Southend U3A

February 2024

Tap, Tap, Tap - Pete Norman.

There are times in our lives when a plan comes together . . .

. . . but there are also times when, according to Robbie Burns, ‘the best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, gang aft a-gley’ . . .

. . . and Barry and Carol Taylor were about have a shedload of ‘a-gley’.

However, we must start at the beginning . . .

Their original plan was quite simple. Their house in Islington was small, cramped, noisy and far from a decent secondary school and far from the green, green grass of the countryside and they wanted to move. The best time would be during the holidays in order to cause minimal disruption in Toby’s passage into seniors.

Their attempts at internet searching were not going well, as any property within commuting distance of London was in very high demand. The best advice the estate agents could give in such a bull market was to first sell their own house and then to rent where they wanted to be and, as first-time buyers, they would be in pole position.

It had all sounded so easy the way they said it but the logistics turned out to be far from easy. It was decided that Carol – with her work in London – and Toby – with his primary school two streets away, would stay and try to sell their house, while Barry, who could work from home, would rent a house in the leafy serenity of the New Forest which would form their temporary bridge between the old and the new.

Renting was supposed to be the simpler option, however Barry quickly exhausted all of the online companies and he decided to bite the bullet and take a few days off to do a physical trawl of the Hampshire Estate Agents – after all, once known, they must surely have some priority . . .

. . . however, time after time he received the same response: The government has changed the system and the bottom has fallen out of the rental market.

Totally demoralised, he had almost given up when he discovered a small independent agent a little off the beaten track. He had his fingers crossed as he pushed open the door and a loud bell above the door made him jump. Behind the desk, a white-haired old gentleman was slowly tapping his way through the computer keyboard with arthritic fingers. Without looking up he gestured vaguely to a chair while he completed his task.

When he finally looked up; a world-weary smile briefly crossed his lips. ‘I am Ferdinand Russell. What can I do for you, young man?’

Barry glanced at the very obvious pictures of houses above his head and said, ‘I’m looking for a short-term rental on a house, or a flat – furnished if possible but I’m getting quite desperate now and I would accept unfurnished as a last resort.’

Mr Russell turned back to his computer once more and the arthritic fingers tapped their way slowly though page after page. Eventually he looked up. ‘I’m afraid I don’t seem to be able to help you, young man. You see the . . .’

Barry cut in, ‘Yes, yes, I know all about the government interference. Thank you for your time.’ He stood up and, just as the annoying bell made him jump again, Russell called out, ‘There is maybe one . . .’

Barry hurried back to his chair.

On the screen was a small thatched cottage which looked a little run-down . . . but, what the heck, it’s only until the house is sold . . .

With an edge of excitement in his voice he said, ‘Could I have a viewing, please.’

Russell shrugged his shoulders. ‘No time like the present, I always say.’

If the office was a little off the beaten track, then the cottage itself was in the middle of nowhere and, as the car plunged deeper into the woodland, Barry kept repeating to himself, ‘It’s only until the house is sold . . .’

When they finally pulled up, Barry smiled. Face to face, the cottage took on a new persona: with a heavy covering of thatch, ‘run-down’ quickly became ‘quaint’. The front garden was indeed overgrown, the roses almost obscured by ivy and bind weed but it did have a sort of rustic charm and . . . it’s only until the house is sold . . .

Inside the cottage was indeed furnished but . . . Barry looked around an eclectic mix of dated furniture and furnishings but his initial thoughts were quickly subdued by the fact that it was this or nothing. However, amongst the stuff were some things which looked more like personal effects. He turned to Russell, ‘I thought you said it was vacant?’

Russell shrugged his shoulders. ‘The last occupant left without notifying us . . . and he was in arrears with his rent.’ He snorted and then added, ‘That was almost a year ago, so you might as well assume now that he is not coming back to collect his things. You can safely treat anything he left behind as part of the fixtures and fittings.’

As they walked back to the car, Barry was running the mantra around and around in his head . . . it’s only until the house is sold . . . and when they finally got back to the office he simply said, ‘I’ll take it.’

That night he shared the good news with Carol. He somewhat minimised the traumatic journey he had had and the eclectic state of the cottage and it was so pleasing to hear the relief in her voice.

He went through to grab a celebratory cold beer when he heard a faint sound . . .

‘Tap, tap, tap.’

Puzzled, he looked all around the kitchen but there was no dripping tap and nothing electrical was making a sound of any kind. He leaned down to pull out a beer and, as he stood up, he saw through the window the extended branch of some kind of thorny weedy thing protruding through the detritus that once used to be a rear garden. The branch was so close that this had to be the prime candidate. He vowed to cut it back tomorrow but then he quickly realised that he was not in any way responsible for the maintenance of the garden and, if he were to start, then there would be no end point in sight. The garden would just have to take care of itself – tap, tap, tap and all – besides, he thought, it wasn’t that loud.

The next few weeks passed without event in the cottage but, back in Islington, things were slowly but irrevocably moving. Carol had accepted an offer on the house, Toby was going through all of the last-minute celebrations at his primary and getting ready for the transition to secondary. When everything had settled and the summer holidays began, the family came over to spend some quality together.

Toby took one look and announced that it looked like the place where the Ewoks lived in Star Wars.

Carol was not quite so enthusiastic but she eventually gave in to Barry’s mantra, ‘it’s only until the house is sold.’

The following morning, Toby got up early and went exploring around the house. It was just perfect, it had so many secret nooks and crannies and so much weird stuff – a perfect world for an inquisitive 11 yr old boy.

When he got to the kitchen, he looked in all of the cupboards but there was nothing exciting there. He sneaked an orange juice from the fridge and headed back into the lounge and his mobile phone.

Tap, tap, tap.

He spun around and went back into the kitchen.

Tap, tap, tap

. . . a little louder.

He looked through the window and saw the thorny weed.

Tap, tap, tap.

Although the weed was close to the window it had not moved. Nothing else he could see would have made that sound. This was an adventure! He unlocked the back door and slid outside.

When Barry and Carol came downstairs there was no sign of Toby. Carol called out, ‘Toby – I’m doing breakfast.’ As she walked into the kitchen, she saw the back door was ajar. ‘Boys!’ she grumbled as she called out his name again.

Tap, tap, tap

The sound was eery and Carol looked again towards the open door.

Tap, tap, tap

. . . a little louder now.

She stood in the doorway and shouted out to him.

Tap, tap, tap

. . . the sound was now much louder, more insistent, demanding . . . A sudden gust of wind blew through the garden, swirled around her until she had to hold onto the door handle to keep her feet.

She screamed out, ‘Toby, Toby, where are you? Stop messing about and come in, I don’t like this one bit!’

. . . a stronger gust tore her hand from the door handle.

Barry wandered through to the kitchen but there was no one there.

Tap. tap, tap.

The sound was almost deafening.

Tap. tap, tap.

The back door was ajar. He shouted out to Carol and to Toby but there was no response.

Tap. tap, tap.

He stepped out of the back door and was almost swept off his feet. He clung onto the handle as the wind whipped around him, tearing at him, tugging at his feet – he was screaming out their names in terror.

TAP, TAP, TAP.

He heard a voice in the distance but it was not Carol, it was a male voice, a male voice shouting, ‘Hold onto the door . . . for God’s sake keep holding onto the door.’

TAP, TAP, TAP.

The wind redoubled its efforts but suddenly he saw through the dust storm a hand reaching out to him. Instinctively he snatched at the hand. With great effort, the vague shape of a man slowly emerged out of the dust.

The male voice screamed, ‘Come out . . . now!’

A female voice screamed out, ‘Toby, don’t let go of me!’

Another hand appeared, pulling herself and her son hand over hand along the man’s outstretched arm.

Carol reached the door and pulled her son through the doorway.

Barry, with all the energy he had left, dragged the man after them.

He slammed the door and threw the latch.

TAP, TAP, TAP.

They all ignored the demanding noise and fled into the lounge, where they stood, frozen in terror but the man recovered more quickly. He grabbed Barry’s arm and thrust him towards the front door. ‘Get your family out of here . . . do it now!’

Carol dragged Toby, while Barry grabbed his computer and followed. Once outside he saw flames and smoke rising around him.

‘Run! Get out of here!’ the man screamed.

When they got back to the car, Barry looked back. The house was completely engulfed in flames. The thatch had caught.

There was no way back now for the cottage.

He gunned the car towards civilisation again, without a backward glance . . .

. . . however, had he done so, he would have had a troubling sight . . .

An enormous gust of wind swirled around and around the cottage, engulfing the flames. The cottage writhed and creaked and moaned until at last a sudden calm broke the fury of the fire and the wind.

The cottage took back its old persona: ‘quaint’ with rustic charm and a heavy covering of thatch . . .

. . . waiting . . . just waiting . . .

Tap, tap, tap