by Talea Botha
“They’re just jealous,” my boss had told me, but in all honesty, it wasn’t really fair. Competition was meant to be healthy, not painful.
I looked at the small illuminated screen and recognized the number.
“Mr. Wright, I was wondering if you could help me out” her bright voice chimed across the line. I hadn’t heard from her in - how long now? Three weeks at least. But I would recognize that voice anywhere, it brought memories of her back immediately, flooding my senses with color.
“What can I do for you, Miss Bodegart?”
“I was wondering if I could arrange a meeting with you? At your earliest convenience, of course.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I do need some assistance though, and you’re the prefect man for the job.”
The nerve of some people. What did I look like, a Personal Assistant?
“Miss Bodegart, you understand I have a tight schedule, I can’t just drop everything to please former clients. Unless this is about a sale, I’m going to have to decline.”
“Oh, I respect that you’re busy Mr. Wright. It’s got to do with the sale, of course, and needless to say I’ll pay you for your time.”
I hesitated for a minute. I was suddenly inclined to say yes, although I didn’t want to think that it was about money. But she was offering to pay me, and I really needed something to pull me through. If I could keep it off the company record...
“Will tomorrow morning work for you? I can be there as soon as I’m done with a client.”
“Oh, wonderful! Yes, that will be perfect. Thank you!”
I walked up the three steps to the porch, and banged the knocker against the old door. From the outside the old house still looked miserable, squatting under a roof heavy with weeds and moss that grew without restraint as if it wasn’t on top of tiles in the city. The paint on the door was peeling around the handle and top part, and when she pulled it open it still creaked the way it had every time I’d opened it to another set of clients that had already pulled up their noses at its façade.
She beamed at me from the foyer. Her curls were all over the place, streaming over her shoulders and down her back in a waterfall of red. It had obviously escaped from the ribbon she’d tried to tie it up in. She was wearing something that looked very much like a night gown.
“Oh Mr. Wright, you’re so very early?”
“It’s ten o’clock” I frowned and checked my watch to be sure.
“Ten already? I lose track of time when I’m painting. Please, come in, make yourself at home, let me just get into some clothes. I’ll be down in a minute,” she called over her shoulder as she left the door open and disappeared up the stairs.
It was a night gown then.
I stepped into the foyer and looked around. It still had that terrible air of neglect; somehow it looked worse than I remembered. But it didn’t smell of dust anymore, and soft green leaves spilled over pots of different shapes and sizes now, in the corner where paint curls and shavings had once been. I walked into the living room cautiously. There wasn’t much change in here either. Small, mismatching couches were arranged haphazardly around the fireplace, a messy circle of soot decorated the ever gaping carpet directly in front of the fireplace. There must be something wrong with the chimney, and the silly girl hadn’t checked before lighting it.
The furniture all over looked strangely out of place, too modern, but equally at home, in the same state of disarray. I didn’t take a seat, instead I stood in the middle of the silver wooden floor. The house looked happier without its layer of dust, and it seemed to live a little with the life that constantly buzzed within its walls. I could smell a faint scent of freshly baked bread, and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten properly in a while, there hadn’t been much food.
She came down in a whirlwind of greens and blues, a long mesh-like scarf trailing behind her, and her satin clad slippers hardly making a sound on the faded carpet on the stairs. Her eyes were a striking green – the colors she wore emphasized them – swimming in an ocean of tiny freckles that covered a great deal of her face, and her hair cascaded down her back in a more organized mass of curls.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water will be fine, thank you.”
“No coffee? I’m going to make me a cup.”
“I’d really rather just get on with it, if you don’t mind.” I fought the urge to glance at my watch again. I felt out of place in this house, and uncomfortable under her intense eyes.
“Oh, time isn’t ever going to wait for us, Mr. Wright, not even if you run to catch up,” she smiled, “Come to the kitchen, then we can talk if you’re so hurried. I’m dying for some caffeine.”
I followed her hesitantly through the panel door that lead to the kitchen. I had to admit that the place had come to life. There was color everywhere; she seemed fond of the whole spectrum. She disappeared into the pantry and came out with a pot of instant coffee powder.
“Sit, please, make yourself at home.”
I chose a stool close to the door, and perched on it, interlocking my fingers in front of me.
“What can I help you with, Miss Bodegart?”
“Please, call me Serena. I want to know how I can find the previous owners of the house.”
“The house was repossessed, so it will be difficult. Why, is something wrong?”
“Oh no, not at all. I just found some personal belongings that seemed to have value, and I wanted to return them.”
“Miss Bo— Serena, if the previous owners left it behind they probably didn’t want it. Besides, the bank assured that everything was cleared out. Where did you find it?”
“In the attic, there are quite a few things up there.”
“I wasn’t aware this house had an attic.”
“Oh I wasn’t either, I stumbled across it. Would it be possible to find them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really see how this has anything to do with me.”
“Well, naturally I thought you would have had contact with them, considering that you sold it to me. Could you talk to the bank, find out something like that?”
She turned around, a large ceramic mug in both her hands, blowing on the contents over the rim. Her green eyes pierced right through me as she looked at me with emerald question marks in her eyes.
“I don’t know, it’s not really part of my job description.”
“Please, can’t you try? I’ll pay you for it. I really need to know and I don’t have a clue where to start. I want to find them.”
The prospect of money was thrown at me again, and I didn’t like how she held it like a carrot in front of my nose. But I needed it very much, and I resented the fact that something as petty as money would be any kind of motivation. It was all wrong; here she was, this painting gypsy, living in a house that was deteriorating from underneath her. I’d always seen myself as a proud man, hard-working, neat, organized. I earned every penny that came to me. She probably inherited hers from a rich eccentric grandmother without lifting a finger, along with some of those crazy genes. And here I was, in her stone kitchen, my carefully pressed suit probably wrinkling in all the wrong places from being perched on the stool, and I was tempted by her money. It was ridiculous.
I thought of Will, and his silly business plans, with friends that didn’t take life nearly as seriously as they should. None of them seemed to understand the importance of life, and how easy death could come and snatch you away. I was disappointed that Will didn’t seem to understand the depth of it either. My baby brother, who had clung to me with his big brown eyes, refusing to cry for weeks on end before it had hit him and racked his little twelve-year-old body with sobs that had made my heart break. And now I couldn’t even give him a decent meal in the evenings.
“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises.”
Her whole face lit up, her green eyes shining in the gloomy kitchen. She smiled a perfect smile, revealing teeth that had
gotten expensive attention, and stepped across the kitchen with her hand stretched out.
I took it carefully, feeling like I was shaking on some sort of deal I wasn’t entirely aware of. Her handshake was strong despite how soft her skin was, and her elegant fingers weren’t polished as I would have expected, but dry at the tips, and stained with paint marks. I pulled my hand back and forced myself to look her in the eyes again.
“I’ll let you know if I find anything. I’m afraid I have to go now.” I didn’t hesitate to look at my watch now. I had to get out of here before I was mesmerized by this strange creature.
“Of course, thank you so much. I really appreciate your time.”
I stepped down the porch into the sunlight and walked down the road. What have I done? I was now officially charging this woman to find information for her that I wasn’t even sure I could get. It was off the record, but on company time, and I felt pretty low. I would go to the bank, but I didn’t even know if I would be able to find out who the previous owner was. The agency had only recently been involved in marketing repossessed property. I was pretty sure there had to be some sort of confidentiality around it too.
The bank was quiet, and I listened to the dull echo of my shoes on the spotless tiles as I walked over to the inquiries booth. The lady behind it had an unwelcoming grimace on her face. So much for friendly customer service. She pointed me towards a row of glass-walled office cubicles towards the back, and I sat down on one of the chairs lined up for customers awaiting their turn. I was the only one there, but still I waited for half an hour before anyone came to collect me.
“Is it possible for me to find out about previous owners of repossessed property?” I asked after sitting down in the immaculate office. There was nothing personal about this space, nothing on the desk showing that the person behind it had claimed it for himself in any way, no photos or plants or action figures stuck on the monitor. It was all very formal, and I had to admit, uncomfortable. I usually felt comfortable in banks, it was a place where handling money was the only point, and it was done with great precision and skill. I liked it. It was something I saw a point in, an organization with a goal. But I felt out of place today, the people looking at me like I was wasting their time, the faces masks of seriousness and agitation. I had a feeling even the man behind the desk, speaking to me now, was thinking of a million things better to do with his time than help me.
“What is the reason for your enquiry?”
What would I tell him? My reason was because I was getting money from a woman and I felt guilty about it. I would have turned it down if I didn’t need it so much. It made me feel like a beggar, a well-concealed, upper class beggar.
“Uhm, a client of mine is interested.”
“Sir, you understand that these things aren’t just open for public viewing. The property was repossessed which means that the owner had not been able to fulfill financial obligations to us, and we had to take the house as payment. Naturally these kind of financial situations are kept confidential in the same way your financial status is kept confidential.”
At the mention of my financial status I suddenly felt cold. Putting it in those words – financial situation – made me cringe; I didn’t want to feel associated with something like having property repossessed. I couldn’t do that to Will. We were living in such bad conditions already. I shook it off. We weren’t there, this man wasn’t comparing us. I was being paranoid. Pull yourself together man, I scolded myself. This sudden insecurity annoyed me. I was confident, secure, successful, had always been, would always be.
“Are there no exceptions?”
“Only when an owner has died, a will is involved and unexpected family turns up. Needless to say that would change the matter.”
“Could you then at least tell me if that is the case?”
The man looked at me with an emotionless expression for a second. I knew what that face felt like, I used it on some of my own clients. Then he asked for the address, and his square fingers ran over the keys swiftly.
“As it appears the owner has passed away, with no known family.”
“Yes?”
“That’s all, sir, you understand I can’t give you more than that.”
I nodded and thanked the man. Well, that had gotten me nowhere. I hesitated outside the bank, and then pulled my phone from my pocket.
“Serena? It’s Ian… Mr. Wright. I’ve been to the bank—“
“Oh that was quick! What have you found?”
“Nothing, unfortunately. They would only tell me that the previous owner died, with no known relatives.”
“Died? But that can’t be right?”
“That’s what they told me. I’m sorry.”
“Isn’t there another way of finding out more about her?”
“Her?”
“The owner. Sorry. Is there no one else to speak to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mr. Wright, this is very important to me. Would it work to speak to neighbors perhaps? You’re an estate agent, has there been a lot of traffic in and out of the homes in this area lately?”
“I don’t know, I only know of the homes sold and bought where our agency was involved.”
She sighed, sounding let down.
“You could just keep whatever you found to yourself.”
“It’s not really just about that,” she said so softly I almost couldn’t hear.
“What then?”
“I found letters, and I wanted to meet them. The letters were recent, and… heartfelt.”
Meet them? The writer of the letters? I pictured her, standing in the kitchen in her blue and green sashes and elaborate collection of bangles on both wrists, her wild hair going wherever it felt like. Somehow it fit the picture, it sounded right that she was swept up by emotion, and caught up in fairytale worlds. It fit the image.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” I said, aiming to end the conversation.
“Please, can you help me? Just to find out who lived there, that’s all. I won’t take more of your time.”
Why wouldn’t this woman let it go?
“Serena…”
“You know that your time won’t be wasted, I’ll make sure of it.”
I sighed. I didn’t want this to be about money, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
I hung up.
When I got home the house was quiet. Will wasn’t home. I grunted. I’d told that boy so many times to let me know if he was going to leave the house. I couldn’t have him running around all over the place, not knowing where he was. He was old enough, sure, but he wasn’t legal yet, and I didn’t like his friends. It just seemed that night time was when they came out to play and I didn’t like the idea of what games they had in mind. Will was trying too hard to be one of them, he was forgetting who he was because of it, and with a crowd like those guys, that was a bad idea.
I texted Will, asking him where he was. The reply was one word: OUT, and when I tried to call, Will had switched his phone off. The familiar feeling of worry crawled into my body. The first time had been shortly after the worst of the pain had washed away, and I was left with a twelve-year-old that wouldn’t eat, and no money coming in. Somehow, even though things had looked up for the most part, that feeling never really went away. Not when money started coming in and I could feed Will, not when Will finally started smiling again, not when Will made some friends at school. And now Will’s friends had become a source of worry all on their own.
I opened the fridge. It was almost empty. Again. Had we finished already the few things we’d bought? I could have sworn there had still been enough that morning. I closed the door again and leaned against it. Still a while before I would be paid and bills were starting to pile up. How long would we hold out? I hated that my job was largely commission-based. My basic salary wasn’t enough to cover everything, and sales had been slow. I pulled out my phone and looked at it. With my thumb I scrolled down to her number, but hesitated for a long time before I fina
lly pushed ‘talk’.
“Serena, hi, will it be alright to come through tomorrow morning? Yes, first thing. Right. See you then.”
I flipped my phone shut, and leaned my head back, closing my eyes. At least it was a way out, even if I hated doing it this way. Money was money, and at some point I had to swallow my pride.
