Viewing Essential
Geoff Nelder

 

 

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 England.

            The Chester house was leased, fully furnished. He could afford it. In fact he could have had two for the price of the one London home. He laughed out loud this time then worriedly looked up and down the street in case his future neighbours gathered an exaggerated view of his madness. He'd better seek refuge in his house.

            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.

 

Monday

Car-less by London habit, Forrister smiled as he walked out of the school gates.

            '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?'

            'Kimberley, sir. Girlfriend?' she giggled as her friend pulled her away to nearly miss the bus.

            It was only a twenty-minute jaunty walk to Bouverie Street. Good, there was a convenience store on the corner. Looking forward to buying an Evening Leader to read with his tea he was nearly knocked over by a melee of Year 10 boys spilling on to the pavement. Maybe Bouverie Street was too close; just as well his lease was on a short leash.

            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 Kimberley. You live round here then?' Forrister said as he reached the corner of his road.

            'Two doors up from you, sir. We've been waiting for the house-warming invite.'

            'In the post. Hey, Kimberley, do you know my neighbours? They're um foreign.'

            '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 Bosnia. Their Triban sometimes plays with our David. So does Paraic from the other family in the street.'

            '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

Kimberley walked John Forrister home. He'd rather she hadn't but he had little say in the matter and at least there was sanctuary ahead. No need for furtive listening at the door. All the more upsetting then for the ineffable Forrister to discover the Neretva family in his lounge.  As they left, Mr Neretva paused and lifted a finger as if he was going to speak but changed his mind and left. Forrister was completely stumped. What had Kimberley said? There was another refugee family. Suppose they lived at number 9. He hadn't checked for doors and gaps in cellar and attic from that side. He'd been looking in the wrong direction all along. He was holding his head clamped between his hands when the doorbell rang.

            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
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"