BARTLEBY

Doors of protection

The other day I took the front door off its hinges. I’d seen people do this before, but it still took me about five years to pluck up the necessary courage. The door in question is old. It might even be as old as the house, which was constructed by Edwardian jerry builders using secondhand bricks and coal dust. As a modern door it’s a failure, offering little in the way of insulation. And with the winter rain it swells in the frame so that leaving the house becomes a nightmarish struggle. Every winter I promise myself I will do something about it, but then summer rolls around and the door shrinks and… you know the story.

This year I had no excuse. Having spent a sizeable chunk of lockdown reading John Le Carre and puzzling over crosswords, I owed the old house some attention. In August I tried unscrewing the hinges but couldn’t get the screws to budge. Time ambled by. A month later I was back, equipped with a cordless electric screwdriver that LIGHTS UP when you pull the trigger. With this lure I coaxed Master Bartleby into helping me, and we were off…

One thing a lifetime of occasional DIY-type bodging has taught me is that you should never do anything that can’t be undone. I once dismantled a tap to change the washer, which turned out to be of an unusual size that was no longer made. When I put the old one back in and turned on the water, the tap gushed uncontrollably, so I ended up calling a plumber to fit new taps. And now here I was, messing about with the front door. The front door! As the screws were pulled reluctantly from their hinges I wondered what I would do if they refused to go in again. Then the door broke free, instantly becoming a dead weight. Fortunately my helper’s attention span had not quite reached its limit, and he grabbed the toppling door. Together we manoeuvred it onto its side, sticking out into the front garden.

I’m not sure what kind of wood the door is made of but it had been sorely tested by years of damp. Thankfully I had some wet rot wood hardener left over from previous bodging and this we applied, followed by wood filler (ditto) and, after a light sanding, undercoat. This performance was observed by a succession of neighbours and tradesmen. “About time you got rid of that old door,” said one approvingly. And then somehow it was 3.30pm and, as I applied a coat of gloss, next door’s kids appeared at the gate. “Why is he painting a DOOR?” they asked their mum, who gave an embarrassed shrug. “It sticks,” I said, “in the winter.” The children stared. “Why doesn’t he buy a new one?”

“We like our door,” I said rather defensively, and I realised as I said this that it was true. The door has always been there, standing between us and the world outside. Our kids have trapped their fingers in it, grown tall enough to open it, slammed it after a row. And now here I was, giving something back at last.

Young Master B appeared, asking when I needed help again as he had to go out. “Won’t be long now,” I told him, trying to remember how long gloss paint takes to dry. The dog appeared, stared at the door for a moment, then gave me a pitying look and went back to the couch. The boy went out. Darkness came and the temperature dropped, but fortunately there was no sign of rain. Ms B came to see if I wanted something to eat. “I’d better stay here with the door,” I said. “Someone might steal it.”

“Who on earth would steal a door?”

“You never know,” I said, going in search of a camping chair. I unfolded it beside the supine door, and settled down to wait. ■