The Harpenden Biscuit Tin That Knocked Back

The biscuit tin knocked back just as I was wondering whether taking a second ginger nut would look greedy.

I nearly dropped it into my bucket.

To be fair, I was holding two buckets, which gave me twice the opportunity. I’m still learning that being useful on the KP Window Cleaning round doesn’t necessarily mean carrying everything at once.

Mrs Fenwick stood in her Harpenden doorway wearing gardening gloves and a cardigan with wooden ducks for buttons.

“Was that you?” she asked.

“I haven’t learnt that trick yet.”

Three more knocks came from somewhere beyond her little back garden. Mrs Fenwick looked at the tin. I looked at the tin. Then we both looked at the brick wall behind her greenhouse.

“Oh, not again,” she said.

That wasn’t the reassuring answer I’d been hoping for.

Apparently, odd tapping noises had been coming from next door all morning. Her neighbour, Mr Brindle, was usually out on Tuesdays, but his back gate had been banging in the breeze since breakfast. She’d rung his doorbell twice without an answer.

“Probably a loose bit of fence,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

I set down both buckets and listened.

Tap. Tap-tap.

Then a faint voice said, “Anybody there?”

Mrs Fenwick’s gardening gloves went straight to her cheeks.

I called over the wall. “Hello! Are you all right?”

“Mostly,” came the answer. “My dignity’s taken a bit of a knock.”

We followed the sound to the far corner, where a tall timber shed stood on the other side of the wall. Through a gap beside the greenhouse, I could see its window and, pressed against the glass, a man’s face beneath a bright orange woolly hat.

He gave us a small, embarrassed wave.

Mr Brindle had gone into his shed to find a cake stand. A gust had swung the door shut, and the old drop latch had fallen into place outside. His mobile was charging in the kitchen.

“I’ve been knocking with a plant pot,” he explained. “The plastic ones don’t carry terribly well.”

Mrs Fenwick hurried round to his front door while I stayed where he could hear me. It was locked, and the side gate was bolted from inside.

For a moment, all three of us went quiet.

Then I noticed a little sliding vent at the top of his shed window.

“Can you pass your keys through that?”

Mr Brindle patted his pockets. His face brightened, then fell.

“Yes. But you’re over there.”

I looked down at my spare bucket.

For once in my life, I had exactly the right number.

With Mrs Fenwick holding one end of her washing line, I tied the other securely to the handle and carefully lowered the empty bucket over the wall beside the shed window. There was a scrape, a jingle, and a triumphant shout.

“Special delivery!”

A minute later, Mrs Fenwick was unlocking his front door. I followed her through the house and lifted the shed latch.

Mr Brindle stepped into the daylight carrying a cake stand like a trophy.

“I was bringing this round to yours,” he told her. “Thought those ginger nuts deserved a proper presentation.”

She laughed so hard she had to lean against the doorframe.

Once I’d finished the windows, we had tea by the greenhouse. Mr Brindle had wedged his shed door firmly open and put a note on it: TAKE KEYS. His orange hat sat on the rescued cake stand, because he’d forgotten he was still wearing it until the tea arrived.

As I packed up, Mrs Fenwick offered me another biscuit.

“Good job you brought that extra bucket.”

I tried not to grin too much. Tomorrow, someone would probably remind me to make fewer trips and carry less clutter. But for the rest of that afternoon, I carried my spare bucket back to the van with considerable pride.