Page 53 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“By knocking on the first door?” he suggested helpfully. “Should you do one side and I do the other?”
I didn’t fancy knocking on anyone’s door, let alone doing it on my own without Sean for backup. “No, let’s do it together.”
“Right then, no time like the present.”
How could he be so cheerful about this? We’d have chafed knuckles and a repetitive strain injury by the time we’d knocked on all these doors.
But luckily for us, many of the houses had knockers—and some, even doorbells—so my hands were spared. Even if my patience wasn’t.
After the twentieth time, the routine was becoming all too familiar.
I would knock or ring at the house, and then if the doorwasanswered, Sean would ask the question, “Excuse me, does Bill live here by any chance?” And when the answer came in the negative form—as it always did—and the person answering the door didn’t immediately slam it in our faces, Sean would follow up with, “You wouldn’t happen to know of any Bills that live down this street?”
It didn’t take me long to realize the reason this routine was becoming so familiar. It was not the constant repetition of knocking, ringing, and questions, but the fact that I’d seen it all done before in a movie. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“D’oh!” I said, sounding like Homer Simpson as I clutched my hands to my head.
“What’s up?” Sean asked, opening a small gate leading up to the next front door. “We can’t give up yet, we’re not even halfway.”
The tiny patch of land in front of this house had some plants in it this time and not the usual fridge, mattress, or empty beer crate that the last few houses we’d tried had lying around in them.
“It’s another film!” I cried.
“What is? This garden?”
“No, what we’re doing: banging on people’s doors asking if someone lives here. Except it was Hugh Grant asking if his tea lady—Martine McCutcheon—lived there, not Bill the Fenwick’s handyman.”
Sean shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. I mean there’s no way you could have orchestrated this movie scene.”
“I don’torchestrateany of my movie scenes, Sean. That’s the whole point of what I’m trying to prove, that movies aren’t that different from real life. Well, I may have tried a couple of times in the beginning,” I said, thinking of King’s Cross. “But when I did they only went wrong. And can I remind you that walking down this street banging on doors asking if Bill lives here was allyouridea.’”
“Well, I’m sorry for trying to help you, but—”
“Yes, Bill lives here,” a voice said.
We’d been so busy arguing that we hadn’t noticed that the door had been quietly opened, and an elderly woman now stood on the step in front of us. She was wearing a brightly colored pinny and wiping her flour-covered hands on a tea towel.
“He does?” we both asked in surprise.
“Yes, what did you want him for? Only he’s not been too well of late. Oh, you’re not from the pools, are you? Have we won and that silly fool hasn’t checked the draws off correctly? He did that once before, we’d only won £50 that time, but it was still enough to buy us a little something, and when you’re pensioners, every little helps. I mean, my Bill still has his part-time job at Fenwick’s, but how much longer he’ll be there after this flu’s knocked him out is anyone’s guess. Dr. Hardman says it could be a while before he’s allowed back. ‘Betty,’ he said, ‘you can’t be letting Bill go back to work until he’s fully recovered,’ and with the weather being what it is just now, you never know when he might take a turn for the worse again. He’s a good doctor is Dr. Hardman—been our family doctor for donkey’s years, he has. I remember when—”
“We’re not from the pools,” Sean interrupted. Trying to stopBetty when she was in full flow was like trying to stop a verbal tidal wave crashing toward you.
“You’re not? Then what are you here for? Oh wait, you’re not fromDealorNoDeal, are you? We applied to be on thatagesago now, I just love that little Noel Edmonds, he’s such a—”
“No,” Sean said firmly. “We’re not. We wondered if we might be able to have a word with Bill. Scarlett here is looking for her mother, and it seems Bill might have known her many years ago.”
Betty puffed out her chest under the pinny like a mother hen protecting her young. “I’ll have you know I’m Bill’s childhood sweetheart—we’ve been together since school, so we have—there’s been nootherwomen in his life.”
“No. Please, it’s not like that,” I said, holding up my hands in a submissive gesture, hoping to calm Betty down—she’d turned a funny shade of purple and didn’t look too good. “We think he may have worked with my mother at Fenwick’s many years ago. I’m trying to find her, and we wondered if Bill might know where she went after she left the store.”
“Oh, I see.” Betty’s chest subsided along with her color. “Well, why didn’t you say so before, dear? Come in.”
Betty opened the door, and we walked into a small hallway. “Bill’s right through here,” she said, leading us into the front room.
Bill sat in an armchair by the fire with a rug over his legs. He was doing a book of crossword puzzles.
“Bill, these people are here to ask you about—”
