Care of Wooden Floors

by Will Wiles

  But it had never been neutral. It had always been subtly against me. I saw it now, every little gemlike detail. I had been intimidated the moment I had walked in the door. Maybe that was the purpose of the flat. Perfection is aggressive. It is a rebuke.

  The cat. Did ghosts eat? Cats ate, for sure, and after twenty-four hours in the wild, Oskar’s would be hungry. If it had made a visit in the night, perhaps it had eaten some of the food I had left out for it.

  I turned to leave the study but, before going through the door, I felt compelled to turn again and check that the piano lid was closed. It was. The black-lacquer S-curve of its side turned reflected sunlight into shining vertical lines, helplessly orderly.

  It was hard to tell if the cat food had been raided in the night. There was a lot left on the plate, but I was still leaving out a whole tin of the stuff, enough for two. The only way to be sure that some had gone would be to take the empty can out of the bin and scoop the plate’s contents back into it. I was not going to do that.

  On the kitchen table was a third-full bottle of wine, a used wine glass, and the dirty plate I had eaten a light supper from the previous evening. Care of Wooden Floors lay beside the plate, Chandler Novack’s face grinning up at me from the back cover.

  I looked back at the failed patch of re-finished floor. It was no less noticeable. If anything, it appeared to be getting more yellow. Its surface was too shiny, a trashy splash of glare against the silky sheen of the undamaged boards. What else did Novack have to say? He had not written a short book – it couldn’t all be about rugs and Yggdrasil and inner oneness. I knew there was more.

  In cases of severe or extensive damage, it might be necessary to re-sand the whole floor with an industrial sander...

  No, not possible. I scanned ahead, through paragraphs and pages about sanders and dust and facemasks and all the things I would not be doing. Then:

  Alternatively, depending on the quality of the floor, it may be possible to simply lift a damaged board and flip it over, hiding the problem area.

  That sounded possible. It sounded better than possible – it had the shape of the perfect solution, effective and elegant. The stains did not have to disappear – Oskar could live with them unaware. They might never be discovered.

  But how to lift the floorboards? Oskar had the tools, but the boards were beautifully laid, without space between them for a sheet of cigarette paper. The small nails that held down the boards were more like surgical pins than construction equipment – their dull silver heads were microdots flush with the surface of the wood. It was immediately obvious that the boards could not simply be levered up, nor could the nails be prised out, without gouging, denting or cracking the skin of the wood.

  The problem perplexed me for a time. It was a question of finding an angle, some chink or flaw that would accept the claw of a hammer or the sharp end of a screwdriver or chisel. Before long, my eye fell upon the step that separated the kitchen from the living area. At the edge of this step was a simple protective wooden moulding held in place by unguarded cross-head screws – if these screws and the strip of moulding were removed, the end of the kitchen floorboards would be exposed and they could be safely prised up. I could then flip them over to reveal their undamaged undersides. Of course it was possible that the undersides might not have the same high-quality finish as the top of the boards. More than possible – however good the floor, surely it wouldn’t be sanded and polished on both sides of each board. But it was worth a try.

  I gathered the tools I thought I might need on a sheet of paper on the floor next to the step and paused. Why I paused, I don’t know, but I stopped. Perhaps it was the fact that I was kneeling, but for a moment, I felt like praying. I wanted to ask for good fortune – I wanted this to work. If the boards could not be flipped, or the job fouled up somehow and could not be put right, I had exhausted the possibility of fixing the floor. I would have to surrender and either be honest with Oskar or flee the country. The first of those options was not very appealing, but the second did have a certain allure. I had never fled a country before; I suppose few people of my background have. There was a glamour to it. The thought gave me the same thrill that sometimes came to me when I looked for my flight on the departure board of an international airport. Reading that endlessly refreshing list of names – La Paz, Riga, Lagos, Jakarta – I am filled with a sense of equidistance from every point in the world. The straight line of my planned journey scatters like a narrow beam of light shot through a prism, revealing its spectrum. I could go anywhere.

  But I would not be going anywhere – I would be fleeing home, back to London, back to the off-white walls and hairline cracks I had left behind, with a fresh pile of bills on the mat. Strange how little choice we have over the rooms in which we live our lives – I was shunted into a barely satisfactory flat, with a toilet by the front door, by the clumsy mechanics of the market, and I spent my time toiling in that flat, or equally unappealing offices, in order to pay the rent. Oskar had had the – what? Talent? Skill? Cunning? Discipline? Dumb luck? – good fortune to exercise total control over his environment, to build this personal paradise. And when he had offered me the chance to look after it for him, it had looked like a chance to break free of the old patterns of my inadequate world. And now a week had passed and all I had to show for it was a trail of devastation. In spoiling Oskar’s flat, I had spoiled my own chance to use it as a springboard to self-improvement. If there was a chance that the situation could still be put right, I had to take it. And I wanted to know right away if the plan could work. By the end of today, I vowed to myself, either the floor would be fixed or I would tell Oskar the truth. And I would not just tell him about the floor: I would tell him about the sofa, the cleaner, the cat...the cats, plural, if the other had not yet returned.

  I set to work. The cross-head screws that held the strip of moulding in place came out cleanly and a two-foot length was easy to remove. I tried to put it back in place – it fitted perfectly, and the screws seemed to spin back into their holes without a fuss. Returning it to its old position would not be a problem.

  Now the ends of the kitchen floorboards were exposed. I examined them. It was impossible to get the grip that would let me pull one up with my fingers alone – I would have to slip something between the floorboard and the joist it was nailed to in order to lever it up. It was a very close fit, with not the slightest gap between the two pieces of wood, pushed down by the weight of everyone who had walked in Oskar’s kitchen. I was not convinced that the heads of Oskar’s screwdrivers were slender enough to worm in between board and joist without damaging the wood, and he had no suitable chisels.

  On the plate on the kitchen table was the little paring knife I had used the previous night to cut slices of cheese and salami. It had a slender blade culminating in a sharp point. But it also had traces of food on it, and I was concerned about bending or even snapping it, or dulling its ferocious edge. I opened the drawbridge door of the dishwasher, pulled out the white wire tray on wheels, and put in the knife and the other dirty things from the table – with the exception of the wine glass. Then I resumed my hunt for a suitable prising implement, finding after a short time a springy palette knife in a drawer.

  To my surprise, this knife slipped sweetly between the floorboard and the joist, and the board rose a millimetre out of place with only the slightest effort. A small push created a large enough gap for me to slip in my fingers and pull up the board. Its underside felt smooth and cool, just like the top. My fingertips thrilled at the sensation – it felt the same! It was the same!

  There was a noise from the direction of the bedroom – a muffled rattle. It could have been a feline knocking something over. I listened – nothing.

  ‘Puss?’ I said.

  An un-catlike metallic jingling was followed by the unmistakable rasp of a key being pushed into a lock.

  My heart dropped into a bucket of ice water.

  ‘Oskar?’

  No answer. The lock t
urned and the door opened, and I heard a shuffle of feet. In a terrible moment of vertigo, I saw myself, I saw what I was doing, I saw how it looked. The stains, the removed moulding, the floorboard lifted out of place. Panic lurched through me – I wanted to put everything right or cover everything up in an instant, but it was impossible, there was no time, literally, zero time. I stood up, acting mostly on instinct, without any plan. My knees complained and my foot remembered its wound, making me wince.

  Through the glass partition, I saw the cleaner advancing down the corridor. And she saw me, fixing me with a sulphurous scowl. She was carrying a mop, its lank grey end up like the shrunken head of one of her victims on a pike. In an unpractised rush that must have reeked of wrongdoing, I leapt to the end of the hallway, attempting to halt her before she saw the kitchen floor. In her mopless hand was a bucket full of cleaning supplies.

  ‘Hi!’ I said, trying to sound bright and cheerful, but instead just squeaking. ‘Hi. This isn’t a good time, actually – do you think you could come back tomorrow?’

  She didn’t even slow down and, death-ray eyes locked on target, marched right into my space. I had to flatten myself against the wall to avoid a collision. The bedroom door was nearby – it was so tempting to slip through it, barricade it behind me, pack, and see if I could exit through the window like the cats. But the cleaner had reached the kitchen already. I heard a gasp of theatrical horror, followed by a monosyllabic exclamation and a metallic clash as she slammed a heavy bunch of keys down on the counter. She had seen the floor.

  I scuttled after her, into the kitchen. Hearing me approach, she turned around and put down the bucket. Black fury blazed in her eyes. Her upturned bat nose flared like a shotgun’s twin snout.

  ‘——!’ she yelled, thrusting the end of her mop in the direction of the most recent wine stains. ‘——!’ she added, this time giving special emphasis to the floorboard I had lifted out of place.

  Negotiation was clearly pointless, and I was a long way past trying to smooth things over. I wanted her out of my flat.

  ‘Look,’ I said, walking up to her, ‘this isn’t a good time. I want you to go, now.’ I stretched out my arm and pointed as firmly as I could in the direction of the flat’s front door. ‘Go, now!’ I said, willing my voice to develop a hard edge.

  There was little space between us, but she advanced on me anyway, eyes very wide, speaking to me in a way that put – equal – weight – on – every – word. She was holding the mop like a weapon, brandishing it at me.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ I said, but in spite of my intention of making a stand, I was forced to take a step back. Nevertheless, I continued to point. ‘Get out. Get out of my flat!’

  Wait, I thought, what do I mean by my flat?

  I was interrupted by the bedraggled grey head of the mop, which jabbed me in the solar plexus with unexpected force. It was wet, and smelled faintly of disinfectant and stagnant water. Batface was repeating her staccato speech, and on this recital prodded me in the chest with the mop on every word. Again, I had to retreat a step, with care as I sensed the raised floorboard and step behind me. It would be easy to trip. Still she advanced, and each time she prodded with the mop, she did so with a little more strength. The mop head was attached to the handle with an angular metal fixing. It hurt.

  This was insane. She was hurting me. What was she going to do, beat me? Drive me into the bedroom or out of the flat altogether? This was assault!

  Blood roared in my ears. All my muscles frosted with energy.

  ‘Stop that!’ I said – I shouted. ‘Just – stop!’ I shot out my right hand and grabbed the mop just below its head, stopping her thrusting at me. The glare she had focused on me broke and she looked down, puzzled, momentum lost. With a monosyllable that was certainly a curse, she shook the mop, hard. My grip almost broke, so I seized the mop with my left hand as well, taking hold of the stretch of shaft between her hands.

  ‘Give-me-that!’ I said, intending to yank the mop from her grasp, but she was a good deal stronger than I expected and barely budged. We stared at each other. Taking back the momentum, she thrust out her arms, trying to push me back and perhaps even push me over. I staggered, and she turned the push into a pull, clearly meaning to jerk the mop from my hands while I was off balance. But I was not off balance, and instead of letting go I surged forwards, pushing her back.

  This surprised her. She let out a gasp and stumbled back, her hands flying off the mop. It was mine. Trying to regain her balance, the cleaner took a big step back, wind-milling her arms. Behind her, just above floor level, was the open drawbridge of the dishwasher. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but it was already too late. She tried to take another step back and struck the side of the door with her thick ankle. Although her feet were stopped, the considerable weight of the rest of her body continued to travel back, and she half-fell, half-sat on the white wire drawer of the washer with a sickening, jangling crash.

  ‘My God, are you all right?’ I asked, taking a step forwards, mop still in my hands.

  She did not answer, of course, but stared back at me, eyes and mouth wide open with shock, not anger. The colour had drained from her face, leaving it like newsprint. Arms waving in the air, she replanted her feet on the ground before slowly and with obvious effort and pain raising herself up. I wanted to drop the mop and rush over to help her up, but I remained motionless. My feelings were briefly a mystery to me – then I realised that I was terrified.

  The cleaner was back on her feet, but unsteady. Unknowable emotion gathered in her face. All the rage in the room had dissipated and was replaced by grey fear. There was something odd about the way the cleaner was standing. She seemed to acknowledge this, lifting her arms away from her bulk and looking down at her right leg. It was trunk-like and strained under artificial fabric, but I could see nothing wrong with it, and apparently neither could she. Still looking, she started to turn around.

  I believe that I saw it before she did; in any case, we both saw it within a second of each other. Sticking out of the back of the cleaner’s right leg was the silver handle of Oskar’s sharp little paring knife. It had been in the drawer of the dishwasher, point up – its effective little blade was now buried in the fibrous rolls of muscle and fat at the top of the cleaner’s leg.

  Neither of us moved for a moment, and nothing was said, though both our mouths were open now. This handle, this protuberance, was an absurdity, a stray switch from a cyborg appliance – it took a moment to get used to it. I blinked and marvelled at myself – get used to it? She had a knife sticking out of her, it wasn’t something that I should be assimilating into the normal pattern of my day. The damn thing was jutting out of her leg.

  Guilt surged up inside me, writhing black ropes of it squeezing my innards. Had I stabbed her, somehow, by proxy? By an elaborate Wile E. Coyote contrivance that had somehow come right? I ran backwards through events, like leafing through a flick-book the wrong way, scanning each frame for culpability.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

  That was stupid, obviously wrong. What I meant was: How wrong are you? Do I have to call 999? Was it even 999?

  The cleaner moved. Maybe only a couple of seconds had passed since we both saw the silver knife, but it could have been weeks. Colour and animation had returned to her face. She shut her mouth and closed her hand around the silver handle. Without any hesitation, she pulled the blade out of her leg. We both winced. There was no noise. Blood covered the metal, flag-red, and ran off its pointed end – a couple of drops fell towards the floor.

  She looked at the red blade. I looked at the two drops on the floor, a vampire’s bite, thinking of how quickly the other blood, my blood, had formed a permanent mark.

  This thought, of staining, broke me out of the strange, shared reverie. I had to act. I took a step forward and lowered the mop, meaning to use it to remove the blood. But the cleaner also moved, quickly, making me jump. She had tensed, and the anger had re-ignited in
her eyes. There was a difference in the way she was holding the knife – no longer as a dumb object she had picked up, but as a weapon. She was furious, and she was armed.

  My mind a blur, I tried to get a barometer reading on the level of crazy in the room. High? Low? Rising? Falling? There was a blood-slicked knife pointed at me, wielded by someone now watching me with unabashed hatred. But the possibility of actually being slashed or stabbed by this knife, this person, seemed supremely abstract, an outlying scenario on the thin edge of likelihood.

  ‘The blood,’ I said, appealing to her as a cleaner. ‘I just want to catch the blood...’ I stuck out the mop, reached the red drops on the floor, and she lunged at me.

  It was a clunky attack, one that showed she was as unfamiliar with knife fights as I was – starting as a stunted sweep through the air, it ended with a twitchy jab in my direction. Practised or not, it was dangerous, and I leapt back like an electrocuted frog. The cleaner, scything only air, raised the blade above her head and charged at me like a dumpy ninja. Either she screamed or I did – it could have been both of us. I raised the mop to parry the blow – not thinking, arms working on their own initiative – and met success; the blade hit the wood between my white-knuckled hands with a loud, hollow thonk. Another drop of blood was shaken from the knife and hurtled towards the floor.

  The cleaner withdrew her weapon and I backed up slightly, wanting to give both of us more space but also to see where the last blood drop had flown. It had travelled a good few feet, propelled by the force of the blow, and I turned to swab it from the floor. Again, she came at me, moving the instant I lowered my guard. But her approach was slow, and I had a moment to form a response. What, however, was there to do? Hit her? Try to force the knife from her hand or incapacitate her? I had nothing, I was a blank. Crazy she might be, but she was still an old woman – an injured old woman. Splitting her skull with the mop did not seem to be a reasonable approach to the situation.