Page 12 of The Reno
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. AndI didn’t tell her that I was clinging to hold myself together long enough so I could be put back together again.
THREE
I stepped across the threshold, and a distinctive old-lady smell hit my senses—damp with just 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.Myhouse. 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’dneed 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,straightin, 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 theancient 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.
