No. 47

• Timothy Chan, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2009

Not many people lived in this stretch of our neighbourhood. Mostly because people moved out and no new ones ever moved in. The area was a prime real estate for renovator’s delights, and homes which ‘just need a little bit more tlc’. But they never sold, not much to my surprise, so when people moved in to No. 47 Fitzwilliam Street, the whole neighbourhood came out to see who they were. And I mean the whole neighbourhood – the couple who lived across the road, and myself. We all waited for the to-be occupants to arrive. It wasn’t that we were going to clap them in or anything, we just wanted to know who in their right mind would move into the shabby dwelling at No. 47.

We were a ‘closely-nit community’ in Fitzwilliam Street. That is, the only real thing which remotely gave a sense of community, linking the other people and me, were the nits, lice and parasites which frequented our homes as they pleased. It wasn’t that we hated each other. We just didn’t speak much, only the occasional smile. I gave a smile. Then they arrived. And we weren’t to be disappointed.

Perhaps I am being a little harsh here, but the truth is that they kind of scared me. They weren’t particularly nice-looking. They didn’t seem like the passive type. As they stepped out of their tiny vehicle, five figures advanced toward No.47. As they approached, I spared a thought for the shag into which they were moving in. It appeared as if it wouldn’t be able to cope with this group. As they pushed open the wooden door, it fell from its hinges. I suppressed a snort and scurried back home. We certainly weren’t going to make acquaintances.

It was a dusty afternoon when I finished cleaning the books of my library. In the dim overhead lighting, I observed my work. I was convinced that my collection was germ-free. Grimly, I looked into the bucket containing dark brown liquid, carted it to the window and poured it squarely onto next door’s corolla. I nearly allowed myself a squeal of delight as I watched the murky brown liquid splash freshly onto the white exterior and windscreen. Then I closed the window and shut the blinds. Perhaps they’ll think its possum doo, and I dismissed it.

It wasn’t often I went out for evening strolls. But on this particular evening, I felt like it, and the weather was perfect for it. I was just a few steps from home when it hit me. A wild cat pounced onto my back and had dug its claws deep. And guess who rushed to my rescue? No one else but those who lived at No.47. So it came to be that we were standing on the footpath, watching the to-be occupants at No.49. Not that we were going to clap them in, we just wanted to know who would rightly move into the shabby dwelling at No. 49.