I was their first one. The only item of furniture in the whole house, although I really belonged outside. The year was 1976: they were newlywed, newly pregnant, first-time homebuyers, and I was a gift from Sarah’s weird aunt. I sat pride of place in the carpeted living room, waiting for the rest of their things to be brought – or bought.
Made of lightweight aluminium, I had two armrests, with brightly coloured PVC woven together to support even the most tenacious of guests. Towards the end of summer, when Sarah and Dan had welcomed baby Susie into the world, I was placed outside for warm evening beers, garden hose fountains, and many, many barbecues.
Even as the cooler months settled on the suburban landscape, and the years grew on, I was never forgotten. Sarah would just sit some evenings, wrapped in a blanket, cuddling a cup of tea after a long shift at the hospital had taken a particular toll. Dan would lean on me in the wee hours after stumbling home from a friend’s gig, taking the last breath of a cheeky cigarette.
The time came for Sarah, Dan and Susie to move on. Whether they had outgrown the familial nest, or if it was the constant fighting between the now not-so-newlyweds, I’ll never be sure. In the depths of the winter, before the move, the back awning sprung a leak and flooded the backyard. After a series of bad storms (and a few kite-like experiences later), I ended up in the shed.
Dusty, cobweb covered, and bursting with rusty garden paraphernalia, the shed was not a hospitable environment, particularly for a delicate seat such as myself. Although I would later discover that the shed was a fan favourite for many of its visitors (having spent some time in there, I’m not sure why), for Sarah and Dan, who had not been green thumbs, the shed was overlooked. As such, in the rush of the move I was left behind.
A few weeks later, as the sun began to peek underneath the shed’s corrugated door, the new tenants moved in – a group of three friends in their early twenties, doing the share house thing. They were the first of many such occupants, and some of the best.
Audrey, Sam and Quentin knew how to make a house a home — and knew a nice bit of outdoor seating when they saw it (if I may say so myself). They cleared out the shed for Sam’s band to practice in, and suddenly I was given a second life. I was the preferred seat for Sam’s girlfriend to perch and fawn, as Sam sang songs dedicated to her — and his Honda civic. I was the chair that Audrey sat on to ‘shower’ in the backyard when she broke her ankle and couldn’t get her cast wet. I was there before, and after, Quentin’s numerous exams –when he felt just a little bit nauseous.
Soon, the tight-knit trio grew up, and moved on. Sam moved in with his girlfriend; Quentin got a scholarship to a prestigious university in London; Audrey and her boyfriend found another share house to call home.
Quentin’s cousin took over his room, and the rest filled sporadically – people came in and out, like the house was a revolving door. Few lasted long, and none were as housetrained as the previous tenants had been.
As the years went on, the parties grew bigger, louder, and later. I tired of being so reliable, so trusty, so stable. I hoped I’d lose a screw, or perhaps an arm. Maybe Dave’s rugby player friend would sit down just a little bit too enthusiastically one night and that’d be it, I’d have to go into retirement.
But I wasn’t so lucky. For many more years I bore the brunt of those wild drunken evenings, holding the unfortunate friends who fell asleep in me, their faces graffitied like the inside of a toilet stall.
Until one day, the music stopped. The lights ceased to come on at the end of the day, and no one came outside to hang out their washing, or check the weather, or have a quiet minute away from the house.
A small older Italian man appeared one crisp autumn evening. He looked out over the backyard, the overgrown weeds and lawn almost meeting his eye line. He shuffled down the two back steps and came to rest in me. A huge sigh left his mouth and he shifted in me once before finding the spot he would stay in for a little while.
The man’s name was Guido, and he was the landlord. He and his wife Maria had purchased the house from Sarah and Dan, but before they moved in Maria got sick and needed to be cared for. Guido decided to wait until Maria got better before they moved. He leased out the property to his goddaughter Audrey and her friends, until he could return to work and make the mortgage repayments.
Maria stayed very sick for a long time. Guido kept leasing out the house until a few months ago, when Maria passed away. Now he surveyed the backyard with a tear in his eye. He pictured the veggie patch and lemon trees Maria had wanted to plant, the hills hoist draped in her brightly coloured muu-muus and his conservative button downs, the grandchildren running around the backyard in the summer, whilst the family made pasta and sauce in the sun – traditional recipes handed down from generation to generation.
Instead, Guido, arms resting atop mine, looked out to a grey yard, drops of water clinging to the clothesline before making their downward descent. A single tear rolled down his cheek and he moved quickly to wipe it, as though someone were watching. When he moved, a sharp snap echoed in the yard—one of my straps broke. I wanted to support him, I felt as though he was heavy with longing, but now I was useless, gaping. He quickly stood up and stared at my severed plastic webbing.
He picked me up and shuffled down the side of the house towards the street. He placed me on the nature strip beside a few other items – an old vacuum cleaner, a chest of drawers, some odd bits and pieces. As he turned away, I noticed a sign out the front: ‘For Sale – Development Opportunity’ it read.
Guido looked longingly at the house one final time before driving away. The house had had its day, and so had I – although I don’t think I was ready to go after all.
Hannah Kammerhofer is currently studying a Masters of Creative Writing, Publishing and Editing. With a BA in psychology and history, believed to be the world's most useless degree, Hannah has found ways to integrate it into her everyday life; she is always in her head and living in the past.