Carpets - By Conrad Gardner

I never lived in a house with carpets until I started renting my first flat, the one above the chippie. It felt like an okay compromise, the constant odor of batter wafting into my home in exchange for carpeting.

Not that I’d never seen a carpet before. I’d seen them as a kid, in all the places we moved into. Dad moved around a lot for work. The first thing he did once he’d set his bags down was grab a hammer, pry bar, and utility knife, and he went to work on the carpets. He grumbled to himself whenever he did it, like it was an inconvenience.

I didn’t get why he removed them, but no landlord or management complained once Dad said he’d reinstall them once he left and pay for it. He had twelve rugs that he piled into his Volvo whenever we moved, one on top of the other like a jenga tower. He’d get them cleaned by a professional before moving and leaving.

I remember seeing him with his shirt off for the first time when I was twelve. I’d been leaving my room and his bedroom door hung open. Raw and red, his back had these discoloured patches where skin had regrown. ‘Get back in your room,’ he said, slamming the door, shutting me out.

We didn’t see much of my grandparents, but he acted normal around them. Loving, even. I never understood why he acted like that for years, and only found out a few weeks ago, when he first moved into the home.

‘It’s hard to hate people like that. Some people can, but I couldn’t. Still, I knew I’d have no carpets my own place, and I didn’t.’ He laughed. ‘It’s funny. I’m too old to do it here, but I still tried and the nurses got angry. And now you’ve got your own place with carpets.’ His face drooped and he looked off to the side of the room. I lifted my backpack up from the ground and zipped it open. The tools clinked and jumbled around.

‘Will these help?’ I said.