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

4. The Translator

The Translator

Wake up with horrible feeling I might be falling for Miles. I’m looking at my phone all the time waiting for his call or a text. It’s getting on my nerves. We’ve not seen each other in work this week and he hasn’t been in touch. One minute he’s all over me like a rash, next minute I’m dropped like a stone. I don’t like it. I’ve obviously been too easy and this is my punishment. I begin unpicking what we last said, what we last did, what were our last moments. I can’t even remember them all that well, to be honest, because it’s been so busy at Valley Dental. I suppose I’ll have to bump into him in work at some point.

I’m a trained receptionist, I remind myself, and I could always leave Valley Dental. There are lots of other reception jobs in the world if that’s what I need to do. So I instigate a plan: the next time I start obsessing about Miles, I shall put on The Archers Omnibus and start scrolling through planting designs on Pinterest or looking at other self-catering cottages in Yorkshire. Works a treat.

A lovely woman called Sumi, her husband and three small children are in Lavander Cottage for a week whilst he is here translating for a case at the local crown court.

‘We may need to extend if the case goes on,’ they told me.

I’m secretly praying the case will go on for weeks. I’m seriously rocked by the mean Three-Star review from the bloody walkers. In their heads that will be generous I’m sure, but for me it puts Superhost out of reach. There’s not many bookings for this year yet and the spreadsheet has way too many red numbers, while the bills under the egg-hen are growing.

Sumi asks me for places to take the children and I suggest Eureka! The National Children’s Museum in Halifax. It has exhibits to suit all the ages and once you’ve paid entrance you can return free all week. I think getting them out is the best idea, as the kids all seem a bit on the hyperactive scale. Watching them race around the garden this morning I was on pins as they pulled at the decorative flower heads I’d left for structure through winter. Then they gleefully trampled on all the bulbs shyly peeping out of the ground as if they were engaged in an enthusiastic game of Whack-a-Bulb. I was glad when Sumi came out and called them in, as I was very close to having a go at them. I’m feeling wound up regularly at the moment, even with the HRT. It might be the building work, as the house is lathered in dust. I was on the landing this morning, watching as Carl, having ditched the old pull-down ladder and replaced it with a big metal builder’s stepladder, climbed up into the attic. I heard him moving around, then he shouted down to me, ‘Did you know there’s a cupboard up here with an old boiler inside? That will have to come out.’

‘No,’ I shout back. ‘Or if I did know when we bought the house, I’ve forgotten.’ I’ve always tried to spend as little time as possible up in the attic. It’s got a light switch, but I’ve never liked climbing up and down the pull-down ladder. The new temporary stepladder looks even more precarious.

‘Don’t worry, Janet, I’ll sort it. I know what to do, I’m not an idiot. Not like Frank, haha. Right, I’m coming down.’

At this precise moment he drops his phone, which comes flying out of the hatch, followed in quick succession by both legs, knocking over the stepladder. His legs are now flailing around in mid-air. Presumably his elbows are wedging his body from collapsing all the way through– well, that and his size, as he’s no lightweight, put it that way. Having quickly retrieved the stepladder, I guide his feet to the top step, then excuse myself so as not to laugh too loudly. It’s the only laugh of the day, unfortunately.

Mitzi has turned into a project manager; she’s waltzing around in trouser suits and low-cut blouses and is arguing with suppliers about every screw, every scrap of wood, every hinge, every bit of skirting, the paint and silicone tubing. I feel like I’m living every moment of this project with her.

Meanwhile, Chloe has got herself a job waitressing at a restaurant in town, thank God. She’s only just getting used to working life and when she comes in she’s in a mood and flings herself about the house.

‘I’m absolutely exhausted, that was a full eight hours of work. And I had to get home and get there as well. I’m on my feet all the time. Plus, I had to be nice to people I don’t know, and get on with the other members of staff that are all cliquey idiots. And I’ll have to do the same again next week.’

I keep my mouth closed and my face expressionless to try very hard not to be judgmental or share a thought about this in any way. The thing with Chloe being a server, I’ve noticed, is that it’s then my job to wait on her and clean up after her, endlessly. She’s suddenly getting into cooking, so the kitchen is a permanent bombsite. It doesn’t matter how tidy I leave it, it will soon turn into a collection of dirty cups, pans, knives, chopping boards, cake tins, Tupperware containers... you get the picture. What is nice is that I get endless shared photos of her cooking creations sent to my phone, and quite often I come home from work and a meal is ready. My daughter is a great cook– it’s just she’s messy as hell and I miss my kitchen. My quiet stir after a stressful day.

Oh well. It’s going to take a bit more than a stir to tackle the stresses at the moment. The electricity bill has come in and I owe two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds? I can’t make head nor tail of it. I’ve gone round checking everyone’s room for electric heaters. I’ll have to spread the payment, of course, but across the year? ‘How about ten years?’ I suggest to the utility guy, but there’s no reaction coming back down the phone.

What with fuel costs going up, there’s the Council Tax increase and the food prices are through the roof. Worst of all, my fixed-rate mortgage comes to an end this year and I’m dreading what it’s going to go up to. I’m getting scared to open a bill at the moment. Every brown envelope feels like a loaded threat and I’m demolishing Jaffa Cakes at a ridiculous rate. I have to face it and ask for help.

After I hear Carl go out and Mitzi gets off the phone I brace myself and grab my moment.

‘Mitzi, can I have a word, please?’

‘Bathroom World are checking for copper mixer taps, they might ring me back at any time.’

But I’m on a mission. ‘Well,’ I reply, ‘we can stop talking when they do.’

‘Go on then, what is it?’

‘Mitzi, I’m really struggling with bills. I’ve got a two-thousand-pound electricity bill and I’m piling up credit-card bills and the cottage isn’t really busy enough to cover everything, and what with food prices and sorting Chloe out and being only part-time at Valley Dental, I’m getting really worried and,’ go for it, Janet, ‘I need some rent.’

‘But we’re building you a new bathroom.’

‘I know you are, and I’m very grateful, but I can live without your attic bedroom having a bathroom. I can’t live without rent.’

‘Well, we can’t. It’s a nightmare when Chloe goes in there for hours and we’re all busting. Carl’s using the drain round the back as an ensuite.’

Charming! ‘I know it’s not ideal, but we’ve coped so far and we’ll have to continue to cope because, Mitzi, and I’m deadly serious here, I need some help with the bills.’

‘Well, this really screws up our plans, Janet.’ And she stomps out, her heels clickety– clacking.

There’s ￡124,000 left on the mortgage. It’s such a lot. I’ll never get there, not on my wages, not with these bills. I might need to take a payment holiday, for like... forever.

As I leave the house to go to work, we see each other in the kitchen. My sister has a face like a slapped arse. I’ve really annoyed her, I know. But what can I do? She needs to contribute: I’ve carried her for far too long. It’s always been the way with Mitzi and me, she’s always taken advantage of my soft nature. Whenever I’m about to lose my rag she’ll always find something to trump things, like a bit of cash or a new job or a promise of something. The truth is, I’ve always been scared for Mitzi. She was homeless for a while after Uni, it was hideous to listen to her talking about the shelters and how close she was to danger all the time. I persuaded her to sofa surf with us, only that little bit of time has turned into... well, for ever. As for Carl, he’s just sorting himself out from the divorce. His occasional night here has definitely expanded into most of the time, and once he’s done the work on the attic, which has to be worth a few thousand pounds in kind, I know he’ll be happy to contribute.

*

It’s a miserable gloomer of a day and as I’m wandering through Hebden I notice there’s loads of graffiti everywhere. It’s so disfiguring, it ruins things. I wish there was an easy way to get rid of it. I’m walking past the third lot when I take time to actually read it, and realise it’s obviously all written by the same person.

Squat the Airbnbs

I read it and it’s like my brain needs a moment to take it in. It’s a punch in the gut. My heartbeat runs up by about a hundred beats a minute. I go red. I feel insulted, personally. After all the effort and the aggro of getting my garage done. Why? Why are people so mean? So ungenerous? What have I ever done to them? I try to make a little bit of extra cash, cash that I’ve worked hard for and put myself out to achieve– all that time and effort to earn that tiny bit extra. At the moment, I’m putting up a translator and their crazy kids– where are they supposed to stay?

I’m fuming. I go into work and I’m brooding on it like mad. I make a mess of two appointments and knock over the Oral B toothbrush display Tony spends hours arranging in the back-lit glass cabinet. This is not a good day. I’m packing up when Miles appears in reception. He has had a haircut and is showing a bit of stubble, and I hate to say it but he looks very good.

‘Where have you been hiding?’ he says grumpily.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘I fancy two.’

Miles laughs. ‘Let me get changed, five minutes.’

I’m feeling weak. I’m feeling down. I’m feeling alone. So when, a whole hour later after those two drinks, Miles suggests going back into the building to do some extra hours training, I go willingly. I’m grateful for the distraction, and though there’s a part of me that thinks I’m being easy and this doesn’t feel like the healthiest thing I’ve ever done, I don’t really care. I’m enjoying the attention and God knows I need some fun.

After the ‘training’ session, he offers to give me a lift home but I want the chance for fresh air, so tramp along the cycle path getting wet through from the mist. Miles is texting me with his favourite poem about clocks for some reason and I’m half-reading it when I spot another Squat the Airbnbs graffiti on the wooden lamppost. I look around to see if there’s anyone close by, and no one is. So, feeling reckless from the drinks and the training, I take a biro out of my bag and pull myself up onto a wobbly bit of fence. Balanced with one leg on the fence and one arm wrapped around the lamppost, I dig into the wood and scrawl:

Get a bloody job

It’s pathetic, I know, and it doesn’t address the issue. Miles recently and very eloquently explained the pressure second homes are having on locals who are trying to get on the property ladder– hence the frustration with Airbnbs. But so bloody what, I think tipsily.

‘Mine’s my garage,’ I tell the graffiti. ‘It’s never even been a home, in fact it’s still part of my home and I’m sharing it with even more people, bringing money into the town. Surely that’s increasing the dwellings in the area, which is a good thing?’

I secretly think it’s a lot of jealousy. Hebden is full of people who say they hate the state but don’t mind living off it. Not that that opinion would go down well anywhere, not least in my house with Mitzi for a sister. I’m admiring my handiwork with the biro in my hand, back on the ground, when a figure appears out of the mist. It’s a wretched-looking Laura Watson being dragged along by her dog.

‘What are you doing, Janet?’

Oh God, rumbled– and by Laura.‘I’m er... just looking at this lamppost.’

‘Have you just put Get a bloody job?’

‘No.’

‘Janet?’ She is actually smiling.

‘Possibly.’

‘You like having your little BB, don’t you, Janet? Remember, you inspired me. It’s not your fault, but at the moment, I don’t think I’ll even have a house by the end of this fiasco.’

Her voice gets tearful and I go to give her a hug but she puts her hand up.

‘No, no. Don’t encourage me. I’m a mess. I ate all your cake, Janet. All of it. Do you know how many calories there are in a complete red velvet gateau? I’ll have to starve myself for a few days now. Again, not your fault. Planning are coming round next week. From the council. I may lose my house. There we go. Again, not your fault. I’m taking all other calories in through wine.’

Despite her past sneaky actions of trying to crush me and close me down in several devious ways when I first started up with Lavander Cottage, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I want to find a way to help.

‘Y’know, maybe you should get Carl to come and sort it out,’ I suggest rashly. ‘He will know what needs doing. He’s a very good builder is Carl, Laura. If anyone can do it, he can. Plus he knows the lad you’ve used, so he might be able to come to an arrangement about money, I don’t know.’

‘Do you really think he would do that... come to an arrangement? What sort of thing?’

I’ve said it now. What was I thinking? I try to backpedal somewhat.

‘Well, obviously I can’t speak for him, Laura, but this lad Frank is sure to want to put things right– it’s his reputation at stake, after all. And Carl might be willing to help you both out and maybe they can agree to off-set labour on another job or...’

Shut up, Janet, I urge myself. You don’t know a thing about what Carl will or might do. What about the improvements to your house if he does help Laura? Stop your mouth running away with itself, engage brain!

‘I don’t know what Carl would charge, of course,’ I manage feebly. ‘That’s up to him.’

What on earth am I getting myself into here?

‘Oh, I see, some sort of a quid pro quo arrangement. So I might get my BB after all?’ She is considerably cheered up, whilst I am feeling a tsunami of sheer dread.

I give her a weak, ‘Yes.’

‘Give me that.’ She grabs the biro off me and heaves herself up onto the wobbly fence. Under Squat the Airbnbs she grinds something into the wood– I can’t see it until she jumps back down.

‘Wow. O-kay.’ I look at her: she’s wearing the ferocious expression of a wildcat. I wouldn’t want to mess with her. Her message says:

Just you effin try

At that moment, two walkers come into sight and stroll past looking suspiciously at us. Laura hands me the incriminating biro.

‘Thanks, Janet, good chatting to you. Excellent suggestion re Carl. I’m going to call him,’ and she sets off running with her dog.

After one last look at the lamppost, and a slightly raucous chuckle, I plod on. And when a wave of anxiety floods through me, I know what it is: a delayed case of Big Gob.

Chloe has sent me a pic of a lemon drizzle cake she’s made, which is lovely, and Carl’s van is in the drive so he’s probably working in the attic. I sigh at the prospect of drifts of plaster dust and baking paraphernalia that I’m going to have to clean up.

Miles texts me.

Would you like to go for a cycle at the weekend? Don’t worry, we won’t risk the rusty wheeler. I’ve got a spare bike. XXX

I’ve no reason to refuse so I send him the thumb-up emoji. Though quite what it might involve has me really giving it the thumb down. I reckon ten miles is my absolute maximum. But I’m glad it’s something over and above a shag, a thing to do together beyond the bedroom. Maybe there’s reason to be hopeful about Miles.

*

I open the front door to find the house is a blare of noise. There’s electric saws, vacuuming, hammering and loud music blasting out of the kitchen. I feel like going back outside. When I pluck up the courage to go into the kitchen, Chloe is pulling a lasagne out of the oven, and to my surprise the kitchen is in a very reasonable state. Mitzi wanders in and she’s wearing overalls. Her hair is up and covered in plaster dust, giving her a wise old witchy look.

‘Come and see,’ she instructs me.

I clamber gingerly up the builder’s ladder to the hatch, where Carl helps me up inside. It’s astonishing. The floor is boarded out and there are two metal lintels supporting the roof, leaving enough space to comfortably stand up. Mitzi climbs up after me and points out the drawn outlines on the floor where a loo, a bath and a shower and a sink will be.

‘A bath?’

‘If we can support it.’

‘Wow.’

‘We’ll punch a hole through Wednesday when the weather’s good and put in two Velux rooflights.’

‘Right.’ I’m almost speechless. ‘How will you get a bath up here?’

‘We’ll make the hatch bigger. We’ll have to anyway as we’ve got to build a proper staircase up from the landing.’

‘I’m impressed.’ And that’s true. How could I not be? It’s incredible.

Later, back downstairs, I’m sitting over dinner just revelling for a moment in the changes afoot in my life. I’m eating a delicious meal I haven’t cooked. I’m getting a new loft conversion I’m not paying for. It’s all a bit much really. I’ll manage those bills somehow, I decide. I’ll keep things ticking over, I’ll use the cottage cash to pay this month’s credit cards, and if I swap credit cards and move some stuff onto the zero interest one, all will be well...

I’m working it out in my head when there’s a knock on the patio door. It’s Sumi, looking agitated.

I open the door to her, saying, ‘Hi, is everything all right?’

‘Well, yes and no. Can you come round? Sorry, you’re eating.’

I was, but now I’m speculating. What can be up?

I tell her, ‘I’ll finish and come round.’ I go back to the table and scoop another portion of lasagne onto my plate as Chloe raises an eyebrow.

‘I was going to freeze that for another meal.’

‘Yeah, not today though, eh?’

I eat at record speed, risking indigestion. I have to know what’s going on. I knock on the door of Lavander Cottage. It quickly opens, and as it does so, a solid yellow pool ball whistles past my ear and out into the garden.

‘Come in, come in.’

It’s chaos. The kids are racing around the main entrance bit where I’ve put a pool table I got on eBay. They manically chase around and under it, throwing everything and anything they can reach at each other: pool balls, chalk, shoes, clothes, towels. Sumi seems oblivious as she heads into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. I see that prawn crackers are scattered everywhere, a carpet of crunch. I’m attempting to hide my horror at the state of the place. The doors slam and I wince, that one has a glass panel. Now it’s open again, now it’s closed again, smashed against the wall, the handle chipping into the plaster with the force of the slam.

The three boys pile into the kitchen then start chasing each other around the table in here, one windmilling with his arm scattering all the magazines and leaflets, No Smoking signs and air fresheners onto the floor. Nothing from Sumi. Nothing. I’m given a weak tea I didn’t want and politely slurp at it whilst trying to distract myself from thoughts of the pain of the clean-up I’m facing around me.

‘The case has been abandoned. We would like to go back home, if that’s OK with you, so only two nights not six?’

‘Right, yes of course, no problem.’ Bloody hell. I’d got the cottage blocked out for a week, and now there’s no one going to be in it. A pool ball whizzes past me again. I can’t stand it.

‘Be careful with these pool balls, lads, they’re very heavy. Back on the table, please.’

Another bounces across the floor.

‘Pick them up.’ At last Sumi summons up some parenting, but it’s so feeble they take zero notice.

Two, three more pool balls are now bouncing around the kitchen floor, smashing the prawn crackers into smithereens. I get down on the floor and pick them up.

‘So when do you want to leave?’ I ask, wishing it was right now.

‘Tomorrow morning, early. We need to get back now.’

‘I see.’ It doesn’t give them much time to tidy up, is all I can think.

‘Give it back.’ The smallest of the little crushing crew wanders up to me and holds out his hands for the balls. I refuse.

‘No. They’re not for bouncing on the floor, they’re for the table only.’ I’m holding five of them in my hands.

‘Do we cancel through the site, or are you able to refund?’

‘Oh no, you’ll have to cancel through the site.’

With less money than I was planning for, this is going to be spreadsheet hell. I’m slowly reversing out of the place, pool balls in hand, when boing!! I register a pain on my forehead. I have collided with a pool ball thrown at head height. It hurts like buggery and I stagger from the force of it.

‘Sorry.’

Sumi yanks the arm of the youngest and throws him into the kitchen, closing the door on him. The other two scream with laughter at his plight. I stagger out of there, almost slip on the other pool ball resting on the patio, and manage to get back into my own kitchen. I collapse on a chair, letting all the pool balls roll onto the kitchen table where they come to rest between the dirty plates, the empty lasagne dish and the jug of water.

Mitzi wanders through smelling fragrant, long spirals of wet hair down her back, in a matching silk nightie and flowing Chinese-style dressing gown. She pulls some cash out of her pocket.

‘Fifty pounds a week until we’re done?’ She slips it under the water jug.

I’m in a daze from pain; the rent doesn’t seem to matter any more. Mitzi grabs a bottle from somewhere and disappears with two glasses.

I tentatively touch my forehead. ‘Ow.’

Mitzi reverses back into the room. ‘Was that an ow?’

I point at my forehead. ‘A pool ball hit my head.’

‘Who did that? The little gits in the cottage?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Let Dr Mitzi take a look.’

‘Could you get me some paracetamol?’ The low hum of pain like a wave grows on me.

Minutes later, Chloe is down rubbing butter on the bump. I try to explain to her that we tried this in the old days for burns and suchlike, and it never worked, but it’s a TikTok medicinal theory now so it looks like we never learn. The washing-up is done around me, someone runs me a bath. I wake up, still in it and freezing cold, an hour later, Chloe knocking on the door.

‘You’re not dead in there, are you?’

‘No, I just fell asleep.’

‘Mum! You shouldn’t go to sleep after a bump.’

‘Too late now, I’m awake.’

My daughter tuts loudly and I hear her stomping away as if I’m deliberately not looking after myself. I reflect that my cold bath probably won’t do me any harm– Wim Hoff has made a fortune doing ice baths. I am relieved when I wake up early the next morning. There is a sore, apple-shaped bruise on my forehead, and I hit the Ibuprofen for a change of painkiller.

The translators have gone by the time I’m up and dressed. I brace myself for the anticipated mess. It’s bad. There’s a crack in the glass pane of the kitchen door, the wall is chipped from the slams it has had. I notice a faint felt-tip line around the entire perimeter of the wall, but the prawn crackers have been swept up and an attempt has been made to swipe around the kitchen surfaces. Carl sticks Sellotape over the cracked pane, he reckons that will hold it, whilst I fill and sand the hole in the wall. The only bonus is that I get a lovely review from Sumi on every site imaginable. Chloe is adamant we should slag her off in return, but I can’t summon up the nastiness. Even with a multicoloured forehead as reminder.

Bloody kids.

***** Five Stars

Amazing cottage, lovely host, great location,soooclean!

Reflect on how big your place is going to be. Do you want to attract families? Children are lovely, but I’ve yet to meet a tidy one.

Watch after-work drinking. It makes you do stuff you wouldn’t do sober.

Avoid flying pool balls.

FYI butter doesn’t help a bump.