This story was published in Words, a quarterly magazine sold in aid of the Winnicott Baby Unit charity. It appeared in issue 57, in early 2006, and was published before I started to write under my usual pen name of today. I received no fee (not expecting one) but did get a free copy of the mag. It seems to have stopped publication now, in common with a lot of the small literary magazines that used to be around.
The Winnicott Foundation, however, that raises funds for premature and sick babies, still exists. You’ll find it here, should you want to give them a donation.

A Change of View

I heard them long before they came into view, approaching along the street like a mob. You’d never have thought it were Sunday morning; racket they were meckin’.

‘Hope they’re not coming to view,’ I said to meself. When you’ve been on your own as long as me, you start talking out loud to yourself. It’s a bit of company, like. I get lonely sometimes.

Anyway, they were; coming to view.

I made it to the top of the stairs, so I could see straight down, along the hall passage and through that new patterned glass to the path outside. I were anxious I might not make it downstairs in time.

A young man led them to the door. He crouched down to the letterbox straight away but he were right on the icy patch I’d made and it worked a treat. As I were easing meself down the top step, he went flying; base over apex onto the garden. Unfortunately, the snow and frost stopped him getting too much mud on his Sunday clothes.

I edged down as fast as I could; me legs ain’t so good now. The way they fussed over him: you’d think he’d broken a bone. Folk do make a palaver nowadays

They brushed him down and clucked over him like a lot of hens. Moaning about the puddle in front of the door; threatened to mend the path as soon as they could. Over my dead body! Cheeky devils, they hadn’t even set foot inside yet.

By this time, I were down the stairs. The lad were crouching again, steadied by a young woman and an older man. His fingers were through and on the string even as I hobbled along the hall. I soon put a stop to that! Stopped the key from moving.

‘It’s stuck on something,’ he told them. ‘I’ll take off my glove and try again.’

Couldn’t have been better. Exposed skin on such a cold morning. I waited for the unprotected fingers to come back through the flap, lifted it and then let it go. That spring’s quite strong and the flap snapped down with a right crack on his knuckles.

‘Bloody ding-dong!’ he yelled.

I used the manic laugh but the older folk were nagging him for swearing on a Sunday, so no one heard.

He were a game young man, though: came back for more. Those fingers returned. This time I put a bit of resistance against the back of the flap. He pushed hard, weren’t going to give in easily. I stopped resisting and the sudden release made him stick his hand through the gap and crash into the door. I thought he were going to come through the glass.

Laugh? I damn near died.

And then, whilst me guard were down, the young whippersnapper got the key and let them into the house!

In they all trooped, bringing the frosty air with them. It’s not so much the cold I dislike: don’t feel it these days; it’s that sudden intrusion of the outside into the inside.

Proud young man he were, trailing wife to be, his mother and father, her father and mother, and, worst of all, a dog! A nasty cute-looking little mongrel.

They took no notice of me but the dog stood frozen to the spot in the open doorway and had to be lifted inside. At least I had it scared; it’s those that bark and slaver I can’t stand.

They all crowded into the hall passage, clapping their hands together and stamping their feet to get the snow off, making such a din.

‘Now, now, let’s not be grinding snow into this new carpet,’ said bride’s father.

‘Absolutely,’ agreed lad’s dad with a wink.

No idea what they were talking about. There aren’t no carpets: never have been. The most that’s covered these floors is a few rugs and mats and the odd bit of lino. Bare boards when this mob arrived.

They sauntered into the front parlour, and I followed, to keep an eye on things. The girl’s father noticed the damp patch under the bay straight away.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ young clever clogs assured him, ‘Estate Agent said the window broke and let the rain in. Get a bit of warmth in here and it’ll soon dry out.’

Fool! It’s the sill what’s rotten and lettin’ the rain in. Still, they all seemed satisfied with his explanation.

I went right into the room. Being without Elsie for so long, I had a hankering for some close female company and the young wife were really pretty. As she turned from the window, I saw her better. Then I remembered them; they’d been once before, with the Estate Agent, a few days before.

‘Nice size room, for a couple, this,’ said the wife’s mother.

She meant the room were too small for her liking. Well, it would be. Never meant for such a crowd. When Elsie and I had it to ourselves, it were nice and cosy of a Sunday afternoon.

‘New floorboards in this corner,’ the wife’s father pointed out.

‘There’s odd new boards all over the house,’ the young man told them proudly, ‘Agent said it shows the place is well maintained.’

Well, if you’ll believe that…

‘Don’t think much of the décor,’ young man’s mother observed.

Now, until she said that, she were the only one I had any real time for. I could tell she had it worked out; knew about me. Too wise to say anything just then, of course, but she knew all right.

Still, I don’t see why I should care what she thought of the decoration; nothing to do with me. The builder who bought the house did that and I were none too fond of it meself. But you tend to get protective about your home and any adverse comment’s like a criticism of you, not just the house.

‘Elderly couple had it before,’ the young man explained. ‘Soon get decorated in a more modern style.’

Nice. Not only do they not like it, but they blame me! Still, I had to smile; the way that paper had been put on those walls it would fall off soon anyway.

They all filed into the sitting room. Much bigger, and full of light now the sun had emerged from the clouds.

‘This room’s got real potential.’ Wife’s mother were ecstatic. ‘You’ll be taking that awful old cupboard out, of course.’

If they did, they’d have to plaster two walls.

Wife’s father were at the back window, looking down the garden.

‘I do like sash-cords,’ he told us. ‘Nice, old-fashioned windows.’

Yes. Wonderful. Let in the draughts in winter and impossible to open on hot days. Lovely.

In the kitchen, they admired the big new window, blissfully ignoring the view of next door’s blank brick wall.

When the wind’s in the northwest, the rain runs down the outside of the house and into the kitchen through the gap at the top where the builder couldn’t be bothered with sealant.

At last, the young wife made a comment, heard only by her man, and me, as she whispered into his ear. If I could, I’d have blushed. I mean I’m as broadminded as the next man but, well, the young hussy! Mind you, she were right, she’d not be overlooked. Of course, he were beaming all over his face as he led the party out and up the stairs.

By the time I got up there, they’d done the tour and were congregating right there on the landing. In my place. My final resting place.

The dog were in a real state as I moved towards them. And the lad’s mother were getting more and more agitated as I built up my annoyance. I’m sure she were about to say something to put them off.

But then I took to considering the wife’s suggestion in the kitchen. There were no doubt it’d be more interesting to view than the brick wall.

‘Long way from the bathroom to the bedroom,’ his dad observed.

‘Wrapped in a towel,’ the lad whispered in the bride’s ear.

‘Or less,’ she giggled. Right forward she were, not like women in my day.

‘Just have to warm each other up when we get into bed,’ he whispered back.

Shocking. Bad as each other.

Then I thought of her passing by every day; fine young lass. It’d be compensation for the intrusion and loss of privacy. And it were quite ironic that I were on the same journey when me heart finally gave out and I collapsed on the landing. Mind you, I were wearing pyjamas.

They moved me body, of course, buried it someplace. But there are rules about that sort of thing. Wherever you draw your last breath, that’s your base for eternity. No choice. You can wander a few dozen paces this way or that but there’s no leaving. That’s why I feel so sorry for my Elsie; she drew her last in a hospital bed. Heaven alone knows how many other poor souls passed on before her in the same space. It must be so crowded in there!

I can’t really complain about my spot; at least it’s mine. And with these two living here, I’d not be so lonely and there’d be something to amuse me.

‘Do you know?’ the lad’s mother observed, ‘I was feeling rather unsure about this place at first; there was an unwelcome feel to it.’

They all looked at her, waiting.

‘Funny, all of a sudden I feel quite certain this house will welcome you.’

With that, they all trooped back downstairs. I weren’t too sure about the dog, and it weren’t too sure about me. But, in a manner of speaking, I could live with that. I decided against the usual door slamming, moaning in the corridor and toilet flushing I’d employed to put off other buyers. I’ve been on me own too long. Anyway, it turned out the dog belonged to her parents so it weren’t likely to be about much.

In the hall passage, the two fathers had a quick discussion and announced they’d put up the deposit between them. It were settled; the party left in high spirits.

‘I like this house,’ lad’s mother said, ‘and I’m sure it likes you.’

From halfway down the stairs, I watched them as they carefully stepped over my patch of ice.

‘Oh well,’ I muttered, ‘I can’t have you, Elsie, but that young lass should see me through the next few years. And I can always haunt them from the house when I feel like a change of view.’

© Stuart Aken