After a late start, we finished unpacking and sat down with a cup of coffee. Suddenly, around eleven, “Colonel Bogie” blared throughout the kitchen. Normally whistled, the World War Two ditty seemed to be playing on a carillon of bells built into the walls or ceiling of the house. At first, we thought it was an alarm. We checked the radio, the TV, the kettle, the oven, the phone – still dead – then we looked at each other. The door.
“Can’t be the doorbell,” I said, firmly. “It’s too much.”
The ghastly tune rang out again. This time I saw a shape through the fuzzy glass door at the back of the house.
“Oh, God! It is the doorbell! It’s them!” I was near to panic.
“It can’t be,” said Frances, with some certainty. “They won’t be here before noon. Relax.”
“The telephone repairman? They said they were getting someone in.” I smiled.
“Wouldn’t that be something!” Frances sounded impressed. “And on a Sunday!”
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