The House on the Corner

The house on the corner was not always bright buttercup yellow. Once there were just plain red bricks. Then someone put up cladding and sprayed it grey.

During the time I lived on the street, the occupier of the house on the corner, a tall slim man in his early forties, began to cover the outside walls with bright buttercup yellow paint.

I say began, because the tall slim man took some time, and bits right at the top in the eves were left grey. The tall, slim man had a long ladder and reached out with the paintbrush as far as he could manage. Then he moved the ladder along and painted some more. The front wall, the side fence and the pavement also got painted in a sort of psychedelic pattern of splats, splodges and smudges. They are still there, some three years later. Even the snow in winter and the heavy downpours in spring have not washed away evidence of this man’s DIY capabilities. Some splodges on the fence are missing because those parts of the fence are also missing, rotted away, decayed, neglected. A sign of how the yellow house on the corner has deteriorated over the years I’ve been living in this neighbourhood.

The rented house has changed hands often. Each new set of occupants not wanting to spend any time, effort or money on something that is not theirs, even if it means making their life more comfortable. Old blankets line the windows as makeshift curtains. Rubbish-filled boxes left at the side of the road for weeks on end.

When the hooded man moved in, the bright yellow house on the corner deteriorated even more.

The wooden panels to the fence slowly loosened and two fell inwards, exposing the unkempt garden, a mass of dark green ivy, brambles, empty beer cans, and cardboard boxes. Each family who lived in the house on the corner had left their rubbish there for someone else to clear up.

I called this stranger the hooded man because he always wore a khaki top with a hood on it, khaki trousers and grey trainers. He pulled the hood cord tight so that only his eyes, nose and mouth were visible, even in hot weather.

The hooded, khaki clad man had a strange walk. He bounced between each elongated stride. The outline of his long, bony legs clearly defined by his slim-fit khaki trousers. His hooded head bobbing up and down as he strode, with eyes fixed on a spot one metre ahead of his feet. He always seemed to be in a hurry and with his lengthy strides he could out-pace anyone on our street. Not that he ever walked with anyone or even talked with anyone. He was a loner.

I wondered why he was renting the house. Why was he living alone? No family or friends to speak of. Was he an alcoholic or drug addict? The previous occupants were both alcoholics and drug addicts. I used to see them in the mornings when I walked my dog Benji. They appeared emaciated, bedraggled and wobbly, as if they had not slept for a week.

The hooded man must have slept well, as he always seemed to have energy, which was evident in his stride. He’d emerge from the white PVC front door each morning as I was taking Benji for his walk and aim for the shop at the bottom of the road next to the vets. I wondered if he was going to buy alcohol. It was rather early in the day to drink. He never spoke, and my desire to make friends with this mysterious figure in the neighbourhood wilted somewhat after four attempts at getting a response from my cheerful hello.

It didn’t matter what time of day I came out of my house, to walk Benji or go shopping, the hooded man seemed to come out of his house at exactly the same time. I heard him slam the front door and mumble to himself as he strode toward the shop at the bottom of the road. He never went up the road or turned the corner on which the yellow house stood. Always walking towards the shop at the bottom.

Next to the white PVC front door that he regularly slammed shut was a rambling rose that had somehow thrust itself up through a gap in the concrete near a drain and had spread itself out across the crumbling brick wall with splashes of yellow paint on it. On windy days the branches would writhe about like the snakes on Medusa’s head and Benji and I would have to step into the road to avoid being clawed at by the lethal spikes.

The hooded man had not been living in the house on the corner long when covid struck and everyone had to stay at home. I walked Benji once per day, as Boris Johnson had instructed. Setting out earlier than usual as the weather had suddenly turned very warm and Benji had a thick coat and could easily overheat. I did not see the hooded man for many weeks.

One day, coming back from our walk, Benji pulled on his lead toward the front door of the house on the corner and sniffed at the step. I wondered if a stray cat had been sitting there for a while, but as Benji insisted on sniffing all along the bottom of the front door, I thought something must have happened to the hooded man. My mind gave me a picture of him dead from covid lying alone on the floor of one of his rooms, rotting away with flies and maggots eating his eyes.

Each day we passed the house on the corner, Benji pulled harder and harder on his lead, wanting to sniff longer at the bottom of the front door. I thought of calling the police, but then if the hooded man was okay would he think of me as a nosey parker.

I decided to look through the letterbox and hoped no-one was watching me as I did so. I was rather scared. Was the house full of rats eating the hooded man’s left-over dinner? Or had a prankster put some pet mice through the letter box and the house now overrun with the little creatures.

A thin cloth covered the inside of the letter box. I stuck my fingers in and pull it to one side. A foul, stale smell hit my nostrils and made me want to cough. All I could see was a hallway full of cardboard boxes. There were three doors inside, all of them open. The one on the right leading to the lounge, the one on the left the door to the utility room. Straight ahead was the kitchen. I could see a pile of dirty dishes on the draining board and the kitchen window slightly ajar. There were no signs of life. Where was the hooded man?

Covid continued, lockdown continued. I took Benji for a short walk in the cool evening air. I crossed the road and passed the broken panels of fencing that surrounded the garden of the house on the corner. I noticed a pile of clothing on the garden path that had not been there before. Then, as I passed by, Benji growled. I wondered what on earth was wrong with him. I told him he was silly to growl at a pile of dirty washing. Then I realised it was not a pile of dirty washing at all, but it was the hooded man lying on the concrete. Benji growled even louder. There was nowhere to tie Benji up, and I did not want to climb through the broken fence and cut myself on any nails. Thoughts flashed through my mind. Was the hooded man dead? I could not see his face very well, nor could I make out if he was breathing. It had been a boiling hot day. Had he got heat stroke? He was wearing his grey trainers. Had he gone running in the sun and it all been too much for him, and had he collapsed?

A stranger then appeared from around the corner, and I pointed out the hooded man to him. The stranger told me to stay away in case the hooded man got angry when he woke up, and then he walked off. I stayed back, still thinking I should help. I looked up and down the street and went to the corner, hoping to see a police car or police officer, but there were none. Most days I could see a police car charging through the streets of town, day or night. Now when I needed one, there was none to be seen.

While I was wondering what to do about the hooded man lying on the concrete, I heard someone call my name. It was Beryl who lived in the house opposite the house on the corner.

“Is there something wrong?” She said.

I pointed to the hooded man who was still not moving, even though Benji was barking at him.

“Look,” she said. “You carry on with your walk with Benji, and I’ll get Frank and see what he thinks.”

So, I left the hooded man in the capable hands of Beryl and Frank and continued walking up the hill to the top of the road.

I took Benji only a short distance around the block and then headed home. Eventually I came up the street and saw an ambulance move off down the road past the shop and the vets. Beryl and Frank were no-where to be seen.

Some weeks later when I came out of my house for a walk with Benji I saw the hooded man again.

I called out hello from a social distance and asked him how he was. He turned to me and for the first time, he spoke. He said he had almost been in a diabetic coma through eating too much chocolate he’d bought from the shop on the corner. “I’ve learned my lesson”, he said. “From now on I’ll only buy my newspaper from there, but I get rather lonely living on my own. I eat chocolate and watch tv to pass the time. It’s strange how we are drawn towards things that are not good for us.”

“Yes, I said.”

I wanted to tell him to get a dog and walk it each day or get a journal and take up writing or learn a musical instrument. I wanted to say that he could always find something to do to stop himself from being bored and lonely. I didn’t say these words to him instead I hoped he would just say hello each time we met in the future and maybe our conversations would eventually grow longer.

The hooded, khaki clad man then strode off to the shop on the corner and I continued with my walk with Benji.