The Men Who Carried a Door

How it begins

The door was worth more than the house it had come from.

George Pike knew because he had repaired the house, and nobody had paid him.

It stood in the yard on two wooden trestles, a fine oak thing with a brass knocker shaped like a pear. The owner offered five shillings to carry it to the next town.

'On a cart?' George asked.

'However you like.'

'Where in the next town?'

'A gentleman will meet you.'

George looked at Amos Gray. Amos had worked with him since February, which was long enough to recognize a bad answer and not long enough to refuse five shillings.

'We need the address,' Amos said.

The owner gave them a folded card and half the money. He held the other half between finger and thumb, demonstrating how little distance there was between employment and a favor.

They borrowed a handcart from a woman who wanted it back before market. The door overhung both sides. George wrapped the knocker in his spare shirt to stop it striking the wood.

For the first mile, people greeted them as if carrying a door were ordinary work, which it was. At the bridge, a tollkeeper demanded to know whether they were transporting building materials or household furniture.

'A door,' Amos said.

'That is not a category.'

George paid the cheaper toll.

Beyond the bridge, they stopped beneath a hedge. Amos unfolded the card. It contained no address, only the words RETURN WHAT WAS TAKEN.

He handed it to George. Neither spoke for a moment.

Then a woman came down the lane carrying an empty basket. She stopped when she saw the brass pear.

'Where did you get that?'

George put his hand on the door. Oak held the day's warmth better than a promise.

'We were hired to deliver it,' he said.

The woman set down her basket. 'Then someone has finally decided to admit there was a house.'