Read Fifty/Fifty and Other Stories for Free Online

further, and faster than before.
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    The Seventeenth Door
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    C harlotte knocked on her seventeenth door that evening. She knew the exact number as she had been ticking them off, one by one, trying to get through them as quickly as possible so that she would not have to come back the next night. Her coordinator was a gruff old man named Patrick, who had been involved in the fieldwork for the census one way or another for 30 years. He said he was a retired civil servant, and his vagueness around which department, and his brush-bristle moustache led Charlotte to assume that he had been a policeman. He had been very thorough so far, determined that not a single house in his area of responsibility should be left uncounted.
     
    He met Charlotte and another person from her team, an older lady named Laura twice a week. Monday evenings were in the supermarket car park at half seven, and Thursdays on a small patch of waste ground in a half finished housing estate. Each time they met, Charlotte and Laura got into his car, an older model Jaguar which smelled of pine tree air freshener and vacuum cleaner exhaust. He produced a series of folders and print outs which showed him which houses had returned their questionnaire, and dealt them out to his team. He also took the time to read to them from the official progress report, in an attempt to sustain their morale. He needn’t have bothered, for as long as they were paid, Charlotte would do her job, no questions asked.
     
    Charlotte was 28, a few inches above average height for a woman, and if she was honest with herself, slightly overweight. In years gone by she might have been called plump. Dark roots showed through blonde hair from a bottle, her cheeks constantly rosy. She wore very little make-up, but what she did wear was cheap and poorly-applied, like the dark red lipstick which did little to compliment her pale complexion. She wore a man’s raincoat to keep the April showers at bay, the sort that hikers wear. The thick-rimmed black glasses she wore as affectation rather than out of necessity were steamed up.
     
    Door number seventeen was typical of the rest of the street - plastic, double glazed, with a small privacy window set at eye-level. These suburbs had originally been laid out in the seventies, with wide footpaths, reasonable-sized gardens, and orange brick and pebble-dash façades. Many of the houses had sprouted extensions, brickwork driveways and tall hedges.
     
    Number seventeen had a front lawn which was only slightly overgrown, more in need of a lawnmower than most, but certainly not unkempt.  A few stray weeds poked up through the driveway. The garage door was a sunburnt red colour. Charlotte had called twice before, but either no-one had been home or the occupants had not wanted to answer the door. Charlotte suspected the latter, as she had seen lights on towards the back of the house, and there had been that almost imperceptible energy that is simply not present in an uninhabited dwelling. She had not expected the door to open at all, and she took a step backwards in fright.
     
    “ Oh, hello dear. I’m not interested in anything I’m afraid,” said the little old woman who stood there. “At my age you don’t need any of this satellite TV, life insurance, payment protections stuff.” She wore a crimson dress, polyester or some other synthetic fabric, which hung down to her ankles. A large bronze brooch was pinned to her left breast, and long earrings dangled below her white hair, curly all over her head. She squinted a little at Charlotte, taking in the clipboard, high-visibility jacket and satchel. Her eyes were a grey sort of colour, watery and soft of focus.
     
    “ I’m sorry,” began Charlotte, “I’m from the census office, you haven’t returned your questionnaire I’m afraid.”
     
    “ Questionnaire? Was it that great big purple thing? I