Sunday 17 August 2014

23) When the Post Office Moved My House

It had been a lovely two week trip to the Canary Islands. It was what Dora had needed. The weeks leading up to it involved many arguments with her ex-husband about the miscommunication of dates he was available to look after their sun while she was gone. Prior to the agreement, her son William had been stubborn and awkward about living with his ‘scumbag father’ for two weeks. He worked the possibility he may not have to stay with him for everything it was worth and every evening ended in a row. Despite how badly his son had acted out, she looked forward to seeing him again. All mothers could only stay angry for so long.

The taxi stopped in the cul-de-sac of her address and looked out of his front windscreen.

‘Are you sure this is right love?’ he said.

Dora saw the street sign out of the window to her right and told the taxi driver they were at the correct address. She paid the driver, told him to keep the change and lugged her suitcase out onto the pavement. The taxi reversed wildly and bombed down the street. It was able to get away before Dora realised her house was no longer there. Everything else about the cul-de-sac was the same; Numbers 1-2 and 4-7 were there, but number 3 had vanished. Even the garden, including her decking, was gone.

The elderly man who lived next door came outside waving a red ticket in the air. He scratched his head as Dora examined the ticket. It was from the post-office about a missed delivery. The elderly man explained they had collected her house hours after she went on holiday; he assumed she had decided to move somewhere new. As Dora rang for a taxi, neither her nor the elderly neighbour having a car, the elderly neighbour continued to scratch his head.

The same taxi driver from before screeched around the corner and drove her to the post office. Dora could see her house in the storage space behind the main reception. She paid the driver, asking for the change this time, and handed in her ticket a woman who wore her beige trousers up above her belly button. She squinted at the ticket and nodded.

‘Ah yes, so a Mr William Battersby-Robson sent this parcel to the address of Mr Roger Robson, who then tried to send it back to Mr William Battersby-Robson who was unable to collect the parcel,’ she said.

‘The parcel is my house!’ Dora said, ‘I want it back now.’

The woman behind the desk stared vacantly at Dora for a couple of seconds, then snorted oozing phlegm into the back of her throat.

‘I’m afraid we need the identification of Mr William Battersby-Robson as he is the recipient of the parcel.’

Dora rang William immediately. It went through to his answer phone: Hi, I can’t get to the phone right now as I’m soaking up the sun in a foreign country. If this is Mum, I hope you enjoy sleeping somewhere you don’t want to for a while. To everyone else, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.


Dora realised mothers could stay angry for a lot longer than she thought possible.

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