Upcycled

Pip, a boy of 15, hated his grandparent's loft. It was a stagnant freezer in winter and dusty besides. A tiny hole in the corner of the roof caused a constant draught making it feel as though than the world outside.

On a mission to get the last box of his Grandpas things down to sort out, he slowly scaled the rickety ladder up towards the loft. His Grandpa had died 5 years ago, and after finally sorting his things around the house, it was now time to sort through things in the loft. It was about time too, he thought. He liked the idea of giving old, non-sentimental items a second home. Someone else would make better use of them instead of collecting dust or just sitting in a cold box. This was something his Grandpa had taught him. He believed in giving things a second life or a second home. Come to think of it, this rickety ladder was once a chair. One of Grandpas projects, but of course, it was not always old and unsteady. Grandpa always upcycled things and sold them on to help make ends meet or save for a rainy day. Over time, it just became a hobby.

Atop the ladder, trying not to wobble, Pip opened the narrow hatch. Stealthily, as though emerging from a trench, he peered his head out from the loft floor. A cold chill slapped his face. He continued through and climbed up into the loft. It was spacious enough to crawl around freely and, if you were willing to hunch over slightly, stand. Boxes were stacked around the outer edges opening and space that four people could sit comfortably. Pip remembered his grandparents created a campsite here once for a birthday sleepover. The loft seemed larger to him back then. A sharp breeze crept up his spine and shook him from his daydream.

He found what he was looking for quickly, which was not awfully hard, as the box was clearly stamped Peters Things on every side of the box. As he read the box and remembering his Grandpa, he could not help but smile. One side of his mouth raising more predominantly than the other giving him an innocent crooked smile.

He fought a little to slide the heavy box across the open space and make his way to the hatch, back to the house. As he squeezed the relatively giant box through the narrow hatch, a pair of old but steady hands came to his rescue. The box seemed to float through the hatch and was placed effortlessly on the hallway floor below.

“Thanks, Gramps.” Pip said, somewhat breathless.

The old man below with salt and peppered hair and strong features looked up, smiled eagerly, and saw his gleeful grandson glaring down at him.

“Come on, careful as you come down.” He said, reflecting the same crooked smile.

They were in the kitchen, sorting out the contents of Grandpas box, which had started to pile up and spill out on the small wooden table. Another of Grandpas upcycled masterpieces. Pip was going through a small jar of coins his grandparents had collected over the years. When he looked up, he saw Gramps gingerly holding Grandpa’s favourite shirt. An old plaid flannel shirt, red, white, grey, and black crisscrossing in broad columns. Gramps stood there for a moment holding the folded shirt, remembering, when slowly a sad but cheerful smile grew on his face. The urge to smell the shirt was all too strong.

“It still smells of him.” said Pip as Gramps quickly caught the tear running down his cheek and wiped it away. With a deep, trembling breath, Gramps suggested they have some lunch, and it was about time too. It was already two in the afternoon and neither of them had eaten. However, Pip understood that Gramps needed a distraction more than he needed food.

As soon as the bacon hit the pan with a sizzle and hiss, Pip knew bacon sandwiches, his favourite, were on the menu. The smell made his mouth salivate and stomach rumble. Still going through Grandpas things, he found something that he had forgotten entirely. He had not seen or thought about it for years. But the very sight of it brought vivid memories flooding back uncontrollably. He was astonished. How could he have forgotten? Had Gramps forgotten about it too? He must have because he did not mention it at all.

“Gramps?” he said, “Remember this?” He was holding a thick black notebook.

Placing the bacon onto buttered bread, he looked up “That blasted thing.” Gramps said, almost as if he had remembered it all this time but chose to forget it. It seemed to anger him more than fill him with the same joy and excitement it did his grandson.

Gramps cut and plated lunch and made his way over to the small kitchen table, made smaller due to being half covered with Grandpa’s things. He placed one plate on a pile of books and the other on top of the sprawled out old photographs.

Pip had almost forgotten he was hungry, but only for a second, and was eager to ask Gramps more about the familiar but mysterious black notebook.

“He took that everywhere he went, blasted thing, his favourite notebook. Though he never wrote in it.” Gramps started.

Pip thought hard, trying to recall a moment when his Grandpa was not holding his notebook, or at least have it close by. He couldn’t, it had always been there. He flicked through the notebook and was puzzled. It was indeed empty. Nothing was written in it. Seems funny to have a favourite notebook and not write anything inside. He began to understand and share his Gramps’ contempt for the book.

“Where did the book even come from?” Pip asked.

“He made it, from scratch. Spent hours and hours on it. He made the very pages himself from recycled bits of paper and card. The front and back cover bits of reclaimed card I suppose, and the binding is a piece of faux leather he found from somewhere.”

Gramps held his hand out to request the book and gripped it slightly. It was heavier than he remembered. The thick pages made it look bulky and swollen. He opened it to the first page, where there was an inscription printed in silver ink. He ran his fingers over the letters faintly, feeling the bumps and dips of ink on paper.

“Threaders penny in a dry fun day.” he said in a faint whisper as he ran over the words. Another smile crept on his face slowly.

“I remember the day he finally finished it. Shouted at me when I almost smudged the ink before it dried. I asked him what it meant but he just said he was messing around with the press. He took it everywhere but refused to use it, which always annoyed me. I remember how fresh the paper smelled then. Now, they smell stale and dusty.” He set the notebook down on the table. It fanned up slightly as if someone had been reading it and bent the spine.

“I asked Grandpa once, why he carries it around with him. I was only young, but I do remember. He said it was his finest work and wanted to keep it close.” Pip picked up the book and looked for the inscription. He did not quite understand what it meant, which annoyed him too. “I suppose he was right, out of everything he had made, the tables, the ladders, all of them. This odd notebook was certainly the best thing he’d made.”

“It’s seen better days. The pages discoloured; the covers are fraying at the edges.” Gramps Chuckled. He got up from his chair and slowly repacked the box with things they had decided to keep.

They both shared stories and memories, all featuring Grandpa, with or without his notebook. They had finished their bacon sandwiches and already finished their second cup of tea when Pip was feeling the outside of the notebook while Gramps fussed in the kitchen

.

The lower right corner of the front cover looked to be in the worst shape, the material seemed to peel away from the cover, as one would run in horror at the sight of an ugly spider. However, this did not stop Pip from pulling at it absentmindedly. But something seemed wrong. It was getting worse. The material started to peel away even further as if the glue underneath completely dried and crumbled away. Panic rushed over him like a heatwave. “Gramps!” he shouted, mostly out of guilt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, it just started coming away I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

“Hey now, what’s all this?” Gramps made his way over to inspect the book closer. He was more worried about consoling his grandson than he was about the blasted notebook. As he tried to calm his grandson down, he picked up the notebook to look at the damage, but it began to break down at his touch. His face went pale. Frozen. Pip began to panic, “What is wrong, what is it?” rising out from his chair, fearing something was wrong.

Gramps, looking down at the notebook, showing his grandson what he was looking at. Pip could not believe his eyes and searched for his Gramps’ gaze. Gramps began to peel back the cover material, further, to reveal not dried crumbling glue or a hardened piece of card to act as support. But money. Lots of money. Thin little wads of money burst free from between two layers of taut leather material. A rush of excitement came over them as they hastily unwrapped the books cover, like children opening a chocolate bar. The book fell apart on the table as they were picking up the banded piles of money from the floor. They could not believe their eyes; this could not be real?

After the excitement, Gramps counted the wads of money as Pip noticed that the whole cover had removed itself from the rest of the pages. It was then that he saw it. Was it a trick? He held a singular page at the corner, just as you would a sticker, and peeled the thick recycled page apart and there they were. Two banknotes inside of one page fell out onto the floor. They looked at each other in further disbelief. But it finally made sense. The pages were not thick from being mashed pulp for recycled paper. They were thick because each page was two sheets of thinly pressed paper stuck together with two banknotes hidden inside.

“There must be about a hundred pages in this notebook.” said Gramps, in total disbelief still. “There must be close to twenty thousand pounds here!”

Pip picked up the pages that had begun to fall apart even further. He looked at the front page. It was now staring him in the face, as clear as day. He felt so foolish for not seeing it before.

“It’s an anagram! Look Gramps, Here!” he cried.

Gramps took a while to focus himself. His face puzzled a moment, and then as if a switch had been turned on, he saw it. Staring at him in the face.

“I. Don’t. Believe. Him” he was close to tears and felt his voice close up tightly. He ran his fingers over the words and smiled as tears ran down his face. He eventually found the strength from deep within to read the page out loud. “Peter and Henry’s rainy day fund.”

“See Gramps, Grandpa always said he’d look after us.” Said Pip.

Gramps pulled his grandson and wrapped his arms around him. He rested his cheek on the top of Pips head and stared out the window off into the distance. The sun was going down, but to Gramps, it was as though a new day had started already.