Lost and Found

It is quite easy to lose something.

That was my defence when, as a teenager, I was held responsible by my parents and gleeful siblings for the misplacing of the key to the back door of our house. This was evident upon my return from monday night band practice.

It was a big deal at the time but I did not grasp the seriousness of the situation. My thoughtlessness and absentmindedness that led to the key going missing was a typical trait for a boy of my age, being pre-occupied with football, science fiction and an early interest in girls. I had simply put it in a safe place but forgot where that was.

Why, as a large family, I mused, was it that we only had one key for the back door? That was not a valid basis for mitigation of my misdemeanour. That was what I was told in plain English by my parents.

The house was now completely unguarded and my younger brothers and sisters feared the worst because beyond the back garden were open fields and every manner of nasty entity they could imagine would be able to waltz, shuffle, creep, sidle and sneak in unchallenged.

There was an external light on the outhouse wall but this only cast a defined arc which illuminated but a small portion of the patio and further exaggerated the potential for beasts and ghouls to be poised just beyond in the darkness.

There was only one solution. I would have to sit in the kitchen all night and keep guard.

The normal activities of the family went on until 10pm. Those of us on the washing-up rota completed the chore with the usual reluctance mixed with misappropriation of the bubbles from the Fairy Liquid. We each hoped to be the one to deplete the bottle of its last drop so that it could be used as a makeshift water pistol. The only other receptacles that were suited to a water fight were an empty perming fluid container from Mother's home-perms and one of those plastic lemons which contained lemon juice. The former only appeared perhaps every couple of months and the latter only in connection with Pancake Day. This explained why the detergent bottle was a coveted possession amongst us children.

The final task of the day, which was a tradition from I knew not when, was the setting of the placings at the breakfast table. Cloth, Tupperware beakers, cereal bowls, plates, knives, spoons, coffee cups for the parents, Variety Packs or large box of Cornflakes, sugar bowl and toast rack. As the last item was positioned everyone drifted away to bed to leave me on my own and with a long, nervy and uncomfortable night as the prospect ahead.

In the fashion of TV drama's involving an impending attack, intrusion or threat of such things I carefully angled a wooden kitchen chair under the back door handle as a further line of defence to my own presence. Out of the two, the chair, I admit would offer more resistance to any determined and motivated perpetrator. I had made sure that the inner door to the hallway was wide open and the light beyond was switched on to provide both a route of escape and some comfort to my predicament.

It was a windy night outside. An empty plant pot rolled across the patio. The low volume sound was amplified by the right angle of brick walling at the convergence of the house and the garage and sounded like a dustbin being moved by human hand. The elm tree at the bottom of the garden swayed and creaked making for more suspense and tension.

I tried to settle down on a chair. It was hard and unwelcoming. In the course of the evening in my quest to find a resting place I adopted many different positions involving straddling one or more of the chairs , prone across the refrectory bench seat, actually lying on the table amongst the place settings, stretched out on the worktops wedged under the wall cupboards and rashly, as a last resort sat on the drainer with my feet in the sink. I wistfully looked to the lighted hallway for one or both of my parents to appear and relieve me of my lone duty as house sentry but it was not to be. My tiredness was playing more tricks with my over-active imagination. I was convinced that it was common knowledge amongst all the local malefactors that 36 Churchill Avenue was having an involuntary open house.

The hours dragged by. I passed the time by carrying out an audit of the contents of the kitchen cupboards. I played a bit of make believe shop-keeper. The drawer containing the cutlery was never better ordered and tidy. One of the other drawers which had become crammed full of papers, batteries, elastic bands, screws and nails and every oddment from every pocket looked quite interesting at first but was not.

I made a few cups of coffee but could not understand why a hot drink did not make me sleepy. Restless, I returned to the initial wooden chair. A coat served as a cushion on the hard surface. The plastic carrier bag I had brought home with me from band practice was stuffed with a cushion sneaked in from the living room and wrapped in a woolly jumper from the ironing basket. If I kept perfectly still in that position I would avoid slipping off the chair or losing my makeshift pillow. Practicality over-ruled actual comfort.

I nestled my head into the soft and insulating warmth of the padded material. It was close to perfection apart from an annoyingly cold, sharp extrusion in my ear. I ran my fingers over the shaped outline. Rounded top, thin shaft and a rectangular end with a cerrated edge. It was without doubt the missing mortice key for the back door lock. I immediately retrieved it by tearing a hole in the polythene and with a ceremonial flourish pushed it into the lock and turned it. The click and engaging of the mechanism was most satisfying.

I did not repeat that unfortunate chain of events again. I have not however completely shaken off my tendency to, on occasion, misplace something important, even in my adult years. I am however still mystified as to how I managed to lose a fifteen foot long ladder in broad daylight. I expect it may turn up one day.