The Notary's House

The notary public's house was at the leafier end of the street, set back from the road and hidden by a trellis fence, round-topped shrubs and stunted beech trees. The door was already ajar but I'd pushed the bell for a second time before I heard the first soft noises from inside. He stood straight-backed in shiny black shoes and a dark blue suit; over his shoulder I made out the beginning of a bannister and a portrait of a woman I mistook for the Queen. The air smelled like a suburban dentist's; furniture polish mixed with tightly closed windows. We sat at right angles across a large oval dining table while he looked over the documents, the only sound a faint tick-tock from the hallway. He spoke slowly, as if he were selecting his words from a far greater store, turning each one round in search of defects as other people might pick ripened fruit from a market stall. He stamped the four pages in turn, and placed them face up between us. I asked how much I owed. "Thirty pounds," he replied, crisply. I'd been dismissed.