If you are one of those people who like to know what goes on behind closed doors, this is your big moment; though I must warn you that we have three doors and two doorbells to our house. Consequently, there are frequent moments of confusion, when I have to come to the aid of the unsuspecting.
And once inside the house the problem can persist, for it seldom occurs to the first time visitor, (or the second time visitor for that matter), that it might be a good idea to plan the return journey as they make their way through the rambling downstairs; a good test, I believe, of intuition. But oh! I too have made a mistake, for I should have told you at the outset that there are two entrances to the property, which is where the problems usually begin.
One morning early, while talking to the men who had stopped to empty our bin, one of them, (without malice), told me that they shouldn't be emptying it, because officially, our address was just around the corner on Believe It Or Not Lane; and that made it the responsibility of a different refuse crew. But in his thick Norfolk accent, the man was sympathetic: "You haven't been here long, have you?"
Well, when I mentioned this to a friend, I was told that in Norfolk, four years is nothing. You have to be here at least twenty before people even begin to stop thinking of you as an outsider. And something else about the local mindset that is interesting.
The corner of St. Jude's Road and Believe It Or Not Lane is the line of demarcation for those delivering junk mail; those seeking souls for Christ, and those whose job it is to persuade us, that we have a raw deal from our present suppliers of gas and electricity. Strangely, and though I am almost always about, I never see the hand of those who slip the junk mail through the letterbox. And though I send them away, I am always respectful to Jehovah's Witnesses: not because I share their point of view, but because I am mindful of Christ's response to his disciples, who, having lost sight of their calling, were arguing among themselves as to which of them was the greatest. And complaining, that a stranger was casting out demons in Jesus name. After Jesus had settled the first part of the argument, by placing a child among them, and reminding them, that whoever is the least is the greatest, John chipped in:
"Master, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he does not follow with us." But Jesus said to him, "Do not stop him; for whoever is not against you is for you." (Luke: 9, 45-50.)
As for salespersons, I am instinctively distrustful of them. Instead of getting to the point they waffle, and insult my intelligence with a patter that is calculated to confuse, and to hoodwink me into believing that they know to whom we pay our utility bills. So with confidence they assert that we are ripe for a better deal. And I especially dislike the insincerity with which they ask, "How are you today?" And if you are truly alert, it will already have occurred to you, that because our house can be approached from two directions, we frequently get two lots of the same junk mail, four Jehovah's witnesses, (where two to any one house are deemed sufficient). And from the same team scouring the neighbourhood for business, salespersons in duplicate.
And you would be surprised how two of anything can cause a problem in the minds of some.
A peculiar feature of Believe It Or Not Lane is, that there are big gaps in the house numbers. Not all the houses were built at the same time, and this leaving of gaps was a far-sighted way of allowing for building in the future. So 2, 4 and 6, are followed by 12, 16 and 20; and if the Scouts were rash enough to abandon their den, 18 could be built there. And to make matters worse, when we first arrived, and for a few years after, our house had no visible number; something that didn't change until I came across a fraught ambulance crew on the drive. They had come to collect Jenny whose breathing difficulties, it was feared, were caused by embolisms; and it was clear that they had struggled to know where to find her. So I put the number up twice: once on either side of the concave entrance to the drive, the idea, being, that motorists coming from either direction along Believe It Or Not Lane would spot it easily.
Well, some time later, I noticed that one of the number plates was hanging limp. And when I examined it, I was convinced that someone had tried to hack it from the wall. Try as I might I couldn't undo the remaining screw, nor could I get sufficient grip behind the plate, to lever it away. So I left it dangling and took some consolation from knowing that however peculiar, motorists would still be able to read it. Six weeks or so later it was gone, and all that remained of its passing were slithers of brick from where it had been hacked away. These days I am never in a hurry, which was why I hadn't got around to replacing it. But I have promised myself often since, that when I do, I will get the bastard who did it. Not only will I screw the new plate to the wall, but I will set it in a thick dollop of superglue. So nextime, should he find the challenge irresistible, he will have to take the wall as well.
Now for those who know where the front door is, the two most routine visitors, are the postman and the dog. The dog: because every time she attacks it, the postman goes away. And satisfied that she has successfuly protected the rest of the pack from intruders, she goes back to bed. But talking to the postman recently, he made an interesting observation: "I can always tell whether or not someone is in", he said. "How's that?" I asked. "Well", said he, "When someone is in, the dog attacks the door and then looks over its shoulder. And if no one is in, it just keeps looking at me".
And a few nights ago while I was working here at my desk, I heard a tap on glass, a sure sign that someone had come to the wrong door. And when I went to the front door, there was no one there. Going in to what we call the Verandah Room, I peered through the door into the darkness and could just make out the outline of a 4ft 8in Santa. "Come around to the front door", I said through the glass, (just in case the mafia were hiding behind him), while indicating which way to go. And sure enough, as soon as he appeared he began singing, "We wish you a Merry Christmas".
Though I try not to show it, something else that I don't like, are people to whom I have opened the door, who are sloppy. They have a good idea, but they are not remotely interested in the effort required to make it work. What I have in mind here, are teenagers, ill prepared, who are pretending to be ghosts. Or carolers, bedraggled, who don't look remotely festive, don't care how they sound, don't know more than the first few lines of the carol that they have decided to sing, and sing it without reference to the words. But I had an instant liking for the young boy whose features were disguised as Santa. "You're a bit early," I said. "Am I?" he said. "Yes, and you need a bit of harmony. Come back in a few day's time and bring a few friends," I said, before adding, "You're a very lonely looking Santa, all on your own".
Well, I hope he comes back with a few friends, because he was the most interesting Santa that has come to our door in ten years: He was polite, enterprising and honest. And well you might ask how I know. I know because of the way he responded to my suggestion that he was, "a bit early", for he stopped, all be it for a nanosecond, to consider the possibility that - I might be right.
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© Cormac McCloskey
Note: This blog, "A Story", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 23rd December 2008
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