Janet Jackson Superhost: Warmth, humour and romance for a gorgeous heroine forced to reinvent hersel

3. The Walkers

The Walkers

Chloe has decided to set up a family textappthing group. The notification came through today. She has used a truly awful photo of me with my eyes closed and grimacing at the camera whilst she, of course, looks absolutely beautiful and Mitzi is in profile in the background.

Chloe’s first message was hello losers you are now on a family WhatsApp, to which Mitzi responded with a rude hand-gesture emoji. Chloe has way too much free time now, having stopped going to college. I spoke to her Admissions tutor, who was very sympathetic. I explained that I didn’t know that my daughter had been intending to quit, nor the reason why she was doing it, and that I didn’t agree with her leaving– in fact, I said, I was very concerned about what she was going to do instead. The tutor reassured me, saying it was not uncommon amongst this age group to change courses and drop out left, right and centre.

I told Miles over a cup of tea in the work kitchen and he too was sympathetic– up to a point. His own daughter had driven him and his ex-wife mad trying to decide between what I heard as Gerton College in Cambridge and Lady Marjorie Hall in Oxford, or somewhere else unbelievably grand. I’m not sure I got the names right but anyway, I quickly decided we weren’t really talking about the same thing at all, not even in the same universe. What am I doing getting wrapped up with him? I walk home for some thinking time.

As I stroll past snooty neighbour Laura Watson’s home, grandly named Larkspur House, I notice a lot of activity. An extension is being added to her property– part of her strategy to build a bigger, better BB cottage than I could ever dream of. A ruddy cheek, when I remember all the mean things she did to try to get me to close down Lavander Cottage when I first set it up a year ago! She’s out in the front garden, talking on the phone, and for once she’s not looking her usual immaculate self. Her hair is sticking out at random points and her pastel linen trousers are caked in mud. It also looks like she’s crying, in fact is almost hysterical, as builders rush about around her.

Just then, a flatbed truck pulls up outside her drive and wooden planks are thrown off it on to what was once her pristine front lawn but is now like a muddy rugby pitch, torn into with footprints and wheelbarrow tracks.

‘Everything all right, Laura?’ I call. A couple of other neighbours have come out now and are standing alongside me, as the noise and air of chaos is quite magnetic. Laura runs down the drive towards us, looking distraught.

‘I can’t get Oliver on the phone and it’s collapsed, the whole thing.’ She screams: ‘It’s collapsing into the sodding hole!’

‘What do you mean? What’s collapsing?’

‘The bloody extension– the builder’s got the footings wrong!’ She returns to the phone and bursts out, ‘Thank God you’re there, Oliver. You’ve got to come home, right now! What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s f***ing wrong– it’s f***ing unbelievable, that’s what. The f***ing builder has completely lost the plot and the extension is falling into the f***ing hole!’

Gosh. Well, this is not like the Laura I know. I am peering into her driveway when Mitzi’s boyfriend Carl pulls up in his van behind the flatbed truck and leaps out. He immediately starts dragging planks off the crushed lawn at speed and running down the drive with them.

‘Make some room!’ he bawls. ‘Right, Frank, clear off out of it and let me take a look. Bloody hell, man, what the f*** have you done now?’

*

Later, when Carl joins us for tea, we learn over shepherd’s pie that Frank was once Carl’s apprentice, but the lad was always determined to get out of Carl’s shadow and set up on his own. So he did exactly that, two years ago.

‘That Frank always was a cocky twat,’ Carl says now, shovelling a huge fork-load into his mouth. Licking his lips, he goes on grimly, ‘Well, he’s in the shit now, ’cos that two-hundred-and fifty-thousand-pound extension has just taken a burton into the footings. He’s made them too wide and too deep and hasn’t propped them right.’

‘Poor Laura.’

‘I quoted her two-eighty,’ Carl explains, wiping his plate with a slice of bread, ‘reasonable price, but she went for Frank instead.’

‘I hope the whole house sinks.’

‘Mitzi, that’s not very nice.’ I’m a bit shocked.

‘She’s competition, Janet, she needs to go.’

‘There’s room for more than one BB in Hebden,’ I counter. ‘Anyway, I’m sure she’s done everything properly, and knowing Laura, she’s bound to be insured.’

I do not like Laura but can’t help but feel sorry for the woman in her predicament. I start planning a red velvet cake I’ve got the ingredients for and will take her one down tomorrow for a little bit of comfort.

‘But will he be insured?’ Chloe has been entirely silent throughout and these words feel very ominous, like the drum beats at the start of the theme for EastEnders. I notice she’s now on a second portion of a pear and hazelnut cake I’ve made from a recipe in the paper at the weekend. It’s absolutely delicious. Warm with ice cream it’s more like a sponge dessert than your average cake. The batter mixture with lots of eggs and oil makes it very light.

‘I doubt it.’ Carl lets out a huge sigh. ‘What a dick. This could ruin him. Give us a piece of that cake, Chloe.’

Mitzi takes hold of Carl’s face in her hands. ‘Do not get involved. I mean it. Not yet. Wait...’ she does a big, dramatic, TV antiques dealer David Dickinson-style pause ‘...until the price is right.’

She’s a ruthless one, our Mitzi. She’s also very tight. It turns out the wedding plans were getting wildly out of control after Carl’s mum and kids got involved. Balloon arches, pre-nups, favours, stag dos, converted decorated barn, bridesmaids... The suggestion that broke the camel’s back was using a wedding planner Rowena knows.

‘Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you all,’ my sister announces, standing up at the table with a glass of red in her hand.

What now? I thought. She can’t be pregnant, can she? Please God, no more announcements. I’m just not ready.

‘As the wedding is permanently postponed, Carl and I have been talking, and I was wondering, Janet’ (oh, here we go, I knew I’d have to get involved) ‘if we could use the money we’ve saved to convert a bit of the attic into an ensuite?’ She then sits back down, having given Carl a ‘Cheers!’ clink.

‘Oh, right,’ I say slowly. ‘That sounds like a good idea. Is there room for an ensuite up there?’ They have squatted in the attic, making it their home, for quite some time. I suppose they could fit an ensuite up there too, since it’s a big space– the whole size of the house, in fact– with one old skylight window. You have to use a dodgy pull-down ladder to get up there– that definitely needs an upgrade. Inwardly, I’m wondering if the pair of them are suggesting this instead of rent which, as usual, has been thin on the ground lately.

Carl jumps in immediately. ‘I’ll need to check the attic out for access electrics and things like that, of course, and it will need a more substantial staircase– a spiral one would work well– but I don’t see any issue, Janet. There’s plenty of room.’

‘That sounds good,’ I reply cautiously.

‘It’s sort of in lieu of rent, Janet.’ My sister says it as bold as brass. She must be able to read my mind. She goes on: ‘Of course, when it’s done it will add considerably to the value of the property.’

I remain silent, thinking about the pile of credit-card bills I’m paying off with the minimum amount every month, left over from when I did up Lavander Cottage. My tummy tightens up whenever I think of the sums I owe.

Chloe looks at me. I think my daughter can also read my mind, but she always has my back in situations like this. She opens her mouth. ‘How long it will take?’

Good question, Chloe.

Carl shrugs. ‘I’ll fit it in around my other jobs, but I’ll try to complete it as fast as I can.’

‘I see.’ So no idea, not really.

‘There’s only thing we need to know, Carl,’ Mitzi is on one, holding court. ‘Are you insured?’ We all laugh at this.

It’s a lot of excitement for one evening. I want to be happy about it all but I’m feeling really nervous about money. I’m in bed going through my spreadsheets, working out how to keep the credit-card people and the utility people happy now with minimum payments, and fretting. Can I even cover all those? I try to sleep. Worrying never helps and I’ve been moving pence around between columns now for hours.

Yawning, I plump up my pillow, turn off the light and have just settled down when I hear Mitzi’s voice from the landing. ‘Janet?’

Eurgh.‘What?’

‘I forgot to tell you, some walkers rang earlier. They’re doing the Pennine Way and they want to stop in the cottage tomorrow.’

I’m fully alert. ‘Right. What time? How many?’

‘I can’t remember exactly. Morning? Afternoon? Four, maybe five?’

‘What – people? Time?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Thanks, Mitzi. I really appreciate you saving this information till now.’ I could kill her.

‘No problem.’

I need to re-set the alarm. I adjust the time to an hour earlier. Plump the pillow again, turn off the light again. I need to sleep. Two minutes later, the sound of loud knocking is coming from upstairs. It lasts for about five minutes.

I shout out: ‘Do we need to put the ensuite in now?’

‘Yes!’ comes back with a cackle from Mitzi.

The banging starts up again. I try to ignore it but it’s loud and distracting, and after five minutes a bit of dust drops from the ceiling. I turn the light back on and end up reading an old copy of Good Housekeeping for the recipes. Hmmm. Hope this is going to go OK. Do we need planning permission? Thank God it’s a day off tomorrow. I have set the alarm for six, so I can be in the cottage changing the beds for half past.

No rest for this Superhost.

*

The banging goes on quite a lot of the next day, and I notice layers of dust arriving everywhere. I escape to the calm of the cottage where everything is pristine and quiet, awaiting its new guests. I am sitting at the kitchen table there, rearranging takeaway leaflets, when they finally arrive. So much for Mitzi’s morning– it’s late afternoon. First up is an oldish guy looking harassed.

‘Hello, I’m Brian. I’m not doing the walk, I’m just providing back-up. I go ahead and make sure you’ve got heating on and organise food plans, et cetera, et cetera.’

He scurries backwards and forwards between the car carrying a range of lumpy rucksacks, pillows and duvets. He must have done several thousand steps as I’m watching him. Then he drives off, to return forty-five minutes later with the three ladies. Oh dear. A sorrier and more sullen-looking bunch it would be hard to find. As they tramp towards the cottage, the weather meets their mood. It’s that soft drizzle that can drown out hope, gentle but never-ending as if the skies are constantly holding some back so they can keep it going as long as possible to test everyone’s endurance-wear. It’s a grim day to have been out on a muddy moor. I go outside to say hi and am met with a row of exhausted frowns.

‘We’re knackered,’ says one. ‘It’s much harder going than we thought.’

‘My hip’s playing up,’ groans another.

‘And I didn’t bring the right socks,’ the youngest one of the group adds sulkily.

As the weary travellers go inside the cottage, Brian stays outside for a few minutes, chatting to me. He explains that the ladies had decided to do a leg of the Pennine Way. He sets off with them, he says, then he goes back to the car to travel to the next meeting point, then he walks out to meet them with provisions to see how they are doing.

‘It sounds like you’re the one doing a lot of walking, Brian.’

He laughs awkwardly. ‘No, no, I’m just the support.’

I reckon Brian will have done the Pennine Way twice by the time they’ve finished. Quite where he fits into this group I can’t work out. Is he a husband, a brother, a father? I’m not sure, but the devotedness suggests family.

I have gone back to sorting out the washing when I get a call. It’s Brian the Back-up.

‘Would you like to come and tell the ladies the best places for food?’

Not really. I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do, like finish wrestling with a bedsheet and get to grips with the endless mountain of odd socks– where do they all come from? And where are their other halves? I’m tired. To think I alphabetised the leaflets for all the local take-outs and restaurants just before they came– you’d think they’d study them, but no. Honestly, it just goes to show, a Superhost’s work is never done. I give up and go over to Lavander Cottage.

Parked in front of me I find a row of miserable women, all overcome with exhaustion, sitting around the kitchen table as Brian fusses with the kettle, suggesting and being turned down for a range of drinks. Tea? No. Peppermint tea? No. Camomile tea? No. Glass of wine? No. Dandelion and burdock? No. Ginger beer? No. Fruit juice? No. On it goes.

‘So what are you thinking for food?’ I intervene. ‘There’s a great pizza/pasta restaurant you can ring and they’ll deliver, or a couple of great Indians? Or how about an award-winning fish and chips place, perfect after you’ve worked off all those calories on your walk.’

‘Is there anything modern or healthy?’ A snotty, unpleasant tone from the youngest one.

Deep breath, Janet. I don’t remember ‘come in and get a grilling’ as part of the service we offer at the cottage.

‘There’s the Thai place in Hebden if you want to go out? And a vegan restaurant that’s sometimes open.’ (Does entirely random hours, I’ve passed it open once.) ‘Or there’s the Chinese supermarket, you could maybe buy some ingredients and cook yourself something? I’ll leave you to it. Well done, ladies!’

‘Thank you, thank you very much, I appreciate your help.’ Brian follows me to the door, almost clinging to me for comfort.

I turn to him. ‘They look shattered, Brian. If I were you, I’d give them fish and chips and a glass or two of wine, get the telly on, and a couple of foot baths later they’ll be smiling.’

‘I wish.’ He looks wistfully at me.

As I close the door on Lavander Cottage, I feel as if I’m banging up an innocent bystander on a guilty crime charge. Poor Brian. Half an hour later, I notice them all trooping down the drive in fresh, clean cagoules. When they return a whole two hours later, it looks like they’re carrying fish and chips and there’s a bit more chatter.

I try for an early night. Try. Chloe, who doesn’t have to get up early for college or work has, as a result, gone nocturnal. Only the trail of hot-chocolate-stained mugs and toast crumbs give away that she’s alive and feeding during the day. Ten p.m. onwards, her bedroom becomes the social equivalent of a Friday night at the Acapulco night club in Halifax. The chatter and laughter never stop, and the music is relentless. I am repeatedly woken out of a deep sleep by the sound of a beat drop, followed by a whoosh and a roar of acknowledgement.

After this happens at least five times, I find myself shouting at the top of my voice outside her door at ten past three in the morning, ‘Turn that flaming music off or I’m going to take your bloody phone off you and you won’t be getting it back until bloody Christmas!’

Things quieten down enough after that for me to get some sleep, although Harvey is in at 6 a.m. mewling, despite my putting him into the kitchen and locking the door the night before. Either he’s a feline Houdini or Chloe has been on the search for midnight snacks and forgotten to close the door. By six-thirty, I’m drinking tea and compiling a small list of reasons to murder my daughter. Out of the window, I spot Brian on the first of endless trips up and down the drive to the car, and give him a wave. I want to persuade him to write the review for the cottage. To achieve Superhost I need a run of Five-Star reviews, and given the walkers are prime miseries and don’t look like they’d give anything in life one star, I’m hoping he’ll help.

I pop outside and say cheerfully, ‘Good morning, Brian. How did you all sleep?’

‘Joanna slept on the sofa-bed, she was dead to the world when I came past her at six, so I think she slept well. I was in with Catherine who was tossing and turning and moaning about her ankle, or was it her back all night? As for Lydia, she was up not long after me complaining about sleeping longer than normal.’

‘Well, sleeping longer than normal has to be a good thing, I think, don’t you? Super-comfy bed. Lovely bedding. Peaceful surroundings.’

‘Yes, Janet. You’re right. Peaceful surroundings and lovely bedding.’

‘Worth a Five-Star review, Brian?’

‘I er . . .’

‘I’d really appreciate it.’

He smiles. ‘Whatever you say, Janet.’

Result.But, oh gosh. Now I feel like I’m bossing Brian about.

*

When Brian has the car packed, he approaches the patio with a little knock and presses an envelope into my hand.

‘Cash one hundred and twenty– that right, yes?’

‘Perfect, thanks.’

‘You’ve got a lovely place here.’

‘Thanks, Brian. Five-Star review lovely?’

This time, he laughs. ‘You don’t give up, do you? Yes, Lavander Cottage is definitely worth five stars.’

‘Great. Will you write the review, Brian?’

‘Er . . .’

‘You see, I’m going for Superhost, so every review needs to have five stars. It would mean a lot.’

‘Very well. I’ll mention it to the girls.’

My heart sinks. That’s that review down the pan. I’ll be lucky to get two stars from that parade of gloom merchants.

‘Do you know, I could stay here for a week,’ Brian says dreamily, looking around.

‘On your own?’ It just pops out. I didn’t mean to actually say it. What a faux pas. I can hardly look him in the eye.

He does a big sigh and tells me, ‘They’re pain in the arses, Janet, but they’re my pain in the arses.’ He then gives a rueful shrug and disappears again into the cottage.

I get it. It doesn’t do to judge people you don’t know, their quirks, their grumpy ways; that’s basically how we all feel about family. On cue, our bathroom window opens and a chain of smoke circles drifts out of it. I have an absolute ban on smoking in the house. Mitzi knows how much it annoys me.

I shout up, ‘Outside, please, Mitzi– if you have to smoke.’

‘Sorry, Mum.’ The lit cigarette comes flying out, almost hitting me, as the bathroom window is slammed shut.

MUM! Chloe? My hair stands on end. Smoking. It’s disgusting, so unhealthy. What is she thinking? I’m raging with disappointment. The lit cigarette, like a torment, continues to smoulder at my feet and a snake of smoke peels up and hits my nostrils. It must be the lack of sleep that makes me do it, but I’m jumping up and down, stamping on the cigarette as the cottage door opens and out lurch the walkers.

They limp, hobble and drag themselves down the drive, and Brian has his arm supporting one of them. How far did they actually walk? You’d think they’d done back-to-back marathons, the way she’s milking it. The youngest one is a bit more energetic; she’s oblivious to everything, scrolling through her phone– looking for vegan sushi, no doubt. The sun breaks through the clouds and it’s the perfect weather for a walk, though I wouldn’t dare suggest it, and none of them seem inclined to notice.

I give them a wave off and Brian is the only one who responds in kind. Bye bye, misery chops. As they drive away I can hear the distant whirr of mechanical diggers and angry voices coming from Laura’s property. I’ve got that red velvet cake in the oven I plan to take down to her. I curl my fingers around the brown envelope of lovely cash and contemplate what it might buy: the week’s shopping, a trip to Gordon Riggs for a plant or two– but let’s face it, it’s basically money for Chloe’s cig habit. Eurgh. She needs to get a job. Today!

I insist she helps me turn the cottage around. It’s a bloody tip. There are muddy boot-prints everywhere, every sheet, towel and pillow-case has been used, there’s shampoo all over the shower and the toilet needs a bleach. They’ve left two grotty gaiters under one of the beds and another odd woolly sock to add to my pile for the chuck. The take-out boxes are a mixture of fish and chips, Chinese and pizza, so they must have been walking and waiting for hours, tramping round Hebden collecting these. All the leaflets with details of delivery services are spread across the table too. Strange folk.

Chloe adds to the hard work, needing instruction every five minutes, whatever the task. I can’t help nobbling her about her smoking.

‘It’s a one-off social thing. I’m a social smoker.’

‘Is that right? Yet you’re smoking in the bathroom, on your own, in the morning. Which bit of that event is social?’

‘Mum! It’s leftovers from the night before.’

‘You were home last night.’

‘When I was being social last night. Anyway, I was practising smoke circles, that’s all.’ She grins. ‘They look cool, you must admit.’

‘No. They look grubby and they smell awful. Smoking is a killer, there’s nothing cool about it.’

I’m struggling to find ways to reason with her as I mop down the stairs into the kitchen. Chloe is half-heartedly wiping round when she opens the fridge and pulls out a large unopened bar of Milk Chocolate. My heart does a little leap. I go to take it from her, but she pulls it out of my reach.

‘No, Mum. You can’t have this. Sugar is the silent killer. If I give you this chocolate it is the equivalent of passive smoking three cigarettes.’

She gloats, a big smile on her face. Pay-back time. I grit my teeth while attempting to appear unruffled, though my desire to rip the foil off the bar and demolish it whole is acute.

‘That’s fine, Chloe. I’m on a diet anyway.’

‘Since when? You were eating madeira cake last night.’

‘Are you going to finish wiping so I can get on with mopping?’

She smirks at me in an infuriating way, as if she’s won or something, and I have an urge to push the dirty mop into her face. I’m not proud of myself. I take the mop bucket outside and pour the grim brown slush down the drain, my hopes for Superhost and Supermum disappearing down the drain along with the dregs.

*** Three Stars

Clean. Only 1 bathroom for four people is hard work though. Quiet. The walk into Hebden is more like 25 minutes than 15.

Some guests are miserable and like it that way. It can be hard if you’re a people-pleaser. You have to let them get on with it.

If you are planning to go walking, maybe decide if you actuallylikewalking first. Check the weather, as walks can be miserable in the rain.

Get yourself a Brian.

Patience is a virtue. If anyone has any going spare, could they please send me some via Lavander Cottage, Hebden Bridge. I’ll pay for the postage.