Open House

by Jane Christmas

  “There are certainly enough locks on them,” I offer unhelpfully.

  In England, windows have keyed locks on them. I have never seen this in any other country except Italy. England is almost as obsessive about door locks as it is about interior doors. Commandments eight and ten have evaded English culture. People exist about six feet from their neighbour, yet they trust no one.

  My husband does not care about Italy or my views on English social behaviour.

  “What if the house is broken into while renovations are taking place? Or a tradesman is injured, or if we are away for two weeks and something goes wrong?” he asks.

  I throw up my hands: “What if the roof falls in, or a piece of flying rubble hits a neighbour two doors down? Why must you be so pessimistic?”

  This infuriates him, my devil-may-care approach. It used to be what he found attractive about me; now he regards me like a walking four-alarm fire. His eyes say he wishes he could run as far as possible from this mess, and I daresay from me, too. Then he says, “I had my whole life planned out. My mortgage was paid off on my flat in London. I was ready to retire and travel. And suddenly you come along and put me on this, this grand tour into hell.”

  “Fine,” I say. “We’ll fix up the house and sell it, store our stuff and travel.”

  “No,” he says. “You want a house. You’re the one who says you need a place to put down roots. The problem is, you never do. You root and uproot.”

  I turn away with my best “you do not understand me” face, but deep down I know he is right. How can I explain that houses and renovations and moving are an addiction to me; that I desperately want to settle, but as hard as I try I just cannot? That despite the adrenalin rush from upping sticks, it also causes me great stress?

  A week later it all finally gets to me. One night after supper, as we slump in front of the TV craving diversion from the bickering and from the thousand and one details that get served up daily, I swiftly double over with severe stomach pains. I hyperventilate. Nothing I do will regulate my breathing. Each attempt, each gasp for air, worsens my condition. The Husband dials 999.

  The paramedics are swift in arriving. They look to be the same age as my kids, possibly younger, but they are efficient, cheerful, and professional. The Husband tells them, “She’s renovating a house.” She, not we.

  Electrodes are stuck onto my upper body while I am asked questions, none of which have anything to do with appliance placements, the location of the boiler, or my preferred colour of Corian worktops. They take my blood pressure and run tests. They ask me the date and year. For a brief second, I consider giving a false answer. If I get sectioned, I will not have to face the rest of the renovation. It would be left to The Husband to complete. Hmm. Wouldn’t that just do him in. At the same time, maybe being committed is the only cure for my restless obsession with homes. Still, I cannot lie. I answer honestly, and pass. My marbles are intact. Or so everyone assumes.

  There is nothing amiss with my heart, the youngsters tell me.

  “Take it easy,” they say.

  I smile, nod, and think: Yeah, I’ll get right on that one.

  Why is this renovation so much more difficult than the others? Why the hyperstress? The answer, a little-known truism, is that renovations are best undertaken solo. I had considered sending The Husband off on a hiking expedition while I dealt with the house reno: he could enjoy his journey—I could enjoy mine. But he said we could not afford to do both. I think he felt guilty about leaving me behind to do it alone.

  Augmenting the stress is the fact that I cannot seem to do anything. There was a time when I thought nothing of changing a toilet seat, or unscrewing curtain rods, or cutting a hole in a wall. Now, not only do I lack the strength, I have become petrified of incompetence. I am afraid of failing.

  THINGS DO LIGHTEN UP. A few days later, while cleaning out the area under the stairs, I find a small silver ring that looks faintly masonic. I also find a small plastic baggie inside which is a multi-folded piece of tinfoil. I call over The Husband. I fold back each layer of foil, and it becomes obvious what it likely contains. Cocaine. However, it is such a small amount that it has turned yellow and dried up. Does cocaine have a best-before date? Does fossilized cocaine have more potency?

  We show it to Mark, who is installing a smoke alarm upstairs.

  “Rip up all the floorboards!” he jokes.

  We show it to Francis.

  “Don’t snort it all in one place,” I say.

  He peers at the minuscule remnants and says with a laugh, “If you ask me one day to put marble flooring throughout the house, I’ll know you’ve found the motherlode.”

  It beats what he found in the roof void above the kitchen: women’s underwear and a nightie. Creepy.

  On the way back to our rental home The Husband says, “If you actually found a pile of coke, how would you propose to convert it into money?”

  “I would take it to the police.”

  “So you think the police would pay you for it?”

  Okay, I had not thought of that.

  “Well, then we would sell it. You know, privately.”

  “And then you would be arrested and sent to jail.”

  What a killjoy.

  I had come across a story in a newspaper about a fellow who found a suitcase full of old cash in a house he had just purchased. He was acquainted with the home’s previous owners, an elderly brother and sister, and alerted them to the stash. The notes were old and out of circulation, so he accompanied them to the bank to ensure that the money was converted properly and deposited into its owners’ account. I thought that was awfully sweet.

  You live in hope when you tear apart an old home. Has someone stashed cash under the floor? Is there a false wall hiding something? Has a family heirloom slipped between the floorboards? Is there a stone in the garden marking a safe full of gold?

  No such windfall for us. In addition to the ring and the dried-up cocaine, I find an old nail, and a charming globe-shaped glass bottle that has since been filled with scented oil and placed in the bathroom. Oh, and there was an England’s Glory match box with this joke on the back:

  Wife: “How do you manage to stay out so late at night?”

  Husband: “Easy. I got into the habit when I was courting you.”

  These are the spoils from our renovation.

  20

  The Project Tilts

  It was bound to happen. After weeks of smooth sailing, the mast wobbles, and The Good Ship Renovation starts to list.

  Francis has been a diligent worker. Has shown up every day at 8:00 a.m. and worked till 4:30 p.m., five days a week. He hardly takes a break, save for The Husband’s frequent ministrations of tea. It is, therefore, not unreasonable when he asks for a few days off, especially given that work on the house is proceeding at such a pace that it looks to be completed ahead of schedule.

  The kitchen is to be fitted next week, and the tiler is now at work on the floor. The bathroom still is not done but, or so Francis promises, the tiler will do that right after the kitchen. My mental calculations commence: three days to tile the kitchen floor, then three days to tile the bathroom, by which point the kitchen will be installed, and then three days, give or take, to install the fixtures in the bathroom. The painting—three days for that. In two weeks tops the house will be complete—two weeks ahead of schedule! The Husband and I will have the luxury of moving in gradually and placing our stuff into pristine new quarters. I am smoking from the renovator’s crack pipe.

  “Should we book the movers?” I ask The Husband.

  He says nothing.

  On one of his days off, Francis pops in unexpectantly.

  “I’ve hired a kitchen fitter. I can’t get the guy I wanted—everyone’s on holidays at this time of year. But I found someone else who is brilliant. He’ll be here on Monday.”

  “The bathroom?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it will get done.”

  There is an edge to his voice that takes
me aback. I have told him repeatedly that the bathroom is the priority. We have been good clients; paid invoices as soon as Francis has emailed them over. We have been helpful, courteous. Why the pissy attitude?

  The following Monday, Jasper, the kitchen fitter, arrives. He is middle-aged and of medium build, with dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses. His tense smile and slight look of bewilderment tell me he is not quite sure what awaits him. In preparation for his arrival, The Husband and I have moved two dozen or so packages and boxes of cabinet components, along with the appliances, to the far end of the kitchen—the part that will be the dining area—so that Jasper will have all the pieces within reach.

  “As you can see it’s a basic galley kitchen,” I explain while The Husband makes him a tea. “Nothing special or finicky. Here are the blueprints.”

  We leave him to it.

  Halfway through the morning Jasper asks, “Do you have any plans?”

  I look at the sheaf of schematics he holds in his hands.

  “Like those?”

  Jasper looks down at them: “Yeah, like these. Only better.”

  “That was all we have been given. Is there something wrong?”

  He cannot make head nor tail of them. Furthermore, he is more than annoyed to learn that Francis is on holiday.

  “I only agreed to do this job because he said he would help. I was to be the assistant, not the lead.”

  “He told us you were the kitchen fitter.”

  “No, I’m not! I’m a retired firefighter. I just do odd jobs, really.”

  We do not know what to say. I look at the boxes and flat-packed packages stacked to the ceiling. I look at The Husband for suggestions or reinforcement.

  He smiles at Jasper and says, “Can I make you another cup of tea?”

  Jasper manages to cobble a few pieces together, but he does not seem confident. He calls the kitchen designer, but she is of no help. In fact, the kitchen company proves totally useless. How they secured a Royal Warrant is a mystery. It will be a while before I trust that seal of approval again. What I did not know at the time of hiring them was that this particular kitchen company deals only with builders, not the general public.

  Every so often we confer over the kitchen plans, our eyes boring into them, willing them to reveal their secrets, but they are not giving up anything.

  Suddenly, there is a commotion at the front door. The floor sanders have arrived. I had hired them to start today, figuring that Jasper would be ensconced in the kitchen doing his thing, while the sanders worked on the rest of the house. They burst in like a Polish SWAT team. Six of them. It is madness. They are so focused and dedicated to their assignment that had the house been empty, they would have sanded and varnished the entire place in two days.

  Then Mark, the electrician, arrives to check if the plastering is done so he can finish his work on the house.

  Minutes later, Cyryl, the painter, shows up to quote for the job of painting the interior.

  Then our cell phone rings: it is the utility company calling to say they finally have an opening; they can come tomorrow to relocate the electrical panel.

  Then the people who are to deliver our shed phone to say they will be here this afternoon.

  It is like an Italian comedy. The Husband is thrown into a complete state: he has only four mugs at his little tea station and there are eleven people on-site, with two more arriving shortly.

  “Shall I go back to the rental and get more mugs?”

  I shoot him a harsh look. “Seriously? You’re thinking of mugs right now?”

  He makes the rounds anyway, tentatively asking the Polish SWAT team for their order. They barely speak English but understand enough to politely decline his offer: they hold up their full water bottles to show that they have come prepared with their own hydration. A biscuit, perhaps, The Husband offers, brandishing a tube of chocolate digestives? They shake their heads and smile no, thanks. Bless them.

  And then it begins. The sanders start their machines. A grinding, searing noise whines loudly through the house, rising to a crescendo. It sounds like the start of a motorcycle race when everyone is revving at the starting line, only this is two hundred thousand times louder. It fills the house and spills onto the street and spreads across the neighbourhood. It is ear-shatteringly loud. The house vibrates.

  The noise is too much for Jasper, Mark, and Cyryl. They cannot work in such a din.

  Jasper promises to be back the following day, and he will bring a mate to help him. I suggest he also bring noise-cancelling earphones.

  Mark asks me to ring him once the sanders have finished.

  Cyryl says he will be in touch with Francis about the quote.

  They leave. A few minutes later, half the sanding team vamoose, having completed the prep work. They are picked up by their boss and driven to their next job.

  In a matter of minutes, The Husband and I are left standing in the hallway with the most high-pitched whir screaming above us, like a convention of seagulls circling a chip wagon. I mouth to him that I am running out to the loo at the community centre three blocks away.

  My ears stop ringing when I reach the community centre, but when I come back out to the street, I can hear the sanding machines from that distance. I slink round the back and take the long way home.

  OF ALL THE DISCOMFORT one anticipates during a renovation, the one you least expect is xenophobia.

  Britain has a trades shortage. It is impossible to find people to take on work because the British-born trades are either booked up or holidaying in the south of France. Immigrants are picking up the slack, taking a bit of heat off the shoulders of their British counterparts. But there is no gratitude among the British. No. They eye their brethren with contempt and suspicion.

  As an immigrant myself, I am sensitive to xenophobia. Whenever people hear my North American voice, heads swivel, and I sense a stiffening of spines. I am not a tourist; I am a resident and a British homeowner, but still definitely a foreigner. Accents never meant much to me, nor did I get the sense that they mattered much to Canadians in general. If you encountered someone with an accent, you mentally registered that they were “from away,” and then you got on with your business with them. But in Britain, accents are a kind of currency, a socio-economic determinant. The British media frequently opines that accents no longer matter, but it’s a lie. Accents totally matter here. Your accent determines your class, how much you earn, how you are treated in a restaurant, a shop, over the phone, or in a meeting. Much fun is made of regional accents—Northern, West Country, East Yorkshire, the Borders, Welsh, to name a few—and of those deemed to be “cut-glass” accents. The media has been sniping about how Kate Middleton’s accent has transformed since she married into the Royal family, but honestly, how could she avoid that when she is surrounded all day, every single day, by people with a certain way of speaking? We all adapt to our surroundings in various ways for the sake of our survival and to further our engagement with others. Aside from gauging where the speaker is from, what does a person’s accent actually prove? Having a British husband spares me the brunt of British indignity, but there have been instances when my accent has been met with a swift and unkind change in attitude. At times, anticipating this reaction, I have asked The Husband to make a call, arrange a delivery, or get a quote because the price mysteriously inflates for non-British accents unless the person serving you is a foreigner, too.

  I once mentioned to a young British man that I sometimes subsume my accent to avoid people suddenly staring at me. He replied, “That’s because when we hear a North American accent, we assume you are all movie stars.”

  To which I replied, “Funnily enough, when North Americans hear a British accent, we assume you are all part of the Royal family.”

  We had a good laugh about that.

  But seriously, accents are no laughing matter, as I discover on our worksite.

  The Polish trades work diligently and quickly; the British cast them a look of disapproval.
I try to soften the Brits by praising the work ethic and kindness of the Polish workers in the hope that a modicum of respect will rub off. But no. If anything, it makes matters worse. The British workers, even those I had marked as kind, tolerant types, react to my effusiveness by glowering: here is a pecking order that I am not respecting.

  We have been blessed with the nicest men to have descended on a home renovation. I can say unequivocally that not one of them has been rude or disrespectful; all are amiable and show a complete diligence to their work and profession. Any of them would be welcome at our dinner table. But the chauvinism I witness disturbs me. These are Brexit days, emotions are running high, and the Poles and every other ethnic or cultural minority are getting an earful of “Go back to your own country.” For a nation that never forgets the Second World War and marks with great celebration every single battle ever fought, it is surprising that it has forgotten what valuable allies the Poles were during the war.

  Despite this being a sensitive time, I cannot help feeling churlish about the British attitude. The self-congratulatory blather about Britain’s long tradition of fairness and openness is a hollow boast. After conquering half the world, why is it so surprised when half the world peacefully, for the most part, rocks up to its doorstep? At one time, Britain was the most culturally and racially diverse country in the world; what a shame that given that laudable reputation it could not transition from world superpower to world leader in racial and cultural harmony.

  Part of this attitude has something to do with Britain being an island nation. Island people are a peculiar breed. It matters not that the island is eight miles long or eight hundred miles long. Island people are bred with intractable beliefs about independence and territory that run contrary to the more open, more collegial-minded spirit of non-islanders, people accustomed to sharing borders and engaging in political and cultural quid pro quo.

  A common accusation about immigrants is their resistance to integrating into their adopted society, but Britons can be just as guilty of not reciprocating. Sure, agencies and centres have been set up to help immigrants to navigate the system and to learn English, but that does not facilitate integration in a meaningful way. We, and I speak as a Westerner, shy away from a deeper involvement with immigrants. We tend to stick with our own kind, so why do we pass judgment on those from other cultures who stick with their own kind?