The Phantom Visitor!

The shag carpet had dried out and my downstairs neighbour had forgiven me for turning her ceiling into a shower. I was still getting use to the longer commute, almost four hours a day, during which time I often found myself thinking that it would take me less time to get to France, Belgium or Germany than it would to get home. Although I laughed at this little factoid, I also found it rather depressing. Even more depressing though was the cost of riding the crammed sardine can.

During the week, we would leave the apartment at 7:00am and I would get back from work at around 7:30pm. Every so often, I would get the feeling that my pots and pans had moved around the kitchen. On a couple of occasions, I found an empty toilet roll on the side of the bathtub, no toilet paper in sight, when I was pretty sure I had just started a fresh roll. I put it down to not being a morning person, requiring several cups of industrial strength coffee to get the neurons firing.

There is also a genetic component to the whole memory thing, my father, grandfather and great-grandfather all suffered from Alzheimer’s, which can be hereditary. So I did, and still do, find myself wondering about my own memory. Then there were the times when my apartment would smell of roast lamb and neither my son nor I eat red meat, but I put that down to my downstairs neighbour.

Six months after moving into the apartment, I found myself between jobs and applied for housing benefit to tie us over. An inspector came around to check out the apartment and as he was leaving, he asked me if I’d ever applied for housing benefit before. He was very insistent, wanting to know if I rented the apartment furnished. He was sure he’d come to my apartment before, furnished exactly the same way, only it was a man claiming benefits.

This encounter got me wondering if someone was using my apartment as a pied-à-terre during the day; it would explain my things moving around. Whoever this person was, he would have had to spend time learning my routines and habits, not to mention the risk of being caught if I came home unexpectedly during the day. It couldn’t just be about a kitchen and toilet paper; I didn’t even have a television – still don’t.

A couple of weeks later, I was home catching up on mundane chores. My mother was taking me to Tesco for my weekly shop. There was a time when I could remember what I needed without a list, these days I had to walk around the apartment writing one, which was why I knew for sure that I had six full toilet rolls.

An hour later, when we got home I needed to go to the toilet and was more than a bit surprised to find six empty toilet rolls neatly lined up on the side of the bathtub, all traces of the paper was gone! Not owning a cat, I couldn’t logically explain it away.

I contacted the rental agency and explained what I assumed was going on. The agency admitted that it was possible that an old tenant still had a copy of the key. I requested that they change the lock for security reasons. On principle, they agreed to the idea, but it would be at my expense not theirs, and that is where we disagreed.

I had a theory that I wanted to check out, so I took the next day off as well. I spent the morning reading and waiting for my phantom visitor. At about 11:00am I heard someone come up the stairs and stop in front of my door, followed by the jingling of keys. I slowly got off my sofa, put down my book, and tiptoed to the corner of the living room door, giving me the best view of my front door. I could see a medium sized male form on the other side of the opaque glass.

I had left my key in the lock making it impossible for the person on the other side to insert their key, and I had an extra Yale lock on the inside, with no exterior lock. I waited silently while the shape on the other side of the opaque glass tried to insert his key. I heard a male voice curse, try to insert his key again, before retreating back downstairs using some very colourful language as he went.

I rushed over to the window and watched as a brown haired, medium built man, walked quickly down the path, shaking his head and obviously still cursing. My first reaction was to laugh, but I still didn’t know why he took the toilet paper and left the empty rolls behind, such a give away, and I will probably never know.

What I did know for sure was that a man had a key to my apartment and had been hanging out there cooking and doing something to my toilet paper. This wasn’t a comforting thought, I didn’t get why anyone in his right mind would go to such length for a pied-à-terre. I suspected that my phantom visitor would not be coming back in a hurry even so I was getting my lock changed, and sooner rather than later. I wrote to the Agency informing them that a man, with a copy of my key, had tried to gain access to my apartment while I was there. Under the circumstances, I would be calling out a locksmith and sending them the bill – which they eventually agreed to pay!

The Washing Machine & The Fireman

Following the trauma of the uninvited bed guest and then the inconvenience of the loony landlord, I moved out of London up to Royston. After a long search, I found an apartment with a living room just big enough for my sofa, which strangely enough always seemed to be the tipping point. This is what the rental agency referred to as a bijou, in other words small! On the plus side, the wallpaper was white, and the carpeting, apart from being shag, was a neutral colour.

It took me a while and a lot of sweat, to arrange my furniture and empty my boxes, at one point even finding myself trapped by my own belongings due to the lack of space. When my son sat on his bed, arms outstretched, he could touch the wall opposite, as the realtor said, bijou.

Why I chose that Sunday to swap out the washing machines, when I was expecting a lunch guest, is a question I still occasionally ask myself. The apartment came with one, but having seen the vast culture of mould growing inside I decided against using it, and all that was left to do was connect my washing machine. The kitchen was on the small side so it took me a while to move, inch-by-inch, the mouldy machine to the other side of the room, leaving me just enough space to push and shove my machine in its place.

I was proud of myself. The hard part was over, all I needed to do was connect the machine to the water and I’d be all set for my first wash. Now, all you men out there before you ask; I did connect the tube to the tap and tighten the thingy-me-gig until it no longer budged and turned the water on slowly checking for leaks. I even made sure that the evacuation tube was not blocked. I loaded my mould free washing machine and set it in motion.

I still had a couple of hours before my lunch guest arrived and the food side of things was under control. I nipped into the bathroom for a quick shower, changed clothes and sat down with my book. That’s when I heard a strange gurgling sound coming from the kitchen and it had nothing to do with the cuisine. I opened the cabinet under the sink to see what was going on. Big mistake, at that precise moment, the tube came off the tap and a jet of cold water propelled me back against the fridge like a cartoon character. The shock of the cold water left me immobile while my mouth spurted four letter words.

At this juncture, I must say that I’m very lucky to have such a bright, alert son, who rushed into the living room to see what all the commotion was about. My seven-year-old called the fire brigade and then fetched towels from the airing cupboard to stop the flood of water seeping into the living room carpet. I finally jumped into action and fighting the jet of cold water, tried to turn the tap off. However, I received an electrical shock, and as I was standing ankle deep in water, I didn’t try again. As it turned out, that was the least of my problems, my elderly downstairs neighbour wanted to know why her living room lights had gone out and more to the point, why it was raining from her ceiling. I apologised profusely and briefly explained what had happened.

The fire brigade, lunch guest and mother all turned up at the same time, isn’t that always the way. This was the first time I’d ever needed the fire brigade so I didn’t realise they wore black rubber. It seemed that both my mother and lunch guest were very taken with one rubber-clad man in particular. From my mother’s point of view, a future husband for me and from my lunch guest’s point of view, the father of her future children. I on the other hand, was more concerned with the small lake growing in my kitchen. We all have priorities in life.

The firefighters came equipped with a useful industrial sized water hoover and thanks to rubber gloves, my future husband – according to my mother - managed to turn off the tap. Then his super hoover sucked up all the excess water in my kitchen and living room. Thanks to my son’s quick thinking, the overall damage to my apartment was minimal; though the poor downstairs neighbour’s ceiling had taken the brunt of the flood. The fire brigade cleared up the mess, while delighting my mother and lunch guest in the process. They reassured the elderly neighbour downstairs, and hoovered up the excess water in her apartment as well.

I did learn something, other than never to install my own washing machine. That you can be billed for calling out the fire brigade if there isn’t a potential hazard. So looking at this whole fiasco from a positive angle, I guess it was lucky that the water seeped into the downstairs neighbour’s lighting system and was in fact dangerous. Probably not so lucky for the neighbour but my insurance covered the damage, no questions asked.

The conversation around the lunch table had little to do with me installing my washing machine, and everything to do with the rubber-clad firefighter. My mother came up with a plan for me to use my son, go down to the fire station and tell Mister Perfect that he wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up - which was a lie - and would love to take a ride in his fire engine - which he probably would have enjoyed.

I admit that the man was more than a little dishy but I wouldn’t use my son as a prop and to be honest I was happy with my status quo. I did not follow up with the firefighter but I will always be grateful to the man for saving my soaked butt. To all you men out there, I learnt my lesson and now hire a professional to install my washing machine and dishwasher, just in case!

The Loony Landlord

We have all suffered at the hands of the weird, eccentric and all out crazy landlords and the worst ones are those who live on the premises. At least that is what I thought until I moved into shared accommodation in north London.

Having recently moved to the UK, I found it strange that the landlord or agency received the rental guarantee directly, while in other European countries, a blocked account is opened for the guarantee and both parties must sign to release the money. Furthermore, I was used to much smaller rents and much larger accommodation, not to mention shorter commutes and cheaper public transport – but that is a story for another day.

It all started with a simple request, I wanted to pay my rent by direct debit and needed the landlord’s bank details so I sent a letter requesting his information. Next thing I know I get a message from the landlord, via my housemate Vicky, that he wanted me out of the house, no explanation. However, from the general gist of the message I gathered that the landlord had a few screws loose.

Vicky worked nights, and I worked during the day, in other words, I was mainly alone at night. The loony landlord upped the ante and started turning up in the evening after Vicky had left for work. He would pound and kick on the front door, screaming insults through the letterbox, and threatening to kill me. I did what any sensible person would do; I would call the Police, who luckily for me could hear the screaming in the background. As soon as they would turn up, the landlord would slink back into the night, only to reappear as soon as the Police left. This went on into the wee hours of the morning, every time the Police would come back until the landlord would get bored or tired and leave. He kept up his antics most nights for the next couple of weeks.

What I couldn’t wrap my mind around was why such a simple request would send someone into such a rage. So I did some digging and what I discovered explained a lot. It appeared that the house I was renting was a council property in the name of the landlord’s father, who incidentally had died five years ago. It didn’t stop there, as far as I could tell loony tunes was still receiving his father’s pensions and other benefits. My imagination went into overdrive visualising the father’s body rolled up in a carpet and stashed in the attic. First, there had been the uninvited bed guest and now a potential body in the attic, not to mention the lunatic landlord set on killing me. This whole thing was starting to resemble a script from a bad horror movie.

Then the inevitable happened, I had to work late and by the time I got to my tube stop Vicky had already left for work. Call it female intuition but I had a bad feeling that the landlord would be waiting for me. So I did what any smart woman would do and called a cab. Thankfully, my cabby was a strapping young man from Glasgow. I felt like the damsel in distress in one of those old black and white movies and this irritated me, as I was not in control of the situation, read into it what you want.

So, there I was, that cold November evening, telling a complete stranger about my bizarre landlord problems and that I strongly suspected he would be waiting for me. Luckily for me, the Glaswegian cabby proposed to stick around and ensure that I got safely inside the house, which did make me feel a bit better. Now all that was between me and the front door was a dark path lined with tall hedges. I felt slightly apprehensive as I got out of the cab and made my way up the ominously dark path.

The path had never seemed so long and just as I reached the end of the hedges, a large dark form emerged from behind the last hedge, dressed all in black, arms outstretched and screaming. My first instinct was to take a step back, then realising it was my personal loony tune, instinct kicked in and I took a step forward, finger pointing, screaming my own verbal abuse. In the background, I could hear my cabby getting out of his car and coming up the path behind me.

The landlord looked shocked that someone so small could turn into such a ball of fearless furry, and more than a little miffed that it was a woman doing the abusing, so to speak. To say that the landlord was foaming at the mouth would be a total exaggeration but he did rather remind me of a rabid pit bull, no offence to the pit bulls around the world. Even my strapping cabby decided not to tangle with the wild beast. Instead, he drove me to the nearest police station.

The police were very understanding and helpful, even offered me the proverbial cup of milky breakfast tea. Unfortunately, as I was sub-letting, the Police couldn’t accompany me back to the house. They did suggest that I return to the house during the day with some friends to collect my personal effects. However, when it came to the murder threats they took them very seriously and the cabby had been nice enough to make a statement.

Once they looked into the landlord they discovered a ream of domestic call-outs to the landlord’s house, but his wife would never file charges, probably too scared. The next day the Police sent a female officer around to question him, a man not gifted in the brain department. He kept referring to me as the B***h and when the officer pushed him further he called her something derogatory, berated the officer’s mother and then, true to form he threatens to kill the police officer. Obviously, it didn’t end well for the landlord!

The Uninvited Bed Guest!

We are all familiar with the children’s nursery rhyme ‘Little Miss Muffet’, first published in 1805. I can relate to Miss Muffet, although I would have screamed while running away. In case it’s not obvious, I’m spider phobic, no matter how big or small the eight legged beasties, fear takes over and common sense walks out the door in disgust.

In most cases, I consider myself a rational woman, with a three digit IQ and a logical mind to boot. Firstly, a spider is much smaller than I am, secondly, they capture insects in their webs and lastly they have ecological value, all-in-all useful little buggers. There is really no explaining it, but they scare the living daylight’s out of me.

In my humble opinion, my spider encounter was far more traumatic than Miss Muffet’s. I remember that it was a cold, sunny day. My alarm woke me at 7 O’clock and like every weekday, I begrudgingly headed for the bathroom and my wake up shower. After a good half-hour under the hot jets of water, I padded back to my bedroom, wrapped in my newly acquired soft bath-towel. That was as far as the comfort and luxury went in this house. For the first time since my student days, I was living in shared accommodation in north London. The tatty floral wallpaper and worn clashing carpeting screamed of the 50’s along with most of the furniture in the house.

As I entered my bedroom, I spotted what looked like a blotch of blood on my recently acquired pillow and pillowcase. Now as a child, I had suffered from nosebleeds but had eventually grown out of them. I drew closer to see exactly what it was and quickly retreated to the safety of the door. Unfortunately, it was not a nosebleed, but a big hairy spider that must have curled up beside me on my pillow. Then I can only assume that I must have rolled over in my sleep and squished my uninvited bed guest with my head. Even though the spider was as flat as a pancake and very dead, I screamed and then ran all the way back to the bathroom where I spent the next several hours washing my hair and scrubbing my scalp raw. Every time a strand of my hair brushed against my face, I’d scream.

I turned up to work a good four hours late, resembling a less than happy dried prune. It must have been a scary sight, as no one in the office approached my workspace to ask me why I was so late; then again, I gave no explanation. Usually a chatty person, I spent the rest of my workday in silence. Every now and again, I would jump in my chair, as my hair would tickle my face.

As I was getting ready to leave work, a brave colleague approached me and asked what had happened. Apart from the occasional twitch, I had started to see the funny side to the whole situation – except perhaps for the spider. So, I recounted my traumatic spider morning and my colleague found nothing better to do then joke that I’d probably squished the papa spider and now a jealous, vengeful mama spider was waiting for me at home. I laughed half-heartedly, but all the way home, I couldn’t quite shake the image of mama spider waiting for me.

I have a vivid imagination and by the time I arrived home, mama spider was the size of a large boulder with glowing red eyes and sharp fangs, just waiting to strike. As previously stated when fear takes over, common sense walks out the door. Speaking of which I was now standing in front of my bedroom door, heart pounding so loudly it resonated in my ears. I took a deep breath that came out as a nervous laugh, before opening the door.

I turned on the overhead light and let out the scream of all screams, while simultaneously removing my left shoe and repeatedly hitting the wall next to the light switch I’d just turned on. Where, believe it or not, mama spider was in fact waiting for me. I’m not a violent person by nature, I do have a temper, but it is always verbal, however verbally abusing a spider is not that effective, especially while screaming full throttle. Over the years, I’ve discovered that a good shoe is the best weapon against the eight-legged beasties. By the time I’d stopped hitting the wall, there wasn’t much left of mama. That was when the thought hit me… Mama spider and papa spider equals baby spiders, lots and lots of eight legged beasties.

I spent the next three hours lugging and pushing all the furniture that could pass through the doorframe into the hall. Then I hoovered every inch of my room and once I’d finished I hoovered it all over again, before pushing and lugging all the furniture back into my room.

Even though I was physically and mentally exhausted, I barely slept that night or the nights after. Every time I turned over the sheet would brush against me, sending me into a frenzy of action. First, I’d turn on my bedside lamp, second, I’d check under my duvet and sheet for vengeful orphaned baby spiders. Before, turning off the light and attempting to get some sleep. I must have repeated the process ten times, or more during the night, not to mention the following nights for the next couple of weeks!

Right Number, Wrong Miss Baker

Rae had been restless all day. Whatever she did, her thoughts kept returning to Douglas and their two-year-old engagement. Most of her friends dreamt of getting married, but not Rae. She felt sure she had a lot of living to do before making such a commitment. She had met Douglas at a dance, and though he was a good dancer and a nice person there were no sparks. Still all their friends thought they were a perfect match.

Normally this would not have swayed Rae, but her mother learned that Douglas worked for the Post Office; her snide remark (‘So, he’s a stamp licker.’) made Rae view her suitor in a more favourable light. Who do you think you are, she thought, but stopped short of saying anything. Over the last couple of years she had let a lot slide.

When the phone rang, Rae considered not answering it for a second in case it was Douglas.

‘Hello?’ Hearing a resonant male voice respond, she relaxed immediately.

 ‘Good afternoon, Ted Wood here, may I speak to Win Baker please.’

Feeling slight flustered Rae had to sit down, ‘I’m sorry but Win isn’t at home right now.’

‘Are you Laurie’s daughter by any chance?’

‘No, Laurie is my uncle. I’m Rae, Win’s daughter.’

‘But Win doesn’t have a daughter, her brother Laurie does though.’

Then it clicked, Ted Wood probably wanted to talk to the previous tenant, who by a strange coincidence was also named Win Baker. She felt inexplicably disappointed; however, he did not seem at all bothered that they did not know each other. ‘So tell me a little bit about yourself Rae.’

Over the next hour, they chatted easily about everything from current events to what they did for a living with Ted smoothly rounding off the conversation by asking Rae out to dinner. This made her blush with pleasure, but she declined gracefully, cursing her engagement to Douglas once more.

Douglas. She had intended to call off the engagement from the moment she’d accepted, but had never found the courage. As luck would have it, Douglas turned up on her doorstep a couple of days later with an ultimatum that propelled her into action.

‘Our engagement has gone on long enough. I’m giving you two months, Rae. Set a date for the wedding or I’ll call it off.’ He stood there awkwardly waiting to see what her reaction would be.

Rae was shocked, but more so to hear herself saying, ‘I really don’t feel confident enough to take such a step Doug. I think it would be best for everyone concerned if we call it off now.’

There, it was out. She had finally told Douglas how she really felt and it was a relief. With those words, a weight lifted from her shoulders and her life was filled with possibilities again.

As the months passed, Rae sometimes thought back to the conversation she’d had with Ted. After what seemed to her like an eternity, he was back in Wellington on business and rang up to invite her to dinner. Even though she’d been enjoying her freedom, a little voice told her to go for it. She agreed to meet him the following evening at his hotel, the Royal Oak, one of the most prestigious hotels in the city.

Rae felt apprehensive as she drove her blue Humber 6 to Manners Street, realising for the first time that she had never seen the man she was about to meet. The manager was manning the reception desk when Rae entered the hotel foyer, and inquired if he could help her. Subduing the urge to bolt from the lobby as fast as her stilettos would allow, Rae smiled nervously and announced that she had come to meet Mr Ted Wood. Picking up the desk phone, the manager directed her to wait in the lounge. Sitting there opposite the door, the apprehension came back and the desire to bolt returned. Thankfully, before she could act on her impulse a tall well-dressed man walked over to her, hand outstretched.

‘Hello, Rae, sorry I’m late. I’ve just come back from calibrating a ship. Would you care to join me in my room while I freshen up?’

Paying no heed to her mother’s teachings, she accepted. Ted exuded confidence, he was relaxed and charming, which put Rae instantly at ease. As he shaved, he chatted amiably to her reflection in the mirror. The click, clack of his rocker razor was unique, just like the man standing in front of her.

Back in 1951, the pubs in New Zealand closed at 6pm, not that Rae had ever been in a pub. However, hotel bars stayed open for their guests until 11pm and it seemed like the most natural thing to go for a drink before dinner. Earlier, as she had climbed into her car, her mother had warned, ‘Don't go up to his room and stick to ginger ale.’ Now feeling slightly rebellious, Rae let Ted order her a gin and tonic. As she sat on her bar stool sipping her drink, she felt that she had finally arrived.

Dinner at the hotel restaurant was a relaxed and leisurely affair. It was generally assumed by the staff that men ate more than women, and accordingly, they were always served bigger portions along with seconds if they wanted them. Their buxom waitress, Nancy, was all over Ted, keeping his plate full while giving Rae the cold shoulder. Although Rae was very petite, she was more than capable of eating huge quantities when the food was good. But if she was slighted by the waitress, she hardly noticed, because Ted only had eyes for her.

After dinner, they took a long walk around Oriental Bay. Wellington had never looked as beautiful to Rae as it did that evening. Back at the hotel, Ted invited her up to his room for a pot of Earl Grey tea. She was rapidly falling for this stranger whose voice sent shivers down her spine. They drank their tea and continued chatting until Ted dozed off on his single bed. Feeling tired, Rae curled up next to him and fell asleep, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

At midnight, the ringing of the phone woke them abruptly. Ted instinctively went to answer it but stopped short when Rae screamed. ‘Don’t answer that, it’s my mother!’

She ran around in a panic, gathering her purse and shoes. Ted accompanied her to the car, then leaned in the car window and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Good night and sweet dreams, Rae.’

When Rae got home, her mother was waiting in the kitchen, a pot of tea brewing, and an expectant look on her face. Obviously, her mother was full of questions but she remained smugly uncommitted throughout the inquisition.

Three weeks later, Ted was back on business and he rang again. Her mother answered the phone, while Rae signalled to her that she was not in. Accordingly, Win informed Ted that Rae was off on a weekend trip to the Marlborough Sounds, and then promptly agreed to have dinner that evening.

That is how it came to be that Rae was home alone on a Saturday night, while her mother was out having dinner with her date. By the time Win got home, at 4am, Rae was livid but she suppressed all interest in what her mother had to say about the evening. Even so, she was wounded by another snide remark, this time that Ted, fifteen years Rae’s senior, was too old for her. Somehow, Rae bit back that if Ted was too old for her, then he was equally too young for Win, being fifteen years her junior.

Still, Rae learnt something about herself that morning; she was willing to fight for her man. Next time Ted called, Rae almost tripped over the carpet in her rush to answer the phone. On their second date, they had dinner again and went dancing afterwards. Only this time as they were saying goodnight, Ted leant his head in the car window and kissed her gently on the lips.

Rae Baker and Ted Wood, my parents, were married at the Wesley church on 19^th February 1954. In 1955, my father invented the first automated starting stalls for racehorses. Together, my parents travelled the world, visiting one exotic location after another, while he installed his invention. My mother has often said that her life truly began the moment she met my father. By anyone’s standards, my parents had an incredible life together right up until my father’s death on 26^th February 2001. Had he lived, my parents would have celebrated their 59^th wedding anniversary this year.