Page 53 of The Tapes

There are definitely other people on the planet who have an ear like mine.

When I was younger and particularly down about things, Mum would comfort me by saying that I wasn’t the only one.

She’d point out that almost everyone looked the same ear-wise but that only someone who was special would be different.

I didn’t want to be special or different. I wanted to be like everyone else.

The memory leaves me thinking of Mum. I could call and ask if she’s ever heard of Jane Craven – except that it doesn’t feel like the sort of thing that can be asked in a phone call. It definitely can’t be asked in a text message.

It’s not an in-person world nowadays, except that some things still have to be – and Mum is old-school when it comes to communication.

I return to the kitchen and slip the article back into the envelope, then I go back out the front door and hop the low fence until I’m standing outside my neighbour’s door. There’s no doorbell, so I knock on the glass and wait.

There’s a ritual to the door being answered. First a call of ‘yes’ to acknowledge the knocking has been heard, then the hallway light going on – this happens regardless of time of day – and then a low grumbling until the door is eventually pulled inward.

A curious smile spreads across Mr Bonner’s face, as he uses his walking stick to prop himself up.

‘Hope, love,’ he says.

Mr Bonner turned eighty on New Year’s Day this year.

He celebrated by eating roast potatoes with me in my kitchen and then inviting me back to his to get drunk on expensive whisky that he’d been hoarding since he turned seventy.

He keeps insisting I call him ‘Jack’, although I was raised to call people older than me ‘Mr’ or ‘Mrs’.

It’s been largely impossible to get out of the habit.

‘What’s wrong?’ he adds. He has seemingly seen something in me that I didn’t know was there.

‘Nothing,’ I reply quickly. ‘I was just wondering if you saw anyone at my door during the day?’

Mr Bonner glances sideways towards my driveway. There’s an ankle-high fence separating the two properties and my car is now parked back in its place.

‘Only the postman,’ he says.

‘What time was that?’

‘Around two. Same as always.’

He raises his eyebrows with a hint of expectedness.

I allow myself a smile: ‘I bet you remember when there were two posts a day, don’t you?’

The grin is infectious. ‘Cheek!’ he says. ‘How’s the leg?’

I lift my prosthetic leg, feeling the slight friction as my amputated limb rubs against the cup into which it’s attached.

‘I can still beat you in a race,’ I reply.

He laughs, as he always does. The pensioner versus the amputee sounds like something ITV might commission for primetime. When it comes to me and my neighbour, it might happen one day – though I suspect we’ll need a lot more expensive whisky first.

As I put my foot back onto the ground, I picture the pile of mail from inside my door. The one without the stamp was at the bottom, underneath the regular post.

‘Was there anyone before the postman?’ I ask.

A shake of the head. ‘Not that I saw – but I was out the back for a bit.’ There’s a pause as his wrinkled eyes narrow. ‘Is everything okay?’

I try to sound breezy and unconcerned as I tell him it’s fine. I’m not sure he’s listening because he wafts his free hand in the vague direction of the street.

‘Did you hear about the break-in a week back?’ he asks. ‘Other side of town but makes you think.’

‘Nobody broke in,’ I reply. ‘It’s nothing really – but if you see anyone hanging around the house that you don’t recognise, can you let me know?’

Mr Bonner digs into his trouser pocket and pulls out an old Nokia 3210. He holds it up proudly, as if showing off a trophy he’s won. His daughter bought it for him from eBay two or three years back and he grins every time he shows it to me. He brags that he only has to charge it once a month.

‘I’ve got your number in here,’ he says.

‘I’ve been wondering who keeps calling me and breathing heavily down the line.’

He laughs as he re-pockets the phone.

‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’ he asks again.

‘It’s all fine,’ I reply. ‘You just let me know when you want someone to beat you at Scrabble again and I’ll be right around. Then I’ll race you round the park and beat you at that, too.’

The grin is back. ‘You’re on.’