‘Well, we still have some pretty strange tenants today.’
‘I’m sure you do. Collins always used to say how endlessly fascinating they were; all of those bizarre relationships, hobbies and pets you’d come across. But, somehow, for me they quickly merged into a grey monotony of humanity.’
‘Oh,’ he said, as surprised as I was at my miserable tone.
I decided to play up to the idea of the grumpy old man and with a smile added:
‘For me the job was only ever enlivened by the occasional appearance of an outside lavatory that the council should’ve long ago condemned.’
He chose to interpret my comments as a joke and took the opportunity to laugh and leave, but I was being honest. In all those years there was only one tenant who had really stayed in my mind, and that was an occupant of 49 Coast Road.
I first visited the address when we were undertaking a survey of all the council’s housing stock, to see what state it was in and where our maintenance priorities lay. Many of the houses have been sold off, or course, but the survey dragged on over the summer and into the autumn and in the end even I was dragged out of the office to try and get it finished before the winter set in. The survey wasn’t popular amongst the staff and it wasn’t going down too well with the tenants, either; most of them saw it as the council snooping on them.
It was a thankless job; various members of staff took it in turns to go out, and usually looked around as few houses as they could get away with. Once I had started to help out I understood why. I remember walking up the front path to Number 49 with the wind pulling at the papers on my clipboard, and icy rain dashing against the back of my neck. I’d been sitting in my car, parked outside with the heater on for some time, and it made it feel even colder outside.
If the doorbell worked I couldn’t hear it, but a figure at last appeared behind the frosted glass and it was opened on a security chain. My notes told me that the tenant was a Mrs Johanssen.
The woman was dressed from head to foot in grey. I can still remember her. She stared at me, uncomprehending, as though visitors were not just infrequent, but completely unknown.
‘Good morning,’ I declared with the forced cheerfulness I had adopted for visits. ‘I’m from the council. You will have had a letter a few weeks ago to tell you that we’re surveying all the council houses. Would it be convenient if I came in now?’
It was my usual opening, and most people would let me inside. The complaints didn’t usually begin until I was through the door.
‘Yes, you can come in,’ the woman said.
Her voice was lifeless, for all that there was a slight foreign lilt to it. She was tall and lean in a dress that was tightly cut around a fine figure for a woman who might be fifty. She was slightly stooped, though, with a sort of down-trodden look. But she might have been good-looking for all that; you know, in a way that was handsome rather than pretty? Perhaps, if she hadn’t such a blank expression?
I was inside, the door was shut behind me, and I followed her down the narrow hallway. Her kitchen was clean and cold and clinical. There was a smell of bleach, and no clutter anywhere; even the calendar on the wall was unillustrated. It was certainly different to my kitchen at the time. I’d just moved out of home, better late than never as my colleagues often joked, and into my own flat. I had yet to perfect any housekeeping skills; this appeared to me to be the other extreme.
‘What do you need to see,’ she asked, again with no emotion.
‘It’s a very basic survey,’ I apologised. ‘We’re not checking anything structural. We just need to know what services you have and whether they are up to date.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
Whether or not to accept tea from a tenant was a question we often discussed in the office. Our reply would not necessarily have anything to do with how thirsty we were, but how friendly the tenant was and how hygienic the house appeared to be. If it was offered immediately you wouldn’t always have had time to inspect the kitchen, so you might not know if it was a good idea. Drinking a cup of tea also obliged you to stay longer, so whether you accepted or not depended on the house and the tenant. ‘No thank you,’ I replied, as politely as I could. ‘The first thing in here that I need to know is how modern your modern kitchen units are.’
‘They are in good order,’ she replied.
It certainly looked as if she was right. I opened one, wide enough so as not to appear to be prying, and it seemed in good repair.
‘And your sink,’ I said, ticking the ‘good’ box against ‘Units’ on my form. ‘It’s one of the old Belfast sinks with a wooden drainer. We’re trying to replace them with stainless steel…’
I was talking to myself really, ticking the appropriate boxes.
‘I like my sink. There is no need to change it.’ Her diction was quite precise and slightly unnerving.
‘If you say that then you’ll never get it modernised. I’m afraid that it’s usually those who complain loudest who get the most out of the council. It shouldn’t be like that, of course… Now, do you have modern pipes, or do you still have the old lead ones?’ I asked. ‘May I look under the sink?’
‘If you need to,’ she agreed, folding her arms.
Underneath there were the usual items: cleaning fluids, floor cloths etc. The pipes were lead, as I’d expected. From a quick glance around it was usually possible to fill in the forms with a fair degree of accuracy without checking all the details. I suspected some of my colleagues never got out of their cars at all but judged a property by how modern the windows and doors were. She was watching me, though, and I made certain that I went through the routine properly.
‘You have gas and electricity?’
‘Yes, though I don’t use the gas.’
‘Alright. May I see your electricity meter?’
We slowly made our way around the house, and my thoughts were soon elsewhere, principally on my lunch. I’d written Mrs Johanssen off as one of those very uninspired and uninspiring Christians who seem to think that anything above simple existence is somehow going to lessen their odds at being received into heaven. A bible in the dining room seemed to confirm this, but the main bedroom, hers (there didn’t seem to be a Mr Johanssen, you can easily tell), made me doubt my prejudices. There was a small bookshelf which contained a number of modern thrillers and several books by Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. It was rare to come across any books at all in the houses I surveyed, and I mentioned this to her as I opened and closed her still functioning metal windows.
‘I like to read,’ she said, again with that lilt, and I decided that her name sounded Scandinavian. She might certainly have looked Scandinavian if her hair had not been black.
I meant to say how much I liked Wuthering Heights, but something made me remark on The Tenant of Wildfell Hallinstead.
Her face remained as impassive as ever. ‘My favourite book is Jane Eyre,’ she said simply. And it was clear that was the limit of any literary conversation.
The bathroom was as clean and cold as the kitchen had been. The word ‘scoured’ came to mind. I was noting the very slight crack in the sink when I was suddenly surprised to see a man’s razor on the shelf above it. Perhaps she had a husband after all? His presence was not to be seen or felt anywhere else in the house.
The second bedroom was different.
‘My son’s room,’ she said, explaining the shaving gear in the bathroom. ‘He lives with me. He has difficulty finding work.’
The room was not untidy, but it was quite a contrast to the rest of the house. There were framed prints of trains on the walls, and a stereo over which were shelves of records. A pile of magazines sat on the floor by a chair. It took me some time before I realised that it was also very tidy, although there was a colour and warmth that was missing elsewhere.
‘His windows do not open,’ she shook her head. ‘The metal frames…’
‘I know all about them,’ I sympathised. ‘We do have a replacement progr
am, and we will be getting round to you soon, but resources are limited, and the elderly are getting priority at the moment.’
‘I understand,’ Mrs Johanssen said simply. ‘I’m not asking for replacements.’
‘The council will get around to you, but it might take some time.’
‘That is not a problem.’
To be frank I was beginning get bored with the woman’s quiet acceptance of everything, and I wondered if those tenants who moaned did not at least add some interest to the job. I walked back out into the hall and looked up for the loft hatch. Oddly it had been removed. The frame had been taken out and the hole very neatly sealed. The whole ceiling had been painted so that only a faint outline of its original position remained.
‘Where’s the loft hatch? Is it in your bedroom?’
‘Why do you need to know?’
‘I’d like to take a look up there. I need to check whether you have any insulation. We’re trying to put a layer in all roofs. And I need to make sure that your water tank is lagged. It’ll be a galvanised tank, I expect, but we’re going to try and replace them all with plastic.’
‘Oh, the roof is fine. My son insulated it all.’
‘Excellent, but do you mind if I look?’ I showed her that I had my own torch in my pocket. ‘I have a ladder in the car if you haven’t one easily to hand.’
She motioned towards her son’s room and I walked in and looked up. There was the hatch, quite newly and neatly put in by the look of it, but oddly it was locked with a heavy, old-fashioned padlock.
‘My son has the key,’ she apologised. ‘But I can assure you that the loft is insulated, and so is the tank. I think he has put in a plastic tank already.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it is plastic, I am sure.’
‘Good,’ I smiled, and noted it down on my form. ‘Very forward thinking. Of course, the rest of your plumbing is rather ancient.’
‘It is all fine though. And you must write down that the tank was replaced quite recently.’
But something in her voice wasn’t convincing, and it was such an odd matter to lie about. For some reason this annoyed me.
She was now beginning to look a little agitated. She had patiently followed me about the house before, but now stood out on the landing, as if prompting me to leave her son’s room. She was fingering the top of her grey dress which, I noticed for the first time, was not entirely plain. There were small white flowers embroidered around the neck, and her fingers picked at them nervously.
‘I have a few further questions, if I may?’
‘Of course. Are you sure you would not like to have a cup of tea?’
‘If you are making one for yourself,’ I conceded, although I was not sure that it was a good idea. ‘That would be nice,’ and I stepped out of the room.
I had finished asking my last questions just before the tea was poured. Small talk was required, and I now regretted that I had accepted the drink. It was with some relief that I heard the front door open. She called through to the front of the house:
‘David, I am in the kitchen.’
‘Hullo, whose car’s that parked outside then?’ a young man asked just before he entered the room and saw me.
‘This gentleman is from the council,’ she introduced me. ‘He is doing a survey of the house.’
‘Oh,’ he remarked, very defensively I thought. He was unprepossessing, tall like his mother, and with her features, but slightly overweight, and rather unkempt. ‘What parts of the house?’
‘All of it,’ I remarked cheerily, and took a sip of my tea, knowing that her son was thinking about the loft. Now that I had met him I wondered just what it was he had up there that required it to be padlocked.
If I had left with my form filled in as it was nobody would have questioned what I had put down on it. In fact, there would be some relief that the insulation was already in place and the tank new. But my curiosity had been aroused, and there was so little of any real interest in the job.
‘I was a little disturbed not to be able to get into the loft,’ I said seriously. ‘I am meant to have access to all parts of the house.’
‘What did you want to see up there?’ David Johanssen asked.
‘The level of insulation, and the water tank.’
‘Oh, it’s well insulated, isn’t it?’ he asked his mother for confirmation. ‘And the tank is quite new.’
‘Metal or plastic?’ I asked, thinking suddenly that I might be able to catch the pair out.
‘Plastic,’ said his mother.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed.
‘Why do you keep it padlocked?’ I asked.
‘No reason…’ he looked to his mother for help, but she simply stared back at him with an expression that might have looked almost mischievous, if such a face could have registered emotion.
‘I would get into awful trouble,’ I lied, ‘if they found out I hadn’t seen inside the loft.’
‘You just need to see the tank and the insulation?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s all. And if there’s daylight coming through the roof in too many places I’d have to note that down…’
‘Oh no, it’s very well maintained,’ he almost boasted. ‘I see to that myself.’
I said nothing, but I put down my cup of tea and he nodded and asked me to follow him. His mother trailed after us, and we all climbed the stairs. There was only room for two of us to stand in the room as he placed a wooden chair under the hatch. From the landing his mother said nothing.
David Johanssen produced a small key and stood on the chair. Reaching up he unlocked the padlock and stepped back down again.
‘The tank’s right by the hatch,’ he told me. ‘And you can feel that it’s lagged all around. I’m sorry I haven’t got a ladder.’
I climbed onto the chair and pushed the hatch up a few inches.
‘Feel around inside,’ Johanssen suggested helpfully. ‘It’s all well insulated.’
He was right, I could feel the fibreglass prickling my hand. I pushed the hatch to one side and took my torch back out of my pocket. On tip-toes I could see from the little light available that it was lagged and my torch could pick out a shape that suggested it would be a modern, plastic one.
And then something glinted in the light and I suddenly saw that there was a ladder up there after all, on runners. Perhaps it was rash of me to pull it down, which necessitated jumping out of its way. The son moved the chair hastily and before he could do anything I was up the ladder and into the loft.
It was quiet down in the bedroom. Up there, under the roof, however, I could hear the muffled howl of the wind and rain outside. I swept the beam of my torch around and had a sudden fear that I was about to discover a heap of stolen antiques, a dead body, or some other good reason why I should have left with the mother’s assurance that everything was in good order. Perhaps the very last thing I could have expected to see was a garden shed.
It was an ordinary wooden garden shed, standing three or four
feet away from me, and it had a stable door and a little plastic window. It even had a green felt roof. To the side of the door stood a pair of boots.
‘It all looks absolutely fine,’ I called down, amused, and deciding that although it was rather strange it probably didn’t conflict with the terms of their tenancy. I climbed back down, thinking that it was an odd way to make a roof space useable.
‘I’ll let you close it up,’ I said to the son, who guiltily returned the ladder up on its runners through the hatch in the ceiling.
‘Is everything alright,’ David’s mother asked anxiously as her son then stood on the chair and reached up to put the panel back.
‘Yes, of course. It’s just as you said; all well-maintained and properly insulated. I didn’t doubt you, but I have my job to do.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, and followed me down the stairs and to the front door.
‘Thanks for the tea.’
Mrs Johanssen did not po
int out that my cup in the kitchen was still almost full.
I had almost forgotten the whole incident when, over a month later, I received a message that Mrs Johanssen had telephoned and wanted me to go back to Coast Road. The reason given was that I had missed something in my survey that she wished to point out to me. She specified that I had to visit her in office hours, which caused some hilarity among my colleagues who all joked that she must want me to call while her husband was out at work. I was unwilling to deal with the matter myself, but as I had to be in Peacehaven that afternoon anyway I decided that it would be best to get it over and done with. I decided that I wouldn’t raise the matter of the shed in the loft.
Coast Road was as uninviting as ever, although it was not actually raining, and a weak sun was doing its best to break through the clouds. I certainly didn’t believe that Mrs Johanssen had any ulterior motive for inviting me back. My colleagues, especially the younger ones, often told stories of their adventures with bored housewives who let them in to survey their houses. None of it was true, of course. I’d never once been propositioned, although I had once taken advantage of a meal that was cooked for me. My work mates were all liars, though good-natured enough. One lad told the same story on every possible occasion of how he had surprised a rather good-looking woman who had been in the bath. Over time more and more detail emerged—certainly more detail than he’d have noticed in the couple of seconds he’d have been allowed to remain in the bathroom. I suppose I’ve fantasised about a couple of the women I met, but I never did anything about it. I think I can honestly say that I always behaved professionally.
On that afternoon I got out of my car and walked up to the door. The garden was as bare and uninviting as the house, but that may have been because of the time of year. I knocked and Mrs Johanssen opened the door immediately. You’d almost think that she had been standing there waiting. Perhaps she’d seen my car draw up? This time, she looked a bit flustered. She took me through to the living room and asked me to sit down.
Literary Remains Page 15
