varying sizes. That wasn’t right. Followed by a woman. The mother. The wrong mother. Perhaps it was the wrong car too. Just because it had stopped outside the right house, didn’t make it the right car. The wrong mother walked up the path of the right house and unlocked the front door and went inside. I crossed over. This was the house where I had dropped my grenade, but it had fallen into the wrong hands.
I took a step on to the path, and saw a face looking at me from a downstairs window. Another joined it. Two small faces looking at me. Then a third, trying to get in on the act. I smiled at them and they shot away from their post, the curtain swinging back into place. I kept smiling as I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I could hear their squeally voices inside, excited, I suppose, by the idea of a stranger at their door. The three little pigs.
It was the mother who opened the door. It was teatime, but she had the chain across. It wasn’t midnight, for goodness’ sake, it was teatime. Broad daylight. And I was smiling at her. I wouldn’t be smiling if I meant them any harm.
‘Good afternoon. I’m so sorry to bother you …’ Pause for emphasis. To demonstrate I really was sorry. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with an old friend – Catherine Ravenscroft. She used to live here, I believe …’ Blink. Refresh smile. ‘I popped a birthday present through the door a few weeks ago, but haven’t heard anything and … well, that’s not like her.’
‘They moved,’ she said. Not returning my smile even slightly.
‘Aah, that explains it. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her and the family. I wonder …’ Pause again. Don’t want to appear pushy. ‘Do you have an address for her?’ Another blink. I am old, frail. And it’s cold out here. Be kind to me.
She shook her head.
‘No,’ and she began to close the door. The bloody cheek of it. Quick as a flash my foot went in.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be a pest, but it is important I get in touch with her.’
The three little pigs were now twitching behind their mother.
‘Get your foot out of my house,’ she said. And she meant it. Cold as you like. Of course I withdrew my foot immediately. And apologized. And she slammed the door on me. I hadn’t intended to frighten her – that was the last thing I wanted. Frankly, it was counter-productive. I couldn’t just leave it there, though. I needed to know whether she had forwarded on my package. So I settled down on her doorstep, on my aching knees and pushed my fingers through her letterbox.
‘Please. At least tell me whether you forwarded on my gift.’ And then a stroke of genius. ‘I’m her godfather, you see. I’d hate her to think I hadn’t remembered her birthday.’
‘Muuuuuum,’ an appeal from one of the piglets. Actually, I’ve always been fond of pigs. Intelligent, loyal creatures. Mummy wasn’t being very kind to this old man.
‘Yes, I sent on a package. Now go away. They asked us not to give out their address. Go away or I’ll call the police.’
Up I got again. A creak, an ache, but all was not lost.
‘Thank you so much,’ I murmured as I moved up past the letterbox. I’d got the wrong house, and my little missile had taken a more circuitous route than I would have liked, but it sounded as if it might have gone off after all.
I continued to check for reviews, but still nothing. I kept track of her with the help of my laptop. I’d become addicted, needing an ‘online’ fix every few hours. Occasionally I was rewarded with something new. Moving pictures with sound. A talky. Goody goody. There she was with her husband. What a comfortable-looking man. They were all dressed up on a night out. Clever girl. She’d won an award: Catherine Ravenscroft’s brave documentary exposing the grooming of young girls … Oh, the delicious irony. I couldn’t wait to hear her voice. I closed my eyes and let the sound wash over me: ‘I would like to
I took a step on to the path, and saw a face looking at me from a downstairs window. Another joined it. Two small faces looking at me. Then a third, trying to get in on the act. I smiled at them and they shot away from their post, the curtain swinging back into place. I kept smiling as I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I could hear their squeally voices inside, excited, I suppose, by the idea of a stranger at their door. The three little pigs.
It was the mother who opened the door. It was teatime, but she had the chain across. It wasn’t midnight, for goodness’ sake, it was teatime. Broad daylight. And I was smiling at her. I wouldn’t be smiling if I meant them any harm.
‘Good afternoon. I’m so sorry to bother you …’ Pause for emphasis. To demonstrate I really was sorry. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with an old friend – Catherine Ravenscroft. She used to live here, I believe …’ Blink. Refresh smile. ‘I popped a birthday present through the door a few weeks ago, but haven’t heard anything and … well, that’s not like her.’
‘They moved,’ she said. Not returning my smile even slightly.
‘Aah, that explains it. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her and the family. I wonder …’ Pause again. Don’t want to appear pushy. ‘Do you have an address for her?’ Another blink. I am old, frail. And it’s cold out here. Be kind to me.
She shook her head.
‘No,’ and she began to close the door. The bloody cheek of it. Quick as a flash my foot went in.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be a pest, but it is important I get in touch with her.’
The three little pigs were now twitching behind their mother.
‘Get your foot out of my house,’ she said. And she meant it. Cold as you like. Of course I withdrew my foot immediately. And apologized. And she slammed the door on me. I hadn’t intended to frighten her – that was the last thing I wanted. Frankly, it was counter-productive. I couldn’t just leave it there, though. I needed to know whether she had forwarded on my package. So I settled down on her doorstep, on my aching knees and pushed my fingers through her letterbox.
‘Please. At least tell me whether you forwarded on my gift.’ And then a stroke of genius. ‘I’m her godfather, you see. I’d hate her to think I hadn’t remembered her birthday.’
‘Muuuuuum,’ an appeal from one of the piglets. Actually, I’ve always been fond of pigs. Intelligent, loyal creatures. Mummy wasn’t being very kind to this old man.
‘Yes, I sent on a package. Now go away. They asked us not to give out their address. Go away or I’ll call the police.’
Up I got again. A creak, an ache, but all was not lost.
‘Thank you so much,’ I murmured as I moved up past the letterbox. I’d got the wrong house, and my little missile had taken a more circuitous route than I would have liked, but it sounded as if it might have gone off after all.
I continued to check for reviews, but still nothing. I kept track of her with the help of my laptop. I’d become addicted, needing an ‘online’ fix every few hours. Occasionally I was rewarded with something new. Moving pictures with sound. A talky. Goody goody. There she was with her husband. What a comfortable-looking man. They were all dressed up on a night out. Clever girl. She’d won an award: Catherine Ravenscroft’s brave documentary exposing the grooming of young girls … Oh, the delicious irony. I couldn’t wait to hear her voice. I closed my eyes and let the sound wash over me: ‘I would like to
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