11. The Carers
The Carers
The request email about the cottage drops into my inbox first thing Monday morning. What a nice surprise to start the week and a wonderful distraction from the tenth job application form I’ve half-filled in. A mid-week two-night booking– Tuesday through till Thursday– from an organisation called Dove-care rather than an individual. The group consists of two carers and a teenager, and they ask if we have enough beds. Everyone has a double: there’s ‘a large double bedroom next to the family-sized bathroom’– anyone else sleeps in a single in the bedroom or on the double sofabed downstairs. They were happy with that and having exchanged details, they have arranged to arrive tomorrow at 2 p.m. That ￡180 will come in very handy indeed.
The clear-up from the party has been an epic, and this email gives me the momentum I needed to get it finished. Sunday was a giant communal hangover, everyone bleary-eyed with stops every half hour for bacon sandwiches and strong teas. Monday, I promised myself, would be the deep clean. Two hours of solid focus on my job applications and then into the cottage for the belt and braces.
I have psychologically prepared myself. It was a big party, I tell myself, and it’s not going to be pretty. I pull on my rubber gloves. Sure enough, when I warily let myself in, superficially things don’t look too bad, but once I get going, it’s a different story. I find some of those little gas canisters under the bed. Nitrous oxide– laughing gas. Not good. I’m sure it’s banned. The parents would not like that. There’s biro graffiti scoured across the bathroom door. I mean, do I really need to know that Willow fancies Gavin. Next I find two used condoms stuck between stained bedsheets, ugh! It’s a party crime scene and I’m glad there’s only me to clear up the evidence. I spend a long time sanding down the bathroom door and re-painting it, before mopping, polishing and airing the place, re-making the beds with fresh clean linen and looking into every corner to make sure nothing has been left behind. I put back all the ornaments and precious things I had removed, and gradually, after about four hours solid graft, Lavander Cottage is back to presentable.
Hallelujah!
*
Back to the job applications. I had started off being a bit fussy about jobs, only going for quite grand-sounding admin manager-type roles. Dental receptionist roles were nowhere to be found– wrapped up in the scarcity of dentists, I suppose. So this was my third week at it, and now I was knocking CVs out here, there and everywhere in a scatter-gun approach. Had I ever worked in a shop? Yes, as an underage teenager serving cigs when I wasn’t even old enough to smoke them. Have you ever been a Carer? Well, I’ve had a lot of caring responsibilities. Looking after Mitzi and Chloe, does that count? Chef? I am never out of the kitchen, is that relevant experience? I’ve applied for everything going. Wanted– landscape gardener used to heavy machinery. Yes, I do all my own lawn, after all. Department store fashion retail manager? Why the heck not, I wear clothes, don’t I?
The rejections are stacking up, but I’ve made a special email box for them. As soon as I spot any words like ‘we’re sorry’ or ‘unsuccessful’ on the email I don’t read any further, I simply slip it into the Boring Not For Me labelled special inbox. At some point, I know that my skills are going to match up with something somebody in a twenty-mile radius wants, and then it’s all going to be OK. What’s that saying? ‘What’s meant for you won’t go by you’– oh, won’t it? I try repeating that kind of guff as a mantra ten times a day, to absolutely no effect.
The fact is, gentle reader, I’m so busy at home I’m beginning to wonder how I’ll fit a job in. The en-suite is coming on great guns. Carl is banging, screwing and sawing all hours, and so far there’s only been one unfortunate incident, a leak through the landing ceiling as the tiles around the bath weren’t sealed in properly. It was an epic getting the bath up there; it needed a hole cutting into the floor and six blokes heaving on ropes. We managed to cover the landing ceiling with stain block and re-painted it and now you’d never know unless you stared at it, which of course I do, noticing the minor ring stains every time I walk upstairs. Hey ho.
The amount of dust and muck is killing me. To save the carpet, I draped spare sheets all the way up the stairs, which meant that everyone thought it was OK to keep their mucky boots on, so there’s trodden-in filth everywhere. When I find some clay in between my toes after I step out of the shower, it’s the last straw. I have to repeat to myself, ‘It’s not forever, this isn’t forever.’ This is the other mantra I swap about with my ‘What’s meant for you, etc’ one. It’s not very exciting inside this head at the moment, that’s for sure, but thanks to my mantras and an addiction to social media recipes and fig rolls, I’m just about keeping going.
We have reached a milestone with the ensuite bathroom/remodelled bedroom/attic where we need to agree on a paint colour. I’d seen a nice background in a magazine fashion shoot with Fiona Bruce, whilst Mitzi has picked up something from an architectural digest magazine featuring Carla Bruni or someone else French. After an hour of ‘heated discussion’ Carl gets sick of it and throws the local paint-shop’s colour chart at us.
‘Forget fantasy colours,’ he grumbles, ‘and try the actual colour chart.’
‘Carl, the way things are going with my shamanic teaching, I’ll be running three shaman classes a week from this space,’ Mitzi snaps. ‘I need it to reflect the inner journey, and I’m not going to find that at Dickie’s DIY, am I?’
Carl gives it to her straight. ‘Forget the bloody hippies, we need to be able to take a dump in peace and get seven hours uninterrupted.’
Mitzi storms out of the kitchen after that for a smoke in the garden. So rather than get involved in what has the potential to become a grumpy domestic I decide to capitulate. Midnight Blue. It’ll be so dark up there, we might as well not have spent all that time and money opening it up and flooding it with light. But hey, I give it three months before there’s a tub of whitewash up there.
*
The carers arrive separately, both in gleaming new cars. They’re very nice and tell me that ‘they’re working in the area’, ‘they’re doing a conference thing locally’ and ‘they’re providing a change of scenery to their charge’. The girl they’re responsible for turns out to be a teenager with a lovely smile. The carers are also carrying a lot of bottles of booze, is what I notice as the carrier bags chink on their way past. Don’t be judgy, Janet.
Once they’re settled in I relax a little bit. They love the cottage, or at least they say some kind things. The Laura review has really knocked my confidence, the b.i.t.c.h. I don’t like calling anyone that, but she deserves it. I decide it’s time to go and hassle the b.i.t.c.h. and Oliver about the cash they owe me. Carl is busy fixing taps and it’s a ‘bastard of a job’ apparently, so I don’t want to disturb him. I decide I can do this without him by my side. I can do this.
I put on a suit jacket and as I power my way up the drive, the front door of Larkspur House opens and Laura, immaculate in a head-to-toe merino camel cashmere twin-set and powder-pink Uggs gives me a huge smile.
‘Janet. Fabulous. Just the person! Come and take a look at Vale Villa. You are going to be the first person to see it finished.’
Oh, lucky me. What is she on about? Vale Villa? Two minutes inside I realise this is the self-catering space she was dreaming of creating. This was the reason for the extension. ‘Al for Laura and Ve for Oliver, of course,’ she trills. Of course? That doesn’t quite explain the Villa bit or the fact there isn’t a Vale. Heck, I have a garage that I call a cottage– who am I to say anything?
Vale Villa is like something out of a Nicole Kidman movie. It is immaculate: glass banister panels, a million shades of beige, a sheepskin rug here, a velvet throw there, a rope swing, a chandelier, big mirrors, a foot-and-claw bath, rose-gold taps. Laura is on full transmit and I’m on full nosy so I happily glide along for the full tour.
‘These are from Biddulph– you know, the designer brand all the Cheshire housewives use? I managed to source them locally, and I’m so pleased with them.’ She smiles over at me, it’s entirely genuine, so I smile back even though I’m not actually sure what she’s pointing at. The lampshades? The rugs? The candelabra?
‘What do you think, Janet? Will people want to come?’
‘I’m sure they will, Laura, it’s gorgeous.’
‘Do you think so? That’s nice of you to say. Yes, I’m really pleased with how it’s turned out. We’re going to be putting it on a very exclusive site, as we don’t want just anyone coming in, you understand? It’s going to be very upmarket. So we won’t be competing with your little place at all. No competition to worry about, Janet.’
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck go up like a dog sensing danger; what new sly elbow in the jugular should I be expecting next? My little place. My little place was good enough for her when she was begging me to let her stay. Right. Enough already. She’s lured me in for a kicking– why do I always fall for it? But I’ve not come here to take any of her nonsense. I’ve come here to get my money. It’s bloody obvious she’s got plenty of it by the look of this place, or she’s been spending all my money making her blooming villa look top brass.
I seize the initiative. Say coolly, ‘Well, talking of my little place, Laura, I’m here to chase up payment from when you and Oliver came to stay. It’s approaching five weeks since you left and well, I do need that money now.’
‘Oh darling. Yes, of course you do. Have you checked your bank account? I’m certain Oliver put it in this morning. We’ve just been sooo busy that we’ve let all sorts of little things escape us whilst we’ve had our minds on the extension. We’re all caught up now. Do you have the app? Go on– have a check now. I wouldn’t want you worrying or out of pocket, not when you’ve lost your job and your little business is all you have now.’
It’s infuriating. I go onto the app on my phone, and yes, there it is– the payment went through this morning.
‘Oh right, yes, sorry, thank you, it’s there.’ I’m apologising to her, it’s infuriating. That’s all you have now. Argh.
‘Not a problem, great to see you. I hope Chloe had a lovely party, I heard that the police came. Dearie me– was it you I saw in the police car?’
‘She had a fabulous time,’ I say with sincerity, and I chuckle reminiscently. ‘Yes, what a hoot– it was me in the police car. I was arrested for having too much of a good time. Stuck between four strapping young men doing “Oops Upside Your Head”. Hilarious. They were fake coppers– you know, the stripper type? You should have seen me, there’s footage somewhere. Bye, bye, Laura, good luck with your venture!’
I laugh and wave as I stroll back down the driveway, thinking, You utter bitch. I don’t know where ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ came from. What was I thinking? And strippers? A genius touch, if I say so myself, and I’ll say anything. Anything to thwart her spite and her nasty mean mind-games. She can take her bloody palace and charge the earth for it, having done her best to rubbish my poor Lavander Cottage with her horrible review. That’s my bookings down some more. Farewell to any chance of Janet Jackson Superhost. Who will want to spend time at my little garage when there’s that fancy-pants Hebden Hilton down the road?
I grit my teeth, thinking fast. I’ll have to come up with a plan to attract the crowds. Yeah, right. I’ve not got a brass farthing extra to spend anywhere to attract anyone. Oh well. Concentrate on the good stuff, Janet. Twelve hundred pounds are in the bank account, which will cover bills for the next six weeks, and add to that another one hundred and eighty in from the carers. Bonus. Everything is fine for now. I will not let Laura bloody Watson ruin my day. Then another thought strikes me: Nicole Kidman or not, Laura has no idea what she has let herself in for. Guests, as I have learned from my own bitter-sweet experience, come in all shapes, sizes and behaviours. There is no way she will get through this unscathed.
Bloody good luck to you, Laura bloody Watson!
Back home, I collect up my gloves, tools and trug and set off around the garden. I chop out the dead leaves from some leggy perennials, dig out and divide some unusual geraniums, pull back the bramble that’s exploded behind the shed. I track the bulbs popping up and work out where I really need to in-fill with new plants, prop and train the roses, weed out the dandelions from the flower beds and after a couple of hours, I’m scratched to blazes, feeling proud of myself and desperate for a cuppa. I go into the kitchen where Chloe is making herself a giant hot-chocolate creation and is buzzing fit to burst when she sees me.
‘Mum, Mum, guess what? I’ve got you a job!’
‘Sweetheart, I’m way too long in the tooth to be bar staff at Moloko’s.’
‘No. Frida’s mum, she’s been in touch– y’know Frida, from the party? Jessica’s mate?’
I’ve absolutely no idea, but smile encouragingly, wondering how Chloe suspects her mate Frida’s mum is about to solve my employment crisis.
‘It’s like this. She wants a cake doing, she saw mine on Insta and loved it and wants one for Frida’s party next weekend, only all chocolate or something.’
I get Frida’s mum’s details and after a few text exchanges, where I explain I’m not a professional cake-maker and I can’t guarantee it will be perfect, I eventually agree to do a two-tier chocolate black and white cake with a piano keyboard motif up the side. What am I thinking? Anything to avoid a job, is what I’m actually doing. At least I can pretend I’m doing something useful to justify all this time off actual work. It’ll be cash in hand, seventy-five quid. She came up with the price. Chloe told me they’re minted so I’m just rolling with it. It’s a lovely excuse to sit back, relax and scroll through the internet looking at fabulous cakes made by some absolute geniuses.
I spend the evening nibbling at a grazing plate I’ve conjured up from jars in the fridge and a home-made flatbread and hummus, whilst half-watching some daft cooking show on the telly. I keep noticing the odd car coming up and down the road and think nothing of it. It gets to ten o’clock and I’m yawning. I drop some recycling into the bin outside the front door and realise there’s not two cars there now, but four. I look up at the cottage and see that every light is on. Every single light. Blimey, don’t they know anything about being energy conscious? The blinds are all drawn down so I can’t see in but I can see that every room is lit up. Let it go, Janet, I tell myself. They’re guests, they can do what they like.
I’m pottering around the kitchen doing the last bits of tidying up before bed when a text pops up on my phone.
Sofa bed broek. Sorry.
I take it they mean they’ve broken the sofa-bed. Maybe they just haven’t worked out how to open and close it.
Do you want me to come and try to fix it?
No. No. well wedje it tonite. Sorry.
Hmm. Great. The sofa-bed is broken. They’re going to wedje it? What does that mean? That was not a cheap sofa-bed. It’s fully sprung with a memory mattress, not one of those foam-block things. How have they managed to break it? I sense the ￡180 in my pocket almost slide out onto the floor. I’m suddenly not looking forward to the clean-up. Do I need to tackle them about how many people they have in the cottage? Bloomin’ heck, can I not have a single straightforward experience for once?
Here’s how it should go: when people book Lavander Cottage, I prepare the cottage, they are the people they say they are, they treat someone else’s property with respect, and in a well-established system they get a nice place to stay and I get a fair exchange of money.
But somehow, this situation doesn’t bode well. It’s the bad spelling. It’s the number of cars. It’s the booze.
I don’t have the best night’s sleep. I’m fretting about the cottage, then Chloe gets in late from work and what with the stairs creaking and the toilet flush I’m wide awake and over-heating like I don’t know what, courtesy of Mrs Menopause. Eventually I give up and go downstairs to feed the cat and empty the dishwasher. When I look out onto the street, I see that both extra cars are gone. Maybe I dreamed it?
*
Later that day, the carers are walking past the kitchen window looking very respectable, all blouse and skirt and guiding arm around their teenager. They give me a friendly wave and I wave back. I’m getting paranoid, I decide, and I need a job soon if I’m going to spend my time concocting nonsense. I get on and make a trial chocolate cake and then I can’t help myself and make a trial lemon one. They both look pretty fancy by the time I’ve finished, though it’s taken me a good few hours to get them looking perfect. I take a photo, and when they’re done I head off for a walk down to the popular local café in the area, The Tasty Mug.
The lovely owner is clearing tables when I go in so I grab my moment, show her a picture of the cakes, explain that I’m making a birthday cake for a ‘client’ and that these are my trial runs, and ask if she’d be interested in buying them. It’s cheeky, but it works and twenty minutes later I’ve dropped them off and have forty pounds cash in my pocket. Boy, does that feel good! So good I sit down and order a hummus, carrot and chutney sandwich and a cup of tea and sit for half an hour reading a crafting magazine that’s lying about. I’m feeling happy. And I deserve a break.
I’m sitting there enjoying myself, relaxing, when the lovely owner brings me a little slice of the chocolate cake and a top-up of my tea, free of charge. Well, I’m in heaven. Very happy with the cake, which is so rich it’s almost double fudge, whilst still being a light sponge. I congratulate myself on the ganache, which is delicious, and has a great consistency without being sickly. I got the cocoa bitterness just right.
I’m seeing a whole new career rolling out in front of me, cake-maker to the stars, cake-maker for Christmas, for birthdays, weddings and christenings... cake-maker for anyone who wants one really. I’m in a wonderful daydream of sugar balls, boxes tied with ribbons, homemade chocolate curls, gold-leaf decoration and fountain candles when a text pops through. It’s from Mitzi.
Shit, come quick, bath collapse.
I get up in such a hurry I spill the tea all over my front; the cake plate hits the floor and smashes. Babbling, ‘Sorry– emergency at home!’ I leave one of her twenty-pound notes for the bewildered owner and I’m out, racing home as fast as I can go on a tummy full of food. No time to call, or think, I puff and pant on to the drive, throw myself inside– and am greeted by mayhem. I can hear Carl shouting, a couple of blokes I’ve never met before are on the landing holding the bottom half of the bath with their hands at full stretch, whilst Carl looks to be holding it up from the attic above. All around is broken plaster and split floorboards, the metal spiral staircase is bent in two and Mitzi is looking horrified at the bottom of the hall stairs.
Carl has a sweat on. He shouts down: ‘I’m not going to be able to hold on to this much longer. Mitz, Janet– go and find some wood, anything to prop this up.’
We race into the garden, wood, wood, wood – where? There’s nothing strong or long enough. Think, think, think. We have an old stepladder I put plants on– the ladder might do it. We are both hurrying in through the patio door when we hear an almighty crash and the two blokes come pelting down the stairs, a look of fear mingled with excitement on their faces. The noise is tremendous.
After the dust and the shock dies down, we hear a quiet ‘Help!’ We drop the ladder, and scurry over to the hall to find the bath crashed through what was left of the metal spiral staircase and through the spindles and banister on the main stairs, leaving Carl left hanging by his fingertips to a half-smashed floorboard in the loft, legs flailing as he contemplates dropping onto the chaos. Running back up with the ladder, like an incompetent Laurel and Hardy, my sister and I manage to negotiate past the bath dangling over the staircase like the bus in The Italian Job hanging over the precipice on the windy Italian road with Michael Caine and the stolen gold bullion.
We prop the ladder against the top of the house stairs and then lever and support it against the safest-looking bit of hole. Carl wraps half a leg round the top of the ladder, then, making a lurch, he grabs hold of it for an instant and slides down like a pro to land with a thump at the bottom. The bump as he lands seems to unsettle the bath and we all leap back up onto the landing as the sound of splintering grows and the bath shudders through the handrail to do a heavy nosedive onto the floor of the hall.
‘Fuckin’ bath,’ spits Carl.
‘I have to agree,’ I say breathlessly.
‘I need a fag.’ And Mitzi picks her way gracefully through the debris, to go and light up outside.
*
The evening is a blur of pulling and dragging the broken banister, floorboards, the distorted remnants of the metal staircase and the bath out onto the front lawn. When the carers pass by on their way to Lavander Cottage with their teenager and their chinking carrier bags around 5 p.m., I muster up the friendliest half-smile I’ve got in me and a weak question I don’t really want any response to.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Wonderful, thank you.’
But the pretty teenage girl they are caring for looks like she has lots of questions. Her eyes are almost popping out of her head at the bath lying on the lawn; she points at it and keeps staring as she’s led away into the cottage. Normally, I might be tempted to have a chat, but not today.
*
Carl, Mitzi and I are nursing a bottle of wine and the scraps of fish and chips still in the paper when Chloe piles in through the patio door back from her shift.
‘What’s with the bath in the front garden?’
We’re too tired and dispirited to reply. She takes one look at us and marches into the hall. It’s cleaned up now, but the Do Not Enter hazard tape that’s stretched across where the banister and spindles once stood to avoid anyone falling through is pretty dramatic. Added to which, the heavy grey plastic that is gaffer-taped across the hole in the ceiling that was attic floor and once supported a bath, but now only offers up an unappealing breezy gap to the Midnight Blue roof of what was Mitzi and Carl’s bedroom and ensuite dream.
‘Bummer.’
‘Yep.’
‘Was anyone in the bath when it came through?’
‘No.’
‘Shame, that would’ve been pretty funny.’ My daughter is heartless.
‘Yes, hilarious. I could have had a flood to clean up too. You always help me look on the bright side, Chloe.’
I’m almost being sarcastic, which sort of shows where I’m at. We traipse back into the kitchen, Chloe’s head hanging down, and then she suddenly barks at the lot of us.
‘This means there’ll be more bloody building work now, I suppose. I’m bloody sick of it, I’ve got dust in my hair every single day.’
‘Sorry, love. I thought those joists were solid oak: with an acrylic bath, it should’ve been fine. A chronic miscalculation. Back to maths school.’ Carl is looking crestfallen and guilty. I want to hug him. It’s not his fault, he’s done his absolute best. Mitzi, who is propped against the half-open patio door smoking a fag, is half-listening, half-watching. It’s her turn to grumble.
‘I’ve got six shaman sessions booked in for next week– where am I gonna do those? When do these party animals in the cottage leave?’
‘Yes, they are party animals, aren’t they?’ I agree. ‘I’ve been thinking that. It’s all a bit weird for carers on a work trip.’
As I say this, a man I don’t recognise sheepishly wanders down the drive with another chinking carrier bag of bottles. I don’t do my usual friendly thing since I’m not feeling very friendly after a mammoth day, a wrecked house and a brand new bath lying out on the front lawn.
All I can manage by way of a greeting is a curt: ‘Can you ask them to keep the noise down, please?’
He nods weakly as he goes towards the cottage. The ladies must have been waiting since the door opens as soon as he arrives, and the pounding racket of house music leaks out.
‘They’re meant to be carers, looking after that teenager,’ I sigh tiredly. ‘God knows what they’re really up to. I can’t be bothered to have it out with them, but they said they broke the sofa-bed last night.’
‘When are they leaving?’ Mitzi wants to know.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Good.’
Carl gets up and stretches with an almighty yawn, telling us, ‘Ladies, I’ll get this sorted, don’t worry. Just let me get a night’s sleep and I’ll have a plan when I wake up. Can I grab a pillow and I’ll get me head down in the back room.’
‘I’m coming with you.’ Mitzi and Carl disappear arm-in-arm.
Chloe rolls her eyes. ‘I hate building work.’
‘Me too, darling.’
After making a sweep of the fridge, the crisp cupboard, the biscuit jar and the fruit bowl, to gather a carrot, some Hula Hoops, a handful of assorted biscuits and an apple, Chloe tells me, ‘I’m off to bed.’
She slopes out of the kitchen, arms and pockets full, moody teenage-style. As I begin the process of locking up, I stare at the cottage and can see in the cracks where the blinds don’t entirely fill the edges of the windows, the kaleidoscopic blur of multicoloured lights picked out against the night. I’m fuming. Disco lights? A party? It’s not what you expect when you book a couple of carers in for two nights. I’m dreading the electricity bill, the sofa-bed replacement cost and above all the clean-up. My life is non-stop Mrs Mop at the moment.
Later, I lie in bed and try to relax and mentally send myself back to the café. To that last lovely moment when all I had to think about were cake ribbons and soft buttery icing, pastel-coloured hundreds and thousands raining down like a fairy-tale.
‘Muuum, the hot water’s not working.’
‘No, it won’t be. Sorry, love. It’ll have to be a cat-lick wash tonight. We’ll hopefully sort everything out tomorrow.’
‘CRAP. My hair stinks of hot oil.’
Door slam, door slam, scream of frustration. Sweet dreams, Janet, sweet dreams.
***** Five Stars
Lovely quiet location. Friendly host. Shower a bit cold in the morning.
Don’t take bookings from Dove-care carers. Hand-marks streaked down the stairwell. Pictures at odd angles. Glasses broken. Sofa-bed jammed as someone has attempted to bend it the wrong way. Two pairs of dirty knickers and a bra. On the plus side they’re gone by 8 a.m. and leave a Five-Star review.
DIY disasters. Try to have some contingency cash put away for when they happen.Yeah, right. Or alternatively do a number of good deeds for a relative in the trades so they owe you big-time. That’s a long-term solution but worth it. Start early.