Southend U3A

March 2023

The Stranger - Anne Wilson

There was no forewarning. Not a sound or feeling that another person had entered the room. He suddenly found a stranger standing over him, having seemingly materialised out of nowhere – a tall, shadowy figure with a thin, saturnine face.

‘I didn’t hear you knock,’ he admonished him. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I don’t ever knock,’ was the curt reply.

The stranger’s arrogance riled him.

‘Now, look here,’ he said, bristling. ‘You can’t just come into my home like this without an invitation.’

‘I think you’ll find that I can,’ the stranger responded calmly. He looked round the living room.

‘Some very nice pieces,’ he commented, lifting up a bone china plate. ‘In fact, a nice room altogether.’

His reaction went from irritation to fear in one fell swoop. Was this man a burglar? If so, he was, to quote the modern idiom, a ‘burglar with attitude.’ What sort of thief enters the house he is about to rob and has the audacity to appraise his potential spoils with the owner sitting right there in front of him?

His annoyance turned to panic. Did this man intend to harm him in some way if he didn’t comply with handing over his treasured possessions? He needed to keep him on his side and took a deep breath.

‘Look here. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. Just tell me what you want me to hand over and you can be on your way. I give you my word that I won’t take things any further.’

The stranger laughed. Devoid of any genuine mirth, it was not a pleasant sound.

‘I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain with me, Henry,’ he responded dryly. ‘I call the shots in this situation.’

The sound of his own name coming from his visitor’s lips startled him.

‘How do you know who I am?’ he spluttered.

‘I know everything about you, Henry,’ he responded in his haughtily superior manner. ‘I know your name, when you were born, where you went to school, what you did for a living. I even know what you think and feel.’

A chill went through him. His caller was obviously deranged.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ the stranger asked as if he were an invited guest instead of someone who had barged his way unannounced into a private residence.

He felt anger rise, and, as was so often the way when he was riled, it took the form of withering sarcasm.

‘Please do. What’s mine appears to be yours, after all.’

‘Come on, Henry. Don’t get touchy.’ The stranger leaned forward in his chair.

‘How’s Annabelle?’ he asked, smiling an irritatingly knowing smile.

They

stared at each other for some time. ‘I dislike pretentiously lengthy names,’ he continued.

‘It was our choice,’ said Henry, finding himself on the defensive, but knowing secretly that their child’s name had been his wife’s choice and not his. The stranger shook his head.

‘The trouble is that names like that always get shortened to something more matey and accessible, so the original intention invariably flies out of the window. Come on, now, Henry, what does everyone call her?

‘I suppose that’s a rhetorical question,’ was the reply. ‘After all, you know everything about me.’

‘I would hazard a guess that everyone calls her ‘Bella,’’ his caller replied without missing a beat.

The man was beside himself with smugness. He was right, of course.

Henry rose from his chair.

‘I think you should leave now.’

‘And I think you’re being unreasonable, Henry. I’d like to stay for a time if it’s alright with you.’

Once again, Henry felt he had been blind-sided. The stranger was no burglar, or even a smooth-talking conman. He was playing games for an unfathomable reason. In a desperate bid, he played his trump card.

‘My wife’s out shopping but she’ll be back soon. I really don’t want her to find you here.’

‘Why not, Henry?’ You and I have identical taste in all things. I’m sure she and I will get along famously.’

There was a snide insinuation behind the remark and Henry felt his hackles rise. He tried to stand up from the sofa but his legs turned to jelly and he fell back again.

‘Why are you taunting me?’ he asked, his voice quivering. ‘What’s your name? What are you doing here?’

‘You know my name,’ the visitor responded. ‘It’s Henry.’

‘But that’s my name,’ the figure on the sofa whimpered, burying his head in his hands.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said the stranger. ‘That addled brain of yours just hasn’t worked it out.’

The stranger turned his head and Henry lifted his from his hands as they both heard the front door open. A woman carrying several shopping bags, each crammed to the brim, almost fell into the living room with the effort. She dumped them on the floor when she saw her husband’s face; her own crumpling in the process.

‘Henry. Whatever’s the matter?’

Her husband suddenly found the strength to stand up.

‘Look at him’, he said excitedly, pointing his finger. ‘He invited himself in and now he wants to stay here. Tell him he’s got to go.’

To his surprise she ignored the man sitting in full view of both of them and instead, reached across to Henry and touched him tenderly on the cheek.

‘Oh, Henry. Not again. I thought you were getting better.’

Her husband looked at her, a supercilious smirk on his face and, in a voice she didn’t recognise, reassured her.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be very happy. You have some very nice pieces. In fact, it’s a lovely room.’