My Nasty Neighbours (5 page)

I
tried to bring up the neglected subject of where I fitted into the new semi-detached Stirling family, but hardly had Mum and Dad made their announcement, than Dad delivered another piece of bad news.

‘Before we leave Elm Close, we’re going to give a party, a civilised party.’

‘To show you three how to behave properly,’ added Mum.

We’d wondered how they’d get their revenge, this was it.

Nos 9 and 13 were invited and the people across the street were warned the party was to take place. ‘This is how to be considerate to one’s neighbours,’ explained Mum.

‘What’ve they got to be warned about? You’re
only inviting the neighbours and four of Dad’s colleagues from work. What are they going to do – start arguing loudly about Data Protection?’ asked Ian.

‘I hope not,’ said Helen, prissily. ‘I’m going to invite Harry.’

More bad news.

‘So you’re serious about him then?’ asked Mum, unenthusiastically.

‘How could she be anything else? That guy has no sense of humour,’ complained Ian.

‘Just because he doesn’t behave in a childish manner,’ snapped Helen.

‘I’ve met geriatrics who’re more fun,’ said Ian.

Obviously, it was going to be a wonderful party …

When our next-door neighbours realised it was a farewell party, they accepted enthusiastically. Helen was disappointed: she dreaded them talking to Harry.

‘Do they have to come?’ she asked. ‘They’ve always hated us.’

‘They’ll realise how they’ve misjudged us,’

Mum said, contradicting herself by adding: ‘I’ve a good mind to sell the house to the nastiest person I can find.’

‘Harry?’ suggested Ian.

‘Harry will be able to chat with my colleagues,’ said Dad.

‘Put him next to someone interesting and very, very respectable,’ pleaded Helen.

‘Invite Mother Teresa,’ I suggested.

‘Is she a good conversationalist?’ asked Helen.

She must have had her sense of humour surgically removed since meeting Harry.

The punitive party was in what Mum and Dad inaccurately called ‘full swing’. I was handing out cheesy nibbles and Ian, a tortured expression on his face, was playing Richard Clayderman favourites on the piano. The doorbell rang.

The conversation about protecting data was just getting lively, when the two uniformed officers walked into the sitting-room.

‘We can’t be making too much noise, surely!’ exclaimed Mum.

‘This is about the incident the other night,’
said one of the officers.

‘Incident? What incident?’

Then the whole story came out. Some of Ian’s uninvited Heavy Metal friends had arrived as Helen was serving Chicken Provençal to Harry at a candlelit supper.

Ian’s pals started duelling with the lighted candlesticks on the pavement outside. When a bush caught on fire, the neighbours had called the Gardaí.

No wonder Ian and Helen weren’t the best of friends.

I tried to console Harry. ‘You were lucky. If you’d eaten Helen’s cooking, you’d probably be dead by now.’

But Harry refused to be consoled, even when I pointed out that they weren’t pressing charges.

‘I’m not accustomed to being interviewed by the police,’ he replied.

‘One disaster after another,’ complained Dad when the bemused guests had left. ‘The sooner we separate, the better!’

But there was a lot of work to do before that
happened.

‘You’ve got no idea how much is involved in selling two houses and buying another two,’ Dad lectured me. He’d taken a day off work to visit estate agents and was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by house brochures. ‘Agents appointed, prospective buyers shown around, contracts drawn up. It’s a difficult business, I can tell you.’ He made it sound like a full-time occupation.

‘But at least we’re better off,’ I pointed out encouragingly. ‘We must be. After all, Mum’s inherited a house.’

But if there’s one thing my Dad dislikes, it’s being made to feel fortunate when he’s dwelling on how hard done-by he is.

‘Ah well, theoretically, that’s true,’ he admitted gloomily as he leafed through the details. ‘But there’s going to be an awful lot of extra expense in equipping two houses …’ He shoved some of the brochures to one side. ‘We won’t be able to afford those.’

He’d been unnerved by the way Helen was prancing about with glossy interiors magazines and talking about her house’s decor.

‘It’s just going to be decorated. There’ll be no decor,’ Dad had said with emphasis.

‘I’m looking for clean, fresh lines,’ Helen continued, waving her arms about and totally ignoring him, ‘with the best of modern design.’ Obviously no expense was to be spared.

Ian regarded the move as his chance to launch the Oily Rags on to the serious Heavy Metal scene. He was ready with an ad: ‘The Oily Rags Heavy Metal (Thrash) Band, available for gigs.’ All he was waiting for was his new address and phone number to put the card in every Dublin music shop, so he was eager to house-hunt.

I trailed around with Dad and Ian while Mum concentrated on trying to sell the house in Waltham Abbey.

Ian’s first question was always, ‘What are the neighbours like?’ He refused to consider houses on new developments just in case awkward people moved in next door. His definition of ‘awkward’ was anyone who disliked music.

‘Surely we’re not looking for two houses next door to an Oily Rags fan?’ I objected. ‘The chances must be millions to one.’

‘I didn’t know the Oily Rags had any fans,’
said Dad.

‘Then what are we looking for?’ I asked. ‘A saint?’

Eventually, we found just the neighbour we were looking for – not quite a saint, but the next best thing to it …

‘She’s deaf,’ Ian told us with delight after visiting the person living at no 6 Highfield Road. ‘She’s little and old and I had to yell at her to be heard.’

We’d already inspected nos 8 and 10 Highfield Road which were both for sale. Now Ian became wildly enthusiastic about buying them.

‘Look how convenient this is to the city centre,’ he pointed out as we stood on the pavement outside the red-brick terrace. ‘They are both properties of character with many attractive features …’

‘You sound like that estate agent fellow,’ remarked Dad sourly. We’d learnt that estate agents used the English language in an entirely abnormal way. ‘Interesting’ meant ‘odd’ and ‘great potential’ meant ‘uninhabitable’. Once, Dad was told that a house ‘boasted a spacious garden’, he peered over the fence and asked, ‘Is
the huge garden on the other side?’

‘The living-rooms are surprisingly large,’ urged Ian.

‘Rather poky, I thought,’ answered Dad. He felt he was only doing his duty if he thought of every possible objection to any property we looked at.

‘Full central heating–’

‘–that’ll cost a bomb to run.’

‘With the added attraction of open fireplaces in the living-rooms.’

‘Have you any idea how much work is involved in laying a coal fire?’ asked Dad indignantly.

‘Both houses have fully modernised bathrooms,’ said Ian, changing tack, ‘and tastefully refurbished kitchens.’

‘–and, best of all, a neighbour who can’t hear,’ I chipped in. ‘The ideal listener to the Oily Rags.’

‘Quite appalling the selfishness of Modern Youth,’ grumbled Dad. ‘Fancy revelling in the disability of a little old lady.’

He scowled at Ian and headed off down the alleyway to the side of no 10, looking up hopefully for signs that the roof was caving in.

It didn’t seem likely that we’d be moving to
Highfield Road. I would have liked to because one of my best friends, Abbas, a refugee from Sri Lanka, lived down the hill at no 82.

But Ian was optimistic. I hadn’t seen him so pleased since he got a tune out of a tuba. ‘We’ve found our new home … homes,’ he commented as soon as Dad was out of earshot.

‘How do you make that out?’ I asked. ‘Dad hasn’t said one good word about the houses yet.’

‘Yes,’ replied Ian, ‘but behind the moaning there was a real note of enthusiasm. Couldn’t you hear it?’

I shook my head, and, not for the first time, wondered what wave-length my brother was tuned into.

B
ut Ian was right. Dad was keen to buy nos 8 and 10 Highfield Road. When he told Mum about the two houses he sounded as enthusiastic as Ian. In fact, he’d recognised all sorts of advantages that Ian hadn’t thought of.

‘They’re both vacant already,’ I heard him tell Mum, ‘So we’ll have no bother about moving dates. They’re identical terraced houses–’

‘Terraced?’ Mum looked concerned. ‘We don’t want trouble with the neighbours.’

‘But no 10 is end of terrace with an alleyway between it and no 12 and Mrs Denton-Mayhew at no 6 is – how’s this for a bit of luck? – completely deaf.’ And that from the man who complains about the selfishness of youth!

‘Maybe we should try somewhere with no neighbours,’ I suggested. ‘We could move into the country, surrounded by fields and sheep.’

‘No chance of that,’ Dad replied dismissively. He had only one thing on his mind: he was intent on convincing Mum to buy nos 8 and 10 Highfield Road.

After one visit, Mum was persuaded. Mum and Dad had no difficulty selling Great Uncle Albert’s house. They sold it at a knockdown bargain price, feeling apologetic about the state it was in – no inside bathroom, damp walls, peeling wallpaper – in fact, full of estate agent ‘potential’. But knowing Great Uncle Albert’s house was gone made him seem more distant, more dead than before. Though I hadn’t forgotten the medal.

Soon nos 8 and 10 Highfield Road were ours. Mum and Dad spent all their spare time there, accompanied by Helen who insisted on supervising the work at no 8 herself. Ian was content to add his new address to the advertisement for the Oily Rags and wait for replies.

It was the last Saturday morning before we moved. I’d spent the morning doing fierce battle
on the rugby field and was lying on my bed, thinking about our 10:14 win, when Dad came in. He dumped a couple of tea chests and said, ‘Get packing. We’ve got five days to move.’

I’d been waiting for this moment. ‘Ah yes,’ I said calmly, sitting up and fixing him with a look, ‘Where to?’

He looked surprised. ‘Highfield Road, David. Where else?’

I used the stare that TV lawyers use to intimidate a witness. ‘I see. Highfield Road, which number, 8 or 10?’ I asked.

‘Helen and Ian to no 8. You, me and Mum to no 10, of course.’

I leapt up and circled the tea chests. ‘Why am I going with you?’

‘Because you’re still only a child!’

A child! At twelve years of age. ‘What do you mean? I’m bigger than any of you! Look.’ I wanted to show him the exercise we do in rugby practice. I put my hands on his shoulders. ‘Now stand still. Then fall backwards. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.’ I knew that I could handle the weight because flab is lighter than muscle.

But Dad got irritated. ‘I haven’t time for this
nonsense. I’ve got to get on with the packing.’

‘It’ll only take a second. Keep your feet together and just fall back.’

‘And end up with concussion? Stop being stupid, David.’

‘Well, don’t expect any help with the packing then,’ I shouted as I thumped down the stairs.

It was great to think that, however much the neighbours complained now, it didn’t matter.