Passing

1

The call came through from the solicitor. He had a flat that needed surveying, when could it be done. The time was arranged. No one would be home.2

The flat was in an old 30’s red brick block. Four stories that showed the effects of time. The work that had been done on it managed to keep it standing in decent repair, but there was no escaping the smell of neglect. Time had passed the building by, and it would be hard to catch up. The style of the 30’s architecture made sure of that.3

The key to the front entrance was stiff, but not too stiff. The communal corridor opened up in front of him. The parquet floor tiles were dull after years of being walked on, though still hinting at the glamour of their early days. Maroon patterns linking tile by tile.4

The stairs were on his left, he needed flat 33. It was on the third floor. The Surveyor wasn’t sure he’d want to live there, not sure why though. Once at the top of the stairs he walked down the corridor, passing doors on either side. 29, 30, 31, 32. Each door slightly different, each one giving hints at what lay behind them. Name plates, numbers falling off, a neat clean door mat. All clues, all giveaways to the way that people lived their lives. It made him think of his house, his door. The old mat, turned at the edges. The scuff marks at the bottom of the door where he used his foot to open it when his arms were full. He should give it a clean.5

He came to 33, and felt in his pocked for the keys. One Chubb, one Yale. Chubb first, the bolt slipped open. The Yale was a little tougher, took a couple of turns before it gave. As soon as the door was open he knew. He knew what he would find, he knew why he was there.6

The world behind the door mirrored the outside. Not much had changed. The corridor in the flat was long, and the rooms led off it. On his right was the kitchen. The linoleum floor was torn in places, marked by dark soled shoes. ‘Add a bit of mould and it would be like mine’, he sadly thought. The stripped lighting in the middle of the room flicked and fluttered when he turned it on. It didn’t make it to life, so he switched it off again. The electric stove showed the signs of many meals over many years. Past cleaning, it had the look of a stove that had cooked its last. 7

Next to the kitchen was the bathroom. Linoleum was obviously popular when this flat was decorated. The enamel on the bath was chipped, the taps covered in lime scale. Rivers of brown and green marked the bath and sink below the taps. Physical geography forming before your very eyes, ‘Well, it would be if you sat watching it for a very long time’, mused the Surveyor.8

He walked on through the flat. Next up was the bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but not thick enough to keep out the strong winter light. He turned on the light. There were a few cardboard boxes on the floor. Some closed, some open. Clothes and books poked out. The bed was made, sheets and blankets, no duvets here. The wardrobe was closed; it reminded the Surveyor of his grandparent’s furniture. The thin veneer of mahogany splitting away from the cheaper wood below. The handles were on, but only just in some cases.9

Onto the last room, the living room. On entering the room, he saw the chair. The chair confirmed his suspicions on entering the flat. It was an armchair with a high back. It sat in the middle of the room facing a cleared table where a TV had obviously once sat. The chair was grey. Or was it brown. The chair was old, tired and not clean. ‘Dirty is the wrong word’, thought the Surveyor. On seeing the chair he lowered his eyes and gave thought to its absent occupant.10

He’d survived the war in the forties, the hardships of the fifties, the hippies and free love of the sixties, the political disputes and ravages of the trade unions in the seventies, the yuppies and “me me me’s” of the eighties, the dot.com explosion of the nineties and the new terror of the naughties. But not much had changed for him, not much had got behind his door. He passed in peace; he passed into nothingness, with just the thoughts and feelings of the Surveyor keeping his flame burning just a little longer, and then as the Surveyor walked out of the flat, closed the door and walked away, his thoughts moving to other things, he was gone.11