Elvis Presley lived here

“I lived here since before this house was built.”

 

“Really,” I said. Mrs Burrows was mad and smelt of cats, of course she believed she’d lived in the house before it was built.

 

School said I should help out a local elderly person as part of my Community Awareness course, and I ended up with Mrs Burrows because all the interesting elderly were snapped up months ago by the more coursework-aware kids in my class. I was left with a choice of Mrs Burrows or the wretched and the damned in local nursing home.

 

Neither Mrs Burrows nor I had any idea what I was supposed to do to support her. I offered to show her how to use her phone, and the internet, but she already knew. She sent me a friend request on Facebook to prove it, which is really embarrassing, as now she follows my every online move and mood.

 

She made me a cup of weak, milky, tea and a slice of cake that crumbled into a million pieces. I had to lick my fingers and sticky it up into my mouth one crumby finger at a time. Then she brought out the boxes of post and announced she’d lived here since before the house was built. I casually glanced around for the nearest escape route.

 

“It’s all right dear, I’m not crackers,” she said, I mean I lived in this street since before this house was built. I used to live at number 27, and moved here when this was built a few years later.”

 

I nodded, disinterestedly.

 

“My point is dear, that we’re the only family that have ever lived in this house, and I know every neighbour that’s ever lived in the surrounding houses. That’s what makes these so strange.”

 

She alluded to the two cardboard boxes, both full of envelopes, which she’d brought out during a lull in the conversation.

 

“What are these?” I asked, running the possible terrors through my mind: a lifelong series of letters from her secret lover that she wanted me to be the first person to read, a pile of unpaid bills which forewarned her imminent eviction, a collection of every tedious piece of mail she’d ever received.

 

“They’re the post to people who’ve never lived here.”

 

“People who’ve never lived here?” I was wrong to err into the possibilities of lovers and unpaid bills, she was clearly just a mad old lady with too many cats. Appearances can be perceptive.

 

“Junk mail dear. I’ve collected it, over the years, every letter, package and parcel sent to somebody at this address.”

 

“Two boxes?” I said, surprised.

 

“No dear, 47 boxes.”

 

“47 boxes?” I picked up a handful of letters, it barely made a dent in the pile. “But there must be hundreds of letters in this box alone.”

 

“I know dear.”

 

“And none of these are for you?” For a moment I envisaged her forgetting her own name, and piling up her unopened mail, amazed at where it was coming from. But it was easy enough to check, I looked through the sample in my hand: Mr Eversham, Mrs Tottleburn, Alan J Hughes Esq, Deidre De Freize.

 

“Who are all these people?”

 

“They don’t exist. I told you, they’re to people who’ve never lived here.”

 

“This one’s a self-addressed envelope. Simon Hargreaves. He’s never lived here?”

 

“No dear. None of them have, my family are the only people who’ve ever lived here.”

 

“So he got his own address wrong. On a self-addressed envelope. How can you forget you own address?”  I flicked through a few more letters. “What are they all, anyway?”

 

“Mostly junk – leaflets from finance companies, insurers, estate agents, theatres. It’s not just post though, I get lots of birthday cards, three or four Christmas cards every year, then there are the books, chocolates, I had a bottle of wine once, or at least Mrs Beavis did if anyone ever asks. There was a set of darts flights, some gloves, teabags, bees…”

 

“Bees? Someone sent bees through the post? In an envelope?”

 

“Oh, not in an envelope dear, they were in a special container. From a specialist apiary-supplies company, for people who’ve bought beehives.”

 

“Do you have a beehive?”

 

“No. They weren’t for me, remember, they were for Sidney Driscoll.”

 

“What did you do with them?”

 

“I let them fly away.  I could hardly keep them in the box.”

 

“But where do people get all these names from?”

 

“It’s modern business methods, dear. My son worked in an estate agent once and got £20 for every ‘lead’ he sold to a Spanish time-share company. I think he’s responsible for all the mail to Michael Jackson, Elton John, John Lennon and Elvis Presley.”

 

“So all this junk mail is because someone somewhere gets paid for making up a name and address and selling it to a mailing list company.”

 

“Of course dear. Which is why everything costs so much.”

 

“Why don’t you just cancel them. Send them back, phone them up.”

 

“Why should I care dear, it’s not my mistake to cancel. Let them spend their money, it helps keep the postman in work.”

 

As I was leaving she handed me a carrier bag

 

“Take these trousers, dear, they look about your size, though if a Mr Milner ever asks for them you’d better let him have them, they were addressed to him.”