“Holy. Shit.”
His head poked through the loft hatch.
“Mind if I take a picture? I have never seen anything like this before.”
Okay, so old Karl had been an eccentric. It was also clear that Karl had not quite left his earthly home. I could live with that. What I could not abide, however, was Karl’s blatant irritation with my renovation plans. Whenever I started moving furniture, ripping down wallpaper, or tearing up carpets, Karl made his displeasure known.
When work began on the upstairs bathroom, Karl retreated to the back bedroom and kicked up an unholy racket similar to that wreaked by Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol. It sounded as if Karl were pounding the walls and upending the furniture, yet when I opened the bedroom door nothing was amiss.
I was not the only one privy to this cacophony: Gord, the builder, heard it also. He was redoing the bathroom. Thank goodness he was not spooked by Karl. Not in the least.
“I had a ghost in one of my income properties,” he told me in his matter-of-fact way. “It did everything to get me out of that house. One day, it unleashed a hideous smell. I swore at the ghost and took a sledgehammer to the walls. That took care of things. There are a lot of homes with ghosts who don’t like their surroundings disturbed.”
While Gord worked on the bathroom, I weeded the garden. I had decided to try to win over Karl, so I complimented him on his landscaping. “Nice garden, Karl. Such a variety of flowers!”
But since Karl was making it clear that he was not going to be buttered up, it was time for the gloves to come off. You can only take so much of a ghost’s tantrums, and Karl was like having another teenager in the house. The few friends I dared to confide in about the ghost advised me to invoke the mantra “Go toward the light, Karl” and be done with him. But I never take the easy way out. This was war.
I started with mockery. “Fancied yourself a DIY guy, eh? One of those misguided morons who think he does better work than the pros. Well, you know what? You are shit at DIY, Karl. If I had not come along, this place would have got a yellow card from the fire department.”
Karl paced loudly up and down the stairs.
When I scraped the paint off the glass transoms and finally jimmied them open, I sneered: “Was this intentional, or just sloppy paintwork on your part?” He sighed heavily next to my ear. I paid no heed, and blithely hummed “Highway to Hell” as I continued to scrape.
Whenever he let loose his fury, I flew at him unflinchingly: “If you were any kind of a man, you would not be trying to terrorize a poor single mother and her children—you would be protecting us and helping us. I am busting my ass all day at work so that I can pay to correct your crappy workmanship, while you live here free of charge and complain. You call that gratitude?”
One day, I returned home from work just as the floor refinishers were packing up their gear in the front hall. It became apparent that someone—I assumed it was one of the crew adding the final coat of Varathane—was still upstairs, so I stood with them making small talk.
After a too-long length of time, I asked the foreman, “What is taking your guy so long?”
“There is no one up there. We are all here,” he said. He glanced at his mates.
We paused to listen to what sounded like someone beating their fists on the walls and jumping up and down on the floor.
“Do you hear that noise?” I asked the men.
“Yes. We heard it earlier, too,” one of them said, “but we thought it was one of your kids.”
“It is not my kids. One second.”
Hands balled up into fists, I stormed up the stairs. When I reached the door of the room from which the sounds were coming, I yelled, “I have had it up to here with you. You are behaving like a child. Either you cut that out or you get the hell out of my home!”
With that, I stomped back downstairs, waving my arms in frustration.
“Sorry about that,” I apologized to the floor refinishers, who by now had their backs pressed against the wall, eyes as wide as saucers. “We have a temperamental ghost living here. He gets pissed off with the renovations.”
It was the last job they did for me.
I eventually gained the upper hand over Karl. I like to think that I gradually wore him out. Perhaps the laughter and boisterousness that percolated through the house softened him. Perhaps he figured that if he backed off, I would not play heavy metal music so loud.
The one bad memory I have of the home involves theft. One night, as the household slept, someone pried open the dining room window and stole my laptop. It had the draft manuscripts of two books on it. In my naïveté I had not made backup discs. Hard lesson, that. It is times like that when a ghost would come in handy: Karl had obviously been dozing on the job.
The rest is happy memories. This was a home of family celebrations, holiday get-togethers, and personal growth. My confidence blossomed, and I began to travel, gaining new female friends. Up till then, I had been shy and tentative about girlfriends, possibly from the fear of moving away and losing them, possibly from being unsure of my value to others; but new gal pals came from hiking groups, from those I met while walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, and through my writing. Of the few steady older friends I had, I paid better attention to them, appreciating more the comfort and familiarity of their warm companionship, and the kindness they had shown me over the years when I was too distracted or depressed to notice. Things had brightened now. We would sit in my garden late into a summer’s evening beneath an umbrella of trees and flickering lanterns, sharing heartbreaks and dreams while fireflies zigzagged like fairies. I felt at my freest in this house: secure in my job; secure in my gradual transition into a writing life. Sometimes it takes a certain house to give you the space to grow and bloom.
My children were going through that rebellious stage that afflicts most teenagers, so our home was not immune to sharp arguments over curfews, homework, and, inevitably, overnight guests.
Early one beautiful summer’s morning, I awoke to the sound of giggling coming from the bedroom of one of my sons. Was it the radio? I eased myself out of bed, tiptoed closer to his door, and listened. I discerned a female voice. I could hardly believe it. My son, my eighteen-year-old son, had brought home a girl to spend the night in my house.
I honestly did not know what to do. I turned around, tiptoed downstairs, made a pot of tea, and spent half an hour arguing with myself over the lessons I had apparently neglected to teach my children. They were, for the most part, respectful and obedient kids, so this was quite out of character. Surely they knew that bringing someone home for a one-night stand was up there on the not-done list.
After the second cup of tea, I gathered my courage, marched to the door of my son’s bedroom, knocked politely, and asked in the sweetest voice I could muster, “Darling, may I see you for a moment?”
He emerged from his room wearing Donald Duck boxer shorts. I led him into my bedroom, closed the door, and addressed him, sotto voce, with a blend of incredulity and anger while I scanned his face for signs of substance abuse.
“What the hell are you thinking? Where did you ever get the idea that this is okay? I do not care who she is. Send her home now. I am calling a cab.”
“Ah, Mom, not right now. It’s early.”
“Noooowww!” I drew out the word and held him with a “You are so in the shithouse, buddy” gaze.
The young lady presently came down the stairs. The cab was idling in the driveway. She introduced herself sheepishly to me, and said, “You have a lovely home.”
“Thanks,” I said with a tight smile, and opened the door. “Goodbye.”
I marched back upstairs to confront my son, who was lolling in bed. I tried not to look too closely at the state of his room, particularly the bedclothes.
“Do you feel an apology might pass your lips?”
“It’s not a big deal!”
“It is a big deal. That behaviour is not allowed in this house. Sending Sarah home ea
rly in the morning is embarrassing to her and to me.”
“Sarah?” he said. “Her name is Sarah? Uh-oh. I thought it was Courtney!”
I sat down at my laptop and drew my line in the sand:
THE RULES OF THIS HOUSEHOLD
Absolutely NO sleepovers without prior (24-hour) notice and a really good reason.
Any sleepovers involving the opposite sex must receive prior verbal approval from me. Unless you are married or cohabitating, your partner cannot share your bedroom. They must sleep (alone) in the guest room.
Your friends are welcome in our home anytime, but they must leave by midnight (12 a.m.). There will be no extension to this rule. This rule is made out of consideration for our neighbours, as well as for my need of uninterrupted sleep.
You must immediately clean up after your guests, whether you have entertained them inside or outside. Smoking is forbidden in our home and is strongly discouraged outside our home. If your guests smoke, you must dispose of their refuse. Butts and other garbage are not to be tossed in the garden or over the fence. Bottles are to be neatly placed in the outside recycling containers.
If your friends are drunk/depressed/fighting with their parents and they need a place to crash, this can be accommodated, BUT ONLY with prior verbal approval from me.
Those who live in this house must perform two chores per week. These chores will be determined by me and must be performed without pouting and/or protestations and within the time frame stipulated. It would be appreciated if you could anticipate the needs of this household from time to time and do a chore without being asked.
You are responsible for cleaning (vacuuming and dusting) your room and keeping it tidy and to my standards. Those standards may seem high, but as the owner of this house that is my prerogative. Beds are to be changed every second Thursday on the day the housecleaner arrives. Ditto for a thorough cleaning of your room.
As a writer with deadlines to meet, I require a tidy, non-chaotic space. Occupants of this home must respect that need and do their utmost to ensure it is met.
In return for your adherence to these rules and your day-to-day co-operation, you will receive my gratitude and respect, as well as free room and board and all the conveniences of this household.
Any deviation from the above will result in two warnings, followed by eviction.
Signed,
Jane Christmas,
Proprietor and Owner
July 14, 2007
Well, then, I hoped that made everything abundantly clear. I cannot believe I had to spell it out for them. Naturally, the children found the whole thing hilarious. They laughed at my list. They brought their friends over to laugh at it, too.
But this is the thing about homes: they need rules. The fabric of the building and the humans who live within its walls need care if both are to survive and thrive. Cohesion inside a home depends on a code of conduct, be it a tacit one or one that needs to be theatrically fixed to the refrigerator door with magnets. A home’s peace is governed by its inhabitants, and the atmosphere, the warm and aromatic enveloping that you feel in the best homes, is often the result of co-operation and decorum. Aromatic oils do not hurt, either. Still, it is necessary to remember that a home does not make itself; its owners do, and the kindness you show a house is repaid tenfold. You can sense a well-loved home the moment you cross its threshold, and that intangible and ineffable something can be more important than how the house looks.
I loved this Hamilton house. I had always held the Hyde Park home as the gold standard of all my homes, but in fact it was this one, this Herkimer home, that is my favourite. It was the house in which I have lived the longest. It was a good family home, but it was also one that lent itself to a writer’s life. It was rambling, but not too rambling; it was private, contained; the rooms spacious and airy, with the right amount of light at the right time of day.
The irony of home renovations is that just when you get it all done, just when you coax everything to your own level of comfort, it is time to move. At least, it was for me. The kids had grown and were off on their own adventures, and I was ready to scale down to a condo.
On moving day, I wandered through the empty house room by room, admiring the transformation, letting family memories off the leash. I stared out a window and watched the wind tickle the leaves of a tree my children and I had planted three summers earlier. Then I heard those familiar footsteps creeping toward me, softer and more considerate than in the past. The distinctive aroma of pipe tobacco, comforting now, wreathed nearby.
“I have really enjoyed living here, Karl,” I said, turning my head toward the footsteps. “It has been a wonderful home. Truly. You could have a been a little less annoying, but there you go. Anyway, it’s time for me to move on. A really nice young family is moving in. It would be best if you moved on, too. Go toward the light, Karl. Go toward the light.”
15
The Surprise Visitor
I return to England with renewed optimism for our renovation, but also with a nagging case of space envy. Everything in Canada seems bigger and wider, and I’m not talking Texas-sized; I mean just regular and comfortable proportions: broad, leafy streets; the square footage of houses, even those in high-density areas; wide front doors and spacious entranceways; big windows; built-in closets; roomy bathroom vanities; rarely do you see radiators sucking up wall space; large driveways and garages; in other words, your basic Canadian home. No one seems to have to measure their front door before ordering a sofa. In the UK, the compactness of the average home can make you feel as if you are living on an airplane, or in Toyland.
From inside our home, I regard the tight row of Victorian terraces on our street and calculate how many of them would fit on an average Canadian lot: Three? Four? This is my new unit of measurement: VT. As in, The width of that little house is about two VTs; or, Wow, that house has to be six to eight VTs wide. And then there is the space between detached Canadian homes (on average between one and a half to two VTs), where you have to holler to get your neighbour’s attention. Here in the UK, you can hear your neighbour sneeze through the walls; you can most definitely hear water rushing down the outside pipes when next door’s loo is flushed or tub is emptied.
This is England, I remind myself sternly. Adapt. Roll with the punches, as my mother would say.
After a week away, I enter the house and step gingerly around building materials, buckets of plaster, dust-coated tools. I greet the trades and catch up on their progress during my absence. I chat, smile, and joke, hoping that my ever-present worry about the cost of this renovation is not showing up on my face.
At least the weather is co-operating. It is another gloriously hot, sunny day in Bristol. This southwest part of England has been enjoying an unusual heat wave. Good weather keeps up my spirits and those of my muscled, hammer-swinging troops. I am convinced that abundant sunshine makes a renovation go smoother and swifter.
Francis, the builder, is in the kitchen. Perspiration is already gathering on his upper lip and it is only half past nine. It is all good, he reassures me cheerfully. He has not hit any obstacles. The new windows arrive today, he adds, and the bifold patio doors will be installed tomorrow.
Things are moving quickly. The window in the second reception room has been enlarged to accommodate French doors, also arriving today. I am about to remind Francis that the bathroom is the priority—nothing has been done on that front—but decide that he has enough on his mind. Perhaps there is something I am missing in the way a British renovation has to proceed. As both builder and project manager on this job, he is the expert. I should just step back—like rich people do—and let him do his thing.
Besides, I have my own list of manual jobs. But before I crack on, a bit of brain candy is in order, in the form of mulling over paint swatches for the guest room.
I bound upstairs, walk into the guest room, and—Whoa!
My mother is standing by the window. Her round face turns slowly toward me, lips set in a tight li
ne as she shakes her frothy ash-blond head. Her visit is not completely unexpected: Mom loves a renovation, especially when it gives her an opportunity to second-guess my plans or tut-tut how much I am spending. What is unusual is that she has been dead five years, so to see her standing there is, as you can well imagine, a bit of a surprise.
“You found us!”
“You should know better than to think you can hide from me.”
I try not to appear shocked: she has a habit of reading shock as “You are concealing something from me.” Since The Husband is not interested in discussing paint colours and decor schemes, and my mother was all about paint colours and decor schemes, I decide to enlist her help.
“I was thinking of taupe for this room, but I cannot seem to settle on the right shade.” I bring the paint swatches nearer to her and to the light of the window.
She ignores the swatches. Her dark-brown eyes are narrowed on me, her mouth ready to spring open and unleash a torrent of recrimination. And then: “Is this really the sort of thing two elderly people should be doing?”
“P-P-Pardon?
“You and your husband.”
“Who are you calling ‘elderly’!”
“You’re both senior citizens, and look at you, lugging floor tiles, stripping wallpaper, carrying buckets of rubble to the dumpster like someone half your age. This is not how a lady behaves. You’re going to kill yourself. And that garden? When are you going to get around to that mess? It is ridiculous. I cannot believe what you paid for this dump. You have lost your mind, Jane. Honestly, you never learn, do you?”
“Me? What about you? You were moving and renovating up to the day you died. Don’t think we didn’t notice the notepad you left on your desk that showed you were planning two more moves. And might I just add, you were ninety-three—I am only sixty-three.”
“Don’t you dare bring my age into this,” she snaps. She faces me full on, straightening every inch of her five-foot-two frame. As if that would intimidate my five-foot-six. She was always touchy about her age; it was as off limits as the crown jewels, and as heavily guarded. A few years before she died, I found proof that she had lied about her age, having managed at some early point in her life to alter her birth certificate. When I confronted her about this, she hit the roof, and then she swore me to secrecy. To be on the safe side, she hired a stone mason the next day to carve her fabricated birthdate into the headstone she would eventually share with my father. She justified this speedy action: “Now you only have to add the date of my death.” She had said it like she had done me a favour. When she died, I was not sure whether she was eighty-four, eighty-nine, or ninety-three.
Open House Page 16
