Safe as Houses

SAFE AS HOUSES

I’m not really in the mood for another argument with Janet’s gate this morning but it’s obviously in fine fighting mode. Hanging precariously to one hinge, it considers my attempt to gain access a signal to behave in an unpredictable, eccentric fashion.

         Janet’s bungalow stands, or rather slumps like an outcast hunchback, on a huge, neglected plot of land, which could be the envy of the entire neighbourhood. But Janet hasn’t the time, inclination or generosity to spend on it, so it has become an overgrown wilderness, devoid of colour and structure. The bungalow has suffered the same disregard; time and lack of care causing it to stare sadly out onto the street through the misty, condensation of its single-glazed windows. Grubby, mismatched curtains hang limply; all bargains from charity shops and all ill-fitting. Most of the time they remain closed. Only the contents of the conservatory are visible from the street, causing passers-by to tut with disgust or gaze in fascination. Cardboard boxes, crates, piles of newspapers and plastic carrier bags containing goodness knows what clutter the floor, leaning haphazardly against the dirt-strewn glass. Overlooked plants in cracked pots strain towards what little light there is and silently gasp for water.

         Eventually I win my battle with the gate and make my way up the lichen-covered pathway. Neglect cries out from everywhere; the borders overgrown with weeds, misshapen shrubs begging to be pruned and a pair of tilted stone pots lean threateningly on either side of the peeling, faded front door. The doorbell doesn’t work. Knocking on the door rarely brings a response but today I am rewarded by the sound of soft shuffling and loud cursing from within. I wait, my pasted smile balancing as unsteadily as the gate, while Janet checks out her visitor through the one-way spy hole, then unleashes numerous bolts and chains. Does Janet really believe that anyone would actually want to enter this hazard area she calls home unless they have to? It amuses me that a burglar alarm perches high on the front of her bungalow. I know it’s empty; Janet would never splash out on such a luxury. Just a box will do for her; something she probably picked up off a skip to warn away the ninety nine per cent of the population she sees as a threat. Should any burglar actually succeed in gaining entry to her property I suspect they'd probably meet with a fatal accident or take one look and make a run for it. I wouldn’t imagine there's a single item in the place worth stealing anyway; you’d have to pay someone to take the stuff away. But Janet is as eccentric as her surroundings.

         As the misaligned door finally opens with an unwelcome creak I am presented with the sight of the hallway from hell and Janet herself; a vision from the worst episode of ‘What not to wear.’ Today she sports an ankle length floral skirt, matched imperfectly with a blue spotted blouse, a yellow striped cardigan, pink fluffy slippers and a scowl.

         “Morning Janet. When are you going to get this doorbell fixed?”

         “Oh it’s you,” she grunts, as if she’d been expecting something better. “I keep telling you I’ll get George to do it.”

         “You want me to give him a ring while I’m here?”

         “No. Do you know how much it costs to make a phone call in the daytime? I’ll wait until I bump into him.” I raise my eyes to the patchy, cracked ceiling in exasperation. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

         “I don’t know why you don’t get a professional to do it Janet. George might be cheap and cheerful but he’s hardly qualified.”

         “Ay well, I’ve always had George do my odd jobs. You can’t trust folk these days. And if he can’t do it then he’ll know a man who can.”

         “Or a cowboy,” I reply with barely restrained cynicism. “You should spend some money on this place. God knows, you must have thousands in the bank. Get some registered companies who know what they’re doing to sort things out. It’s a flaming health hazard this place.” Janet goes all tight lipped as she always does at the mere mention of spending money.

         “Anyway, are you coming in or what? I’m freezing to death standing here.”

         “Well, you could put the heating on,” I suggest but it falls on deaf ears.

         We pick our way round the clutter of tables, chests of drawers, stools, books, newspapers and plastic carrier bags, the contents of which I daren't even guess, lining both sides of the narrow hallway. I arrive at her lounge door with three fresh bruises and a bout of claustrophobia.

         My husband thinks I’m an idiot for trying to help Janet out, but I haven’t the heart to cut her off as others have done. She was here when we moved in twenty-odd years ago and I can’t ignore the good neighbour instincts my mother instilled in me as a child. Janet’s mother didn’t do her many favours when she was alive. A large, childless lady in her mid-forties, she was admitted to hospital with a suspected appendicitis and left three days later with a scrawny, wrinkled bundle she later named Janet. The father died shortly after, probably from the shock. Mother passed on several years ago leaving Janet the bungalow, a lifetime’s collection of useless clobber and the same reluctance to part with anything.

         Janet wastes nothing but time. She spends her days rummaging around charity shops and car boot sales, returning home clutching her newly acquired treasures as if they were the crown jewels. Every available space in her bungalow is cluttered with other people’s cast offs, useless paraphernalia she neither uses nor needs. Often, she doesn’t even bother unpacking her purchases; hence the countless number of plastic carrier bags littering every room. The only uncluttered things in her life are her bills; laughably small and yet Janet complains loudly that her rates and taxes are solely responsible for the upkeep of all single mothers, schools, prisons and local amenities.

         I can’t say I care for Janet in an emotional sense; I just feel at her age someone needs to care for her. A spinster with no family, retired from teaching with no friends, George and I are the only company she has. Local children think she’s a witch and other neighbours consider her a cantankerous old bat. The latter at least is perfectly true but my conscience will not allow me to stop coming round every day to check on her, help her out a bit. I’ve no idea exactly how old she is; Janet gives nothing away, not even her age. But she’s getting on now and needs assistance. She’d never be willing to admit or pay for it. Anyway, she’d never trust strangers.

         Janet huffs and puffs into the lounge, inaptly named considering there is not an inch of space to lounge in.

         “Your fire’s low, Janet. Shall I put some more coal on? “

         “Just a small piece then. I can’t afford more fuel bills this side of Christmas.”

         “Come off it, Janet. You must have more money than Tommy Lipton has tea leaves. I’ve never known you spend anything but a penny.” That reminds me I must clean her bathroom before I leave, if I can fight my way into it. “Want a cup of tea?”

         “Ay why not? There’s a teabag by the sink; it’s only been used twice.”

         I struggle past more obstacles to reach her kitchen and fill the antiquated, rusty kettle she insists on using. There are five more kettles on top of the cupboards, one of them brand new she won in a competition but Janet is adamant this one boils faster and is therefore more economic.

         I clear a tiny space on the kitchen worktop to make her tea. I cram the three out-of-date loaves of bread she purchased from the last minute bargain basket at the local supermarket into her overstuffed freezer compartment. I rearrange the latest piles of hotch potch crockery she has haggled for and discover the fish and chips I brought round last night left half eaten in their newspaper wrapping. (It saves on washing up liquid).

         “You didn’t eat all your tea last night then,” I shout from the kitchen. “Shall I put it out for the birds?”

         “No, it’ll do for later. I’ll warm it up in the microwave.” The only piece of modern technology Janet possesses is the microwave she won in another competition. The sheer speed at which it completes its task is enough to convince Janet it conserves electricity. I tread carefully around the grass strimmer, garden chair, paint pots, tools and plastic carrier bags with their secret contents adorning the kitchen floor and present Janet with her tea.

         “Can you hang my washing out before you go?”

         “I suppose so, but it’d be much easier if you invested in a washing machine and tumble drier you know. And don’t tell me you can’t afford it.”

         Eventually I locate the bag of pegs and step out into the back garden with a bowl of dripping wet odds and sods washed earlier by Janet in the kitchen sink. Despite being familiar with the many obstructions and hazards of Janet’s plot I stumble a few times on uneven paving slabs and debris left by handyman George. Cursing, I manage to reach the washing line. The rusty metal pole it’s attached to wobbles unsteadily, like a drunken teenager, as I peg out the clothes. Another of George’s botch jobs.

         “Right, I’m off then. I’ll pop round tonight and put your bin out for the dustmen.”

         “Oh don’t bother, there’s nothing in it anyway.” No surprises there.

         Returning to my own house I pour a large glass of wine and relax in front of the television for a few hours. The upside of paying Janet a visit is that it fools me into believing my own home is immaculate and no housework needs doing urgently.

         Later I put some of our excess garden waste into Janet’s bin, wheel it to the front of the property and check, unnecessarily, that her doors are locked. I notice the wind has whipped another piece of loose fencing from her already sparse surrounds. I must have another go at her tomorrow about hiring proper workmen; make her see that even the small amount George charges is squandered if it’s not a job well done. Wisdom is the one thing Janet has failed to acquire for all her many years on earth.

         My sleep is interrupted by the sound of sirens, distantly at first but quickly altering to ear-splitting closeness. A bleary eyed glimpse through the curtains reveals two fire engines parked directly outside. Slipping into my dressing gown I join the expanding group of neighbours staring in open-mouthed horror at the blazing inferno that was Janet’s bungalow. Firemen battle furiously to control the flames which are leaping as high as the eye can see into the night sky, but it's obvious that nothing, including Janet, will be rescued.

         Investigation confirms that the electrician George employed to re-wire Janet’s home a few weeks ago had about as much knowledge of electronics as Mickey Mouse. The faulty wiring is determined as the cause of the fire that claimed Janet’s life, but accidental death is written on the certificate. Suicide caused by her habitual stinginess would be more appropriate.

         I cannot suppress the thought that Janet would have been delighted to be spared the cost of a cremation. Neither can I dismiss the relief I feel that I will be spared the mind-boggling task of clearing out her bungalow; something I had always anticipated with dread.

         A few weeks later George and I sit in the solicitor’s office for the reading of Janet’s will.

         “To George, my faithful handyman,” the solicitor drones, “ I leave my bungalow and furnishings in recognition of all the work he has done for me.”

         George may have lost the bungalow but the land is still intact. I can see his eyes light up and read his mind as he mentally visualises the new property he and his amateur D-I-Y companions will erect on the site. Now would definitely be the time for us to move to a new area if only we could afford it.

         “To Maggie, my neighbour, who never believed I appreciated her,” the solicitor continues, “I leave all my savings.”

         Oh wow! Maybe God does move in mysterious ways after all.

         The solicitor clears his throat and lowers his eyes before reading on, “ I never did trust them banks Maggie, so you’ll find all my money in the plastic carrier bags I keep under my bed. And don’t waste it.”

         Nice one Janet. Serves me right I suppose for all the times I said you couldn’t take it with you.



First prize winner in Scribble Short Story Magazine Summer 2004