At The End

Contrary to local legend, the house was not at all likely to collapse once the scaffolding was removed. And I was about to prove that very point in front of the crowd that had started to gather before I was even half way up the ladder. A handful of drinkers had spilled out of the bar, into the car park of The Royal Archer, close neighbours wandered curiously down the hill, and various other passers-by, who sensing something was afoot had stopped on the wasteland opposite the house wanting, in some small way, to be a part of it.  

The scaffolding had been erected some fifteen years ago by our very own master property developer, as he embarked upon an ambitious renovation project. A project so forward thinking that it included the installation of a solar panel more than ten years before anyone else even realised that the world was overheating. For technical reasons the solar panel hadn't made it off of the sketch pad, the copper pipes and pinewood frame still lay in the back garden not far from the new bath that was to have been fitted once the solar panels were providing us with an endless supply of hot water. It wasn’t of course the fault of our master developer. He’d been let down by his scientific advisor; my chemistry teacher, who’d failed to provide him with a single correct answer. 

We counted ourselves extremely fortunate that in our master developer we had a man who was, as he would often explain, at the top of his game. But even for a man of his calibre it was near impossible to factor in sufficient allowance for the incompetence of others, especially in a project of this magnitude.

Underneath the bath, for example, covered in a thin layer of moss, was the door that used to divide the kitchen from the lounge. It had been removed to allow for the fitting of a new kitchen cupboard. The cupboard hadn't managed to escape the greenhouse, where it sat supporting the dozen or so tomato plants our master gardener bought in a fit of enthusiasm eight years earlier. They died of dehydration shortly after. That was the fault of my mother who spent so much of her day hidden behind the mountains of laundry surrounding the ancient twin tub that she failed to find an opportunity to water them. She didn't miss the door though, or perhaps more to the point, it was now the one door that she did miss. So for her it was actually a blessing and meant I’m glad to say, fewer bruises; if only we could have removed the stairs at the same time.

Reaching the top of the ladder, I suddenly realised that this was probably one of those times that either a commentator or reporter, always keen to put a name to such things, might describe as a ‘pivotal’ moment. And it seemed that the onlookers, who continued to grow in number and merriment, thought so too. As I turned to take a look, one of the more drunken spectators gave a loud cheer. Encouraged by the applause of his friends, he proceeded to raise his glass and shout ‘Harold! Harold!’ The crowd, wanting in, laughed their appreciation and one of their number yelled in reply ‘you dirty old man’. At the bottom of the hill a van pulled up and a camera crew jumped out. 

I turned away from them all, paused for a moment and whilst looking down at the house, pulled a large spanner from my pocket in a series of movements that were far more theatrical than was strictly necessary, and held it aloft for all to see. In front of me; the hole in the roof that was to have been filled with a skylight, below me; a community suddenly quiet in anticipation, and behind me; close to two decades at number nine.