Sunday, April 26, 2009
A Door of Birch and Ivy Buds
The door was old and battered but I wouldn’t sell it to him. “A hundred pounds,” he said. “My wife’ll love it.”
I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. “Not for a hundred pounds and not for a thousand.”
“A thousand?” He hesitated, chewing on a cigar. Before I realised what he was doing he took a picture and sent is spinning over the Atlantic to his wife in Florida. “She loves it,” he said. “Will you take a cheque? Bankers draft?”
I shook my head. “Not for a thousand,” I said.
“Why? What’s so special about it?”
“It’s a fairy door,” I said. “They live behind it.”
He laughed. “Can I see one?”
I shook my head. “It only opens on a blue moon,” I said.
He laughed again, his thumb flying over the keypad of the phone. “Even better,” he said. “Two thousand.”
I sighed. “No,” I said. “It’s not for sale. Not now. Not ever. Good day to you.” I stormed into the house, slamming the door behind me and watched him leave, still tapping away on his phone. The door was gone when I got up the next day.
I whistled for the first time in seventeen years. The curse was lifted.
Labels: odd tales