It’s autumn. While all nature prepares for hibernation, lo! – there sprouts toadstool-sudden in the suburban garden that colourful hardy annual, the estate agent’s signpost, its vivid paintwork and perky lettering proclaiming ‘THIS PROPERTY FOR SALE’.
Who can account for such a crop of them at this time of year? Perhaps a fit of post-holiday blues afflicts the average householder?
Fresh from a fortnight’s continental bliss of brilliant sunshine, cool terracotta tiles and alfresco dining, he becomes unwilling to exchange the blue skies of a Mediterranean resort for the grey mists of an Ulster suburb.
One look through the melancholy bars of thin September sunshine at the worn carpets, the shabby paintwork and the cluttered rooms of home merely rubber-stamps the decision – “We’re selling.” The naïve notion of First Time Seller that all will be expedited swiftly, that a dream couple with exactly his own taste, will view, enthuse, decide and pay at least the asking price, is a myth soon exploded. The buyers from Hell are only awaiting an opportunity to view.
Prior to the visit of the Estate Agent in his pearl grey suit and matching Mercedes to value the property, the house must be put in saleable order.
This entails a huge financial outlay on anaglypta wallpaper and Magnolia Vinyl Silk, (a safe combination, since prospective buyers invariably ‘take agin’ the owner’s décor) and spending endless exhausting evenings and weekends applying same.
It’s while obliterating all traces of their own personal taste, the First Time Seller notices the curiously spongy texture of the hall wall.
It’s while stripping the skirting he notices the curious tendency of the wood to crumble. With sinking heart he gets a man in to confirm his worst fears.
The man confirms his worst fears. For three weeks the family tightrope-walk a narrow plank across the gaping chasm that was the hall floor. The walls are chipped to shoulder height and the plasterers are charging fresco-artists’ rates. A further six weeks drift by for drying out and making good.
The First Time Seller ruptures himself papering a 22 foot stairwell with an eight-foot ladder. He’s not the only member of the family who’s beginning to think this venture’s more trouble than it’s worth.
The Estate Agent arrives. He describes the bare clearance between the front door and the inner one as ‘a roomy vestibule’, the cramped cooking facilities as ‘a compact-fitted kitchen’, the small bathroom as ‘bijou’ and the box room as ‘suitable for a study’.
Estate Agents do not get to wear pearl grey suits with matching Mercedes by being economical with hyperbole. It’s with doubtful pride that the First Time Seller surveys in the local paper the somewhat leprous photographic reproduction of his own property. ‘Viewing by appointment’ it says.
This directive is ignored by nosy neighbours, compulsive house-viewers and serious buyers alike. They’ll come when it suits them – and frequently just as the family sits down to tea.
First Time Seller embarks upon a newly-stressful lifestyle which necessitates washing all dishes, making all beds, clearing all clutter and vacuuming and dusting daily before departing for work. Also, eschewing for the forseeable future all menus containing onions or garlic and living with the aroma of freshly-percolated coffee, which, it’s said, pre-disposes people to like a property.
Meanwhile his wife places a careful arrangement of bronze chrysanthemums in front of the sole remaining damp patch on the first-floor landing and both thank Providence for the early dark of autumn evenings and change all the lamp-bulbs to a flattering 20 watt glow. The public troop through – audibly criticising.
Suddenly after barren weeks of impossible people, the deal is done. In a flurry of packing-cases they are off.
Wrestling the piano round the turn of the stairs one of the removal men remarks, “It’s as well you didn’t die in this house mister. You’d never get the coffin out.” The house is echoingly empty, bare as a picked carcass. He looks around before slamming the door for the last time.
Under the anaglypta in the newly-plastered hall, he has scrawled their initials and the legend, “We were happy here.”
