From Under the Overcoat Page 5

  Mrs Button walked right past me on her way out. ‘Look after your mother, Katie,’ she said, without looking at me. But when she got to the end of the hallway, she turned and came back. She sat next to me on the step.

  ‘How old are you now?’ she asked.

  ‘Thirteen,’ I said. She had nice green eyes.

  ‘Do you like this house?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  Mrs Button sighed.

  ‘I love it,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to shift. My mother will mess you around forever. That’s the sort of thing she does. God. The amount of people’s time she’s wasted over the years. Write that down.’ I tapped the folder in Mrs Button’s hand.

  She started to smile. ‘The house is too much for her, Katie. It’s too big, run down …’

  ‘We can’t leave.’

  She hugged me. I felt a lump in my throat but I swallowed it down.

  ‘It’ll be alright, you know.’

  Mrs Button was the same age as Mum but she seemed years younger. Her strappy high-heeled bronze sandals matched her tanned legs, and she wore a cool denim skirt. Her face was tanned, too, and her blonde hair looked as though someone had tousled it up in fun. My mother had an obedient brown bob which never looked tousled. Not surprising, given the total absence of fun in her life.

  You might not know this if you don’t live in Wellington, but there’s a certain way that women in Karori like to dress — a blouse with the collar turned up, tunic sweater, tartan trousers or skirt and flat shoes. My mother never bought into this. She considered the Karori look somewhat agrarian. She wore a blazer, shirt and knee-length pencil skirt, plus her office heels every day, regardless of whether or not she was going in to her secretarial job. I’d heard people call her a classic beauty, with her English rose complexion and her freaky lingo. She was that sort of a woman.

  Mrs Button’s sandals clicked in a snappy way on the old tile floor in the kitchen, then she was gone, out the back door. I watched out the window as she kicked her way through the dandelions, past the broken gate at the bottom of the garden, right on through the park to her black Volkswagen two streets over, where my mother had told her to park.

  OUR HOUSE WAS A two-storeyed wooden villa. It stuck out among the modern townhouses on our street. It was built in the early 1920s and was a heritage property.

  The colour was dark green, with yellow windowsills and a matching front door. The front porch was painted in the same yellow — Karitane yellow is how my mother described it — a name that meant nothing to me but to give you a better picture, it was the same yellow as a very ripe banana.

  There were two chimneys on the roof, which were a great mystery to everyone because there were no fireplaces, upstairs or anywhere else. You had to stand right out in the middle of the road to see them — two red and white brick stacks, which as far as we could tell had never puff ed out smoke. Possibly the very first owners had chimneys. Maybe someone, at sometime, bricked over the fireplaces, then covered them with the same fancy wallpaper that was used in the rest of the house. Who knows?

  Once when I was younger, the chimneys made me cry at Christmas. What if Santa can’t slide down them? I imagined the big guy stuck, unable to crawl back up again with that enormous sack on his back. Mum said I was a nincompoop but Dad took me downstairs and showed me how he planned to prop open the yellow door for Santa.

  By the way, that is one of my favourite memories of my father, but I’ll get on to him later.

  When I said the house was green, I wasn’t being strictly honest. It had been green, but the heat of the sun had blistered the dark paint. It bubbled up, then a good heavy downpour would split the surface and the paint would peel away. You could slip your fingernail under one of the cracks and flick off a big slice of green. The bits underneath were a pinky shade, about the colour of smoker lollies. You’re probably getting the picture of a dark green and yellow house with pink splotches. If so, that’s exactly it.

  The answer to this problem of the peeling house was to repaint it. Obviously. A lighter colour that reflected the sun, rather than absorbed it. A few years ago, just after Dad went away, Mum realised this. She went to the hardware store on a mission to buy paint and to hire someone to come and do the job. She came back quite excited — for her — with a small piece of cardboard that was a grey-blue colour.

  ‘Seamist,’ she announced, fanning the card in my face. ‘Our house will be this seamist colour. We could even call it that, put a little plaque on the front door.’

  I liked the idea a lot. It didn’t matter that we lived inland, where no seamist would ever drift. I had secret hopes that this development might lead to some more modern improvements, such as Sky TV.

  But two days later, a man and a woman came to the front door and asked to speak to my mother. The man was wearing too-short jeans that sagged in the backside and a shabby navy sweatshirt. The woman was agrarian Karori, head to toe. I stood behind Mum as they introduced themselves as members of the local Heritage Committee.

  ‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’ asked Mum.

  ‘It advises the council,’ replied the man. ‘About our lovely heritage properties.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mum, looking them both up and down.

  ‘Can we come in for a moment?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I’m just going out, sorry,’ said Mum. I didn’t know this, and I wondered where. Then again, the visitors’ clothes would have been enough to justify a fib, as far as my mother was concerned.

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s just an enquiry,’ said the man. ‘We understand you’re having your house painted.’

  Mum’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Heavens to Betsy, you understand, do you? And in what way is that anyone else’s business but mine?’

  Neither of them answered.

  ‘Are you aware your house is heritage listed?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mum smiled her old money smile: understanding but all-knowing.

  ‘The thing is, you are obliged to keep to the original colours of the house, Mrs Des Moines. It is spinach green, that you’ve chosen?’

  I was behind my mother, so I couldn’t see her face. But from the back she grew, like the Incredible Hulk during his transformation. Her hands flew to her hips.

  ‘Excuse me? Spinach? Would you like to come and have a look at what burnt spinach looks like?’

  ‘We know how hard it is, Mrs Des Moines,’ said the woman. ‘The upkeep of these heritage properties. But …’

  ‘Are you offering to pay for the paint job?’ Mum interrupted.

  ‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry. There is provision in the bylaw to provide funding for restoration, except when the owners are able to meet the expense themselves.’

  ‘Well, let me assure you, this owner isn’t.’

  ‘But have you not already ordered paint?’ said the woman.

  ‘Yes, I have ordered paint.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said the man.

  ‘I’ve ordered long-lasting, heat-reflective, inoff ensive seamist. I will not pay for wilting spinach.’

  ‘I’m afraid if you are going to paint the house, it must be in spinach,’ said the man. The agrarian woman nodded at him and Mum with one of those Hey, what can you do? expressions on her face.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ said Mum. ‘If that’s the case, I won’t be painting it at all.’ And she shut the door.

  That’s how our house came to be in such a state. My mother refused to touch a thing after the row on the front steps with the people from the committee. She seemed to take a pride in abandoning even the inexpensive maintenance. I’d watch her kick her way down the front steps every morning, holding her good skirt close to her so it didn’t get snagged in the overgrown rose bushes along the front path. She left the broken gate swinging, and headed off to work.

  The lawnmower sat unused in the shed, the handrail fell away from the broken concrete steps leading up to the revolting yellow porch. I was getting lots of bee
stings from all the clover. I offered a few times to mow the lawn.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mum, waving me away as though I was a fly hanging around her on a hot day. ‘Don’t bother! What’s the point!’

  Most of my friends lived in the townhouses that my mother described as deplorable. I’d visit them and marvel at the developments in modern living: taps that didn’t shake when you turned them on, proper heating, that sort of thing. I’d go home and tell Mum all about them. I asked if we could get Sky TV and she said no, because we weren’t allowed a satellite dish on our roof. A lot of the time, I thought she wasn’t listening to me. But she must have been quietly thinking about it, because eventually she rang Mrs Button.

  ‘HOW’S YOUR MOTHER, KATIE?’ Mrs Button half-whispered, as she came through the back door on her second visit. She stopped to pick the mud off the heels of her stiletto sandals.

  ‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘I think, you know, normal.’

  ‘Oh good. Has she said much about it? Selling the house?’

  ‘Not a word, Mrs Button,’ I said.

  ‘You know, Katie, you can call me Claudia.’

  ‘I couldn’t, sorry. It’s impolite.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything to your mother. You must be the last kid on earth who still says Mrs.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I still couldn’t. Sorry.’

  Mrs Button said that was fine. She started off down the hallway, towards the big lounge, and I followed behind. Halfway, she stopped to look at the old photos hanging on the wall.

  There were two of them; they were my English grandparents, Mum’s parents — I’d never met them. Black and grey photos of black and grey people — serious people.

  ‘Mum says they talk to her,’ I told Mrs Button.

  ‘Pardon?’ Mrs Button turned to me, smiling.

  ‘The photos. She put them up after Dad left. She put them up one Sunday night, and the next morning, when she walked past them, one of them spoke to her. That’s what she said.’

  ‘Wow, cool,’ said Mrs Button. ‘I mean, creepy, but cool.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So?’ said Mrs Button. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Told you so … stuff like that. She says they never forgave her for running away with a no-hoper from New Zealand.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Button. ‘Do you believe her? About the talking photos, I mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  It was still unclear to me whether our house was actually officially for sale. Certainly, as far as I knew, nothing had been signed. Nor had I heard any talk of a price. Mum hadn’t told me anything. Then again, there was nothing unusual about that.

  Mrs Button joined my mother in the big lounge, and I took my place on the stairs around the corner. They exchanged pleasantries, as Mum would say, then my mother got down to business.

  ‘Did you get many calls, Claudia? I was surprised not to hear from you this week.’

  ‘Not a single one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I find that astounding. I thought heritage properties were always in demand.’

  ‘Hardly astounding, Martha, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘Considering there is no visible evidence, anywhere on this planet, that your house is for sale.’

  Silence from my mother. I was enjoying this. Mrs Button knew her stuff, when it came to real estate. I leaned forward to concentrate.

  ‘So no one rang.’

  ‘No one rang. Did anyone wander in off the street with an offer, Martha?’

  Mum, on the ropes again.

  ‘No.’

  There was a pause in the conversation then; it was hard to say whether it was one of those so-called companionable silences, or an awkward one. But when Mrs Button next spoke, you could tell she meant business.

  ‘If you want the house to be sold, you have to let me sell it. That means signing an agreement, and putting a sign up on your front fence.’

  This time, the silence seemed to go on forever. I would have liked to have seen my mother’s face as she thought about Mrs Button’s tough words. But by showing myself, I would never get away with earwigging again. So I sat quite still, and waited, and listened.

  ‘Martha, forgive me, I have to ask. Are you actually able to sign the papers? Do you own the house?’

  Mum laughed. It sounded like a seagull hovering over left-behind fish and chips.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m it,’ she said. ‘One careful lady owner. Eric was the one who insisted we buy it, all those years ago, but a couple of years after he … he signed it over to me. Not that I had a choice … the papers arrived in the post, no return address for him.’

  I listened to the slight scratching sound of Mum’s fountain pen — the one she used for all important paperwork — moving across paper. Across, it turned out, the page of the sale agreement.

  The next day, a white van pulled up at the front of the house. A man got out, and nailed a large FOR SALE sign to the broken-down fence. I waited until he was gone, then I went out onto the street.

  The sign was the most solid part of the entire property. It seemed to hold the whole place together. It was huge, and the features of our house were all listed. Heritage property! A rare opportunity! Original features! Reluctant vendor moving on! Underneath, there was a little photo of Mrs Button, and her telephone number.

  I went inside, looking for Mum. She was in the laundry, folding washing. I got to the point.

  ‘How come we’re selling the house?’ I asked her.

  ‘Why.’ She kept folding, flicking a towel snap into the air and wrestling it into sharp creases.

  ‘I want to know. I’ve got rights, you know.’

  ‘Why are we selling the house, not how come we are selling the house.’

  ‘Alright then. Why are we selling the house?’

  ‘Because we cannot afford to restore it, and we’re not allowed to modernise it. You know that as well as I do, Katie.’ Another towel, flicked into submission.

  I started to cry. I hated crying in front of Mum and usually I didn’t. I had a strategy. Do you know that if you keep your head completely still, and your face looking straight ahead, and you look upwards moving only your eyeballs, you can stop the tears coming? You try it sometime, it’s true. However, this time I left it too late.

  Mum didn’t cope with me crying, ever. The folding got faster. She said nothing. I decided that seeing she was already annoyed with me, I’d just say it.

  ‘If Dad comes back, he won’t know where we are.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Katie, he won’t come back.’

  ‘How do you know that for sure?’

  ‘I just do.’ The folding never faltered, not for a second. ‘You have to take my word for that.’

  I stopped crying. I had one more question to ask, so I got it out.

  ‘If we’re selling the house, how come you’re being so awkward about it, with Mrs Button?’

  ‘Why.’

  ‘Why are you being so awkward?’

  ‘What makes you think I’m being awkward?’

  I remembered just in time that I wasn’t supposed to have been listening on the stairs. ‘Making her park her real estate car two streets away and walk in her nice sandals through the mud.’

  ‘That’s not being awkward. It’s a nice walk through the park.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ I said. ‘Are you going to keep making her do that?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Mum. ‘I just don’t want the whole world knowing our business, that’s all. This is a special property, Katie. In cases like this, deals are done quietly, without a great fuss. That’s exactly the sort of deal I would like to do.’

  ‘Well, where will we live?’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when the house sells.’

  That night, I lay awake until eleven. When I was sure Mum was asleep, I tiptoed downstairs and out the front gate. I crouched in front of the real estate sign. The clouds were covering the moon, making it hard to see. I
waited until my eyes got used to the dark. Then I took the black permanent marker from my dressing-gown pocket.

  I’d decided earlier which number to change, when the sign first went up. With two careful, fat, curved strokes, the 3 in the telephone number became an 8.

  THE INSIDE OF OUR house was not quite as much of a disaster as the outside, but not far off.

  Downstairs was sort of okay. There was the big lounge, where for some unknown reason the wallpaper had managed to stay stuck to the walls in most parts. Then there was the dining room and the kitchen, with its old coal range that we weren’t allowed to remove. My mother got around that by having a second stove put in next to it, and a microwave on the bench. The bathroom looked good — one of those old clawfoot baths, gold taps and stuff — but when you turned on any of the taps, there was a huge clatter in the pipes before the water came spurting out. Sometimes you got hot water, sometimes you didn’t.

  Right throughout the house, except for the kitchen and bathroom, was blood-red carpet. Apparently it was the original carpet, which is why no one was allowed to replace it. In some places, like the big lounge, it had stayed red but elsewhere it faded to a dusty brown.

  Upstairs were the two bedrooms. That’s where the wallpaper was the worst. Layers peeling away. I don’t know why it was so bad up there, maybe different people who lived in the house had decided to renovate, started taking wallpaper off, then got nailed by the Heritage Committee and had to abandon their projects.

  One of the bedrooms was Mum’s. The other one was mine. If you walked into my room, all you saw was books. There’s a bookshelf that ran the whole way round the room, except for the doorway and windows of course.

  WHICH BRINGS ME TO my father, and what I think I remember.

  Dad was a writer. He never went to work. He had stayed home with me when I was little. He wrote books, though I’m not sure that any of them got published. I’ve never seen one.

  During the day, Mum would go off to work in her accountancy office and Dad would work at the table. He used to get me to draw the pictures for his stories.

  We had parties — big gatherings of proper writers and musicians, Dad’s friends — and Mum glowed and laughed in the middle of things. Yes, you read that right. My mother glowing and laughing. I can hardly believe I’m describing the same person, but back then she liked associating with important people, so it makes sense. I’m pretty sure I’ve remembered that correctly. I have a picture of it in my mind, it must have come from somewhere.