Grandpa's Box of Ordinary Things

It was raining on the night Sami slept at Grandpa's house for the very first time.

Not a loud, stormy rain. A soft, busy, tippy-tappy rain that ran down the windows in wiggly lines and gurgled in the drainpipes like a little river.

Grandpa's cottage was small and crooked and warm. It smelled of toast and wool and the oranges Grandpa kept in a bowl by the door. There were books stacked on the stairs and photographs on every wall, and a clock in the hall that went tock… tock… tock, slower than any clock Sami had ever heard.

Sami had brought his rucksack, his toothbrush, his striped pyjamas and Bun, his knitted rabbit with one floppy ear.

He had been very excited about the sleepover. He had been excited all day long.

But now it was bedtime. And the little room under the sloping roof looked very different from his room at home.

Sami stood in the doorway, holding Bun tight, and did not go in.

The bed in Grandpa's spare room was big and old and high, with a patchwork quilt made of a hundred different squares. Sami climbed in. The sheets were cool and crisp, and they smelled of lavender instead of home.

Grandpa tucked him in, kissed his forehead and switched off the big light. "Sleep tight, little one," he said.

Sami lay very still.

The ceiling sloped down close to his nose. The wardrobe made a tall, dark shape in the corner. Somewhere, a pipe went glug. Somewhere, a floorboard went creeeak. And the rain on the window went tippy-tap, tippy-tap, tippy-tap.

At home, his night-light was a little moon. At home, he could hear Mum humming in the kitchen. At home, the bed was exactly the right size.

Sami sat up. His tummy felt fluttery and tight, like there was a moth inside it.

"Grandpa?" he called, in a small voice.

Footsteps came shuffling back along the landing, slow and soft, and the door opened a crack.

"Can't sleep?" said Grandpa, poking his head round the door. He was wearing his mustard-yellow cardigan with the wooden buttons, and his slippers went shuff, shuff on the floor.

Sami shook his head. "Everything's different," he whispered. "The bed's too big and the room's too strange and I don't know any of the noises."

Grandpa sat down on the edge of the bed. It dipped under him, like a boat.

"Hmm," he said. He stroked his white beard, thinking. Then his eyes twinkled behind his round glasses. "I know just the thing."

He stood up and reached for the very highest shelf, where the old books lived. Behind them, he found something and lifted it down very carefully with both hands.

It was a wooden box.

It was dark and smooth and a little bit scratched, the size of a shoebox, with a tiny brass clasp on the front. It looked very, very old.

Sami's eyes grew wide. "Is it treasure?" he breathed.

"Oh yes," said Grandpa. "The very best kind."

Grandpa switched on the little lamp. It made a warm, round puddle of light on the quilt. He set the box down in the middle of it, and Sami wriggled closer.

Grandpa lifted the tiny brass clasp. Click.

Then he opened the lid, slowly, slowly. It gave a long, low creak.

"Creak goes the lid, and what do we find?" said Grandpa softly. "An ordinary thing with a story behind."

Sami peered inside. The box was lined with soft, faded velvet, the colour of the sea. And lying on the velvet there was…

A button.

A key.

And a seashell.

That was all. In one corner there was nothing at all, just an empty space.

Sami looked at Grandpa. Then he looked back at the box. "But Grandpa," he said, "they're just ordinary things."

Grandpa chuckled, a low rumbly chuckle, like a cat purring. "Exactly," he said. "And do you know what? Ordinary things are the very best hiding places for stories. Shall I show you?"

Sami nodded.

Grandpa picked up the button first.

It was big and round and navy blue, with four little holes in the middle, and it was a tiny bit chipped on one edge.

"This," said Grandpa, holding it up to the lamp, "is the button that popped off my coat on the night I met your grandma."

Sami gasped. "It popped off? Why?"

"Well," said Grandpa, settling back against the pillows. "A long, long time ago, when I was young and skinny and my hair was as black as yours, there was a winter dance in the town square. There were little lights strung between the trees, and a man playing the fiddle, and everyone was dancing."

"Did you dance?"

"Oh no," said Grandpa. "I was far too shy. I stood at the very edge of the square, in my best navy coat, with my hands in my pockets, wishing I was brave."

He turned the button over in his fingers.

"And then," he said, "someone tapped me on the shoulder."

"It was a young woman in a red scarf," said Grandpa, "with dark wavy hair and the merriest eyes I had ever seen. And she said, 'You look like someone who needs to dance.'"

"Was it Grandma?" whispered Sami.

"It was Grandma. Her name was Nadia." Grandpa smiled. "And she took my hand and pulled me right into the middle of the square. I didn't know the steps. I trod on her toes. I went left when everyone went right. And Grandma laughed so much that I started laughing too. I laughed and laughed, so hard that…"

"POP!" said Sami.

"POP!" said Grandpa. "Off flew my button, right across the cobbles. And Grandma ran and picked it up and put it in her pocket. 'I'll keep it safe,' she said, 'until you come back and dance with me again.'"

"Did you?"

"Every winter for fifty years," said Grandpa. "And she kept the button the whole time."

Grandpa put the button into Sami's hand.

Sami held it in his cupped palms. It was smooth and cool and heavier than it looked, and he turned it round and round, very gently, as though it might break.

He thought about Grandpa, young and skinny and shy, at the edge of the square. He thought about the fiddle music, and the little lights in the trees, and Grandma in her red scarf, laughing.

And somehow, even though it was cool, the button felt warm.

"It's not ordinary at all," Sami said softly.

"No," said Grandpa. "It's just pretending."

Sami laid the button back in its place on the velvet. Outside, the rain had slowed a little. Tip… tap… tip… tap.

The room didn't feel quite so big now. The shadows didn't feel quite so tall.

Sami gave a small yawn, a tiny one, the size of a mouse.

Then he looked at the box again.

"Grandpa," he said. "What about the key?"

The key was long and heavy and made of old dark iron, with a round loop at one end and little teeth at the other. It was much bigger than any key Sami had ever seen.

"Is it the key to a castle?" Sami asked. "Or a dungeon? Or a pirate's chest?"

Grandpa laughed. "Better than all of those," he said. "It's the key to a little blue door, in a little white house, in a town by the hills where the fig trees grow. Far, far away, across the sea."

"Whose house?"

"Mine," said Grandpa. "When I was a boy, no bigger than you."

Sami tried to imagine Grandpa being as small as him. It was very hard. Grandpa was so tall, and his beard was so white.

"Creak goes the lid, and what do we find?" Sami whispered, remembering.

"An ordinary thing with a story behind," Grandpa whispered back, and he gave Sami a wink.

Then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were looking at something very far away.

"Every morning," said Grandpa, with his eyes still closed, "I woke up to the smell of bread. My mother baked it in an oven in the courtyard, round and flat and warm, and she'd tear off the first piece and give it to me."

Sami's tummy gave a small, hopeful rumble.

"In the middle of the courtyard there was a fig tree," Grandpa went on. "An enormous old fig tree, with leaves as big as your hands, and branches that went up and up. I used to climb it every single day, as high as I dared. And my mother would stand at the bottom with flour on her hands and call up, 'Come down, you little monkey!'"

Sami giggled. "Did you come down?"

"Eventually," said Grandpa, with a grin. "After I'd eaten a few figs."

"And the blue door?"

"The blue door was the front door. It was a bit wonky and it squeaked when you opened it, and this," he held up the key, "was the key that opened it. Every single day."

"When I grew up," said Grandpa, "I decided to go on a big journey. Across the sea, to a new country, to find work and make a new life."

"All by yourself?"

"All by myself. I packed one small suitcase. A shirt, a jumper, a photograph of my family, and a loaf of my mother's bread for the journey."

Grandpa's voice went quiet and soft.

"On the morning I left, my mother came to the door. She pressed this key into my hand and folded my fingers round it. And she said, 'Take it with you. So you always know the way home.'"

Sami looked at the big iron key in Grandpa's wrinkled hand.

"I stood on the deck of a great big ship," said Grandpa, "and I watched the town by the hills get smaller and smaller, until it was gone. And the whole way across the sea, I kept the key in my pocket, and I held on to it tight."

The rain pattered gently on the window. Tip, tap, tip.

"The new country was very different," said Grandpa. "It was cold. It rained nearly every day. The people spoke words I didn't understand, and the food tasted strange, and the houses were all made of red brick instead of white."

"I found a little room at the top of a tall house," he went on. "And on my very first night, I lay in a bed that felt too big, in a room that felt too strange, and I listened to noises I didn't know."

Sami sat very still. "Grandpa," he said slowly. "That's just like me."

"It is just like you," said Grandpa gently. "And do you know what I did?"

Sami shook his head.

"I held this key in my hand. And I closed my eyes. And I remembered the smell of bread, and the fig tree, and my mother calling, 'Come down, you little monkey.' And little by little, my tummy stopped fluttering. And little by little, the strange room felt a tiny bit more like home."

"Did you ever go back?" asked Sami. "To the blue door?"

"Once," said Grandpa. "Many years later, with your grandma. The house was still there. But someone had painted the door green, and another family lived inside, and when I tried my key, it didn't fit any more."

"Oh," said Sami. That sounded sad.

"But," said Grandpa, holding up one finger, "the fig tree was still there. Bigger than ever. And I stood under it with your grandma, and I ate a fig, and I understood something."

"What?"

"That home isn't only a door. Home is something you carry. In your heart, in your memories, in the people you love." He tapped the key gently. "This key doesn't open the blue door any more. But it still opens the memories. Every time."

Sami held the key with both hands. He thought about his own front door, and Mum humming in the kitchen, and his little moon night-light. And he found that he could see them all, quite clearly, just by closing his eyes.

Grandpa went downstairs and came back with two mugs of cocoa, with a little bit of cinnamon sprinkled on top, the way he liked it.

"Just this once," he said, with a wink. "Since it's a special night."

They sat side by side on the big bed, under the sloping ceiling, and sipped. The cocoa was warm and sweet and made a little moustache on Sami's lip. Grandpa pretended not to notice, and then he noticed, and they both laughed.

Outside, the rain was still falling, but more gently now. It didn't sound like tippy-tappy any more. It sounded like shhh… shhh… shhh, as if the whole night was telling everyone to be calm.

Bun the rabbit sat on the pillow, listening too.

The open box sat in its warm puddle of lamplight. The button. The key. And one more thing.

Sami put down his mug and pointed at the seashell. It was pale pink and creamy white, shaped like a little fan, with ridges like the rays of the sun.

"Creak goes the lid," he said.

"And what do we find?" said Grandpa.

"An ordinary thing," said Sami.

"With a story behind," they said together.

Grandpa picked up the seashell and laid it in Sami's palm. It was light, much lighter than the key. Its edge was wavy, like a pie crust, and when Sami tipped it towards the lamp, the pink inside glowed softly, like the inside of an ear when you hold a torch to it.

"Did you find it?" asked Sami. "On a beach?"

"I didn't find it," said Grandpa. "Someone else found it, and gave it to me to keep. On a very windy day, a long time ago, at the edge of a very big sea."

"Who?"

Grandpa's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. He leaned close, so close that Sami could smell cinnamon and wool.

"This story," he whispered, "is about someone you know very, very well."

Sami held his breath.

"It's about your mum," said Grandpa.

"MUM?" said Sami, so loudly that Bun nearly fell off the pillow.

"Your mum," said Grandpa, laughing. "When she was four years old, with curly black hair just like yours, and a yellow swimsuit with a frill on the bottom. We took her to the seaside for the very first time. And do you know what? She was frightened of the waves."

Sami's mouth fell open. Mum wasn't frightened of anything. Mum caught spiders in a cup and carried them outside.

"She was," said Grandpa. "The waves were so big and so loud, and they kept coming and coming. So she held on to my hand, tight, tight, tight. And I said, 'Shall we jump them together? One, two, three, and up we go?'"

"Did she?"

"First she jumped the tiniest wave. Then a slightly bigger wave. Then a bigger one. And by the end of the afternoon, she was shrieking with laughter and shouting, 'Again, Daddy! Again!'"

"And on the way home," said Grandpa, "she found this shell lying in the sand. She brushed it off and held it up to me and said, 'Daddy, put this in your special box. So you always remember today.'"

"And you did," said Sami.

"And I did."

Sami looked at the shell for a long time. He tried to imagine Mum being four. Tiny and curly and holding on tight. It made him feel funny and fizzy and warm, all at once.

"Hold it to your ear," said Grandpa.

Sami held the shell up to his ear, and closed his eyes.

And there it was. A soft, faraway whooosh, like the sea breathing in and out. Whooosh… and hush. Whooosh… and hush.

Or perhaps it was the rain. Sami couldn't quite tell. And he decided it didn't matter.

Whooosh… and hush.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed the empty corner of the box again.

"Grandpa," he said. "What goes there?"

Grandpa ran his finger over the empty velvet corner.

"That," he said, "is for a story that hasn't happened yet."

Sami frowned and thought very hard. Then his face lit up, and he wriggled his hand into the pocket of his striped pyjamas.

Earlier that afternoon, before the rain, he and Grandpa had walked in the park. They had kicked through the crunchy leaves and jumped in a puddle, a really big one, and Grandpa had jumped in it too, in his best shoes. And under the old oak tree, Sami had found an acorn with a little hat on, and he had put it in his pocket and forgotten all about it.

He pulled it out now. It was small and brown and shiny, and its little hat was a bit wonky.

"It's an ordinary thing," said Sami.

"So it is," said Grandpa, and his eyes went very soft and shiny.

Sami placed the acorn in the empty corner, very carefully. "It's the story of today," he said. "The night I slept at Grandpa's."

Grandpa looked into the box for a long moment. A button. A key. A seashell. And an acorn with a wonky hat.

"Do you know," he said quietly, "I think that's the best story in the whole box."

He closed the lid, slowly, slowly. It gave a soft, low creak, like a sleepy yawn.

"Creak goes the lid, and the stories stay in," Grandpa murmured. "Safe in the dark, till we open again."

He clicked the little brass clasp shut and set the box on the bedside table, right next to the lamp, where Sami could see it.

Sami snuggled down under the patchwork quilt. He put Bun under his chin. The bed didn't feel too big any more. It felt like a nest.

Somewhere, a floorboard went creeeak.

"That's just the house saying goodnight," said Grandpa.

Somewhere, a pipe went glug.

"And that's the house brushing its teeth."

Sami giggled, a sleepy, floppy giggle.

Grandpa stayed sitting on the edge of the bed. And very softly, he began to hum.

It was a slow, swaying tune, the kind you might play on a fiddle in a town square on a winter night, with little lights in the trees.

"Is that the dancing song?" Sami mumbled. "From the button?"

"It is," said Grandpa, and he kept on humming.

Sami's eyes were growing heavy now. He looked around the little room, through his eyelashes. At the books on the shelf. At the patchwork quilt with its hundred squares. At the photographs on the wall. At the old wooden box.

And he thought: maybe every ordinary thing in this room has a story hiding in it. The quilt. The lamp. The books. Even the creaky floorboard. Maybe one day Grandpa would tell him all of them.

The rain went shhh… shhh… shhh.

The clock in the hall went tock… tock… tock.

And Grandpa's humming went round and round, slow and soft, like a dance.

When Sami's breathing had gone slow and deep, Grandpa stopped humming.

He tucked the quilt round Sami's shoulders. He moved Bun the rabbit a tiny bit, so his floppy ear wasn't squashed. He turned the lamp down low, so it glowed like a small, sleepy moon.

Then he tiptoed to the door, shuff, shuff, in his slippers, and left it open just a crack, so a thin line of golden light lay across the floor.

"Goodnight, Sami," he whispered. "Goodnight, little story."

Outside, the rain was falling very softly now, shhh… shhh… shhh, on the roof, and on the garden, and on the old oak tree in the park, where a hundred more acorns were waiting to be found.

And on the bedside table, the old wooden box sat quietly in the dark, keeping its four ordinary things safe.

A button.

A key.

A seashell.

And an acorn.

Goodnight, ordinary things.

Goodnight.