Locked Out, Locked In, and Lies

This afternoon, I was poking about on an old blog of mine, reading old stories and remembering when my children were much younger. Locked Out, Locked In, and Lies is one of those stories. I wrote it four years ago for an A-Z blogging challenge. Of course, it was my L post!

“Hurry! Hurry! Time to go!” I yelled as I herded my three oldest children through the front door. I swung my bag onto my shoulder, scooped up the baby and grabbed the stroller, before slamming the door shut. Four children had been fed, washed and dressed. I grinned. I’d done it. We were off to town, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. This was going to be a good day.

But where was the van key? 

“There it is, Mum!” shouted seven-year-old Duncan, pointing back through the kitchen window. The van key was lying on the table, together with the house keys. They were locked in, and we were locked out.

We were newcomers to our village, but I’d remembered seeing a phone box outside the post office, which was only a short walk away. Perhaps I could call my husband, Andy. Would he come and rescue us?

Twenty minutes later, I squeezed into the phone box with the two youngest children, and left the older ones outside, watching the people posting letters through the slot in the post office wall. Soon I was explaining my predicament to Andy, who replied, “Can’t you call a locksmith?”

I was about to say, “Couldn’t you come home?” but instead yelled, “Got to go!” I slammed the phone back on the hook and shot out of the phone box.

“What did you do? How did you manage that?”

One of Duncan’s arms had disappeared inside the rectangular posting slot in the post office wall. He was leaning at an odd angle. “I can’t get my arm out!” His right arm was well and truly locked inside the box.

“Why did you put your arm in there?” I cried, my voice getting higher and louder.

“I wanted to see if I could touch the letters,” sobbed Duncan. 

“You can’t touch other people’s mail. People will think you are trying to steal the letters!”

I looked around. Was anyone watching? What was I to do? Duncan’s arm couldn’t stay inside the post box forever. I decided to go into the post office and beg for help. 

“Stay there!” I ordered Duncan as I disappeared into the building with the other three children.

“My son’s got his arm stuck in the post box,” I confessed to the postmaster. He didn’t waste words. He headed straight outside to have a look. The next moment he was on the phone to the rescue squad.

“They’re coming at once,” he reassured me. “They’ll soon have your son free.”

Minutes later, we could hear a siren blaring its way to the village. A huge rescue truck screeched to a halt outside the post office. Another vehicle was hot on its tail. Oh no! The local TV news crew were following along behind, hoping for a good story. I could just see it:

Caught in the Act: Irresponsible Mother Encourages Son to Steal the Mail.

A crowd of people was gathering as the rescue man assessed the situation. “We’ll soon get your arm free, matey,” he smiled. “I’ve got a cutter somewhere in my truck.” Duncan gulped. “Metal cutter, not arm cutter,” he quickly added. “Now, don’t go away.”

A ferret-faced reporter jumped out of the TV news car and thrust his microphone in front of Duncan’s face: “Why did you put your arm in the post box?”

“I wanted to see if I could touch the letters.” 

“Did your mother let you put your arm in the box? What? She wasn’t with you? You were all alone? Unsupervised?”

 Duncan sniffed and nodded.

 “Why did you want to touch the letters? Did you want to take them? Were you stealing them?”

“Out of the way! Metal cutters coming through!” ordered the rescue man, breaking up the interview. We all stood to one side as he attacked the post box with his huge steel cutters. Crunch! Crunch! Would we have to pay for a new box? I didn’t care. My son was free.

The news reporter had one more question for Duncan, “Would you like to say anything to your rescuer?”

Duncan shook his head. “Not really,” came the reply.

“We’d like to say thank you, wouldn’t we, Duncan?” I shot my son a dagger look, and smiled at our rescuer, and prayed the reporter would go away. I was feeling rather worn out.

Our rescue hero grinned and said, “You’re welcome! Never rescued anyone from a post box before. This will make a great story.”

It was a great story, wasn’t it?

All right. I confess. I lied. That’s not the way it happened at all. The postmaster didn’t call the rescue squad. The local news team didn’t arrive on the scene. That story only happened in my imagination, as I stood outside the post office, wondering how on earth we were going to get Duncan’s arm free.

This is what really happened:

I went into the post office. The postmaster was standing behind the counter, and I said to him, “I’m really sorry, I don’t know what possessed my son. He’s got his arm stuck in the post box, and I don’t know what to do.”

The postmaster went outside to assess the situation. “No problem,” he said. “See those screws? If I remove them, the metal plate will come away from the box. Then we should be able to get your son’s arm free.” 

The postmaster took charge. I gratefully stood to one side while he rescued Duncan. Moments later, he said, “All free!” He smiled and added, “Don’t go putting your arm into any more post boxes.” Duncan solemnly assured him that his post box investigating days were over.

Once the drama had dissolved, I remembered Andy. I headed back to the phone box. “Sorry I had to hang up on you earlier. Duncan got his arm stuck in the post box. It’s a long story. You called the locksmith? You’re coming home? Oh, you are the best husband in the world!”

An hour or so later, Andy and the locksmith arrived at our house at the same time. Two minutes later, we were back inside our home. Of course, Andy wanted to hear the full story.

“You wanted to see if you could touch the letters?” he asked Duncan. “And could you?”

“No,” said Duncan, his face dropping. All that and his fingers hadn’t touched a single envelope.

Isn’t it good to know that once you pop a letter into an Australia Post mailbox, it’s safe? No one can twist their arm through the slot and steal it. Not even a 7-year-old boy. 

I really must go and thank Australia Post.

Something Extra

I shared this story (and several other ones) in episode 67 of my podcast: The Dead Body and Other Stories,

Photo

My sons Callum and Duncan often got themselves into scrapes when they were younger!

So, I’m wondering if you have ever got locked out of your house or car with your children. Do you have an adventurous story involving your kids to share? Perhaps your imagination sometimes goes wild too!