The love shack, p.16
The Love Shack, page 16
A cluster of young, hollow-eyed men in broken-soled trainers were taking part in a group guitar lesson, breaking into laughter when someone played a dud note. An elderly woman in a long, tattered coat was waiting to see a doctor as she chatted quietly to a girl who looked no more than eighteen.
The smell of a stew cooking in the kitchen wafted through the reception area and anyone who arrived was directed to the queue for the dining room by an administrator in her thirties, in jeans, suede boots and with an over-arching air of efficiency. ‘Can I help?’ she smiled.
‘Um . . . I’m looking for Dan,’ I mumbled.
‘He’s in with Jim. I don’t think he’ll be long if you want to wait for him.’
She directed me to a meeting room at the back of the building and I stood along the corridor, my hands clenched as I adopted the peculiar air of someone trying desperately not to stand out, but not wanting to fit in too much either.
Finally, the door opened. An elderly man in a three-piece suit emerged first, followed by Dan. Dan went to shake hands, but the man clutched hold of him and gazed into his eyes. Dan smiled. ‘See you around, Jim,’ he said, patting him on the arm.
Then he turned and looked at me, and I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many emotions appear on one person’s face all at the same time.
I’d been in some rough pubs in my time but few compared to this, the lurid blood-and-vomit stains on the carpet, the elaborately-tattooed barmaid, the thick fog of smoke in the door threshold. It wouldn’t have surprised me if we’d had to duck under crime scene tape to enter.
But at least you could get a half of lager. Dan didn’t say anything about what had happened between us at first, darting around the issue as I asked about Jim. The old man had been living on the streets of various UK cities for years, then in a hostel in Liverpool. As a nineteen year old, he’d been part of the small British contingent of soldiers fighting in Korea in 1951 and ended up as a prisoner of war. When he returned, despite getting married and starting a family, he was haunted by what he’d seen. He became dependent on alcohol, lost his job and family – and the rest was, rather depressing, history.
‘What will happen to him?’ I asked.
‘We’re going to find him a home. We’re going to help him.’
And it was then, before he really explained anything about the last six lost weeks, that I looked into those eyes and decided I’d learned a valuable lesson, one I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Some people deserve a second chance, no matter how long you’ve been apart.
Chapter 30
Dan
Gemma and I actually experience some between-the-sheets action tonight. Only, it’s not between the sheets – we never get that far. It takes place when my mother, a force more omnipresent than God at the moment, darts to the shops to get some baking powder for a batch of rock scones, apparently unaware that she’s already achieved the required consistency with everything she’s cooked this year.
She is gone for nineteen and a half minutes, during which time we stumble up the stairs, rip off our clothes and have a frantic, Gangnam-style session, before washing, dressing and sprinting downstairs where we pretend to have been discussing mortgage rates.
‘Is everything all right, Daniel?’ Mum asks, peering at me.
Gemma scrutinises her magazine.
‘Fine, why?’
‘You’re sweating.’
I swallow. ‘I had to run to get something out of the car, that’s all.’
She tuts. ‘A young man like you should be fitter. You need to do more running.’
I look at Gemma who is gesturing at my crotch meaningfully. I follow her eyes to my zip, which is gaping open. I go to pull it up, but the damn thing is stuck, so I stumble out of the kitchen and upstairs to our room. My laundry is on the overdue side, but I know there’s another pair of jeans I threw in the corner this morning that will do. Only when I look, they’re not there. I lift up the bean bag and discover that it’s not the only thing missing. The basket is empty. A thought punches me in the guts.
When I get downstairs, I try to be diplomatic. ‘Mum?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I wondered where my laundry was?’ Gemma throws me a warning glance, as if I have some sort of tone.
Mum looks up. ‘It’s my pleasure, darling.’
‘Yes, I am grateful . . . but you don’t need to do it for me. I’d probably prefer it if you didn’t.’
She slowly turns around, a maleficent eyebrow cocked. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s just the privacy thing again. That room is the only part of the house that’s ours.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s not technically yours,’ she replies. ‘And while we’re on the subject, would you mind keeping it a bit tidier?’
I wonder for a moment if I’ve got batshit in my ears. ‘You’re asking me to tidy my room?’
‘Sorry, Belinda,’ Gemma steps in. ‘It’s my fault, I was in a rush before work this morning and—’
‘No, it’s not your fault, Gemma,’ I contend. ‘Mum, we’ve got all of our worldly belongings crammed into there so it’s little wonder things look a bit—’
‘I don’t want to make a big deal out of it!’ she interrupts. ‘And Gemma, I’m not blaming you in the slightest. I know exactly what Daniel’s like. He was the same aged fourteen. You should’ve seen the sort of thing I’d find under his bed in those days. There was one time when I actually found a—’
‘OKAY! I’ll tidy the room!’ I decide this is a good moment to go and get my laundry. I enter the utility room and find it stacked up in a big pile.
For a micro-second I forget myself and am actually happy to see it there, all sweet-smelling and pressed – before practically slapping myself on the face. That way lies insanity; one minute I’ll be enjoying having my laundry done, the next I’ll be fifty years old and still here.
I’m about to pick up the pile and take it to my room when Gemma appears next to me, her complexion anaemic with shock.
‘What’s up?’ I whisper.
‘She’s done mine too,’ she breathes, looking over her shoulder. ‘It’s really kind of her – very sweet actually. But I don’t want anyone handling my unwashed pants except me. It’s not like I’m not grateful,’ she continues, ‘just a little uncomfortable and . . .’ She picks up a shirt. ‘Oh God.’
‘What?’
‘She’s ironed my crinkle shirt.’
It’s fair to say that ‘crinkle shirt’ has suddenly become something of a misnomer. It’s smoother than Simon Cowell’s forehead.
I start laughing. I’m afraid I can’t help it. Then I notice something.
I move aside the T-shirt and pick up the jeans underneath. It isn’t just the fact that she’s put two massive creases down the front – the kind Des O’Connor might have had in his polyester slacks in 1972. I reach into the pocket and realise with a surge of dismay that she appears to have washed, tumble dried and then ironed my iPod Shuffle.
I pick it up between two fingers and examine the strange piece of modern art my plastic headphones appear to have moulded into. I put it in my ear and attempt to play it. To be fair to Apple, it tries its best to produce a sound, at least for a few seconds, before it makes the kind of noise you’d expect if you poured battery acid on a Dalek, then chucked it down a mountain.
I close my eyes momentarily. ‘When’s that survey due?’
‘Any time now,’ Gemma replies. ‘I’ve phoned them every day except today – I’ve been too busy.’
‘I’ll phone them now then,’ I offer.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ she insists. ‘I know who to speak to.’
We head into the living room, where Gemma phones the mortgage company and I log onto Facebook. I’m scrolling through a succession of updates, dutifully ‘liking’ several new baby pictures, when a post appears that stops me in my tracks.
‘What’s the matter?’ Gemma asks.
I glance back at the phone and decide to switch it off.
‘Nothing. You seem to have been on hold for ages.’
‘I could set up a dialogue with al-Qaeda faster than I could talk to Zoe in the New Lending Division,’ she begins, before she suddenly gets through to a phone operator.
‘The fact that we haven’t got the survey yet is holding the whole thing up,’ she tells the person. ‘As you’ll see from our notes, it was originally booked for . . . Oh. Oh really? That’s brilliant! Is there any chance you could email it to me? Thank you so much!’
She ends the call. ‘It’s back.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know until I’ve seen it. They’re sending it to my email address now.’ Gemma looks mildly nauseous with excitement. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? If the survey says the house is structurally sound, it’ll be all systems go on buying the place.’
And, more importantly, getting us both the hell out of here.
The survey is a disaster. Gemma reads it silently, in tortured contrast to her nervous babbling earlier, about how we mustn’t worry if there’s a bit of damp.
As we read through the document, including the bit that says it’s worth £15,000 less than the price we’ve agreed, I become convinced that the only option is to walk away. Even if the buyers agreed to drop the price, who wants to be lumbered with a clusterfuck of problems that read like this:
The property may have had previous structural repair and there is evidence of distortion and cracking, especially to the rear elevation wall which could be ongoing. Dampness is affecting the ground-floor walls . . . rot is affecting the skirting boards in the kitchen . . . inadequate ventilation has allowed defects to occur . . . defective mortar joints should be raked out and repointed . . . defective cement work on the chimney pots . . . disused flues to stacks should be capped and ventilated . . . areas of cracked and weathered tiles and open jointed ridge tiles to the roof require overhauling and repair . . . the electrical wiring may not comply with current standards as there are signs of some inadequate earthing and potentially dangerous fixtures and fittings . . .
About the only positive thing the surveyor has found to say is under the section marked Conservatories, which reads: There is no conservatory.
After the first five pages my mind goes blank; I barely know what half of it means. All I know is that there are reams of this stuff, reinforcing the impression that this house isn’t worthy of pissing in, never mind making, in Grandma’s words, our new love shack.
I reach for Gemma’s hand as a single tear slides down her cheek.
We hardly speak for the rest of the evening. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Instead, we watch a DVD, head to bed and fall into a dark, uncomfortable sleep, from which I wake when someone wallops me on the shoulder.
‘Oh sorry, did I wake you?’ Gemma’s face is two inches from mine.
‘Yes,’ I murmur, and roll over to go back to sleep.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been thinking about the house.’
I pretend not to hear.
‘Dan, you know the survey . . .’
‘Yes?’
She hesitates before speaking. ‘I don’t know what you think, but I’m still up for buying it.’
I sit up in bed and hope she’s joking. ‘WHAT?’
‘I know the survey wasn’t great—’
‘Wasn’t great? It couldn’t have been worse if it’d been on a rusty skip on the edge of a subsiding cliff.’
‘You’re exaggerating. Look, I’ve been researching this since two a.m. – about what to do if the survey comes back worse than you were expecting. Listen to this.’ She takes out her phone and starts reading from a website: ‘“As an interested buyer you do not have to walk away after a bad survey. One alternative is finding out how much repairs will cost. There may be things that can be easily fixed, without incurring high costs”.’
She looks at me with big Watership Down eyes. I prepare myself for a torrent of emotional blackmail.
‘It says here that surveyors go completely over the top to make sure no legal action is possible. They list every little defect and make it sound far worse than it is. Look at those people on Grand Designs,’ she argues. ‘You’re always saying how much you’d love to do something like that. I can’t believe we’re going to be defeated by a bit of rot and rising damp.’
‘And cracked rendering and a distorted threshold step. The other crucial fact is that getting that mortgage was dependent on the house being valued at what we agreed.’
‘I agree we couldn’t buy it for the original price and not do anything to fix it up. But what about if we got the buyers to drop the price to cover the cost of the repairs?’
‘Rich said they weren’t going to budge on the price.’
‘That was before we had the survey. Even if this ended today and they tried to get new buyers, their survey would find the same problems. They’re going to have to address it.’
She puts her arms around my neck. ‘We’re destined to live in that house, Dan. And the alternative is staying here and starting afresh.’
Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like an argument I particularly want to win.
Chapter 31
Gemma
I refuse to panic about this survey. I refuse to believe that, when someone can restore St Paul’s Cathedral, a few loose tiles and damp in Pebble Cottage are insurmountable.
But I’m equally aware that unless the buyers drop the price, there’s no way we can continue with this purchase. So it’s time to negotiate. Hard but fair, that’s my approach. I just wish Rich would stop sucking his teeth.
‘They said no way. Not a chance. You’ve agreed a price and they don’t care what your man says.’
‘But he’s a qualified surveyor!’ I argue.
‘He could be a qualified orthodontist for all they care. They said there’s no damp in the living room.’
‘But he’s got the readings!’
‘Or rust in the gutters.’
‘But he saw it with his own eyes!’
‘And as for this potential issue with the electrics . . .’
‘Well, if they’re certain that’s no problem, perhaps they could stick their fingers in a toaster and turn it on full, then see what happens,’ I suggest.
He tuts. ‘There’s no need to be like that, Gemma. Look, I can totally see where you’re coming from. But there are other buyers around the corner. I’ve got six people on a waiting list to see it.’
‘What waiting list? You agreed not to show it to other people while it was under offer. This is our house, Rich.’
‘It’s not your house yet, Gemma. And it won’t ever be unless you can come up with the asking price.’
‘But Rich, even if I wanted to buy the house for £15,000 more than the surveyor says it’s worth, the mortgage company won’t give us enough money without the repairs being done. Plus,’ I say, suddenly having a surge of confidence, ‘all your other buyers are going to be in exactly the same position, aren’t they?’
‘No, actually. One is a retired couple who are downsizing so don’t need a mortgage. Lovely lady. She fell in love with those eaves in the porch and—’
‘Keep her away from MY eaves!’ I shriek.
‘Okay, okay! Look, I like you both and, hell yeah, I can totally see you both in that place. I’m certain you’d have more luck than Mr and Mrs Deaver and—’
‘The sellers? Why haven’t they had luck?’
‘Oh— I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Said what?’
He sighs. ‘Between you and me, the reason they’re selling is that they’re getting divorced. It’s messy. And bitter. This issue of the £15k is apparently the first thing they’ve agreed on in six months.’
It suddenly feels a bit odd to think that our lovely quaint cottage has been the scene of a marital breakdown.
‘Look, I’m going to go and speak to the vendors again,’ he informs me. ‘How about we put this proposition to them: they get some quotes on the main elements of the work that need to be done. If they’re acceptable, the work can be completed, you can send your surveyor back and see if you hit the jackpot on the valuation.’
I feel a bit breathless. This might put the final nail in the coffin of that early exchange I’d wanted, but at least it would put us back in the game. ‘You’d do that, Rich?’ I say, feeling a bit light-headed.
‘For you, Gemma, I would.’ He hesitates. ‘Have you and Dan been an item for long? I only ask because if you ever fancy – you know, a bit of a dabble . . .’
‘Goodbye, Rich,’ I say, and put down the phone.
Rich doesn’t phone for the rest of the day or the next day. During which time I whip myself into a frenzy of stress, determination and increasing certainty that, somehow, Pebble Cottage has to be ours.
My inability to relax isn’t helped by the fact that our solicitor, having been on a break to the Costa del Sol for the past two months, has embarked on a flurry of letter-writing, which costs us money every time she hits so much as a full stop. Most infuriatingly, I receive three letters from her on one day, each on a different subject-matter and each one sentence long. Our bill, meanwhile, is ratcheting up like the cherries on a defective fruit machine.
The cost of the solicitor, the searches and the surveyor are not the only things that will all be for nothing if the buyers don’t agree to do something with their house to satisfy the mortgage company.
In the sheer amount of time I’ve spent on this so far, I could’ve created a scale model of the Orient Express using only empty toilet rolls and used postage stamps.
Yet, when I sit and dissect the reasons I want this house so badly, it’s about more than that. It’s about the fireplace that I’ve always wanted, the fact that walking into that living room felt more right than anywhere I’ve been before. It’s that I’ve spent weeks dreaming about Dan and me decorating the kitchen with those glorious Fired Earth tiles (the ones we can’t afford), then spending lazy Sundays curled up in bed, reading the papers as the sunlight streams through the (apparently rotting) sash windows.
