“Oh no – I can’t possibly go,” my mother used to say, turning down yet another invitation to a morning’s shopping, lunch out or a matinée at the pictures, “ – you see I’m waiting for The Man.”
Like Sister Anne from the Dark Tower she watched and waited. Sometimes The Man came, sometimes he didn’t, but mostly he turned up at the wrong time or on the wrong day and she was forced to re-arrange her entire schedule to accommodate his availability. Notoriously quick-tempered, did she reproach The Man when he eventually appeared? No – it was all smiles, tea and currant cookies.
My father (to whom the term DIY meant Don’t Involve Yourself) was more cerebral than practical, so minor domestic dilapidations and major crises needed the attention of a versatile handyman or skilled tradesman. Living in an old house, a succession of these paragons were engaged at irregular but frequent intervals.
Most memorable was Jimmy who wore glasses thick as beer-bottle bottoms. Their lenses were stippled to opacity with specks of every paint he’d ever used in a lifetime’s decorating. Despite this disadvantage Jimmy was quick, efficient and not too dear, but we learned to shroud everything in double dustsheets after discovering he’d used the top of the piano as a pasting-table.
Allowed for the first time at 14 to choose my own bedroom décor, I opted for a busy pattern of pendant laburnum blossoms. (My taste has improved with maturity.) Opening the bedroom door on the finished project we beheld impeccable seams, ruler-straight borders and a riotous display of vivid yellow upwards-climbing blooms. Jimmy had hung the wallpaper upside-down. I lived with the consequences for four years.
The Loving Spouse (may he rest) was handy as a pocket. For 35 years I never had to replace a light bulb, empty a vacuum cleaner, unblock a sink, fit a washer, bleed a radiator, check the level in the oil-tank, hang a picture, de-moss a drive, de-gunge a gutter, dispose of a dead bird in the garage or rescue clothes from a washing-machine that stopped mid-cycle. I led a charmed life.
I returned home after Christmas to a crack like the Grand Canyon across the landing ceiling and water dripping through from an overflowing tank in the roof space and something ominous happening behind the tiles in the ensuite bathroom.
The Man, be he builder, plumber, plasterer or painter always responds to the job in exactly the same fashion. Upon examination, there’s a furrowing of the brow, a puckering of the lips, a sucking of teeth. I wait to hear the worst. He explains the problem at length, itemising the serial difficulties he’ll have to contend with and suggesting alternative means to solve them. I don’t understand half of it. “Look, just fix it,” I say and go and put the kettle on and start buttering things.
The Man is frequently accompanied by The Lad, a young gofer who potters back and forth to the van for stuff, leaving the front door wide to the wall each time, or stands patiently waiting to be trusted with a task he can’t make a botch of. Tremendous banging and wrenching noises punctuate the humming of the kettle. Shortly, the pair descend to a large pot of strong tea and warm scones. “That’ll hold it for the time being,” observes The Man enigmatically. “Aye,” agrees The Lad. “I’ll be back tomorrow about eleven,” says The Man. I believe him. I cancel all appointments. Eleven on the morrow comes. He does not. He turns up the following day. Notoriously quick-tempered, do I reproach him? No – it’s all smiles, tea and toasted hot cross buns.
The Man is busy. He has a lot on. He is ‘fitting me in’ because of my friend who recommended him. “A lovely woman,” he says, “I did a lot of stuff in her house.” Privately wondering how long it took, I say, “Of course… I understand.”
My days are no longer my own. Don’t invite me. I can’t go. I’m waiting on The Man.
