by Sam Sparks
The Viewing
A Short Story
By Sam Sparks
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2017. Sam Sparks. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author. Email: [email protected]
The sealing of my fate was finally made official when the Judge in Chambers looked over his half-rims:
‘You’ve taken advice on this?’
I nodded, he sighed and put his signature on the form that would require me to comply with the law in respect of bankruptcy. The rules are if you get any money, then the Government wants to know about it.
The next step was a visit to the Office of the Official Receiver with my accountant. He assured me that as my accounts were up to date, there would be no difficult questions, a rubber stamp job. He was right. Outside the Receiver’s having done the deed, a large part of my world had officially collapsed.
‘Bitterly sorry for you James, you did well to keep it going this long. The recession has taken a savage toll. I’m seeing it on an almost daily basis now.’
It was no consolation.
He asked me if I had any rainy day money stashed away. I did. The bean counter shook my hand and couldn’t quite make eye contact before he left me.
The previous few weeks were a round of making people redundant. The Print Works had been a good business for some twelve happy years, but in recent times my customers couldn’t pay me. As a result, I couldn’t service my overheads. Vicious circle. The house would go and the car as well. Bleak, the whole bloody business.
I was drowning my sorrows at home, the landline rang I wasn’t much in the mood for talking and let it ring off. The voicemail engaged, it was my uncle Guy. This was odd, because although I’d not seen him more than five times in the last twenty years, two of those had been in the last year. A yachtmaster who had spent the greater portion of his life at sea, never putting down roots, that was uncle Guy. I listened to the message. As his only living relative, it sounded like he wanted to make a more meaningful familial connection. This was timely. I rang back.
I explained my predicament and found a kindred spirit. Many years previously he'd suffered a similar fate with a catamaran charter business in Spain. I had his sympathy. However, judging by the way he spoke about it, he’d taken it in his stride. I was not. The difference was he could always get work captaining the next mega- yacht out of some exotic location. If I wanted to stay in the same trade, I would have to work for someone else, not appealing having run my own show.
I'd have to think of something else.
‘Jimmy, I’m going to give you some advice. Get away for a few days, but not somewhere remote, a place you know, with some nice memories.’
He offered me use of his narrow boat, moored near Camden Lock.
In a moment of nostalgia borne out of a bout of my ever-mounting self-pity, I set out to pay a visit to my hometown. Uncle Guy was right, I needed to get away to somewhere I could soothe my mind.
Where I grew up was only a few hours away. I jumped in the car that at some point soon would be repossessed.
It was just going to be a quick pull up outside my childhood home for a couple of minutes. I'd revisit a few memories and then on to the next stop; my old golf club where my days had indeed been happy.
As I pulled up outside 16 Oak Way, I saw a “For Sale” board. The chalet bungalow looked much the same, perhaps a little tired. Memories flooded back, washing the car with Dad, going for my early morning run, walking the dog. Great times.
I sat there for a while, but it was time to move on, then I had this mad idea that I wanted to look inside. I’d have to masquerade as a genuine house-hunting applicant to do that. But why not?
I rang the Agent, identified the property I wanted to view and lied. Wayne the Senior Negotiator grilled me to see if it was worth his effort. Fair enough. They must get time-wasters like everyone else. It necessitated yet more lies from my end.
’Yes I’m about to exchange on mine in London and rent.’
I heard myself say.
The rent part would, sad to say would be true.
The property was a probate sale; perfect. No sellers in situ. Not that it would have been a deal breaker. I just wanted a look round. An appointment was made for later that afternoon. I had some time to kill and drove round a few old haunts; school, grandparent’s house and other stamping grounds. I had lunch at the golf club. That was like a second home to me, well third in truth.
I bumped into someone I’d last seen thirty years ago who was pleased to see me. We did the all our yesterdays, so that was good, yes the therapy was working. I moved on and toured the periphery of my old school, relived a Sports Day memory or two and it was time for the appointment to view.
I’d lived in the house from birth, till Mum and Dad were killed in the car crash. I was fourteen. Grandma brought me up; her house was my second home.
As I looked up and down the road for the Estate Agent to pitch up, more memories made their presence felt. Even the one of me as a five year old pretending to be a gangster when I locked an old lady in her garage, by mistake I hasten to add. The agent’s car could be seem coming down the road, resplendent in company purple, yellow and white livery. How times have changed. I was pondering this, when “How can I help you today Wayne” sprang out of the car. He had young upwardly mobile Estate Agent written all over him. All shiny suit, even shinier hair and shoes that seemed to go on for far too long. The ones that would have been called “winkle pickers” back in the day. As I followed him down the path that I had trod a million times before, I reflected that this was going to be a weird experience.
As he opened the front door, Wayne went into the sales spiel. I switched off after the ” you don’t get anywhere near this amount of land with property these days...” My mind was in another time zone. Flashbacks of Mum in the kitchen baking. She loved that. Dad bowling to me in the back garden, balls flying over the fence into next door. The old dear who lived at number eighteen enjoyed throwing them back. Dad told her we called her third slip; made her laugh.
A hundred other memories, that made me feel teary, marched through my mind and becoming a battle of emotions I was in danger of losing. It could have become embarrassing; a grown man, bursting into tears, for seemingly no apparent reason. I needed to buy some time to recover myself.
‘I’m going to take a look at the garage’ I said and set off towards the back entrance. I’d gone three steps before I realised my mistake. Only someone familiar with the property would know about the back entrance. I checked my step; the shock of potentially dropping myself in the proverbial cart knocked my emotions out the way. Had he noticed my faux pas? Yes.
‘How did you know the garage had a back entrance Mr. Lister?’
‘The floor plan’s online isn’t it?’ I responded.
‘Of course.’
We were concluding the viewing and I was about to thank Wayne and depart, but my eye caught the loft trap door. Something that happened when I was about ten, surfaced from my subconscious:
Mum was calling me in for tea, usual thing:
‘Tea’s going to be ready soon, James. Come in and wash your hands.’ The phone had rung, Mum answered; it was her friend,
Liz. Historically had the potential to delay tea by a long while. The loft ladder was down, the hatch was open, Dad was in the loft. I climbed the ladder, taking care not to make any noise. I was going to make him jump. My head peeped over the open hatch and there was Dad removing a brick from the wall. I abandoned the original plan and watched instead.
I saw him stuff something into where the brick had been and cement the hole up. Even at my tender age it looked odd. He hadn’t seen me as he was intent on his bit of masonry work and my head was obscured by the water tank.
Then the ladder creaked and got his attention. Boy, was he angry with me! At the time I thought I had done something terribly wrong. Why was he so out of character cross? What was the big deal?
I could recall a few times I’d been naughty and only received a light reprimand. No, this reaction was way out of perspective for a usually levelheaded easygoing man. The agent looked like he wanted to be off.
‘Can I just have a quick look in the loft? I asked. You could see this was not what he wanted to hear. Before I gave him chance to turn my request down, I continued. ’It’s just that I have an interest in model railways; my layout is quite large so I just need to make sure.
If that’s ok? Love the property, just what me and my wife