The Undomestic Goddess
Page 47
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11:06 And … oh. The ironing. What am I going to do about that?
11:12 I have a solution, via the local paper. A girl from the village will collect it, iron it all overnight at £3 a shirt, and sew on Eddie’s button.
So far this job has cost me nearly a thousand pounds. And it’s not even midday.
11:42 I’m doing fine. I’m doing well. I’ve got the Hoover on, I’m cruising along nicely—
What was that? What just went up the Hoover? Why is it making that grinding noise?
Have I broken it?
11:48 How much does a Hoover cost?
12:24 My legs are in total agony. I’ve been kneeling on hard tiles, cleaning the bath, for what seems like hours. There are little ridges where the tiles have dug into my knees, and I’m boiling hot and the cleaning chemicals are making me cough. All I want is a rest. But I can’t stop for a moment. I am so behind …
12:30 What is wrong with this bleach bottle? Which way is the nozzle pointing, anyway? I’m turning it round in confusion, peering at the arrows on the plastic … Why won’t anything come out? OK, I’m going to squeeze it really, really hard—
That nearly got my eye.
12:32 FUCK. What has it done to my HAIR?
By three o’clock I am utterly knackered. I’m only halfway down my list and I can’t see myself ever making it to the end. I don’t know how people clean houses. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever done, ever.
I am not moving smoothly from task to task like Mary Poppins. I’m darting from unfinished job to unfinished job like a headless chicken. Right now I’m standing on a chair, cleaning the mirror in the drawing room. But it’s like some kind of bad dream. The more I rub, the more it smears.
I keep catching glances of myself in the glass. I have never looked more disheveled in my life. My hair is sticking out wildly, with a huge grotesque streak of greeny-blond where I splashed the bleach. My face is bright red and shiny, my hands are pink and sore from scrubbing, and my eyes are bloodshot.
Why won’t it get clean? Why?
“Get clean!” I cry, practically sobbing in frustration. “Get clean, you bloody … bloody—”
“Samantha.”
Abruptly I stop rubbing, to see Nathaniel standing in the doorway. “Have you tried vinegar?”
“Vinegar?”
“It cuts through the grease,” he adds. “It’s good on glass.”
“Oh. Right.” I put my cloth down, trying to regain my cool. “Yes, I knew that.”
Nathaniel shakes his head. “No, you didn’t.”
I look at his adamant face. There’s no point pretending anymore. He knows I’ve never cleaned a house in my life.
“You’re right,” I admit at last. “I didn’t.”
As I get down off the chair, I feel wobbly with fatigue.
“You should have a break,” says Nathaniel firmly. “You’ve been at it all day; I’ve seen you. Did you have any lunch?”
“No time.”
I collapse onto a chair, suddenly too drained to move. Every single muscle in my body is in pain, including muscles I never even knew I had. I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and I still haven’t polished the woodwork or beaten the mats.
“It’s … harder than I thought,” I say at last. “A lot harder.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s peering at my head. “What happened to your hair?”
“Bleach,” I say shortly. “Cleaning the loo.”
He gives a muffled snort of laughter, but I don’t respond. To be honest, I’m beyond caring.
“You’re a hard worker,” he says. “I’ll give you that. And it’ll get easier—”
“I can’t do it.” The words come out before I can stop them. “I can’t do this job. I’m … hopeless.”
“Sure you can.” He rifles through his rucksack and produces a can of Coke. “Have this. You can’t work on no fuel.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it gratefully. I crack open the can and take a gulp, and it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
“The offer still stands,” he adds after a pause. “My mother will give you lessons if you like.”
“Really?” I wipe my mouth, push back my sweaty hair, and look up at him. “She’d … do that?”
“She likes a challenge, my mum.” Nathaniel gives a little smile. “She’ll teach you your way around a kitchen. And … anything else you need to know.”
I feel a sudden burn of humiliation and look away. I don’t want to be useless. I don’t want to need lessons. That’s not who I am. I want to be able to do this on my own, without asking assistance from anyone.
11:12 I have a solution, via the local paper. A girl from the village will collect it, iron it all overnight at £3 a shirt, and sew on Eddie’s button.
So far this job has cost me nearly a thousand pounds. And it’s not even midday.
11:42 I’m doing fine. I’m doing well. I’ve got the Hoover on, I’m cruising along nicely—
What was that? What just went up the Hoover? Why is it making that grinding noise?
Have I broken it?
11:48 How much does a Hoover cost?
12:24 My legs are in total agony. I’ve been kneeling on hard tiles, cleaning the bath, for what seems like hours. There are little ridges where the tiles have dug into my knees, and I’m boiling hot and the cleaning chemicals are making me cough. All I want is a rest. But I can’t stop for a moment. I am so behind …
12:30 What is wrong with this bleach bottle? Which way is the nozzle pointing, anyway? I’m turning it round in confusion, peering at the arrows on the plastic … Why won’t anything come out? OK, I’m going to squeeze it really, really hard—
That nearly got my eye.
12:32 FUCK. What has it done to my HAIR?
By three o’clock I am utterly knackered. I’m only halfway down my list and I can’t see myself ever making it to the end. I don’t know how people clean houses. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever done, ever.
I am not moving smoothly from task to task like Mary Poppins. I’m darting from unfinished job to unfinished job like a headless chicken. Right now I’m standing on a chair, cleaning the mirror in the drawing room. But it’s like some kind of bad dream. The more I rub, the more it smears.
I keep catching glances of myself in the glass. I have never looked more disheveled in my life. My hair is sticking out wildly, with a huge grotesque streak of greeny-blond where I splashed the bleach. My face is bright red and shiny, my hands are pink and sore from scrubbing, and my eyes are bloodshot.
Why won’t it get clean? Why?
“Get clean!” I cry, practically sobbing in frustration. “Get clean, you bloody … bloody—”
“Samantha.”
Abruptly I stop rubbing, to see Nathaniel standing in the doorway. “Have you tried vinegar?”
“Vinegar?”
“It cuts through the grease,” he adds. “It’s good on glass.”
“Oh. Right.” I put my cloth down, trying to regain my cool. “Yes, I knew that.”
Nathaniel shakes his head. “No, you didn’t.”
I look at his adamant face. There’s no point pretending anymore. He knows I’ve never cleaned a house in my life.
“You’re right,” I admit at last. “I didn’t.”
As I get down off the chair, I feel wobbly with fatigue.
“You should have a break,” says Nathaniel firmly. “You’ve been at it all day; I’ve seen you. Did you have any lunch?”
“No time.”
I collapse onto a chair, suddenly too drained to move. Every single muscle in my body is in pain, including muscles I never even knew I had. I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and I still haven’t polished the woodwork or beaten the mats.
“It’s … harder than I thought,” I say at last. “A lot harder.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s peering at my head. “What happened to your hair?”
“Bleach,” I say shortly. “Cleaning the loo.”
He gives a muffled snort of laughter, but I don’t respond. To be honest, I’m beyond caring.
“You’re a hard worker,” he says. “I’ll give you that. And it’ll get easier—”
“I can’t do it.” The words come out before I can stop them. “I can’t do this job. I’m … hopeless.”
“Sure you can.” He rifles through his rucksack and produces a can of Coke. “Have this. You can’t work on no fuel.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it gratefully. I crack open the can and take a gulp, and it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
“The offer still stands,” he adds after a pause. “My mother will give you lessons if you like.”
“Really?” I wipe my mouth, push back my sweaty hair, and look up at him. “She’d … do that?”
“She likes a challenge, my mum.” Nathaniel gives a little smile. “She’ll teach you your way around a kitchen. And … anything else you need to know.”
I feel a sudden burn of humiliation and look away. I don’t want to be useless. I don’t want to need lessons. That’s not who I am. I want to be able to do this on my own, without asking assistance from anyone.
