Dolly's Mixture (23 page)

At the builder's solicitous enquiry as to whether Chas was a gardener, I arranged for a potting and planting annexe, complete with sink and running water, to be attached to the garage in the garden. The builder dashed off before Ade returned. She was horrified I hadn't asked, ‘How much?' ‘You remember that film we saw, Dolly, wasn't it Cary Grant in
Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House
?' Indeed I did remember it, too late to gain experience from it. Mr B. lived with his family in a crowded New York flat and, deciding to move out to the suburbs, had worked out what he could just afford for the building of his new dream house. His builder was the typical ‘extras' man and, before Mr B. realised it, he was mortgaged beyond the hilt. The workmen were overheard to say, ‘These New York millionaires!' His wife, very particular as to the special colours she required – ‘Not the stark hospital white, but a warm, rich, creamy white' – sent for a packet of best butter to show the painters, who listened attentively to her special requests. When Mr and Mrs B. had left the site, the painters wrote down, ‘Yellow, red, green, etc.' When the house was nearing completion the builder asked Mr B., ‘Did you want the lintels rabbeted?' Mr B., now so anxious as to money, thinking ‘rabbeted' sounded an expensive item, said, no he wouldn't have anything rabbeted. ‘Tear out all the rabbeted lintels,' shouted the builder to his foreman (after Mr B. had left, of course). I felt like Mrs Blandings when the bill for the extras arrived. Chas's mouth fell open, but he paid up like a lamb, and never, ever reproached me for failing to ask, ‘How much?'

We could never use the shower with the fishy curtains. It had been installed too near the edge of the bath and water poured all over the floor. The shaving-point was never used either, Chas obstinately resisting this. William was pleased with his beard, which had turned out a reddish-autumnal colour. The back door flew off its hinges so many times (we were on the brow of a hill and got the full force of the country gales) it had to be replaced, but not until I'd given the milkman and the insurance man a couple of nasty knocks when the door flew out of my hands. Ade was in hysterics when the perfect hostess pulled the curtains, for the whole lot fell to the floor with a noise like a set of false teeth shooting from one's mouth. The ‘craftsmen' had used up bits of rail on my fittings, so that at each join the curtains dropped through. ‘You know what your Dad would have said about these “craftsmen”?' asked Chas. We laughed when we remembered my father's face and expression whenever he saw bad workmanship – ‘They're nothing but “fartarse mechanics” these days,' he'd shout.

However, I did use the sink in the potting annexe. It was expensive and it was enormous; I just couldn't waste it. I did the weekly wash there, winter and summer. My washing-machine was the noisiest monster ever, it appeared to have permanent whooping-cough, but at least it didn't matter when I forgetfully flooded the stone floor there. But at least I astounded my neighbours and amused the children next door. On a snowy winter's day I would emerge from the house to walk to the potting-shed and my laundry work, dressed as for a seal hunt – fur hat, thick gloves, two winter coats, thick football socks of William's and fleecy-lined wellies. As the woman next door said, ‘My kids love you.'

‘What does Benny think about you coming here, Ade?' ‘Oh, he's all for it, but there won't be another house for six months. In the meantime, we've got the car, we can see how you're getting on.'

Whoopee!

The day for our move arrived at last. It was simply teeming with rain. The three removal men were enormous in stature and one wore very pointed winkle-picker shoes. He seemed to shuffle instead of lifting his feet and I could have cried as I watched the furniture delivered. The drive was covered with sand and cement from the builder's recent exploits and I watched my new floor anxiously as my fat, winkle-picker-shod remover shuffled back and forth, unable to lift his feet even when not carrying ‘heavy' furniture (my new lot was made from matchsticks!) My new floor could not help but be scratched after having a soft-shoe-shuffle ballet performed on it by three large men. I thought a good advertising slogan for a removal firm might be, ‘we pick 'em up'. One of my ‘helpers' gazed at the white walls and white paint everywhere and said, ‘Of course, you've got no kids.' He seemed relieved when he entered the kitchen and I knew he approved of the yellow and grey scheme there. I was disappointed here, for my sunshine yellow and pearl grey had turned out a bit too equatorial; the sunshine yellow was blazing orange and the pearl grey more like the colour of an elephant. ‘Never mind,' said Chas, ‘the kitchen is so tiny, it will take no time to repaint it.' He knew I was a bit on edge so he avoided his usual ‘Dorothy just slaps it on' attitude, or his ‘Get a man in.'

At last, after my fat winkle-picker had kicked the last bit of white paint with his points and drank his final cup of tea, the house was ours. This seemed to bring no joy to Chas, who looked tired out. William had ignored the whole proceedings and was still sitting on a case reading a heavy tome. The removal men had looked at him in a puzzled way during the whole proceedings and I imagined they were now saying, ‘Who was that bloke with that big book?'

I began a mad rush to get straight. ‘But what about our lunch, then?' pleaded Chas. I threw down some clothes. ‘Oh, all right then, I'll stop and make some sandwiches.' ‘Sandwiches!' screamed Chas. ‘I must have a
proper
meal or I can't go on.' He collapsed on a packing-case, weak through hunger, nay, starvation, and I went into the kitchen and began to bang my utensils about as though I intended to cook a real meal. ‘Well, if you like,' said a contrite Chas, ‘I will cook a meal if you tell me what you have.' He decided on pork chops, brussels sprouts, creamed potatoes, with fruit and cream to follow. ‘I'd like to get straight today,' I remarked ominously to William, still deep in his book. ‘Mother,' said William, sadly, ‘all my life you have said, “When I get straight”. You will never get straight for you are not a straight person – domestically,' he added hastily, catching a glimpse of my extremely sour expression.

I was making the beds when I smelt burning fat. Dashing downstairs I found Chas had now joined William in the ‘reading' room, his eyes in a downward position, engrossed in the football page of the daily newspaper. In the kitchen the pork chops were alight (Chas insists on grilling) and black smoke was creeping up the wall. At my violent remarks Chas dashed out. ‘I've saved them,' he shouted at my retreating back. I had to retreat or I should have gone berserk. But by evening, all our troubles behind us, or so I thought, my home looked quite gracious. There was even a finishing touch in the flower-filled vases. Chas decided to tidy the garage and, as he opened the garage door, it fell off its hinges. Coming back to tell me of this happening he left open the kitchen door and it was then that a heavy gust of wind tore that off its hinges, too, for the first time. ‘Don't worry,' said Chas, ‘the workmen are working overtime next door, they'll put the doors back on again.' On another bill for late extras we received, the last two items were ‘for fixing garage and kitchen doors'!

Harry and Susan arrived to see how we were getting on. ‘The entrance to your drive is too narrow for me to get my car in,' said Harry. ‘Too narrow!' said the foreman. ‘Nonsense, I have a
big
car.' (As though anyone connected with me would naturally possess an Austin Seven and also be an amateurish driver.) With the help of a mate to guide him he inched his car into the driveway towards the garage. Then he tried to get out of the driveway again. The mirrors on the bonnet caught on the gate-posts and twisted alarmingly. He gave me a look of hate as though I had damaged his lovely car. Then he said, ‘It'll be all right for any visitors
you
have, for mine
is
an exceptionally big car.' ‘Well, even with a tiny car I would have to accompany any visitor at night time with a bright lantern. And you'd never get a hearse up to the door,' I said. I must have aged with all the worry.

With my home at last looking, for a short time only, I knew, like the pictures in the magazine, I attacked the garden. It seems to me that a house-builder's last act before announcing a house is ready for occupation is to make sure that a client is endowed with buried treasure in his new garden. Virgin soil in Essex is not the easiest of things to work on anyway, but I wish a builder would at least leave at each new house a map of the buried treasure, which comprises bits of old iron, bags of cement, now concrete, tree stumps, and hundreds of bricks. We have, over the years, discovered in new gardens the remains and foundations of a goat-house, a reinforced concrete boiler house, stone steps, and a wide, solid concrete path of a country mansion. To heighten the joy of digging, a builder usually removes the top soil and generously replaces this with a treble layer of clay, well rammed down. Months after I have laid lawns with heavy manual labour, Chas has gazed at the grassy sward and remarked, ‘There are brown patches in the lawn, it could not have been dug thoroughly.' He daren't say,
‘You didn't dig it thoroughly'
; even he is not that brave!

Amy came to visit us and for the first time she became enraptured with my choice of venue. ‘It's lovely, Dolly,' she cried. ‘I
must
have a house here.' Carried away by her enthusiasm and the thought that she would be living in my road, I took her to my builder. Strange how at that time builders never really seemed to want to part with their houses. Yes, he had one nearing completion but by the time it was finished it would be at least £1000 dearer than Mrs S's. ‘Oh,' said Amy, with a look of contempt for the builder. ‘I wouldn't pay that price for one of
these
houses.' We went further afield and began house-searching for Amy. At last we discovered, in the next road to Susan at Theydon Bois, high on the brow of a hill, overlooking the Retreat, the scene of our Sunday School outings, a bungalow for sale. Well, it had been advertised for sale but the maiden lady who owned it seemed to think that she was bestowing a gift upon any prospective purchaser. She was very choosy as to whom she would allow to take possession of her bungalow. She had lived there since she was a girl. It was the love of her life. (I wondered why she was selling.)

The bungalow was small, with just one bedroom, but it had plenty of ground around it, for it was detached. Obviously much work would have to be done on it, new rooms would have to be built, but this thought excited Amy, for, unlike me, she knew exactly what sort of home she wanted. The thought of transforming the bungalow was exciting, for it was in such a beautiful spot. To gaze out of the dining-room windows at the surrounding countryside was, I was sure, the nearest thing to living in an Austrian
Schloss
. Finally we sold ourselves to the old maiden lady and I left an excited Amy, her head filled with drawings and architect's plans. But here Amy made a mistake. She either misjudged the maiden lady, or, being such an honest person, could not contain herself when she thought of the beauty of the new home she was planning for herself. She told the old lady of her plans for the bungalow, how lovely it
would
be. I knew, to the old lady, it couldn't have been lovelier then. I would have raved over it had I been buying it, and described it as ‘having character', being a ‘happy home', making her feel I was as grateful to her as though she had been
giving
me her bungalow.

One evening a tearful Amy phoned me. The old lady had decided not to sell her bungalow to Amy. ‘Leave it to me, Amy,' I said from my position as successful house purchaser, ‘I'll see the old lady this evening.' Chas arrived home from Waterloo (where he battled daily to a busy office). ‘Don't get undressed, dear. I know you will come with me to Theydon Bois. It's urgent, I will explain on the way.' I couldn't go alone because the roads there were unlit. Chas fell up the steps to the bungalow in the dark and I could see he was beginning to get irritable, for it wasn't until I had arrived at Theydon Bois and rang the bell at the door of the bungalow that I allowed him to know that we were ‘not expected'. He turned to leave, the bungalow was in pitch darkness, but I dragged him back as a light went on in the hall. The door opened a few inches. No, the house owner would not see me. The matter was settled, she would tell the agent in the morning to remove the bungalow from his books. I could feel Chas's anger rise as I said, ‘Oh, what a heavenly smell, what a marvellous shrub you must have near here.' I knew she had a special shrub from abroad of which she was very proud, for she had mentioned she must take it with her when she left. She opened the door wide. ‘If you will come in for a moment, I will show you a photograph of it.' We went into a cluttered-up lounge. She switched on the electric fire, the lead of which was mended in several places. With a flash the fire went off and the lights fused. By the light of candles Chas mended the fuses but the lights came on for a few minutes only. They had now fused at the mains. ‘Don't worry,' said the old dear. ‘I have plenty of candles.' At last I was able to return to the subject of the bungalow. ‘No,' stated the old lady, ‘your sister's not having it, I don't like what she said' (Amy's alteration plans). Fortunately she added, ‘Now if it was you, yes, I'd like
you
to have it.' I was able to follow up on this line by telling her that Amy and I were so close, we almost lived together! I also said that by the time Amy had bought the bungalow she would have realised that, with her own furniture in, there would be nothing that needed altering. In any case James, her husband, would insist on leaving it as it was. The maiden lady then ‘fell'; she knew when she had spoken to Jimmy what a charming man he was! At last, worn out with my salesmanship, the old lady relented. The bungalow was Amy's.