by his client, and any offer of this kind was accepted gratefully. Subsequently little of our furniture ‘went together’, and there were few matching pieces in the house.
This did however have one major advantage as it meant that whatever you had could be used in different rooms without spoiling the decor. It followed therefore, that movement of furniture, particularly between the bedrooms was not unusual.
So it was that I found myself on this particular day preparing for what might have been my last attempt in the removal business. On this occasion it was a very large chest of drawers which had to be brought down from my attic bedroom, to the second bedroom, one floor below.
My eldest brother had set up temporary residence with his wife and their new baby. Their need for this piece of furniture was judged to be greater than mine, and despite my protests it was agreed. And worse, the task of moving it fell to me.
My father had been asked to dispose of this chest when on a previous job, and of course he had obliged. With help from another of my brothers, and my grandfather, both of whom were working for him at the time, it was loaded on to his ladder cart. Once on board the carts huge wheels and long handle made transportation relatively easy; two men pushing, while the third, (probably dad, the long handle under his arm) would be steering as well. Getting it off the cart, and then getting it up to my attic bedroom must have been enormously difficult, but sad to say, I do not remember that part of the story. Suffice it to say that for a while it was mine, but now a better use had been found for it.
I was about sixteen at the time, quite strong and capable (I thought) of doing the job, but as it was a heavy piece I did need some help. When the time came however, surprise surprise, there was no-one around. Isn’t it astonishing the way that everyone disappears when there is a job to be done?
My mother offered to lend a hand, and the two of us made a start. Caution and good sense were abandoned that day, for we should have seen that the job was more than we could cope with. The chest of drawers was big and heavy, and the attic staircase was straight, narrow, and steep. A combination fraught with danger and not to be taken lightly.
Never-the-less, we must have decided that we could manage and lined up the chest carefully at the top before going over the edge. It was still heavy even though it was now devoid of its six drawers, and because of it size it had to go down sideways. Slowly pushing and pulling - as far as that was possible - we got to the point where it was about half way over the top step and just balanced on the edge, its gentle up and down rocking motion telling us that at the next move would take it beyond the point of no return.
Manoeuvring this far had itself brought forth a couple of laughs from mum. The monsters refusal to slide smoothly, but in small jerky movements, had caused her to giggle a little, and as we balanced on the top step I could hear her soft chuckle. There was some banter between us, a pleasant interlude between mother and son, and we were both enjoying the pleasure of a shared task when we started to push and pull over that first edge, me at the front to take the weight, and mum at the back to hang on in the event of any kind of slip.
This was just as well for when it went over that first step and its little stumpy feet came into contact with the stairs a few steps down, it stop abruptly, the back end rising alarmingly as if to somersault over my head. It did not, but as it dropped back it bounced down another step, neatly dispatching me to a lower level.
At the same time my mother, hanging on gamely, had been risen to full stretch by this errant piece of furniture. Her feet, for a moment in the air, were now back on the floor, and she was hanging on for dear life in case it took off again.
Humour is a strange and indefinite thing. One person may remain straight faced and unmoved, while another is reduced to helplessness at the same event.
Why my mother found this little incident so funny I don’t know, but instead of a fearful cry when she found herself being pulled clear from the floor, there was a shriek, rather like that which is common on a fairground ride. The shriek of pleasure derived out of the fear that you have paid to experience. Only this time ride was free, and we were not strapped in !
Perhaps in the life she had lived with all its difficulties, laughter had become for her, a means to release tension. Perhaps too, on this occasion, being unexpectedly whisked of her feet was enough to set her off. Somehow she had not realised the danger, but I, sitting where I was, could see a different perspective, and I was not at all happy at the timing of her laughter. But she was making light of the situation, and I knew that it would take a minute or two for her to settle down.
So, like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulder, I waited with this increasingly heavy weight on mine. Was it a thousand years that Atlas held the world aloft? I don’t quite remember, but I do recall that it seemed like forever before her laughter subsided, and I judged it safe to resume.
But Oh dear, was I wrong?
No sooner had we started, another lurch had her stretching upwards again. Not quite as high as before, and her shriek this time was less abandoned, but when the chest fell back with a bump, she lost her grip. This time instead of a gentle push down a step or two, I received a mighty shove, and I knew immediately that its momentum was going to take me all the way.
Mothers laughing had changed a little, no longer free and easy, but concerned, uncertain, as she saw the departing chest gathering speed.
Quickly, and miraculously, I was on my feet and was able to leap down the stairs, the now unrestrained chest just behind me, seemingly alive, snarling and malicious, its eyes red and flashing, smoke bellowing from its nostrils, and it was closing rapidly!
At the bottom was a small landing with a window. Was it racing towards me at an alarming speed, or was I racing to it? Either way in seconds we met. At the very last moment I dropped to the floor, hitting the wall below the window with great force, and lay there winded and motionless, while the noise of breaking glass and the snarling dragon whirled above me. Had I not done so I would certainly have been knocked through the widow onto the roof of the front door porch, and then probably down to the road below.
By now my mothers laughter had changed to screams as she watched, helpless, as she saw her youngest son being crushed, possibly killed, by this old heavy chest.
The few seconds of silence which followed, from fear on her part, and breathlessness on mine, was finally broken by an uncharacteristic expletive emerging from the tiny cavity created when the chest, its back legs still on the stairs, crashed against, and partly through, the window. It no longer seemed malevolent, and yet in its rakish angle it seemed to be sneering.
But that little space had possibly saved my life.
My parents had instilled upon all their children, largely by example, that bad language was not acceptable in their house, a rule that we had all happily learned to live with. Yet when she heard those forbidden words it must have been music to her ears, for it told her that I was alright, if not entirely unhurt.
In the end the only damage was my badly bruised shoulder, a lot of broken glass, and a damp patch on the stair carpet. The chest remained where it was until more help arrived; unmarked; inscrutable.
Although this is a story with a happy ending, there was a price to pay. I had a painful shoulder for a long time. Mum was trapped on the attic stairs for hours, and we all got told off when dad came home. Mum and I for taking on a job that was clearly (he said) too much for us. And my brothers for scarpering when they knew they were needed.
He was also cross because the broken window frame could not be repaired until he had found, and bartered with, a plumber. How much free wallpapering would he have to do, to cover the cost of fitting a new window and frame ?
Like many other events, this incident passed into family folk lore, often remembered, and always with laughter. Why ?, I don’t know. Something to do with the funny bone I guess, that illusive something that causes people to smile and chuckle at the most unlikely things.
Rather like my boils !
