On the Science of Automatic Doors

This was one of the first 'proper' short stories I ever wrote. It was written in the dead time between me finishing 'A Time to Make Friends', my World Cup book, and casting around for other work. I'm not even sure I spent too much time editing it, but it has a decent approximation of a mood I was trying to reach. Reading it back it's like I transposed the denouement of the life of Brooks Hadland from The Shawshank Redemption into somewhere in Central London - an area I know nothing about, and it shows. 

But as much as I loathe the embarrassing bits (the effort at old man speech, that bit when he says 'the music they listen to these days sounds funny to me'- bleurgh), I quite like the attempt at running before I could walk. I remember the night I took this idea to the pub. I told a mate what it was about, and he said, "Yeah, and then he sees his boss and he traps the guy's head in the doors for giving him the sack." Part of me wishes I'd worked that in somehow. 

 ON THE SCIENCE OF AUTOMATIC DOORS 

 By Chris Stanley 

I sit here most of the day and watch them. Watch the pigeons, watch the people; it’s all the same to me. The park bench, cracked and peeling with ancient paint, is the only place where I can see them both. I spent a whole lifetime glancing over at it from those doors, and now I spend all my time there, rain or shine. 

Not that those buggers come over and see me now. I’d be surprised if they even knew I was here. That’s the thing with these fancy hotels; the more money they’ve got, the more they treat you like dog’s muck. They don’t care about me now, after all I gave to them. Never missed a day of work in thirty years. 

Sometimes the birds come up to me and eat the bread right out of my hand. They’ve got used to me now, spending so much time here. The pigeons are untidy little things, all ruffled faces and dirty beaks. I’ve seen their black eyes before, whenever the posh guests walked past me without saying ‘hello’ back. Some of them even looked like pigeons, with domed heads and no chins, bobbing their heads back and forth. You’d only know the difference because the posh’uns would be wearing fancy scents. 

London’s changing beneath my feet. I don’t recognise the place no more. The sky gets punctured with taller buildings each year, each one uglier than the next. There’s that giant gherkin across the river, and the football stadium with that flamin’ arch. The pride of the world, that’s what London used to be. Now we’re a laughing stock, populated by darkies in taxis and young’uns who can’t keep their legs shut. 

It wasn’t an important job, mine, but I used to treat it as such. I was proud that the first thing those people saw as they climbed out of their posh cars was me, smiling and opening the heavy glass. They could open the doors, of course, but that wasn’t the point; they paid a lot of money for what that hotel give ‘em, and that includes treating ‘em well. 

I spent thirty years opening and closing those doors. Got the strongest arms you’ve ever seen, too. They don’t look much, since they’re not covered in bloody muscle and fat, but I could push two carts full of coal between Jarrow and Sheffield without pausing for a piss. I wouldn’t have said that to the guests of course; the hotel don’t pay you to talk to ‘em, beyond a ‘hello’ or whatever. 

They don’t make a noise now, you know. Those sliding doors they’ve had installed, they don’t creak at all. They got rid of the old ones, chucked ‘em out with the rubbish. I was sad about that. Great big handles made of brass, they had, worn smooth by my hands over the years. Had the name of the hotel on each one, telling everyone what was behind. Proud as anything, I was, wearing that red coat all day and controlling those signs. Harold Palmer, all the way from Durham, representing that lovely hotel. 

I don’t know why I come, really. I haven’t got much to stay at home for. I always keep the mornings the same, though. Quick wash in the kitchen, then a long shave with a cut-throat. It’s a disgrace sometimes, the way some young men don’t bother to shave their faces. I spent two years in North Africa during the big’un, and I kept my chin smooth every day, surrounded by flies and goodness knows what. I’ll never understand where the world’s gone.

Mary would have been proud of me, I think. I weren’t working at the hotel until after the war, but she was long gone by then. She slipped away in 1947, her liver rotten from the inside. But she wouldn’t have cared for me crying every day, so I left my thoughts at the hospital and got on.

‘Bloody fool,” she’d say. “Fancy spending all your time feeding the birds! Birds are meant to fly away, not spend all their time chattering around your ankles. Leave ‘em be!’ But I can’t help it. They come here because I’m here.

One day they called me into the office. Christmas it was. I thought they might have made a mistake with the pay. I never asked for a rise, because that’s the manager’s prerogative, but I knew summat was up. They’d paid me a bit too much. I was ready for them asking for it back, so I took it out of the bank when I had a day off last.

‘Harold,’ said the boss, young and ridiculous in a posh suit. ‘Harry, mate. The hotel’s really appreciated what you’ve done for us, blah blah blah.’ I stopped listening after a bit. They sent me a letter, explained it all. They said that what with modernisation and that, there was no room for outdated practices like doormen, and they were going to be upgrading their facilities. That’s what it said. I was upgraded.

They told me to put that money straight back in the bank. It was a leaving bonus, a redundancy, because I’d worked hard over the past thirty years. I don’t mind. We’ve all had to move on, I suppose. Seems like I’ve spent my whole life moving on. I don’t like it, but there you go. No room for Harry at the front of their posh new sliding doors.

I’d feel better about it if they’d kept the brass handles, but they’ve just covered the glass in plastic, like it’s painted on there. That’ll fade in the sunshine come summer, you mark my words. In the quiet times before I clocked off, they had me dress in overalls and polish those thick glass panes, until I saw them sparkle in the lights of the cars going past. I don’t suppose they’ll get anyone to do that either.

No, they won’t miss me. In London now, everyone wants to get somewhere fast. They don’t take the time to marvel at what the city’s got to offer. I remember coming here, moving not long after the Festival in ’51. There was nothing left back home. I was laid off at the pit, Mary had died, God rest her soul, and everyone was coming to London. The first television I saw was down here, in a shop window. I bought one to keep me company at nights, to break up the silence, although I don’t know why I bothered. Nothing but bloody rubbish on, and now there’s hardly any cricket on. That licence is a game, and all. Two pounds it cost in 1946 for a radio and telly form, now it takes over a hundred bloody pounds to watch the news!

I don’t notice it, not really. I don’t spend a lot on myself. A pint every now and again, and a decent meal in a caff once a week. I got myself a decent new suit at Christmas, and I made sure it was looked after, like my red jacket and posh shoes, shining like mirrors in the doors. I’ve got quite a bit saved.

The lads at my local tell me to move out of London, go to Australia or wherever. But I don’t think I will. That’s too far to go, just to escape a few memories. Besides, who would feed these birds? Would there be pigeons in Australia?

I wouldn’t last long in a place like that, I don’t suppose. Too much sun! I’ve never much cared for the sun. Every few years I’d spend a week on the coast, Bournemouth or wherever, in one of those bloody awful caravan parks. Sitting on the cliffs, staring at the water like a bloody fool. After a while I stopped going. It’s got more and more difficult to leave London in the last few years, so I’d spend my time away from the hotel walking around, strolling along the South Bank, looking at all the talented artists. It’s amazing what you notice when you keep your eyes open.

I’ll make sure there’s a drink for everyone at my local when I go. Give some money to the kiddie’s hospital, some to the cancer fund. I’ll give the rest back to the hotel. They treated me well, really. As long as they get a new set of brass handles. I’d hate to think that they’ll be gone forever.

I should pull it all together, step away from here. But some days I don’t have the strength to pull myself up from this bench, to open my hand and chuck the crumbs to the floor. It hurts when it gets cold to unclasp my hands, and my arms ache with arthritis. Mostly in winter, I just hold my fist out and let nature take its course, and the crumbs fall out of the sides. The birds don’t mind; they’re always here.

The hotel does a roaring trade, and long may it continue. I imagine it’s a very nice place to sleep. I never stayed there myself, but they always made sure everything looked right. I can’t imagine going back there. Some days I make up my mind to walk up to those doors, wait for them to sigh as they open up, and then I’ll walk in and say hello. But I never do. It wouldn’t feel right, going in through those magic doors.

London, it’s changed a lot. I’ve never liked the place, not really. But while there are people that do, big hotels will be needed, and so will people like my old colleagues, making sure everything’s to your taste. I don’t agree with no doormen, but who am I to complain? They do just as well without me.

Sometimes I think I should find something else to do than feed these greedy, filthy things. Get an allotment, take up something useful. Maybe talk to people who’ve got problems. They always advertise in the paper, those numbers. Samaritans, therapy. I’ve thought about them a lot. I do think about ringing them, as well, just to find out what they do and whether I can help. I think better of it; I’ve never done well at talking to people. I talk to the pigeons, quietly, and they understand. People do give me some odd looks, sometimes, but I don’t mind. The birds never did anything against them, and neither will I.

It’s not so bad, retirement. I wish sometimes that my hands didn’t hurt so much, or that I understood more of the modern age. Kids strut past me like they’re kings of the castle, wires hanging from their ears. Some of the music that I hear seems funny to me, but I like some of it. I’d buy it if I knew what it was. I’ve nobody to ask, though.

‘You never know what’ll happen tomorrow,’ that’s what my old comrade Stilly used to say to me. In that baking sand, trying to keep us heads down when the bullets flew, I thought of that. ‘As long as it happens tomorrow,’ I used to joke with him, and that kept us smiling. He bought it on Sword beach. He’d have been proud of me too, in my red jacket. You never know what will happen tomorrow. I wonder what tomorrow will bring for me.