Remnants from the Attic

It had to be a mistake.

Ivo scrolled back up the page to give the listing another thorough look-over. It was titled Toy
still in box, but Ivo knew it for what it really was. An original 1993 Megazord deluxe set. He
micro-examined the grainy thumbnail, poring over every pixel of the pristine box. A globule of
flashlight spotted the shrink-wrapping.

The asking price: £45.

Either lady_lk777 didn’t know what they were in possession of or, more likely, there was a
catch. And if Ivo had learned anything from his many years of trawling online auction sites in
search of mint condition toy collectibles, it was that there was always a bloody catch.

He tapped the contact number into his phone only to realise, five numerals in, that his address
book already possessed this exact sequence of digits. A portentous, all-caps THE DRAGON
leapfrogged its way up his contacts to take top billing on his screen.

Ivo sank further into his gaming chair and groaned a confused what? This was not going to
be worth the aggravation. Curiosity getting the better of him, he thumbed the green phone icon,
swearing he’d cut off if she didn’t pick up in five or six ring tones.

“Well, hullo darling,” said a shrill voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call from the
blue? It’s not Mother’s Day already, is it?”

Ivo glanced at the time on his laptop. 13.42. That would explain the slurred vowels, her sing-
song drawl. Probably on her third glass of Chardonnay of the day.

“Just in the middle of something actually, so can’t chat long. Calling to see why you seem to
be selling a Megazord deluxe toy set on BidBazaar?”

“Oh that,” she tittered. “Well, Gino, the devil, coaxed me into a little winter getaway to the
Seychelles. Thought I’d rummage through the loft, sell off some old rubbish to put towards one
of those cute chalets down on the beach. They do look rather marvellous.”

Ivo tried to recall if he had ever been introduced to a Gino during one of his increasingly
infrequent visits back home. He realised he couldn’t care less either way. Besides, an alarm bell
had gone off in his head.

“But why was there an unopened Megazord in the loft in the first place?” A nervous chuckle
slipped out of him. “Never figured you for a Rangers fan, mother.”

“The funniest thing. It was in an old box of Christmas decorations, still in the wrapping
paper. Must’ve been a gift your father and I never got round to, well … giving you.”

“But, but … mum,” Ivo spluttered. “I cried my eyes out all Christmas day in ’93 because I
never received that Megazord. I begged you all year. You made me write out letters to Father
Christmas and post them and everything. Why didn’t you just give it to me then?”

“It probably slipped my mind, darling. You know how chaotic things would get around the
holidays, what with your father’s work-dos and planning our Christmas Eve parties at the house.
Surely you remember. Such fun!”

What Ivo recalled was hiding in his bedroom as the music blared and boozed-up adults
stumbled around his home. That Christmas, he’d slunk down the stairs the following morning,
the air thick with the revenant of last-night’s cigarettes and foreign perfumes, to find not a single
present under the tree. He cried himself to sleep in front of a festive edition of Live and Kicking
on the BBC as his parents snored in the curtained gloom of their room.

“I sense a touch of tetchiness in your silence, dear. What’s all the fuss about, anyway? It’s
only old tat from another lifetime.”

Ivo would be damned if he was going to dig up the dregs of his childhood traumas over the
phone. His therapist, the lovely Julia, had coached him on how to steer conversations away from
sore subjects that caused him emotional flare-ups. Stick to the point of the call, he reminded
himself.

“That tat you’re quick to dismiss is actually worth anywhere in the region of £400 or £500. If
you find the right bidder who knows his stuff, that is,” he said, not quite succeeding in hiding the
note of importance in his voice. “It’s a highly sought-after collector’s item!”

“Well, I say,” she droned. “The world really has gone cuckoo. It was once fine antiques that
would fetch outrageous amounts, not plastic playthings that light up and go whizz-bam-boom.”
Ivo gripped his phone tighter and inhaled through his teeth.

“Anyway, seeing as it was mine all along—apparently—do you mind if I pop by later to pick
it up?” Feeling a pang of guilt at his complete lack of filial piety, he added hastily: “I could stay
for supper. Would give us some time to catch up. I’ll even bring a bottle of bubbly along.”

“Oh, no, no, no. Can’t do, I’m afraid. I promised Gino we’d go for drinkies at the Vine
Society. He’s made reservations. Some notice next time, dear. I can’t be expected to sit in on the
off chance you show up to claim remnants from the loft.”

“Yes, of course. How silly of me.”

“But feel free to drop by and pick up your toy. You do have a key. Not that you ever seem to
use it. I’ll leave the box on the kitchen table for you.”

“Sure. Thank you.”

“That’s settled then.” She cleared her throat in a melodic descending hum that always grated
on Ivo’s nerves. “Oh, and you can leave the money by the telephone. A cheque will do just fine
too. Whatever is easier, darling.”

“The money?”

“The £500 you mentioned, dear. Can’t wait to share the good news with Gino. I dare say we
can plump for that chalet after all.”