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‘Is, Ben,’ I correct. ‘Nanaisa hoarder.’
‘I meant when she was young, Holly. Jesus,’ Ben snaps. ‘I didn’t mean it like she’s… like she’s…’
Ben looks as if he’s about to cry, and I feel awful. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just weird. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’
Ben turns his back on me and lifts one of the largest boxes off the pile. I can tell by his face that it’s heavier than he was expecting as he swings around and places it carefully on the ground between our feet. He peels back some yellowed, and no longer very sticky, tape, and the noise hangs in the air for a moment; exaggerated because neither of us are talking. And, I can’t speak for Ben, but I’m not breathing, either.
‘Records,’ Ben announces gleefully as he rummages in the box. ‘There’s loads in here.’
‘Careful,’ I warn. ‘If they’re original vinyl, they could be worth a fortune. Nana would freak out if we damage them.’
‘I wonder if they still play?’ Ben smiles.
I shrug. ‘Yeah, probably. But play on what? They’re a little big for the CD player.’
‘Hang on. Hang on…’ Ben says, sticking one finger in the air.
He bounces over to the far side of the attic, making the boards beneath us shake. It’s terrifying, and it feels like they’ll snap and we’ll tumble through the ceiling at any moment.
‘Ah-ha,’ Ben shouts as he pulls back some cloths covering a large and oddly shaped mound.
‘A record player!’ I shout back. I forget my concerns about the dodgy flooring and race over to investigate. ‘Oh, Ben, we have to bring this down to Nana. We could play some of these records for her. I bet she’d love that.’
My brother looks at me despondently, and I quickly look away, my excitement quashed by the sadness in his eyes.
‘Let’s check and see if it works first,’ he says softly.
Ben bends forward and twists the lever on the side around and around.
‘Wind up?’ I say, wide-eyed. ‘Wow. This thing must be really old.’
‘Yeah. Maybe a hundred years,’ Ben explains. ‘It’s a real antique. Probably belonged to a great-grandparent or something.’
Ben is a history buff. He studied archaeology in college and he works in a museum in Cork. He actually asks Nana to tell him stories from back-in-the-day over and over. It drives our mother crazy – she’s heard them all so many times; she knows them by heart. I suspect half of Ben’s enthusiasm is seeing the look on Mam’s face as Nana begins one of her never-ending tales.
‘Let’s try this one,’ Ben says, dusting off a record he’s chosen from the top of the box. ‘It’s “Mack the Knife”.’
‘Oh. I know this one.’ I start to hum, much to my brother’s disgust. ‘Shut up,’ I say as he pulls a face. ‘Mam says I’m a great singer.’
Ben snorts playfully. ‘Yeah, and Mam also says she doesn’t have favourites. But she’s clearly lying.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I’m totally her favourite.’
Ben sticks out his tongue at me, but he can’t keep a straight face, and he almost bites his lip as he laughs.
I take the record from Ben’s hand while he’s busy laughing and pop it on the turntable. If I could figure out that Wi-Fi speaker-system thing that Nate bought me last Christmas, I can definitely tackle a record player from the past. I drag the arm across – the way they do in old black-and-white films and set the needle down in the middle. Nothing happens.
‘It must be broken,’ I say, dejected.
Ben doesn’t say anything as he reaches across me and flicks a little switch on the bottom right of the gramophone. Music immediately fills the attic.
‘Works better if you turn it on,’ Ben teases.
Usually, I’d blush or come up with a smart comeback, but I’m too distracted by the jazzy saxophone notes kissing my ears. I stretch my arms out as wide as they go and begin swaying from side to side, humming and dancing. For a moment, I’m lost in the music, and I forget about how sick Nana is, and about how much I miss Nate. But it only lasts a few seconds. I stub my toe on the edge of a box and reality hits as I flop onto the ground in pain. I take a deep breath and gather myself, glaring at the box that’s left my big toe pulsating.
This box is different from the rest. This one isn’t cardboard. It’s small, not much bigger than a shoebox. It’s not anything you’d use for packing, moving or tidying. I know it’s what I’m looking for before I even open it. A memory box. It’s dusty pink and shaped like a pirate’s chest, and the stitching around the edges tells me it used to be a much darker colour, cerise maybe. But it doesn’t detract from how pretty the little chest is, or how excited I am to bend down and run my fingers across the top.
‘You okay, Holly?’ Ben says, hurrying over to where I’m huddled in a little ball. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’
