8

The Keys

The morning we pick up the keys to our new house, a news item over the car radio announces, “After months of feverish house prices and rabid buyers, the property market has cooled, buyers and sellers are suddenly cautious, and prices are drifting back down to saner levels.”

Turning the key in the car ignition, The Husband gives me one of those frosty I-told-you-so smiles and says with mock cheerfulness, “Nice to know we bought at the height of the market.”

We arrive at the house for the first time as its reluctant owners. No historical documentation remains of our house or of its previous owners and occupations beyond a covenant between one Aaron Heywood and one Thomas Doble requiring the first eleven odd-numbered houses on our street (which includes ours) to pay a perpetual yearly rent charge of £3 5s as of November 6, 1895. Nothing exists to show whether this was ever enforced, and so the covenant has been declared void.

We still do not love the house, and from the state of things it does not look as if it loves us, either. There is a sulky tension on both our parts: we are the resigned owners of a house that has been disturbed after months of blissful solitude.

I force myself into a state of positivity, both for the house’s sake and for The Husband’s. It is vital that he feel we made the right decision, or rather that I made the right decision, since this venture is my responsibility, as I am frequently reminded. Even so, his body language shows disappointment. He is questioning our decision to buy it. He is questioning his decision to trust me on this. Truth be told, so am I. But this is the best we have found in our price range, and we have put a ring on it. This is home.

We wander through the house searching for a modicum of comfort in this rattling, old skeleton. A bottle of prosecco, a housewarming gift from the person acting on behalf of the previous owner, sits on top of the fridge. A kind touch. We have brought a carton of tea bags, two mugs, two spoons, and a bright-red kettle, in a half-assed attempt to fashion a kitchen. But mostly we sit or stand or stomp from room to room, mugs in hand, taking it all in, wondering where to start. Bizarrely, given the state and condition of things, we decide to attack our new home with an arsenal of cleaning products and sponges. A smiling Henry vacuum cleaner, left behind, peeks helpfully from beneath the stairs.

The old trope of a renovation is this: “Locate the stud, then hire him.” We need to find a builder. Fast. I have made calls to several builders I found online. The ones I have actual conversations with are not available until September at the earliest, or more likely the following year. The rest do not return calls. If we have had trouble securing a home, then it looks as if securing a builder will be twice the nightmare.

Eventually, two builders do show up to quote for the job; both are nice, youngish, and appear to have the chops for the job—we saw samples of their work—but one focuses solely on loft conversions (we are undecided about whether to plump for one), and the other is unable to begin for several months.

The one who quotes for the loft proves especially helpful.

“You’ve got your work cut out,” he declares, his eyes roaming the main floor of our house.

I ask if he can recommend any trades. He pulls out his phone and says, “What do you need?” and proceeds to give us the names and phone numbers of an electrician and a plumber.

Can he recommend a builder?

“I know a guy.” He pauses, as if he has had a change of heart, but then he carries on and mentions someone named Francis. “He has been off work for a while—mental breakdown or something like that—but he’s ready to get back into it.”

We take down the details. As someone who knows a thing or two about mental breakdowns, I am sympathetic, and happy to help anyone get back into it, as long as he does not flake out on me.

I call Francis. He agrees to meet us at the house the following week.

On the appointed day, I answer Francis’s knock on the door. We greet one another with the eager-to-please smiles of the desperate-to-please. Late thirties, with dark hair, handsome features, and a cheerful personality. He looks like a builder: confident in bearing, muscular in body. He has boundless enthusiasm. He strides into the house and goes through it with the enthusiasm of a youngster who has been given a new toy.

“Wow. Look at the potential!” He turns to us. “This is perfect. It’s a blank slate.”

The Husband’s face brightens.

I step forward.

“Basically, this is what we need: Create a bathroom upstairs in the smallest bedroom—that is the priority. In the kitchen, we want the interior walls taken down—get rid of the utility room and the bathroom—to make one large space. And we want the back wall to have bifold doors, so we can improve the light and access the backyard.”

“That will look amazing. And since there’s nothing above this back part of the kitchen, which I gather will be your dining area, right?”

We nod.

“Then how about we take the ceiling right up to the rafters and install three Velux skylights. It’ll be wow.”

Yes, I want wow.

“There is a side return,” I say tentatively. “We wondered about extending the kitchen.”

Francis looks out the kitchen window at the side return. He thinks for a moment. “Doable—but expensive. You’re looking at an additional thirty-five grand.”

I try not to blink.

“But frankly, it’s not a huge amount of space. You wouldn’t be adding much more room to the kitchen. It would be an unnecessary expense. And with what you’ve got in mind already, you’ll have lots of space.”

Well, he seems honest and sounds like he is not a budget breaker. I like that.

“What other projects are you working on?” I ask politely. “Anything we can see?”

He rhymes off a few projects; offers to show us one the next day that is not too far away. We agree on a time to look at it.

Francis seems to know what he is doing. I voice my biggest concern: “Will you work exclusively on our home until it is done?” I do not want to be two-timed.

“Absolutely. I was actually going to use the next few months to work on my own place, but I’m happy to take on your project.”

“How long do you think it will take to do all this?”

He shrugs. “Six to eight weeks?”

A FEW WEEKS LATER, HAVING VISITED one of Francis’s projects and being reassured by the quality of his work, we agree on a start date of June 12. Rule one in the renovator’s handbook is not to trust a builder who says he can start pretty much right away: if he’s any good, he will have been booked up months in advance. But I am impatient, bordering on rash. I convince myself that I am generally a good judge of character, and that I have a good bullshit detector. But what do I know? Have I asked Francis if he is accredited? Of course not. Have I seen his work? Yes. Have I spoken to the clients of that work? No.

We pay him the first instalment to renovate the kitchen and the bathroom. It is a fair whack of money, but the work will be extensive, and we want it done right. His quote was in line with what we were quoted by the other builder and it is for the work only: it does not include fixtures, fittings, and cabinets, which we agree to purchase separately. He suggests we use the kitchen cabinet company he uses, since they are reasonable and reliable.

We have a builder now. One huge hurdle crossed.

Francis’s start date gives us a month to do what work we can manage on our own. We can tidy up the backyard and take the refuse to the dump. We can rip out some of the ramshackle cupboards inside the house, strip the wallpaper, and pull up the carpet in the master bedroom.

I have a bit more bounce now; so does The Husband.

“Let’s look at this project as an opportunity to strengthen our marriage,” I say during a tea break in the backyard.

The Husband says nothing. I will take that as an okay.

THERE ARE ENDLESS STORIES about couples who embark on a big renovation and then split up. I am determined that ours will not be one of them. However, it is true that a renovation sharpens your relationship. You size up each other’s mettle, assess one another’s abilities—or lack thereof. Whenever I clock The Husband’s concern, I have to remind myself that he has never done a big renovation, whereas I have lived through nearly three-dozen moves and more than a dozen renovations.

After seven years of marriage, it often feels as if The Husband and I are still getting to know one another. We arrived late in life in one another’s orbit, fully formed with entrenched traits, preferences, cultural reference points, routines. I had been married twice before and had three children. The Husband had never been married; had never had children. We first laid eyes on one another in a café along a dry and dusty path on Spain’s Camino de Santiago de Compostela. Our reasons for walking an ancient five-hundred-mile pilgrimage route were as starkly different as our personalities: He was getting over the death of a fiancée seven years earlier; I had turned fifty and was looking for adventure and figuring out the next stage of my life. He was looking back; I was looking forward.

We were each accustomed to our single status and had settled into our respective silent lives and routines. Our individual histories, neuroses, stories, and patterns did not invade our courtship because we were never in one another’s company long enough for them to reveal their colours and shades. We were like parallel lines that never quite intersected, or needed to, merrily and steadily moving along. How can one ever see fully, completely, the person to whom one is attracted, especially when one’s eyes are blinded by the unarticulated expectations and fantasies unwittingly foisted on the object of one’s affection?

When The Husband and I began to talk about marriage, I had asked him playfully whether he would like to live in Canada. His response surprised me: “Absolutely not.” It hurt a bit. He went on to explain quite defiantly that he did not want to adapt; did not know what he would do in a strange country. He would be apart from his family and friends, he said, away from his routine and everything he knew. The idea was completely foolish. Completely out of the question. I do not think it occurred to him that his concerns were exactly my concerns about moving to England. Then again, I have always been a pleaser.

Moving meant leaving my children behind, but they were by then adults with lives of their own and jobs in different parts of the country. If I remained in Canada, I would be a plane ride away from at least two of them anyway. Moving also meant leaving behind my mother. I felt guilty about it, but she dismissed as nonsense my concerns; said she was happy that I had met someone (and someone she finally approved of) who would take care of me. She was an indomitable, fiercely independent woman who did not want to be coddled in her old age yet resented not being so.

Misgivings aside, I have not regretted the move. When I am asked how I came to live in the UK, I have said teasingly that I drew the short straw, but the truth is I was happy to move. Strangely, I always felt more of an infinity with England than with Canada; somehow knew that I would one day live here. When I was sixteen, and on my first visit to England, I recall how, upon landing on English soil, it felt like a private homecoming. The words, in fact, had risen unbidden inside me: “You are home.” And along with them was an inexpressible yearning to put down roots here. I have always agreed with the sentiment that the place where we are born and the place where we belong are not always one and the same.

And so The Husband and I married, and I flew away from the life I had in Canada, and endeavoured to settle in and embrace English life.

People meet and come together in random ways. You question whether it is serendipity or whether God is just messing with you. I have often been inclined to think it is the latter. How can two people so different in temperament, passions, and interests be happy together? And when were our specific roles determined? Why have I been cast as the ringleader, the organizer, and he as the long-suffering, silent partner? Sometimes we barely speak the same language, frequently responding to the other’s statements with “What?” as we struggle to discern the other’s accent, cultural tics, and terminology.

When did this man who I had been drawn to so instantly, who appeared when I was not looking for anyone, whose patient, effortless, easygoing nature and love of travel seduced me, abruptly change into cement shoes and refuse to be stirred by this adventure of renovating our own home? I want him to engage in the experience of renovating. I want him to share a bit of my passion. I want him to bond with this space and with me. I want this house to bridge the chasm between us.

This morning, we perch on beige-canvas folding chairs in our new backyard and face the back of the house, with its dreary, beige, pebble-dash facade (which I see painted a crisp white or a pale grey). The backside of a Victorian terrace is not an attractive sight. The sun is bright, and the day is warming up, but all the same our hands are cupped around mugs of instant coffee, willing some spiritual warmth to melt our worries. Steam rises like inspiration, and I move my face closer to the cup to receive its heat and aroma. I broach the bonding aspect again.

“What we need is something that will make us bond,” I say. “An experience. Something that we can be proud to look upon and say, “We did it.” We have done the Camino. We have done Machu Picchu. What we need is a house to renovate. Something where we can get stuck in. Work with our hands. A creative project.”

The Husband looks at me as if I have been living all this time with another man. In addition to not being comfortable with change or moving house, he has zero ability or interest in anything to do with do-it-yourself. DIY is for another breed of male, whom he respects but with whom he has no fraternity. He will not so much as hang a painting. I wonder whether someone was overly critical of his efforts to make or repair something when he was a youngster, and that the sting forever put him off attempting it again. That said, he does enjoy shovelling snow and chopping firewood. Should have moved to Canada. His preferred domain is a café, preferably small, independently owned and not patronized by people with crying infants in tow, where he can read the newspaper and drink his two cappuccinos. He never wanted to renovate anything; he wanted to travel. This neat, precise man is at home with solitary pursuits: he runs, he hikes, he does not like being disturbed. You will not find him arguing about the day’s news events or political shenanigans. He wears a pained expression when his football team wins, as if fist-pumping the air in victory would be an indecorous gesture, hurtful to the losing opposition. He is so restrained in speech and temperament that I do not honestly know if he has passions. His dress sense, like his manners, is on the formal side. He is not a Renaissance man, but he is most definitely a Victorian man.

“This Victorian house is so you,” I say to flatter. “It resembles your character and personality perfectly. Even your build—tall, erect.”

He looks deeply offended.

“What?” I say. “It was a compliment!”

He stands up abruptly and walks away.

I shake my head and drain my mug. Where to start? I decide to go to the library and see what I can find out about Victorian terrace homes.