Mr Padden

The smell hit you as soon as you entered the door of Number 12, Adelaide Road. The scent could be confused by some, for the staleness created by a house sitting unoccupied for a quarter of a year, but James instantly recognised it as the unique smell of Mr Padden.

James stood at the foot of the terrace’s only staircase, feet from the door he had so discreetly slid through only moments earlier. Light from the moon streaked through the windows of the otherwise unlit interior. James made a note to avoid direct illumination, and hoped the celestial intruder was the sole external witness to his being in a place he knew most would think he ought not to be.

Why did Mr Padden leave him that note? Was it even left by Mr Padden? For all James knew, this could be an elaborate set-up by his stepfather to catch him trespassing and use that as “the final straw” with which James was so often threatened. But the writing. No-one bar Mr Padden wrote like that, and James was sure Gary didn’t have the patience or ability to mimic such penmanship well. The only other person he could think of who knew of his childhood friendship with Mr Padden was his mother. But, unless doing so scored her another pack of Winnies, James couldn’t imagine his mother would care enough to concoct such a plan. No, the letter must have been from Mr Padden, and no matter not knowing the reason behind its composition, James decided he was not going to ignore the wishes of a dead man.

James took a step onto the first stair, placing his hand on the bannister to his left. Almost as soon as his palm connected with the smooth wood, he jolted his arm back to his side. James stood there still for a moment, his arm hard against him at a ninety-degree angle, looking as if he was tentatively stepping up for a handshake from someone unseen in front of him. He slowly turned his head to look at the bannister he had just touched. There, in a thick layer of dust, acting as mute testimony of his midnight visit, was his print.

Why had Mr Padden’s relatives not come earlier to settle his house? But for their delay, James knew he would never have had sufficient time to build up the courage to break in.

Was it even breaking in though? After all, he had been posthumously told by the owner to doff the hat of the small porcelain frog that sat by the front door, grab the key that revealed itself and enter. He had Mr Padden’s permission and therefore, he was in need of no-one else’s.

In an attempt to eliminate the obviousness of the now inlaid five digits and the palm to which they are attached, James pulled his sleeve over his hand and wiped down that section of the handrail. Looking at his work, James was dissatisfied with what he felt was a clear effort at concealment. After a quick thought, James removed his shoes and placed them at the foot of the staircase. James then made his way up to the next level, sliding his wool-covered hand up the bannister whilst simultaneously running his feet across the width of each step, letting his socks consume the blabbing dirt that lay beneath them.

A sense of relief washed over James as he reached the upper storey. An orange, bright even in the dark, reminded him that the entirety of the top floor was carpeted. James removed his socks and stepped onto this sea of nylon lava. The surprisingly fresh-feeling carpet traversed both to James’ left and right, leading the way to four closed bedrooms. Three of these bedrooms had sat empty since the last of Mr Padden’s children had left some 25 years ago, only a month after the death of Mrs Padden. Although the moonlight that lit downstairs so well now only whimpered through an open bathroom door, James knew the house well enough to not need his way brightened.

James turned to the left and made his way down the hallway. As he passed the only open door, James peered in and regarded the bottles of soaps and other toiletries that now sat atop the sink cabinet instead of within it. With no Mr Padden moving around the house, it was the bathroom that had become the epicentre of the smell James knew to be Mr Padden’s; the subtle pungency of the creams and balms he used having had been paying a consistent tribute to his memory.

James quietly continued down the hallway until he reached the door furthest from the front of the house. Beyond this door lay the now three month’s passed Mr Padden’s bedroom. Although James had frequented the terrace many times as a child, this was one room into which he never was allowed. James placed his hand on the small glass doorknob and hesitated for a second, before slowly opening the door.

On first stepping foot into the room, James was struck by how little the space reminded him of Mr Padden. Barely decorated, all that sat in the room was the bed with a small table to its left, and a wardrobe. Whilst James would never have considered Mr Padden a man of fancy taste, the unadorned state of his bedroom was in stark contrast to the celebration of his family and life that was every room downstairs. And yet, James knew how much Mr Padden loved this room; his letter to James had told him as much. Not wanting to waste time, James made his way across the room to the bed, making sure to avoid the patch of light that his old heavenly overseer was using as an attempt to expose him. Upon reaching the bed, James got down on all fours and peered beneath it. There, only barely visible, was a bag, just as Mr Padden had said there would be. James reached out his hand and grabbed the worn handle, pulling the bag out from its hiding place.

Not wanting to disturb the bed, James sat on the floor with the bag now in front of him. The bag was black leather and reminded James of the bags he had seen doctors carry in old films. It may have indeed been a doctor’s bag, as James realised that he never knew what it was the Mr Padden had done for work. James berated himself for never having asked what would be considered such a routine question of someone to whom he had at one time been considered close.

For what was quite demonstrably an old bag, the silver buckle that held it shut was in fine working order and issued a satisfying ‘click’ when it was pressed for release. Time was not as agreeable to the spring mechanism that had once flung the bag open upon this release, however, and James was left to pry the stiff lips of this leather mouth apart.

As James leant over the newly formed chasm between the bag’s two lips, his eyes were met with a neatly wrapped parcel in brown paper, upon which lay two almost identical, small black notebooks – one well used and the other plainly newer. Slipped within the strap of the older notebook was a piece of paper, folded, with ‘James’ scrawled on it in that unmistakable script. James slid the paper from beneath the strap and held it above the bag, staring at his name as if it contained everything Mr Padden wanted to say, just in those five letters. James’ trance was broken by the sound of a neighbour’s dog barking. Regaining his sense of urgency, James swiftly unfolded the paper, accidentally tearing an edge in the process.

When unfolded, the paper revealed a letter, similar in length to the letter that had arrived in James’ mailbox two days after Mr Padden’s death. But even though the writing was undeniably Mr Padden’s, this letter seemed to have been written more deliberately, with more care and attention, as if its importance was too great to rush. James edged closer to the patch of moonlight and read.

James,

If it is indeed you reading this, thank you for entertaining an old man’s wishes. I know that asking you to basically break into my house would be hard to explain, even with the letter I left. Still, trust me when I say that I had my reasons.

I was not always the Mr Padden you knew. I married and had children late in life and settled down into a comfortable and lovely life with Marjorie and the three kids. But, before that, I lived my life from adventure to adventure. I spent my money on travelling and learning. I spent my time reading and meeting as many new people as I could. I made my life about the experiences and lived for every moment. And although the greatest experience I have had is my life with Marjorie and the children, I always longed for a little more adventure.

My children have all inherited Mrs Padden’s sensible nature. It is a blessing to have someone like that in your life, but too much sensibleness can sometimes limit that fire within you that makes you take the risks that may scare you but are the ones that can change your life forever. I never saw that fire in my children. But ever since you were young, I have seen that fire in you.

So, with that I leave you my journal from when I was younger. In it is all my adventures, the people I met, the things I did. It is a completely honest account of 20 years of my life.

I have also left you your own journal. There is no obligation to use it if you don’t want to but, if you do use it, I hope you use it to document your own adventures.

With that, I come to why you had to sneak into my house. In the brown paper underneath the journals is $20,000. While I am sure some would understand why I left you this money, my children would likely not given your age and that we haven’t spoken properly for quite a while. So, if I wanted you to have it, I needed it to be done this way, without them knowing.

You are free to spend this money how you wish; I have no expectations on how you will. All I hope is that it can help you find your way back to that little boy who wanted to rule the world. If you put your mind to it, I know you can.

You are a remarkable young man, James.

Live the life YOU want.

Best,

Joshua

James sat, unable to move. He had never seen $20,000, let alone be the recipient of such a sum. For all the thoughts of joy he would feel if he had any sort money, it was not joy James was now feeling; it was fear.

Fear of the possibility.

But that is the point, isn’t it Mr Padden?