Michael Abberton

An ordinary suburban street, and an ordinary house, 9 Hob Street. We go inside and we find a spotlessly clean and tidy, though somewhat old-fashioned interior, downstairs a parlour and kitchen diner leading to a well-kept lawn and herbaceous border. Upstairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom.  Here Agnes Williams lived her entire life, and the last twenty years alone after her husband Jack died. But she got on with her life, a pillar of the local community, she cared for those less fortunate, and she cared for this house, her home, as if it too were alive. If only these walls could talk, the lives, the laughter, and heartache they have witnessed. But perhaps they can, in the Twilight Zone. 

“Come on,” Betty shouted, standing on the doorstep. Frank closed the car door and locked it with his fob, fumbling with a mostly torn manila envelope before dropping the contents onto the ground at the front gate. 

“For god’s sake!” Betty said, exasperated, as she stepped down and then stooped to retrieve the bunch of keys. “Let’s get this done and over with.”

She turned on her heels and went back to the door, unlocking first a Yale and then a deadlock, before pushing the door open to reveal the entrance hall and the bottom of the stairs. She expected the house to smell bad but it didn’t – it smelled of fresh-cut flowers if anything. The hall was tiled – an original feature of the Victorian house apparently in a checkerboard pattern of black and white bordered by tiles in a russet earthenware. The stairs carpet, relatively new though in a traditional floral pattern, matched the warm red-brown colour. 

Betty went straight through into the parlour, or the front room. Sure enough there were fresh flowers in here on the mantelpiece and on the upright piano that nestled in its corner between the chimney breast and the front window. She heard the door close and Frank came in, tucking the envelope into the pocket of his Barbour jacket. 

“Wow, the old girl really kept the place up, didn’t she? I’ll bet the place is stuffed to the roof with antiques.” He went over to the fireplace and ran a finger across the top. “Look at this! Rip this out and that would be a couple of thousand, easy. And that chair,” he said, pointing at what had been the old woman’s favourite armchair, “it would need re-upholstering but look at the quality.” 

“Do shut up. It’s not Antiques Roadshow, all of this stuff is useless junk. My mother spent all my inheritance on this blasted hovel, and we won’t see a penny until it’s sold. If it would fetch a better price as is, then we’ll do that. If we have to gut the place and sell it as a do-upper, all the better.”

“Oh come on! We’re set up here. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! I’ll bet this chair has a label or craftsman’s mark on the bottom.” He tried to lift the chair by the arms, but he couldn’t move it an inch, as if it was nailed to the floor. 

“What the… it doesn’t look that heavy…” 

“Leave it. Let’s have a look in the kitchen.”

“Oh yes, the family silver!”

Betty sighed, unbuttoning her coat, and went into the kitchen. There was a dining table and four chairs at one end of the room, in good condition but more 1970 than 1870. Similarly, the appliances were late twentieth century, all spotless, and all working. Frank looked at the fridge, with its huge rotund door. He opened it and found again it sparkling clean as if new, with a fresh bottle of milk its only contents.

Betty picked up a piece of paper from the kitchen counter. “Dear Mrs Betty,” she read, disdainfully, “I am so sorry for your loss. Your mother was a lovely lady. I gave her a little dust now and then, so sad. I left some milk, tea bags, and sugar in case you like a brew. God Bless, Rosario.” 

“Well, nice. Did she mention biscuits?” 

Betty tossed the note back onto the counter and began opening cupboards and drawers. The dinner service was willow pattern but no doubt some cheap knock-off. The pots and pans were well used but scrubbed to a shine. 

“Where is the silver then?” said Frank, more serious this time. 

“There is no bloody silver. Just this,” she said, pointing at the cutlery drawer, lined with fresh newspaper and with a wooden tray with everything neatly in its own space – desert and soup spoons, knives, forks, and teaspoons. Frank picked up a couple. They were heavy, and there was a trademark.

“Sheffield Steel. That’s as good as silver for some collectors, you know!”

“I’ve no doubt,” Betty said, looking out through the net curtains to the garden. She remembered playing out there with her father, though most times he got home too late or was too exhausted from work to play. There was always something that needed doing; he always needed to work long hours of overtime to fix the roof, redecorate, get the wiring done, have a new bathroom fitted… always for the house. She didn’t hate the house; there were happy memories here, though her happiest memories were those made when they were away from here, on the few holidays they could afford or when she went to friends’ houses for what today’s children would call playdates or sleepovers. These thoughts always inevitably took her to a place she didn’t want to go, and so she immediately dismissed them. 

“Let’s look upstairs and then get out of here. I never want to come back. If you find anything you can take and sell, you do it. In fact, you can keep that money. But let’s be done with it.” 

“Gosh, thanks, Betty, love!” he said, leaning over to kiss her. She immediately recoiled and walked past him into the hall, and up the stairs. 

At the top of the stairs was the bathroom. The linoleum floor echoed the tiles of the hall but didn’t match the bathroom suite, which was a strange caramel colour. The bath had been replaced recently with a sitting shower/bath, one that the old lady could literally walk into and sit down. 

“That will have to go,” said Frank. “We’ll be looking to sell to young professionals, not old biddies! Ow!” A can of air freshener fell from somewhere and hit him on the head with a thunk before clattering on the floor. “You are such an oaf,” said Betty, sighing. 

Next was the small bedroom, that once had been Betty’s. There was nothing of that time now; all had been cleared when she left to go to college. Her father had turned it into a hobby room for a while, before the Alzheimer’s took its toll. After that, it had been repurposed into a well-appointed guest room, with the standing invitation for Betty to visit – before and after she married, but she had never stayed overnight here. 

The bed was freshly made, and two sets of towels were neatly folded at the foot. 

“Does that maid expect us to stay over too?” said Frank. “How many times have we been over since the…”

Betty suddenly noticed a bump under one of the pillows. She lifted it to straighten it and saw that beneath it, its legs tucked into the bed, was her old doll, Jemima. The doll’s blue embroidered eyes stared into hers, almost with pity. Betty pulled the doll from the bed and threw it against the opposite wall, where it slid down behind a chest of drawers. Frank, who had been looking through an old blanket box, looked up when he heard the impact but had seen nothing.

“What the hell was that?” he said. 

“Something… fell down,” said Betty, turning her face from him as she moved into the master bedroom. 

Immediately in from the door was the double bed, also freshly made, facing the window that looked over the street. All the furniture in here was old, heavy mahogany – demob furniture, from the bed frame and headboard to the centrepiece, a make-up/dressing table with heavy drawers on either side, and what was almost a full-length mirror in the middle. Betty opened the wardrobes, and here there was a very faint smell of moth balls, but all her late mother’s clothes, neatly hung and organised by colour, from red to blue. Shelves contained cardigans and jumpers, drawers for underwear. Everything in its place. 

Frank stopped in front of the mirror and smiled at himself, straightening his thinning black hair with a pretend comb. 

“Once we get the surveyor’s report done, this place will go in a week, you’ll see. I’ll have to get moving if I’m to sell… clear the place, I reckon.” 

“You can burn all this stuff for all I care.”

“You know, this place… there’s something about it though, eh? It’s got character. Better than our semi…”

She rounded on him, slamming one of the wardrobe doors. “We talked about this before. This place goes for sale, or it goes on fire.” 

“Well, look, it’s ours now, isn’t it? Perhaps if we did spend the night,” he said, half jokingly. 

Outside, Wayne McNeely was wandering down the street. He was starting to get strung out; he needed his next fix. He was checking the cars as he went along until he reached the one outside number 9. He stopped and looked around furtively. 

The passenger door was open. 

He’d heard of the police setting traps like this, to catch the unsuspecting and stupid thief or joyrider. He looked around again for twitching curtains or CCTV cameras, but saw nothing. He sat in the passenger seat and closed the door behind him softly. Again he was very suspicious, as the key fob was just right there on the driver’s seat. 

“This is mental,” he said to himself. “It’s gotta be a wind-up.”

“Oh come on! We’re set up here. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!” said a voice. 

“Yeah! You’re right!” Wayne said, picking up the fob and sliding into the driver’s seat. 

With hardly a noise, the electric motors quietly engaged, and Wayne drove away. 

Betty and Frank went back downstairs. It was starting to get dark outside, and Betty checked her watch. “We’d better be going,” she said, buttoning her coat. 

“Hang on, we’ve only done half a job,” he said, getting a notebook and betting-shop pen out of his pocket. “I’ll just do a quick appraisal, won’t be five minutes!” 

“I’ll go and sit in the car,” she said, taking her keys out of her bag and opening the door. She was at the garden gate before she noticed. She felt a sudden pang of anxiety and then anger as she looked up and down the street fruitlessly, before storming back into the house.

“Frank!” she shouted, “the car’s gone! Someone’s stolen the car!” 

“What?” he said, “that’s impossible. You need the fob.” He came back into the hall and looked out through the open door at the empty space where his car had been. 

“Well, here’s mine,” she said, holding up her keys. “Where’s yours? Did you leave your keys on the hall table?” 

“No, of course not, I’m not stupid!” he said, now frantically checking all his pockets. 

“You lost them, didn’t you? For god’s sake, Frank!” 

Frank went outside, as if him looking around might make the car reappear. 

“I’ll call the police,” he said, pulling out his mobile. 

No service, it said across the screen. 

“Have you got any bars?” he said, lifting the phone over his head and turning this way and that. 

Betty pulled out her phone, but before she could open the screen to dial, the power drained completely, and she was left looking at a black screen with an empty battery symbol. 

“My battery’s dead…” she said, before putting the phone back in her bag. 

“Bugger!” said Frank, coming back inside and closing the door. “Landline!” On the hall table stood an old-fashioned red plastic phone with a rotary dial. He picked up the receiver, but there was nothing, no dial tone. He put it down again. 

“Neighbours?” he said. 

“I don’t know them. I don’t even know where Rosario lives,” she said, more to herself than to him. 

“Well, they’ve got to have a phone.” Frank went back to the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s locked,” he said, rattling the door. 

“Stop being stupid, it’s not funny!” said Betty. 

“I’m not kidding. I can’t open it,” 

She pushed him out of the way and tried herself. It wouldn’t move. 

“Try the back door,” she said. Frank went through to the back, twisting the handle on the Yale lock before… this door too would not open.

“What’s going on?” said Betty.

“The doors could have swelled with damp… or it could be subsidence…” he said, still struggling with the door. 

“They were fine half an hour ago!” she said, rattling the front door. In desperation, she opened the letterbox and shouted “Help! Help!” but there was no response. She went to the front window, but these also would not open, as if painted shut. 

Frank came in, looking stunned. “Upstairs?” he said? Betty nodded, and so he went up the stairs two at a time. She could hear him storming around in the bedroom, and then some sounds of straining, before he came back down the stairs. 

“No joy there. We could try breaking the windows?”

“No,” she said, collapsing onto the sofa. Frank recognised the look on her face, and sat down beside her. 

“Look, Rosario will be round first thing, and we’ve got tea,” he said. 

She looked at him, her expression fixed. “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I can’t.” 

“It doesn’t look like we have much option,” he said, noticing the encroaching dark and looking for a light switch, before all the standing and reading lights came on by themselves. “Well, look at that, she must have had a sensor installed.” He got up and went towards the windows, and the curtains swished closed before he reached them. 

“We can put that down as a feature!” he said. “We’ll have to make the best of it. I’ll make some tea, you’ll feel better then. And I’m sure there’ll be some digestives at least somewhere!” 

He went through to the kitchen, his smile as false as his mood. There still had to be a way of escape. And the strange thing was he had checked the curtains before, and he couldn’t remember seeing a motor for closing and opening them automatically. 

Betty stared at the old TV set on the bookshelf, on the opposite side of the fireplace to the piano. At least it had a flat screen, and for that it seemed somewhat anachronistic. She found the remote on the table next to the armchair and switched it on. At first all there was was snow, but then the picture and sound resolved into one of her father’s favourite shows – The Good Old Days. Throughout the 1970s, this show had been broadcast from the City Varieties Theatre in Leeds, a facsimile of a 19th-century music hall. The audience all wore period costumes, and the acts were of a kind that would have been shown at the time: magicians, dancers, comedians, singers, and the singalong. There were two or three guest stars every week, though they would all play to the conceit, changing their accustomed performances to match the Victorian pattern. The compere, whose name she couldn’t remember, would introduce each act with the most ridiculous and longest words he could muster, like a walking thesaurus, before slamming down his gavel to bring them onto the stage. As the image cleared, she could see that this singer was Harry Secombe, another of her father’s favourites. 

Frank came back with a tray – the tea service was also willow pattern with a matching teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl. “You know, it’s the damndest thing. I looked in the biscuit barrel again, and there it was, full of fresh digestives. I could’ve sworn I checked there before. Anyway. Looks like they will be our only dinner and breakfast, so good thing really! Ah, you got the TV working. Tuned to one of those old channels on Sky, eh? It’ll probably be Dad’s Army or Colditz next!” 

“She didn’t have Sky or Wi-Fi,” Betty said absently, pouring milk into a cup. 

“Must be on Freeview…” he said, tucking into a biscuit. 

“Use a plate! Don’t want to get crumbs everywhere!” she snapped. 

“OK,” he said, taking a spare saucer from the tray. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t know why I said that…” 

“Quite alright, and right too, if we’re selling the carpet in place. And it’s quite nice too. Doesn’t seem hardly worn at all.” 

“It’s proper wool… lasts a lifetime…” 

“So it has as well. Oh look! That’s what-his-name… Roy Castle! He did Record Breakers.”

They finished their tea in silence, watching the TV, and indeed the next show started immediately the first ended, with no announcer or ad break, and it was Dad’s Army.  The platoon had captured a U-boat crew, and they were taking their orders for fish and chips. 

Before long, they both fell asleep. A fire started in the hearth and was soon burning heartily. The TV turned off. 

Frank woke up first and checked his watch – it showed half-past ten. He woke Betty up and took her upstairs to the guest room. The curtains were down and the bed had been turned down. Sitting between the pillows was a doll. Frank made note of it. Betty was barely conscious, so he helped her undress and get into the bed before following himself. The lights went out and the door closed. 

Betty woke up and sat up in the bed. She knew immediately where she was. Frank snored quietly next to her – in the dim light he appeared to be wearing a pair of her father’s pyjamas. She looked down – she was wearing a nightgown but didn’t recognise it. It was voluminous (thankfully) and looked more like something out of old film than anything she had even bought or worn.  

She was in her old room, but now, somehow, it was her room. The posters on the wall above her bed were Bowie, Duran Duran, Nik Kershaw, and Spandau Ballet. Her white desk was in the corner with the O Level textbooks, her schoolbag hanging from the back of the chair. She got out of bed and automatically put on her slippers. She turned back to wake Frank, but he had gone. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. Fifteen-year-old Bett looked back at her, a look of shock on her face. 

“I must be dreaming,” they both said simultaneously. She slapped her face firmly. It didn’t feel like a dream. She went to the bathroom and turned on the light. The new bath had gone, and the old one was there  with the shower head that fitted over the taps with rubber connectors. She splashed cold water on her face and neck, pulling a towel off the back of the door to dry herself. It was her father’s towel. 

Her feelings were conflicted – she was afraid and shocked, but at the same time, she felt a strange security, as if she was home again after a long absence. In some ways, that was true, but in others, it was definitely wrong. 

She turned off the light. The door to her parents’ room was slightly ajar, as it always was. She carefully pushed it open. There were her father and mother, as they were forty years ago, sound asleep in each other’s arms. She stepped back and closed the door, as if inadvertently infringing on their privacy. If this was a dream, it was the most vivid she had ever had. The feel of the embossed wallpaper under her fingers, the smell of the towel, and the detail of her surroundings were of an entirely different order.  

She went back into her room, but it had changed again. The bed was gone, replaced by a cot. The pop stars had been replaced with Disney characters and Muppets. The cot was empty except for a brand-new rag doll, with pink and white legs, a green skirt, and red wool for curly hair. Her big, long-lashed blue eyes were embroidered onto the face, and she was staring straight at Betty. She turned to look at the wall where she had earlier thrown the same doll. She looked around and recognised many of the other toys, though some she had no memory of. Still, it gave her a feeling of safety, of love, of happiness— but then it started to shift. She felt darkness, visibly coming out of her as a dark shadow and filling the room— the cot was there again but in a different part of the room. The toys were not hers, but new…

“No, not this! No!” she screamed, falling to her knees. 

“No… not this… no…” said a quiet voice, not mockingly, but if anything, agreeing somehow. 

“Frank?” she said, opening her eyes. 

The room was in flux, the darkness was being pushed back from the walls, but aspects of the room began to switch from one layout to another. She could feel this like an inner battle, and then as if this was all the depiction of her continual inner conflict, why she had stayed away, blaming her mother for her own tragedy, when her mother, as a midwife, had only been there to help. She identified her mother with pregnancy and childbirth, and wanting to reject all reminders of that, she excluded her, punishing her, making the whole situation worse rather than confronting it, accepting help from her parents and then husband instead of striking out, alienating them, and separating herself. 

Realising this, she surrendered, and the room went back to the happy, nurturing place.

She began to weep. “I’m sorry, Mum! Dad! I’m sorry…”

She felt an arm going around her, and she was helped back onto the bed. “Are you all right, Betty?” said Frank. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault, I’m so stupid.”

She hugged him back. “It’s all right, it’s not you.”

The bedside light was on, and the room was back to being the guest room. “Where did you get these pyjamas?” she asked. 

“I can’t remember. And that nightgown, I don’t remember that either!” 

She noticed that their clothes had been neatly folded or were hanging from the backs of chairs. Frank got some tissues from a box on the bedside table, and she dried her eyes. “Let’s go back to sleep,” she said. “Everything will be better in the morning.” 

The next day, they found that doors opened with no problems, and their phones had good signals. Calling the police, they found that the car was just a couple of streets away. Frank washed the tea things, though he suspected Rosario would do them again anyway. Betty came into the kitchen with an old shopping bag full of things, Jemima peeking out of the top. 

“You know… I think this house would be perfect for us,” said Betty. “Let’s sell our house – we’d probably get more for it anyway – and move here. We could turn the spare room into a study, and you can work from there. And the neighbourhood is nicer. This house… is more like a home.” 

“If that will make you happy,” Frank began, folding a tea towel. He noticed then that the tea towel had a picture of a house and bore the motto across the top: Home Sweet Home. “Yes. Let’s do that!” 

There is a difference between a house and a home. The home is a part of the family, and sometimes perhaps houses remember and can dream. And we can visit those dreams in the Twilight Zone.