Open House

by Jane Christmas

  I appreciate that this puts a burden on government to support the influx of immigrants, but surely that same government will have at some point anticipated this eventuality, so why has it been so slow in creating policies of accommodation? If, in the case of Britain, the concern is that the arrival of immigrants puts a strain on such social services as the National Health System, why not charge non-natives to use the system? Not all will be able to, but many will. Just come out and say it clearly: If you cannot afford our health system, you cannot use it. Or, There is now a user fee for those who entered the country as of a particular year. But the British mentality is ostrich-like, and not built for flexibility or adaptability or confrontation. It holds up institutions like its much-vaunted NHS as a birthright, but passive-aggressively refuses to accept that times and circumstances change. No one can afford to say: “This is how it has always been done.”

  The following week, a fellow named David shows up to make an adjustment to our shed. I join him outside.

  “Interesting neighbourhood, innit,” he remarks. His “interesting” is British speak for “unexpected,” “not my cuppa.”

  David, who is white British, is telling me about the “interesting” sight he encountered as he drove to our home along St. Mark’s Road.

  “N’er been ta dis patch o’ Bristle,” he says.

  “Have you lived in Bristol long?”

  “Aye, all me life! But what I sawr on that road was no Bristle I know. Tot t’was in Morocco!”

  For people like David, to travel down a street where some of the men are in robes and turbans, and some of the women are in chadors and niqabs, is to encounter a scene from National Geographic, not Britain. I am tempted to tell him that the sights he encountered are as alien to his eyes as his bewildering Bristol-accented lexicon is to my ears, which I am struggling to understand, and could he just speak proper English.

  “Bristol is a multicultural city,” I say.

  “’Tis beyond multicultural,” he says. “We’re being overtaken.”

  “Well, I am as much an immigrant as they are,” I counter.

  “Are ye.”

  It is not said as a question but as a statement, indicating that because I am white with a Western accent, I am an acceptable immigrant. And yet, the truth is that no matter how much British history and culture I gobble up I will always be an outsider here. I will always be the Other.

  David abruptly falls silent when Cyryl, the painter, who is now a daily fixture on-site, comes out for a smoke. I see David’s posture straighten, his mind thinking: ’Nother furner.

  I introduce them, both tradesmen, both of whom earn their living by the sweat of their brow, but the standoffishness is palpable. And Cyryl is white. Apparently, only certain shades of white are acceptable to people like David.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY THE HUSBAND and I are on our way to the house when our mobile phone rings. It is 7:05 a.m. The company delivering the materials for the wardrobes being built in the master bedroom has arrived and its truck is idling outside the house. It is not due until after 7:30. It is the first time someone has arrived early. The Husband steps on the accelerator.

  We open the house, and the two men unload their truck and carry the various pieces upstairs, though not before The Husband has taken their tea order.

  The delivery is done quickly, and the men catch their breath in our narrow hallway, sipping from their mugs. I apologize for not having chairs and invite them to sit on the stairs, but they say they prefer to stand. They have been sitting in their truck for two hours, having left at 5 a.m. from Wolverhampton.

  Long-distance drives are not uncommon for them, they say. They have done the journey from Wolverhampton to John O’Groats and then down to Land’s End more times than they care to count.

  Sandy, the driver, has been in the job for several years. His mate, Jeff, says he was laid off from his job in a shipyard, so he relocated inland, and now does this to earn his livelihood. He has a young family: a son was born three months ago. At the end of a long haul, he is eager to get home.

  As the men chat, I am struck by all these small conversations we have had with strangers who have delivered goods and services to us during this renovation. Everyone brimming with stories and snippets of lives lived, of dreams dashed or redirected. Everyone arrives with a life lesson. When I enter into a small part of each life and just listen, it lifts me out of mine for a moment; allows the brain noise about budgets and my past to fade into the background, and to snap to the fact that there is not just my expectations and desires in the queue to be answered. These random chats with those who make the deliveries, whose lives briefly intersect with ours, remind me of the many hands, many of them unseen, who contribute to reshaping our home.

  But now they must push off to their next drop: Plymouth, 120 miles away. Mugs drained, they climb back into their lorry and are off.

  I look at my watch: 7:33. I pull out my list and tick off “wardrobe delivery.”

  For a moment, The Husband and I luxuriate in the rare silence. The morning sun scythes through the transom and finds us amid a towering puzzle of flat-packed boxes, fittings, and appliances. I want to ask him how he is doing, but I cannot bear to add his worries to my own. I am saved by a knock at the door.

  Jasper, the “I’m not a kitchen fitter,” has arrived with a mate. I leave them to grumble over the kitchen schematics while The Husband sets them up with coffee.

  A few hours later they have managed to build the cabinet carcasses and fit some of them to the walls. By the end of the day the fridge is in, but it has been installed so high off the ground that I will need to wear platform stilettos to reach the upper shelves.

  There are more useless calls to the kitchen design company but no further enlightenment. How can putting it together be so complicated?

  “Maybe you could just construct the components and disregard the plan?” My suggestion is ignored.

  The sanders arrive with their heavy machinery. The Husband stalls them with coffee, which they accept this time. One with one sugar; the other two with three sugars. I do not know how he manages to keep all the orders straight. The sanders take their mugs outside and sit on the low stone courtyard wall, smoking and chatting in their language.

  Back inside they start up the machines. It’s 8:16. The neighbourhood judders.

  I consult my lists to look busy; The Husband bolts to the shed and assumes his position—seated on a camping chair with his face buried in his hands. My mouth tightens.

  Looking down at my list, I tick off “floors refinished” just for the dopamine rush and to convince myself that things are moving forward. But who am I kidding? There are so many more key items that need to be ticked: working loo, running water. Many of the deadlines are seven days hence, so anything is possible. The guest room, the room that will be the least used in the entire house, will be done in two days. I study everything on my list, except the budget. My way of dealing with budgets is to ignore them.

  I join The Husband in the backyard, but no sooner am I seated than Mark, the electrician, appears at the back door. We have not seen him in days. His appearance is like the return of the Prodigal Son. The Husband offers him a coffee. Mark declines.

  “Who can make coffee or do anything with that noise! Look, I need to get into the front room and finish a few things, but the sanders are there, and the work I have to do requires cutting the power.”

  We decide to talk to the sanders. Mark and I walk into the front room. He raises a hand, like Jesus about to address the disciples, and the machine grinds to a miraculous halt.

  Mark speaks to me, I speak to the youngest sander, and he translates to his older colleague. In the end, it is agreed. The sanders will down tools and return tomorrow to finish. They will also come Saturday morning to lacquer the floors.

  Mark takes over in both energy and vocal volubility. He bounces around like he is jacked up on three coffees.

  Jasper and his mate walk in from the hardware store as the s
anders are packing up. “They’re finished already?” asks Jasper.

  “No, they are coming back tomorrow because the electrician needs to finish up in the same room the sanders are in. I think he also wants to finish wiring the kitchen.”

  The Husband and I fuss with the sanders, offering apologies. They are the hardest of workers, and they not only work quickly but they do fine work.

  “No problem,” says the young one, smiling.

  I realize I have not bothered to ask their names. “He’s Victor. I’m Patrick.”

  We shake hands.

  They turn to leave, and I mouth to The Husband, “We need to give them a tip at the end of this.”

  Mark is in the kitchen, hands on his hips. I hope he is not going to jettison Jasper and his mate, as well.

  “Right. Let’s look at what’s going on here.”

  Mark pirouettes from one side of the galley to the other. “So, the extractor hood is going here, right? The hob here?”

  No, the microwave goes there.

  “Right. So, I’m going to run a spur . . . how many mills is this backing?”

  “Eight mills,” says Jasper.

  “Great, so I’ll run that into this box. And here . . .” He drops to the floor like he is ready to do push-ups, and peers under the cabinets. “I’m going to wire into that outlet . . .”

  And then he is off with his electrician’s lingo. The Husband heads back into his safe place, the shed. I stay nearby in case I am asked a question.

  Satisfied, Mark moves off to the front room, and Jasper and his pal return to staring at the incomprehensible kitchen schematics.

  Both Mark and Jasper have radios blaring on different channels. I am wondering how that will shake out when Mark bounces into the hall and hollers to Jasper, “What are you listening to, mate? I’ve got Radio One.”

  “Mine’s on Radio Two,” Jasper calls back.

  “I’m more than happy to have Radio Two on,” says Mark. “I’ll switch mine over.”

  If only the bigger problems of the world could be sorted so amicably.

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, when Francis finally returns to the site, all jolly and upbeat from his holiday, we show him what Jasper has managed.

  “He did quite well,” he says, striding proprietarily through the room, though almost nothing has been done.

  “Um, he was really pissed off,” I say. “He is not a kitchen fitter. He told us. And he said you were supposed to help him.”

  Francis shrugs.

  “And this fridge,” I continue, trying not to sound like a whining five-year-old. “It should not be this high. I cannot reach the shelves, and it’s not like I’m short.”

  Francis puts his fingertips together like a Delphic oracle. “Sometimes we have to make adjustments to the plans.”

  21

  The Mind Tilts

  It is mid-August. In less than two weeks we move in. We are still without running water, and the kitchen appliances are not yet hooked up. The bathroom walls and floor have been tiled; the shower tray is fixed in place, ditto the tub; but nothing is connected, and the room is strewn with lengths of pipe and opened boxes of fixtures and fittings.

  I have taken to dreaming about our new home. At night, in bed, I think about what the house looks like in the dark, about how it reacts to the silence without workers banging and reshaping it, how it rests with the stars blinking above it against the bruised sky.

  The following morning, I arrive with a plate of chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies that I baked the night before as a way to blow off stress. I bring them into the kitchen to offer to Francis.

  He announces triumphantly that the toilets are now working.

  Great! My shoulders relax. Two days later I point out the not-insignificant fact that there are no doors on the bathrooms.

  “Absolutely,” he replies, and walks away.

  My simple galley kitchen that I thought would take three days to install is into its second week. Francis has brought in a helper named Mick. I hope it means twice the work will now get done. Mick, all tattoos, swagger, and long metal chains trailing from the pockets of his dusty black trousers, wears a flinty expression that taunts with intimidation. He looks at me as if I am the enemy.

  I am not having it. I walk toward intimidation to show that I am fearless. Buddy better notice my biceps. I am so wired on stress that I am ready for a fight. I might not be able to hold a screwdriver without my bifocals, but damn if someone thinks they can scare me. When I am four feet from him, I look him square in the eye, and lift my chin, and a mug, to him.

  “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

  The unexpected politeness takes me aback.

  The tea lady—I mean, The Husband—is rearranging the shed, so I do the honours. I return to the kitchen with filled mugs, and a readiness to chat. I want to know why the kitchen is taking so bloody long. Did the kitchen company mess up on the calculations? Did Francis? Whatever it is, something has definitely gone wrong, because both Francis and Mick look uneasy. When I ask the question aloud, I receive puffed cheeks blowing out air, shaking heads, shrugging shoulders. What I do discover is that beneath Mr. McFlinty-Look’s tattoos and chains is a soft soul. He is curious, intelligent, articulate. Easy with conversation. The hubris is an act. Wonder what he is hiding.

  He asks me about myself, what I do, where I am from, how I got here. The attention makes me uncomfortable. None of the others have asked anything about my life. When I tell him that I am a writer, he says he is working for another client who is also a writer.

  “She just got some big advance for her book, and so she and her husband have taken off to travel. Left instructions on the renovations they want done to their house—massive project with all sorts of audio technology involved.”

  I hate this woman immediately, but I smile magnanimously. Who is this writer who has hijacked my life? Why can’t that be me? Then I realize it has been five years since I had a book published because I have been spending too much time thinking about houses and moving. The frittered life.

  By afternoon, the kitchen takes shape, but no one is rejoicing.

  Mick leaves to go to another job. I wonder if it is to the writer’s house. Lucky bitch.

  I bring Francis another coffee and continue the small talk. He had mentioned at the start of the project that his wife is expecting. The baby is due in a few months. I ask how she is. From what I’ve gleaned by observing his urgent, concerned phone calls, and from what he has told me, not all is well. Episodes of perinatal depression have resulted in more than one dash to the hospital emergency ward.

  His wife, he mentions, is a psychotherapist.

  “Then she must know how to deal with things such as perinatal depression.”

  As soon as the words pass my lips, I realize my stupidity. It does not matter what profession you are in: mental illness does not discriminate when it attacks its victims. I know that from experience. And just because you can diagnose and treat others does not mean you can diagnose and treat yourself. You lose all perspective when you are the patient. I apologize to Francis.

  “It’s okay. I get it. You automatically assume that psychotherapists would know better, or be better prepared, or look for warning signs in their own behaviour given that they diagnose it in others all the time, and they work in that field. But it’s not like that.”

  He takes a long sip of his coffee. “You know Mick? The guy who was just here? His wife was a psychotherapist and had the same problem during her pregnancy.”

  “How bizarre. Two women in the same profession with the same problem. Is she doing better—Mick’s wife?”

  Francis looks away. “No, she killed herself. He’s now a single dad to two girls.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. The sleeve of tattoos, the bravado—they explain a lot.

  I do not quite know what to say except “Mental illness is everywhere now. It is frightening because it comes with no warning. I have been there. A few tim
es.”

  Francis takes a big breath. “I had a mental illness.”

  Ah yes, the builder who had recommended Francis had mentioned this. “What happened?”

  “It came out of the blue, about two years ago. At the time, I had my own company, and one day I just could not leave my house. I wasn’t bedridden or anything, but for some inexplicable reason my brain would not let me leave the house. It went on for about a month or so. I lost my business. Relationships went down the tubes. And then just as quickly I became really bold. You know? Kind of fearless. And my brain, whoa, it became hyperaware. Everything I saw—every insect, flower, no matter how minute—grabbed my attention, fascinated me. I would study a single drop of rain forever, examine it like it was a miracle meant only for me. My brain spun like crazy, felt like it was running at a hundred times its normal speed. I became both paranoid and ultraconfident. Saw myself as a kind of master, a god, seeing the world from a heightened vantage point.”

  “That must have felt very strange.”

  “Oh, it was. But when you have this fearlessness, you feel invincible, like you can do anything.”

  He stops, gives an embarrassed laugh. “Hey, I better get back to work here.”

  “Are you okay now?” I ask, hoping he has not regretted being so candid.

  “Yup. No more meds, no alcohol.”

  “But it can come back,” I caution. “It is important to know that so you can pace yourself.”

  “I’m cool now,” he says. Another nervous laugh.

  I smile, too, but his words sit with me. His work ethic has become erratic of late, and probably explains the delays, why things have inexplicably gone off schedule, and why the kitchen measurements do not add up. He has a child from another relationship, and now a new wife is expecting a baby, and he is juggling our renovation while getting over a rather significant breakdown. It is a lot to carry.