Fix Them Up, page 3
‘Well, I think Dr Harris explained that one.’
I’d gone for my diagnosis with Dr Harris at university after a lecturer had suggested I might have ADHD. I came out of the examination room, Dr Harris having announced I was having twins! She diagnosed me with dyslexia and ADHD. I remembered looking at the psychology report like a flash of lightning had struck me. It all made sense. It all slotted into place. There was a reason for the struggles: the missed appointments, constantly running late, the feeling of being bored and unmotivated. The euphoric highs when that strike of motivation hit. The lows, when I couldn’t move, no matter how much I wanted to – my feet stuck in sinking sand.
It all made sense, and I had a community of people who felt the same way.
Despite that, inadequacy lingered.
Mum scoffed. ‘I’m still not sure she was a real doctor. They say that some of these places aren’t proper clinics. They sign whatever paper you want them to.’
I closed my eyes.
‘You know, they didn’t have these labels when I was a kid. Now everyone has some problem –’
‘Mum,’ I warned, ‘let’s not get into it.’
I’d had this argument with her a million times and I was so tired. Tired of justifying my diagnosis.
‘Katherine,’ she continued, ignoring my pleas, ‘you were a bright child. Sure, you had some… organisational challenges. But you were bright, clever. You just didn’t apply yourself.’
Anxiety rose like bile in my throat. My eyes and nose stung with tears.
‘Mum, can we please change the subject?’ I asked as calmly as I could.
She relented, and we walked in silence for a few moments. We passed a couple hiking back down the hill. Mum and I gave them a courteous nod. I looked up at the clear blue sky, trying to calm my nervous system, which had gone into overdrive.
‘Have you called the estate agent?’ Mum asked. She probably thought it was a less controversial topic, which made me want to laugh. Or cry. ‘We can do it remotely, I checked. We can send them some keys. Then, they can value it. I can’t imagine it would get more than what your father bought it for before –’ Mum gave a constipated look. ‘You know.’
Before he died was what she meant, but she couldn’t say it. ‘You know’ was the extent of the conversation we’d had about Dad’s death since the funeral. While I empathised that some people felt icky about death, it wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to talk about him. I needed to. I craved to say how I was feeling. I wanted to claw at my skin and scream into the sky. But Mum shut down every attempt I’d made to talk about him, and she was one of the few people who knew Dad. Graham rarely met him. My friends had never met him.
Mum was the only person who could relate to how I felt, but she was content to shove it all under the carpet.
‘I haven’t yet, no –’
‘Oh, come on, Katherine. You need to move quicker than this. It could take forever to sell that house. Not all housing markets are like the one in London. I imagine it’s a lot slower in the Northwest.’
‘Actually, from my research, they are having a bit of a boom at the moment.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You have time to research the housing market in Manchester but no time to call an estate agent?’
‘Well –’ I took a breath, wondering if she’d interrupt me again. But she didn’t. ‘The reason I did some research was because I did call the estate agent.’
My mum’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, fabulous. Why didn’t you say that?’
‘Well, I had an interesting conversation with a chap called John. And he said that because of the market right now, that I could get a lot more for it, if I did it up a bit. You know, a lick of paint. A new bathroom and kitchen, perhaps.’ I added the last sentence with such airy grace that I was worried I would fly away.
Mum’s face contorted into confusion. Then repulsion.
‘How would you renovate a house two hundred miles away? It would be hell. It’s the kind of thing you need to be there for, making sure everything runs smoothly.’
‘Yes. Exactly. I was thinking that perhaps, maybe, I could move up temporarily to oversee the renovation.’ I winced, waiting for the onslaught.
Mum gave a peel of laughter, like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. She glanced over at me, and her face dropped.
‘You can’t be serious.’ She sighed like she was tired, and not because of the gradual incline of the slope we were walking up. ‘Katherine, don’t be ridiculous. Renovate the house, for what? A few more thousand pounds? I can’t imagine you’d get much more back –’
‘Well, John said it could be up to seventy thousand pounds more.’ My words came fast now, desperate to escape. ‘And that would get me a flat in a more central location. A bit more central. Not somewhere on the outskirts of Reading –’
‘And what is wrong with Reading? There are plenty of houses you could buy here, I’m sure.’
My mum was oblivious. She seemed to think that houses were growing on trees. We were living through a very real housing crisis. And I’d looked at houses in Reading; they were as expensive and competitive to buy as in London. Regardless of whether I picked a small flat in London or a little house in Reading, I needed as much cash as possible to buy.
‘It would take me two months –’
‘Two months?’ she squeaked. ‘And leave your job?’ She said it like my job was the be-all and end-all of my life. Like it was my reason for living. And it really wasn’t. I was grateful to have a job that allowed me to hang out with Willa every day and rent a room in London, but I’d always felt I was missing something.
Some greater calling.
‘Ah, I see,’ Mum said knowingly. ‘This is another one of your schemes. What was the last one? Calligraphy for weddings, wasn’t it?’
A lump in my throat formed. A shroud of shame hovered over me.
‘And the one before that – scented candle making. I think you sold a few of those.’
I’d sold ten before I lost interest and shut down my Etsy storefront.
‘And then, you were convinced childcare was your calling. And you wanted to become a nanny.’ Mum smiled like none of this was hurtful. Like she hadn’t pinpointed the biggest insecurity I had about myself – I had no follow-through. I was flighty. I’d never amount to anything.
‘But, Katherine,’ she continued, ‘this is a lot more than a hobby or what do young people call it – a side quest?’
‘A side hustle,’ I added quietly.
‘This would be spending thousands of pounds on a house. A house that might not make it back. It’s too big a gamble to take. Would you pay for all the work or do it yourself? Because if it’s the latter’ – she huffed – ‘well, I dread to think what could happen. You could hammer through a wall and fuse the whole house, for Christ’s sake, and then pay for a whole rewire. Would you have a job to return to?’
I didn’t mention that Willa had given me the time off. Unpaid. She would probably throw herself down the hill we were currently climbing. I stared at my boots with every stride, lost for words. Mum, however, was not lost for words.
‘You would hate Everly Heath. I doubt they have any of that Deliverloo you love so much. You would be bored, Katherine. Let me tell you, people are cliquey around there. They keep to themselves and look after their own. I wouldn’t count on your aunt and uncle helping out. You have to think, Katherine…’
The lecture continued for another two miles as my mum made her case against renovating Dad’s house. I didn’t mention any of my emotional attachment to the place. It was pointless. She wouldn’t understand. She would say the man had never played a significant role in my life.
Mum didn’t notice a few tears escaping down my cheeks as we finished the walk and climbed into her car to drive home.
I didn’t tell her I had already packed my suitcases. I didn’t tell her I was catching the train to Manchester in the morning. And I didn’t tell her that I was clinging to hold myself together long enough so I could be put back together again.
Chapter Three
I stepped across the threshold, and a distinctive old-lady smell hit my senses – damp with a hint of lavender. The smell provoked memories of visits to my granny: chocolate biscuits dunked in tea and little tuna sandwiches for lunch. I scanned the hallway of the 1930s semi-detached house. My house. I pressed a shaking hand to the ache in my chest. Thinking of this house as mine and not Dad’s was still jarring.
For the past eight months, I had become accustomed to pushing emotions down like pressing a buoyant beach ball below salty waves.
So far, it had only hurtled above the water once.
Don’t think about the funeral.
As if that tactic had got me anywhere.
As I looked at the hallway, the beach ball threatened to come up. I pressed my head against the door frame. What have I got myself into? What was I thinking? Would renovating this house even give me closure?
I took another deep breath and tried not to spiral at the sight of a broken door latch hanging precariously from a rusty nail. I’d need to sort that out today if I wanted to sleep safely tonight. I mentally added it to my ever-growing list, but I knew I’d forget it quickly unless I wrote it down. Your head is like a sieve, my mum used to say, straight in, straight out. I tried not to take it personally.
Anaglypta wallpaper adorned the walls, cemented on in the 1970s, seemingly never to be removed again. Popcorn ceilings and thick swirling green carpet led up the narrow staircase from the hallway. Some of it looked… wet and sticky. Like there had been a leak at some point. I shuddered. A suspicious brown stain marred the ceiling; I didn’t want to know the source. The damp intensified through the hallway.
This wasn’t as I remembered it. Sure, it had been dated when I’d visited as a kid. But it had been warm and homely and looked after.
Some original features, like picture rails and skirting boards, remained. But someone had ripped out the original stairs and replaced them with horizontal bannisters to ‘modernise’ the look of the hallway. But the teak was chipped and flaking off now.
Various mismatching but equally loud shag carpets were on display as I moved through the house. The living room boasted a bold geometric orange carpet, and the dining room showcased a green swirly one. The small kitchen at the back of the house had avocado green units and old-school appliances. I tentatively opened the oven door to see it completely black on the inside.
‘No home-cooked meals for me,’ I muttered.
Upstairs was a matching green bathroom suite, equally grimy and dirty. The house was silent apart from the ticking of the ancient boiler (the villain behind the E energy rating) and the loudness of my brain screaming a never-ending to-do list. Even though it was only a modest three-bedroom semi-detached house, it hadn’t been touched in years.
Hire a skip. Remove the carpets. Steam the wallpaper off. Ditch the electric fireplace and tiled surround. My mind rattled off more and more demands.
Okay, I thought, let’s get started.
*
Time blurred, and I wasn’t sure how much had passed when I heard a loud ‘Hello!’ call from the open front door.
I glanced around, coming back into my body. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and a bead of sweat formed at my neck. I could almost hear my hair curling and growing, like some disturbing cartoon version of myself. I glanced down. I was holding a bleach spray, cleaning the bathroom sink upstairs. I put the bleach down and made my way downstairs, seeing the chaos I had created in the last few hours – so many half-finished jobs. The hallway was littered with partially ripped-off wallpaper; in the bedroom sat a suitcase that had been opened and rummaged through alongside a deflated inflatable mattress. I’d gone to fetch the pump but had got distracted setting up the kitchen, and I knew I’d left the cupboards open downstairs.
‘Fuck.’ My head fell into my palm.
I’m such a fuck up.
I felt like an eleven-year-old child again. It brought back the smell of Mum’s deputy headteacher’s office. Her disappointed expression when I told her I’d forgotten my maths homework, PE kit and food tech basket on the same day. You need to be more organised than this, Katherine. I can’t always be there to hold your hand. My mother shook her head. Post-diagnosis, my mum’s remarks didn’t change much. It shifted from You just need to apply yourself to It doesn’t mean you have an excuse, Kat. She didn’t understand that my lack of focus wasn’t laziness or for want of trying.
‘Kat?’ The loud voice called from the open front door again, pulling me from my thoughts.
I ran down the stairs to find my cousin Lydia standing in the hallway. She was brandishing two bottles of prosecco like they were awards, and she’d swept the board.
She raised the bottle above her head. ‘Surprise, bitch!’ She accosted me into a bone-crushing hug, her long blonde hair making its way into my mouth. Our height difference (me, five foot five and a half, Lydia, five foot eight) was even more apparent when we hugged, which was rarely. We were ‘weddings and funerals’ cousins, mainly due to the distance. Lydia was a born and bred Mancunian, like all the paternal side of my family, while I was raised in Reading.
‘How’s it going?’ Lydia asked, her faint Mancunian accent coming through, the first I’d heard since arriving. Sometimes, it hurt to hear it; that lilt evoked memories of late-night phone calls from my dad after missed milestones – apologies for absences at dance performances, school award ceremonies, and first days at school.
I shrugged. ‘Not too bad.’
Lydia looked around the place, probably seeing the destruction in our wake, but didn’t comment directly. My familiar friend, self-doubt, was waving like Forrest Gump in my head. There was so much to do, and I couldn’t even complete one task without a breakdown.
How did I plan to renovate a whole house if I couldn’t clean one?
Lydia looked around the hallway, picking at the plaster. ‘So, Uncle Jim left this place to you? You had no idea?’
‘I got a call from a solicitor.’
The subtext was obvious.
He hadn’t told me because we didn’t speak.
Lydia’s blue eyes, the Williams family eyes we shared, met mine and softened.
‘I’m so sorry, Kat.’
I tensed.
‘It’s fine. Anyway. I’m going to renovate it myself.’ I pulled my curly hair up into the bobble on my wrist.
‘You’re going to renovate it?’ she squeaked, eyes going wide.
Great. Even Miss Motivation herself doubted me.
‘It was Dad’s childhood home, and your dad’s too.’ I nodded towards Lydia. My uncle looked so much like my dad, with darker red curls and crinkly eyes, that I’d struggled to say more than a few words to him at the funeral last year. Looking at Brian felt like looking at the sun.
‘I know… but I know you and your dad… were strained. Everyone would understand if you wanted to sell. Let someone else renovate it.’
Were they talking behind my back? This is because of the funeral. They saw how I messed up and thought I would choke at this, too.
I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. ‘It feels right to bring it back to life. Let someone else build memories here.’ My nose began to burn. ‘Plus, it makes more business sense. I met with the estate agent, and he reckons if I spend money on a few basics, it will sell for a lot more. Then I can use that money to buy a place in London.’
‘Does that mean I get to see my cousin more than a few hours this year?’ Lydia smiled and threw her toned arm around my shoulders.
‘Yep, you have me for two months.’
Lydia’s lips pulled back in mock disgust. ‘Alright. Don’t overstay your welcome, cuz. This town isn’t big enough for two Williams girls.’
I chuckled. ‘I’m sure it will survive.’
‘We’ll have to warn the town crier.’
Lydia’s town. Dad’s town. My paternal family had set down deep roots in Everly Heath. But I’d always felt like an outsider on the few occasions I’d visited, even before my parents’ divorce. I’d been a pre-teen, an infamously awkward age, and while everyone had been friendly and welcoming, I’d always felt anxious and awkward compared to the relaxed way everyone talked to each other. There was a rhythm, but I didn’t have the hymn sheet.
Lydia ruffled my sweaty hair. ‘Where shall we start, then?’ She eyed the hallway and kitchen.
‘You don’t have to help, Lydia. I’ll manage.’
‘Nope, nope, nope. Not having this, you’re just like your dad. Never accepting any help. I will be here either way, so tell me what to do or else.’
We agreed that Lydia would work upstairs, and I would tackle downstairs. Three hours of arduous work later, we’d done a deep clean of the whole house while listening to a true crime podcast. I’d heard Lydia exclaim the occasional ‘Bastard!’ and ‘It’s the brother!’ and snorted. Satisfied, we collapsed on the living room floor with plastic cups and a bottle of prosecco.
Warmth spread through my chest. It was addictive, that high. It spurred me on. When Lydia left, I would smash out that to-do list and kick arse. But in the meantime, I was quite happy to enjoy the company.
‘How’s work?’ I asked while topping up her glass of prosecco.
‘Busy. Really busy. But I have no clients tomorrow, so I can be naughty,’ she replied haughtily and took a swig.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t personal trainers supposed to be, like, super healthy?’
Lydia shrugged. ‘All about balance. Plus, if I can’t celebrate my cousin moving home—’
‘—temporarily,’ I reminded her.
Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, temporarily, but still. What’s the point of all this’ – she gestured to herself – ‘if I can’t enjoy life?’
To say Lydia was in good shape was an understatement. She was tall and lean, features she got from her mother’s side of the family because the Williamses were all short, stocky, and usually ginger. Lydia always wore bright sports gear, today favouring yellow and orange, and her long blonde hair was perpetually tied up into pigtails or space buns. She had the energy of the Duracell bunny and the spirit of a children’s TV presenter. I stared at her toned arms. How the hell did they even look like that?
