Grumpy Oldie Man
Welcome to my Gothic House of Horrors A nightmare day in a grotesque corner of Shepherd’s Bush matthew norman
An echo of Arthurian legend has visited my home – and, purely for the variety, thanks must be given for that. For so long, the literary flavour clinging to the property has tended exclusively towards the Gothic. Anyone glancing in from the street will be put in mind of Baron Frankenstein’s castle, albeit shrunken, decayed, and mystically transported from a German hilltop to Shepherd’s Bush. No one could walk the short patch of gravel from gate to front door without anticipating its being opened by a hunchback called Igor, who will slowly turn his head while intoning, ‘Earthlings again, master.’ In its defence, the front garden has looked worse. It’s very late in the season, yet still there is no desiccated Christmas tree shedding needles by the bins (if only because the tree remains, fully dressed, in the sitting room). Not that my son was notably impressed when, on his latest charity visit from Dorset, we sashayed along the wholly unlit path. ‘Always a joy,’ he murmured, taking in the empty crisp packets, KFC cartons and amply used condoms that thoughtful passers-by seem to enjoy lobbing over the wall, ‘to return to the House of Usher.’ If his tone suggested a certain reluctance about entering the residence, the beware-what-you-wish-for epiphany was close at hand. Entry was denied when the key, clearly relishing its chance to add to the aura of despair, became stuck in the lock. I turned it one way, then the other. It traversed barely a sixth of an inch in either direction. ‘Let me try,’ he said. ‘I have a way with locks.’ His confidence, though touching, was misplaced. ‘It’s stuck,’ he admitted. ‘Ya think?’ I replied, quick as a flash. What two gentile men would do in such an event is a mystery only they 10 The Oldie March 2022
could resolve. What these two Jewish men did was sit on a crumbling wall, resignedly nodding their heads, muttering, ‘Yup, yup, oh yup,’ at each other through rigidly pursed lips. ‘Tremendous fun as this is,’ Louis said, ‘I’m not convinced it’s helping. What are we going to do?’ ‘The one thing we are not going to do,’ I said, ‘is call an emergency locksmith.’ ‘But of course not,’ he replied, ‘because that would be crazy.’ ‘I am not spending £150 on something we could easily fix if we could only get inside.’ ‘We?’ he reiterated. ‘OK, not us. Obviously not us. But someone who knows what to do with a screwdriver.’ We relapsed into silence, staring forlornly at the bag of cooling, congealing Chinese takeaway, until he said he didn’t suppose I had remembered to lock the back door. I supposed nothing of the kind. ‘Then I’m going over the neighbour’s wall.’ The phone call, when it came, lacked encouragement. ‘You remembered,’ said Louis, with less admiration than I felt this demanded, ‘to lock the back door.’ And then, noting the extreme unlikelihood that I’d also locked the veranda door, he made a declaration loosely in the style of Captain Oates. ‘I’m going to climb up. I may be a while.’ ‘Should I ring for the ambulance now,’ I enquired, ‘or wait till it happens?’ He pondered for some time. ‘Wait till it happens. Just in case the 999 guys
‘We moved the elephant to a room’
aren’t keen on responding to potential accidents. Give me five minutes.’ Within four came the miracle. A light was illuminated within, and he opened the front door from inside. ‘But, but … but…?’ I stammered. ‘I know, I know,’ he said, grinning, ‘I put a chair on a table, and clambered up.’ ‘But, but…’ ‘I know. I didn’t fall.’ We embraced, and I told him I’d never been prouder. ‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘It’s a shock victory over my genetic and sexualpreference stereotypes.’ I considered rebuking him for the homophobia, but decided this would ruin the mood. The mood didn’t last long. Impervious to the jiggling, caressing and eventually frantic punching, the key remained immovably stuck. ‘Do you not think it’s time…’ began my son. ‘I am not,’ I interrupted, ‘calling a locksmith. Let it stay where it is. We’ll have to use the upstairs door for now, and wait for someone to show up who can pull it out.’ ‘Ah, I see, the key is Excalibur,’ said Louis, drawing heavily on his Englishliterature degree. ‘This is good. You’re seasoning Edgar Allan Poe with a sprinkle of Mallory.’ Almost a week has now passed. The key continues to poke invitingly out from the lock, clearly visible from the street, yet still not an Arthur in sight. ‘Fascinating criminological experiment as this is,’ my son pointed out when he rang from Dorset yesterday, ‘don’t you think you should at least hide the key from public view?’ And how did he imagine I could do that? ‘Its seasonal debut is way overdue,’ he said. ‘Put the Christmas tree in front of the door. In the Camelot House of Usher, there couldn’t be any better camouflage than that.’
