The Door
Inspired by my experiences as a door-to-door salesman in rural southwest England, this week I thought I’d try my hand at creative writing. Let me know what you think?
It was a cold evening, and there was no good reason for him to be there. The sun had gone down several hours ago, and with it the residual warmth that had made the night tolerable. Now he stood here with just a thin jacket between him and the wilderness, wondering which way to go. In the daytime, the rolling patchwork of lanes and fields had a quaint elegance, a loose sense of order brought to the countryside. When night came though, the hedgerows took on a sinister tone, the darkened shadows funneling walkers through narrow openings, the thorny growth broken by the occasional gate.
Such as this one. Should he go in? He didn’t know these people. Mind you, he hadn’t known any of them. Some had cracked the door open an inch only to shut it in his face, others had opened wider and listened for a moment, before politely but firmly closing it. It really was cold. He tried to wrap the coat closer around his chest, but there was no more of it to give, just a few loose buttons and pockets not deep enough for his hands. There was always his satchel, but that didn’t contain much besides his package of books. He pulled out the small box in his pocket, and lit another cigarette, the warm air filling his lungs making the night tolerable, at least for a few moments.
It had been like this for days now, wandering these lanes, looking for somewhere warm to welcome him in. It wasn’t these people’s fault, after all they didn’t know him. Would he let himself in? Really, what did he have to offer but the books? Still, this couldn’t go on. It had started off so well. The camaraderie of the group, squeezed into the back of the car, driving down from the city, full of nervous energy and youthful spirits. They’d made it sound so easy. You just knock, smile and sell. But he hadn’t. And now the late autumn night was upon him, and the empty lanes held no promise.
He should try this one, and then perhaps give up and surrender to his fate. The gate was unremarkable but unique. The handmade criss-cross of wood planks painted white, with iron hinges and a paved pathway beyond. This part always felt to him like breaking in, he hoped there wasn’t a dog. The gate eased its way open and he made his way up to the cottage, subtle amber light glowing behind thick curtains, illuminating the vines that covered the outside wall. Each footstep seemed worse than the last, the sense of dread growing. He could just turn around and go. That’s what they’d want.
It was too late though, they’d most likely already heard him approaching. To leave now would prove that he shouldn’t have been there. One last step to go, and he was before the knocker, a large brass piece hanging down from the top of the door. He reached for it and paused, holding the metal in his hand and taking a breath. He let it swing down once, then twice. Movement inside. He imagined the occupants were glancing at each other, questioning who it could be. Hands deeper in his pockets. A bolt unlocked and now the doorknob turned. A slight rush of fire-warmed air past his chilled cheeks, and then a small smiling face. “Hello, do come in, you must be cold.”