Before the dust has settled
There is a boiled egg left on the draining board, amongst a pile of washed dishes that have been left to dry. A bottle of medicine stands by the sink. More medicines are in the bathroom. The mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet is open, exposing a selection of ointments and tablets. These most personal items embarrass me and I slide the door closed before my first client arrives.
Waiting outside I feel very subdued. There is something extremely dispiriting about standing amongst the abandoned relics of a woman’s life. The flat has been vacated very suddenly, with signs of her interrupted life everywhere; on every surface, bits and pieces, clutter, normality.
Maybe it’s that sense of my presence being a kind of violation of her home, but I feel a bit irritable as the viewing party approach; a young man accompanied by his parents. I can’t tell if it’s me or them that makes the atmosphere uncomfortable. I go through the motions of smiling, hand shaking etc but I am very ill at ease. I explain that the property is being sold as part of a deceased estate and apologize for the untidiness indoors.
While we’re inside I keep wishing they would go. The mother’s manner is a bit forced. She treats her son like a teenager and makes repeated remarks about doing the vacuuming and telling him where he could store things, as if he can’t think for himself. I realize that she must be the one who wants her son to buy a place of his own, that she has grown tired of tidying up after him. The father says little except to criticize the property, and to ask negatively loaded questions about the lease, damp, or noise from the upstairs flat. The son is quiet and, if he has spent his lifetime with a dominant mother and a negative father, I think it would be a good thing for him to get his own place and some room to breathe.
Mother fusses about a wall at the back of the garden and is insistent that the family discover the meaning of this new wall. I wearily say that it is probably the end of an extension, that it is the boundary wall, and is not affecting the property we are seeing. She says something like “Well, we need to make sure they’re not putting up a three storey building there.”
“Yes, of course, Madam, I’m sure you’ll be able to see any plans at the Council offices.” As I say this she turns to her husband and asks if he’s seen any such plans going across his desk at work. Oh, he's in Planning. He would know then.
To my relief and delight a pleasant faced young man appears at the garden gate. He appears anxious not to disturb us but I go forward and practically embrace him. Here is a face that is all understanding and intelligence. Yes, he is certainly happy to wait until the family have finished, in a moment or two. He waits patiently, as I knew he would. He is my saviour come.
The parents manhandle their quiet boy away. I watch him go and hope he can soon break free.
I bound back to my second client who, now he does not need to be respectful to any other party, can indulge himself and look around openly. He is beaming and friendly. He is cheerful and positive. I adore him instantly. When I ask about travelling to work he says he is Head of English at a school some drive away. I am a snob when it comes to English ,and very prejudiced in favour of anyone who likes books and films, so I love him. Word people are good people. He bounds around and loves everything. Even though I am still sorry about us barging around amongst the dead woman’s things, it doesn’t feel so bad. He is sensitive, respectful and not disparaging.
Back at the office I ask who is selling the flat and if they can be asked to clear the place out, and in particular to get rid of such things as draining dishes, medicines, and the boiled egg. All my colleagues roll their eyes. One of them mentions the lavatory. I splutter with disapproval that the loo seat was up when I got there so I had to touch it to put it down. Eugh. This is nothing. Carl grimaces and says that when he arrived to measure up, the place stank, there was diarrhoea in the loo and he had to flush it; he leaned well back and used his foot on the handle.
Has this woman got such disrespectful relatives that they whack her little home straight on the market before her corpse has even cooled, and leave the mess of her dying in the uncleaned loo? For shame.
There is a boiled egg left on the draining board, amongst a pile of washed dishes that have been left to dry. A bottle of medicine stands by the sink. More medicines are in the bathroom. The mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet is open, exposing a selection of ointments and tablets. These most personal items embarrass me and I slide the door closed before my first client arrives.
Waiting outside I feel very subdued. There is something extremely dispiriting about standing amongst the abandoned relics of a woman’s life. The flat has been vacated very suddenly, with signs of her interrupted life everywhere; on every surface, bits and pieces, clutter, normality.
Maybe it’s that sense of my presence being a kind of violation of her home, but I feel a bit irritable as the viewing party approach; a young man accompanied by his parents. I can’t tell if it’s me or them that makes the atmosphere uncomfortable. I go through the motions of smiling, hand shaking etc but I am very ill at ease. I explain that the property is being sold as part of a deceased estate and apologize for the untidiness indoors.
While we’re inside I keep wishing they would go. The mother’s manner is a bit forced. She treats her son like a teenager and makes repeated remarks about doing the vacuuming and telling him where he could store things, as if he can’t think for himself. I realize that she must be the one who wants her son to buy a place of his own, that she has grown tired of tidying up after him. The father says little except to criticize the property, and to ask negatively loaded questions about the lease, damp, or noise from the upstairs flat. The son is quiet and, if he has spent his lifetime with a dominant mother and a negative father, I think it would be a good thing for him to get his own place and some room to breathe.
Mother fusses about a wall at the back of the garden and is insistent that the family discover the meaning of this new wall. I wearily say that it is probably the end of an extension, that it is the boundary wall, and is not affecting the property we are seeing. She says something like “Well, we need to make sure they’re not putting up a three storey building there.”
“Yes, of course, Madam, I’m sure you’ll be able to see any plans at the Council offices.” As I say this she turns to her husband and asks if he’s seen any such plans going across his desk at work. Oh, he's in Planning. He would know then.
To my relief and delight a pleasant faced young man appears at the garden gate. He appears anxious not to disturb us but I go forward and practically embrace him. Here is a face that is all understanding and intelligence. Yes, he is certainly happy to wait until the family have finished, in a moment or two. He waits patiently, as I knew he would. He is my saviour come.
The parents manhandle their quiet boy away. I watch him go and hope he can soon break free.
I bound back to my second client who, now he does not need to be respectful to any other party, can indulge himself and look around openly. He is beaming and friendly. He is cheerful and positive. I adore him instantly. When I ask about travelling to work he says he is Head of English at a school some drive away. I am a snob when it comes to English ,and very prejudiced in favour of anyone who likes books and films, so I love him. Word people are good people. He bounds around and loves everything. Even though I am still sorry about us barging around amongst the dead woman’s things, it doesn’t feel so bad. He is sensitive, respectful and not disparaging.
Back at the office I ask who is selling the flat and if they can be asked to clear the place out, and in particular to get rid of such things as draining dishes, medicines, and the boiled egg. All my colleagues roll their eyes. One of them mentions the lavatory. I splutter with disapproval that the loo seat was up when I got there so I had to touch it to put it down. Eugh. This is nothing. Carl grimaces and says that when he arrived to measure up, the place stank, there was diarrhoea in the loo and he had to flush it; he leaned well back and used his foot on the handle.
Has this woman got such disrespectful relatives that they whack her little home straight on the market before her corpse has even cooled, and leave the mess of her dying in the uncleaned loo? For shame.
Comments