Viewing Essential
Viewing Essential (Town
hse, mid-tce, gfch, dg, vgc, ff, gsoh) Sunday The
keys jangled comfortably, like prayer beads in his hand. Nodding appreciatively
he stood, brogued feet apart on the wet pavement across the road from his new
house. New? It was an Edwardian mid-terrace built with
red bricks and evident skill: number eleven. A very similar building to the one
he was glad to have left in Chingford, John
Forrister smiled as he refreshed his memory of the querulous pupils' faces and
envious colleagues when he chanced giving in a sudden notice to quit. His smile
broadened, mirroring the laugh he gave to the head at the implicit threat of
breach of contract. He'd escaped the noisy and troubled metropolis for the
quiet that is the quintessence of rural The He was surprised at the bunch of
keys: there were half a dozen assorted metals and shapes and the first three
didn't fit the Yale laughing at him from the
front door, refusing him entry. Tinkling the
keys down on the glass-topped hall table he picked up the phone; no dial-tone.
Nothing too surprising for a new resident and at least the other services
seemed connected. There seemed too much of the
fully-furnished concept as the house contained much of the residue of the
previous occupant. It was too late in the day to do more than stuff a bin bag
with unwanted domestic chattel: he had his first day's lessons to prepare at
Queensway High. MondayCar-less
by 'You look happy, sir,' chirped a
Year 9 pupil nudging her friend. 'Ah well…' He could hardly tell them
how civilised they were compared to the monsters whose mathematics he tried in vain to improve at Chingford High School but
then he's only survived one day. 'You married, sir?' 'What? Oh no, no, er Kayleigh?' ' It was only a twenty-minute jaunty walk to Opening his front door he saw there was no post - too
soon. As he headed for the kettle, beckoning him from the kitchen, he threw his
briefcase into the living room doorway. He didn't reach the kitchen. It wasn't
so much the TV, which mysteriously filled the room with jittery blue
fluorescence accompanying the unintelligible cartoon screech, as the family
occupying his sofa and armchair. Forrister's mouth gaped at the man, woman and
boy. They hadn't moved, although their eyes had
travelled from screen to briefcase, still sliding over
the high-gloss floorboards, to him. 'Excuse me,' he huffed, striding across to turn the TV
off and face them. 'I'd be obliged if you left. Now!' He might as well have been speaking in Serbo-Croat. In
fact it might've made more sense to them now he'd taken a moment to look at
them. Underneath dad's mop of jet black hair was a wizened face lined with the
torments of Balkan conflicts. His Zapata moustache hadn't twitched. His more
lachrymose wife looked moistly at Forrister as if he was Slobodan Milosevic on
a bad day. Their well-behaved son with a face like a smacked bottom stayed on
the sofa while pointing the TV remote around Forrister. He walked to the door to hold it open for them. 'I mean
it. Go now or there'll be real trouble. And I want any keys you have of this
place.' They looked at each other, shrugged heavy shoulders and
shuffled silently out. 'What a cheek,' Forrister said to himself as he allowed
gravity to accelerate him into an overused armchair sending
motes and twang noises into the air. He thought about the cup of tea he
was set on brewing when he spotted the teapot and plate of digestives on the
coffee table. 'Oh no,' he gasped, 'they'd made me a welcome tea. They must be my neighbours. What have I done?' Should he go next-door to apologise? No, they still didn't leave the key and they took liberties with his TV. The locksmith he spotted on the way to school was going to be busy in the morning. Tuesday He collected his new keys
from the locksmith on the way home. The initial tangle, enough to build a small
car, was reduced to two: a front and a back door key. He popped the leftover scrap into his
briefcase and walked briskly home. From the Racing Green door the full-moon brassy keyhole
glinted at him across the road. He nodded his satisfaction. It was another easy
day at the school, meaning he wasn't sworn at and nearly half of 9B were kind
enough to have forgotten yesterday's homework so he had less marking to do. The key slid in with a satisfying rumble and made less of
a clatter on the table. He might not have heard the table complaining anyway
with the competition from the television again. He waited inside the hall
corridor outside the living room. Should he repeat his irascible performance or
should he be more conciliatory? His conscience advised him to be a good
neighbour and offer thanks for the tea and biscuits. He put his briefcase on the floor and waltzed
in. ‘Hi! We didn’t introduce ourselves yesterday did we?’ he
said with as much conviviality as spotting the floored crisps and his scattered
newspaper allowed. Dad managed a grumbled hello although it could’ve just as
well been a Balkan oath. They didn’t move. Forrister noted the lack of prepared
refreshments this time so made up for his previous faux pas. 'I'll make us all a brew. You all stay there. I'm John by
the way,' he said starting to hold out his hand to Dad but since there was no
hand on its way to intercept his, changed his mind and transformed the motion
to a flattening down hairs on the back of his head. The self grooming turned to
scratching near-mutilation when he met ceramic overload in the sink. Although
he remembered being propelled by the Head's admonishments to the pupils on
punctuality the previous day, he was sure he'd washed up before scrambling out
that morning. The kettle's excited state settled down just as Forrister wrung
out his dishcloth, his gaze assessing the state of his garden through the open
window. Open window! After yesterday he was more fastidious than ever and there was his neighbour's point of entry. He checked for
any signs of heavy boots on surfaces but he'd already cleaned up making them
tea. He couldn't believe their cheek. The dishcloth flew across the kitchen as
he flew down the corridor to confront his unwanted guests. They wouldn't grace his shouts with any answers as they
brushed past him in single file on to the pavement where, they turned and gave
him six evil eyes. Shaking his head he returned to the washing up and
tea-making while deciding to get the locksmith back to fit window locks. When
the tea infusion reached his brain he reached for his mobile. _____ 'But surely it's illegal?' 'Well, yes and no,' said the officer. 'Can't you arrest them for trespass?' 'Not if they don't damage anything and leave when you ask
them. You've changed the door locks and going to secure the windows. You should
be all right.' 'But…' 'Call again, but only if they become a nuisance.' 'Excuse me? Sorry I didn't catch your name. Superintendent?' 'PC Grant. Goodbye Mr Forrister.' Wednesday He
was smug beyond reason during his pedestrian school-run home. Stifling a
snigger came with difficulty as he pictured his neighbours being thwarted by Mr
Yale's best window locks. 'You know the window only opened enough to let a
well-buttered small child squeeze in,' the locksmith said. 'But at least you
now have locks to all the ground-floor windows. Well, Mr Forrister do you want
a lock on the letter box?' Forrister laughed awkwardly, 'Can
you fit a lock to the door-lock?' 'It would be a double-untumble!' Only just avoiding vituperative
language at having paid for excess security, Forrister smiled with unjustified
certainty of finding an empty home. Sure enough, there was no sign of
them in the lounge. They were in the kitchen. The chicken pieces were already
cooked and being consumed even though the rice wasn't quite ready. He hadn't
bought any rice! It took them a little longer to evacuate this time; including
the hot pots. No windows had been forced, obliging him to sit and
think, sipping the tea his neighbours had obligingly
brewed. The house was a mid-terrace so it was possible his attic had
ventilation gaps with the others. Maybe it was a human-sized portal to and from
the world next door: an alternative universe
where being deranged was normal. He stood hands on hips looking at the landing ceiling.
There was an attic trapdoor with a few scuffmarks around it corresponding to
minor carpeted detritus waiting to be vacuumed. He couldn't see a way to open
the trapdoor until he stood on a chair and on pressing one side he was nearly
concussed by a rapidly descending ladder. Rubbing his head he stood on a
boarded attic floor looking at an absence of bricks required to complete the adjoining
wall. It was a DIY task any fool could do and so he did. An evening visit to ‘Screw & Fix It’
with a reduction in his backyard brick patio
saw the partition made visitor proof. Thursday
'Awright, sir?' 'Oh, hi 'Two doors up from you, sir. We've been waiting for the
house-warming invite.' 'In the post. Hey, 'Oh, you mean the Neretva family,' she said. 'They don't speak much, do they?' he asked, then
whispered, 'are they illegal immigrants?' 'Naw, they're refugees from 'Do they have a TV?' I asked thinking maybe that's why
they visit so often. 'How should I know? You ask some strange questions, sir,'
she frowned at him. 'Do you want me to find out?' 'No, no. It's nothing,' he said not wanting to appear
even stranger. In any event he's blocked and locked them out for good. _____ He
paused at his front door. Experience has eroded his confidence. His right ear
was pressed up against the green gloss probing for even the faintest
manifestations of occupation. Not that he expected to hear filtered voices but
the untimely clatter of a teacup or a reverberation from Top of the Pops. No,
not only did he hear nothing, he was attracting strange looks from a Year 10
boy delivering papers. He opened the door and did his listening on the inside.
Was that a cough? Forrister rarely raged. His tirades
at the forgotten homeworks were an act but now he excoriated like a spurned
lover at the top of his hoarse voice. As they filed silently out, his clenched
fists wished he could hold on to one and demand, under torture if necessary, no
preferably, how and why they got in. He double locked the door and broke
the Running up Stairs world record to find the attic still intact and no
opened windows. He sipped the tea and thought it all through. He'd secured
doors and windows on the ground floor, window locks included on the second and
the attic bricked. There was another domain he hadn't considered. The cellar! The coffee table, with its tea, dived towards the television but Forrister ignored it and threw himself into the hall where a door should lead below. There below, in the gloom was an unlocked intervening door. It took a dragged heavy tea-chest and a wooden wedge to bar subterranean entry. Feeling pleased with finding the real entry point at last, Forrister had a peaceful night. Friday PC Grant stood
there with the Neretvas behind, grouped on the pavement. 'Mr John Forrister?' 'Yes. Good, you're taking action at
last.' 'This is Mr Neretva,' the officer
announced, turning to allow Forrister an uninterrupted view of the Bosnian with
his twitching Zapata. 'I know. He's the one…' 'He would like you to leave his
house Mr Forrister.' 'Wha…what?' '…and go to your own house, number 11A. Next door.'
Copyright © 2003 Geoff Nelder |