Intruders

One recent afternoon, I looked up from my computer and was surprised to see two strangers at the front door. The house is on a private road and I could count on one hand the number of unknown people who have come here in the past seven years.

As I got up to see what they wanted they began to walk away, but I called out and when they turned, I saw that they were young teen-agers. One was silent, the other, a lad with a mop of curly black hair, said that they had thought there was “a shop up here”.

A likely story. I said no, it is a private residence and mop-head responded that they had noticed what a nice property this is. Had they indeed! They looked innocent enough, but I am so out of touch, I’m sure my judgement is unreliable.

As they sauntered off down the hill I asked myself if they had been up here to “case the joint.” But in broad daylight? And coming to the front door?

Sometimes when we run to the village for a few minutes, we don’t worry much if a side door is left unlocked, but in future we will ensure they are not.

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Ironically, Grant somehow managed yesterday to lock the door to our shed, something we never do, there being nothing of value inside. I didn’t even know it had a lock. We tried various mysterious keys that we’d found in a drawer, but none of them worked and nor did any of the picks Grant tried. So we are unable to gain access without breaking in.

Thinking of break-ins made me cast my mind back again – to other times when I had such concerns. As a little girl in London, I had the idea that someone would break in during the night to “steal” me and I gripped the bed sheets tightly, thinking they wouldn’t be able to fit the bed through the window.

Why a robber would want me and if they did, why they wouldn’t be able to rip me from the bed, I can’t imagine, but I clearly remember that is what I believed. I suppose gripping the sheets gave me comfort. My fear may have resulted from a robbery we’d had.

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The next time I worried about someone breaking in was at our house in Cambodia. My parents went out one night leaving me with a girl who was 4 years older. Maybe our parents went somewhere together or perhaps she was supposed to keep me company. Alone, I suspect I would have been more worried about the ghost that was reputed to live in the garden, but the two of us made each other nervous to the point that we locked ourselves in the bathroom where we remained until the parents returned.

Is was a very boring way to spend an evening.

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In Thailand we lived in a house on stilts that creaked and groaned. It had one solid brick wall where I watched a wasp build its nest. That wasp waited by the front door in the morning to come in and continue its work. I followed it as it flew down to the garden to roll another ball of mud, perhaps the first time I was interested in insect activity. The wasp was not interested in us, just making its nest, so it was allowed to continue and as I recall, the nest remained.

In the so-called winter months, when people were needy, *khà-moi were expected. My father had come face-to-face with an intruder one night and next day found a small sickle the man had dropped. So, when left alone there one night, my nerves were perhaps justified. Adjacent to the house a huge bamboo rustled and cracked and the wind moaned in the rafters above my head. It was easy to imagine any of those sounds were intruders.

*Kha-moi being the Thai word for burglar

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A year or so later, at the age of 13, I was taken to see the film Psycho that left me nervous for months. Though it was not fear of being confronted by a burglar that troubled me. I am not sure if it was a result of that film but certainly ever since, I have hated being startled!

For many years thereafter, I was at boarding school or living with relatives and therefore had no anxieties about break-ins, but my parents had several in their apartment complex in Barbados. Once, when I was there for a visit I was awakened by a gunshot and running feet. No one was injured and the intruder escaped. They always did. They broke in naked, covered in oil. Hard to hang onto, if you were foolish enough to try.

Fortunately, those are my only experiences with petty crime. I am not paranoid or inclined to nerves about such things, but I believe in keeping my wits about me and an eye open. And not being lavish with trust.

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