Every night, as soon as it gets to 10pm, I leave the house and walk around the neighbourhood closing people’s gates.
It really winds me up, the number of people who leave them open.
I imagine it’s a predominantly male trend, leaving gates open; but here I am, bringing up the numbers.
Since I first started, I’ve been keeping a notebook of stats. Almost 35% of gates are left open at night. Of those, they’re almost always metal gates, with the owners of wooden gates seeming to take greater care.
And it’s a case of repeat offending. Whenever I revisit those marked down as careless, their gates are invariably left open, as if they might not even bother having gates.
Of the postal staff I’ve interviewed on the streets, they’re quite diligent, and consider closing gates part of their job. Pet owners are, of course, more careful, for reasons that didn’t warrant any further investigation, with their responsibility in direct alignment with the safety of postal staff.
When I’m out on my campaign, closing gates, I wear rubber gloves – I don’t know where these people have been, even if I do know where they’re going.
Occasionally I’ll make eye contact with someone through a window, staring back at them as I swing their gate closed and latch it.
Speaking without speaking.
On one evening campaign, late in October, the most curious thing happened. There was a shadowy figure ahead of me, going from gate to gate. Much to my chagrin, I noticed that they were closing open gates before I could get to them.
I followed the figure for some time. Even from a distance, I could hear them tut whenever they happened upon another open gate.
Knowing my way around the estate, I cut through a footpath to intercept them. Waiting, pressed into a tall hedge alongside an open gate, sure enough, soon I saw the figure approach. I caught a glimpse of their face in the streetlight.
It was one of the postal workers I’d interviewed in the weeks before.
Somewhat stranded in the hedge, I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I stepped out of my hiding place.
The postman noticed me, before glancing at the open gate.
“Is this your gate, mate?” he asked me, clearly incognizant of our interview.
“No,” I replied. “It’s not my gate. I’m one of you.”
“You’re a postman?” he said, weighing me up with a head tilt.
“No. I’m a gate closer.”
“Right.” After a moment, the postman gestured to the open gate. “Are you going to . . . ?”
We were both looking at the open gate.
“You get this one,” I said, taking a step away.
He had a tidy technique, quietly latching the metal catch; no need for show, just courteously providing a neighbourly service.
A moped was heading up the road towards us. It swerved between the speed humps. When it got closer, we both watched the driver watching us as they rasped passed.
“Let’s coordinate,” I said to the postman, once the moped had reached the bend in the road past the school. “I’ll take the south side.
“I’ve done the south side,” the postman replied. “All the gates.”
There was a moment, his words like like locked horns between us; like crossed swords. Were we working together, or was this a conflict?
I pondered on the best call. If I’d been in doubt, this was a professional I was dealing with here.
“I’m going to go back to the south side,” I said, accompanied by a slow nod, “to see if anyone’s come home since you were there.”
It landed instantly. He looked like he wanted to contest the suggestion. But now he knew how experienced I was too.
vss #74
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