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.
No comments:
Post a Comment