A DAD'S LIFE:High jinks lead to embarrassment in the neighbourhood, writes ADAM BROPHY
WHEN THE landlord appears at the door for an unscheduled visit on a Sunday evening, I know something’s up. I’ve paid the rent this month and nothing is flooded or on fire in the house. He doesn’t want to be there, it’s clear as day.
Having the landlord living nearby is a new experience for us. For two years before we moved here, all property dealings were managed through a letting agent. All we knew was the owner of the house lived in London. Now we pay rent to someone who sleeps within snoring distance. This could be a blessing or a curse. For both of us.
He shuffles on the doorstep. “Ehm, sorry to bother you Adam, just thought I should let you know what’s been happening.”
Oh God, this is worse than I thought it would be. In the seconds since his arrival I’ve already searched the archive of my back actions in an attempt to retrieve any data on what I may have done to cause trouble and come up with nothing, so already an idea is forming in my mind. The bloody kids.
It’s been a good weekend. We’ve had friends staying with us. We’ve hit the beaches and had a night out.
Their three brats and our two degenerates have been loud and demanding in the best way possible, in that they’ve all got on and for the most part left us alone except to demand food and watering when required.
The two younger ones have buried themselves in the playroom while the weather has facilitated the three others to roam outside.
The question is how far did they roam? Because of their natural volume we were aware at all times that they were near, but when they’re together the noise rises to such a height that gauging proximity can be a tricky thing. How far did they roam?
“You know the way our living room faces out to the front,” he’s continuing on. “Well, yesterday two small boys appeared down and appeared to be brandishing weapons at us.”
Weapons?
“Yeah, they looked like knives. They’d run down and wave the knives towards the house, then run off.”
Under interrogation later, the elder admits they took knives from the kitchen to cut branches from trees while attempting to build a treehouse of sorts.
But at that moment I’m picturing our guests’ kids invading my landlord’s property to threaten his and his family’s lives, and I’m mentally striking them off the re-invite list. There is a kernel of relief that my own weren’t involved. It doesn’t last long.
He’s got even more uncomfortable looking, can’t seem to take his eyes off the drain by the door. I resist the urge to begin a discussion about the drain, anything to distract from whatever’s coming next.
“And tonight, ehm, two small girls appeared down at the house.” Cough, shuffle, look at feet. What? What did they do? “And they pulled down their pants and waved their bums in at us.”
Ah, that’ll be mine so. Great. If there’s trouble afoot, mine will wave an arse at it.
So begin the apologies and the assurances this will never happen again. So begin his entreaties that the only thing that concerns him is that his younger children will see this behaviour and copy it, and also that the our marauding children may be in danger of being hit by a car on his driveway. The unspoken implication being that he doesn’t mind the waving of weapons or the baring of bums, he’s only concerned for the kids. I appreciate his attempt to gloss over the truth, but it makes little difference to the situation.
We both stand there in embarrassment for a moment or two longer before he heads away and I wish that there was a letting agent I could pay next month’s rent to.
As I return inside I’m wondering how I’ll address this. I bump into the younger. Her face gives her away. All fear and worry. “Was that the landlord?” She can be on the ball at times. “What did he want?”
“I think you know what he was here for, eh? Someone got full moon fever again, yeah?”
She turns a deep shade of Ribena and hops. And hops. This is her worst fear. She is a messer, but she’s painfully shy. Occasionally her messing will overcome her shyness and she will find herself in positions such as this, where she is clutching her heart to her chest at the mortification of an adult appearing at the door to tell her father that she was displaying her wares out in the world. That’s enough. She’ll never do it again.
Until, of course, she does. They’ll all do it again.