be on Saturday,’ Mrs Button was saying. ‘Between eleven and twelve, when there’s plenty of sun around the back.’
I won’t be having open homes, thank you,’ said Mum.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to, Martha.’
‘Any old Tom, Dick and Harry poking around the place.’ Mum was carrying on as though Mrs Button hadn’t said anything.
‘Open homes are all part and parcel of the selling process. It would be highly unusual not to have open homes.’
‘Highly unusual, but not unheard of,’ said Mum.
‘Think about it this way. Would you buy a home without looking through it?’
‘I most certainly would. If I got the right feeling about a place, I would.’
‘And how would that right feeling come to you, do you think?’
‘Oh Claudia, don’t tell me you’ve never had a gut instinct about something. You see it, you just know. You just go for it.’
‘I see. So we’re back where we started, whereby the passerby falls unconditionally in love with your house and buys it, interior unseen.’
Silence.
‘The first open home will be this Saturday. Have a good clean-up, put fresh flowers on the table and do some baking just before. The smell enhances the appeal, attracts buyers.’
Mrs Button laughed and, to my total surprise, Mum laughed with her. Then Mrs Button collected her sandals and the broken heel from the kitchen and left via the front door. She walked down the path, out the front gate, and turned left to start the two-block walk to her car in bare feet. I watched, holding my breath. She didn’t stop to read the for sale sign.
Did my mother clean and tidy the house before the open home? Did she buy fresh flowers and bake nice-smelling buyer cakes? Of course she didn’t. She made no particular effort at all. She got up that Saturday morning, got dressed and went in to work. The house looked the same as it did every other day — a shambles, in Mum’s language.
Did I do anything to enhance the appeal of our house? I am proud to say I didn’t. In fact, I spent the days between Mrs Button’s visit and the open home thinking up ways of putting buyers off. These included importing ants into the kitchen, stuffing sour-smelling milk cartons behind the hot-water cylinder and emptying black food colouring into the water tank.
When Saturday morning came, I walked around the house, trying to see it through the eyes of strangers. It was a ruin. I couldn’t imagine anyone would want to buy it. But I hadn’t counted on the amazing spruce-up powers of Mrs Button.
The open home started at eleven, but she arrived at eight-thirty . Mum had left, and I was eating breakfast in the kitchen.
‘Katie! You’re still here,’ she said. She had come in through the front door; Mum must have given her a key. No more backdoor slinking for Mrs Button.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You are going out, aren’t you.’ Another of Mrs Button’s orders disguised as a question.
‘I thought I would stay and watch,’ I said.
‘It’s not a TV show, Katie. I’m sorry, but you can’t stay.’
‘Why not? It’s still our house.’
Mrs Button sighed. ‘Because it’s upsetting, sometimes.And for the buyers, it can be … you just can’t stay. It’s not real estate sale practice.’
‘Alright then. Can I finish my breakfast?’
‘If you hurry,’ Mrs Button said.
I watched as she got to work. She started on the kitchen. She scrubbed, scoured, mopped, wiped. She turned the oven on so warmth came out, and sprayed something out of a can. She grinned at me. ‘Banana cake fragrance. Real estate agent’s secret weapon.’
On she went through the house. She picked up, vacuumed, polished, arranged, rearranged, straightened. She moved furniture to cover the wallpaper problems. Mirrors sparkled, dust disappeared. Rugs I had never seen before appeared over the worst of the red carpet. She ran water through the taps, unlocking the air bubbles that made them shake. She muttered about the colour of the water, but she didn’t
I won’t be having open homes, thank you,’ said Mum.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to, Martha.’
‘Any old Tom, Dick and Harry poking around the place.’ Mum was carrying on as though Mrs Button hadn’t said anything.
‘Open homes are all part and parcel of the selling process. It would be highly unusual not to have open homes.’
‘Highly unusual, but not unheard of,’ said Mum.
‘Think about it this way. Would you buy a home without looking through it?’
‘I most certainly would. If I got the right feeling about a place, I would.’
‘And how would that right feeling come to you, do you think?’
‘Oh Claudia, don’t tell me you’ve never had a gut instinct about something. You see it, you just know. You just go for it.’
‘I see. So we’re back where we started, whereby the passerby falls unconditionally in love with your house and buys it, interior unseen.’
Silence.
‘The first open home will be this Saturday. Have a good clean-up, put fresh flowers on the table and do some baking just before. The smell enhances the appeal, attracts buyers.’
Mrs Button laughed and, to my total surprise, Mum laughed with her. Then Mrs Button collected her sandals and the broken heel from the kitchen and left via the front door. She walked down the path, out the front gate, and turned left to start the two-block walk to her car in bare feet. I watched, holding my breath. She didn’t stop to read the for sale sign.
Did my mother clean and tidy the house before the open home? Did she buy fresh flowers and bake nice-smelling buyer cakes? Of course she didn’t. She made no particular effort at all. She got up that Saturday morning, got dressed and went in to work. The house looked the same as it did every other day — a shambles, in Mum’s language.
Did I do anything to enhance the appeal of our house? I am proud to say I didn’t. In fact, I spent the days between Mrs Button’s visit and the open home thinking up ways of putting buyers off. These included importing ants into the kitchen, stuffing sour-smelling milk cartons behind the hot-water cylinder and emptying black food colouring into the water tank.
When Saturday morning came, I walked around the house, trying to see it through the eyes of strangers. It was a ruin. I couldn’t imagine anyone would want to buy it. But I hadn’t counted on the amazing spruce-up powers of Mrs Button.
The open home started at eleven, but she arrived at eight-thirty . Mum had left, and I was eating breakfast in the kitchen.
‘Katie! You’re still here,’ she said. She had come in through the front door; Mum must have given her a key. No more backdoor slinking for Mrs Button.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You are going out, aren’t you.’ Another of Mrs Button’s orders disguised as a question.
‘I thought I would stay and watch,’ I said.
‘It’s not a TV show, Katie. I’m sorry, but you can’t stay.’
‘Why not? It’s still our house.’
Mrs Button sighed. ‘Because it’s upsetting, sometimes.And for the buyers, it can be … you just can’t stay. It’s not real estate sale practice.’
‘Alright then. Can I finish my breakfast?’
‘If you hurry,’ Mrs Button said.
I watched as she got to work. She started on the kitchen. She scrubbed, scoured, mopped, wiped. She turned the oven on so warmth came out, and sprayed something out of a can. She grinned at me. ‘Banana cake fragrance. Real estate agent’s secret weapon.’
On she went through the house. She picked up, vacuumed, polished, arranged, rearranged, straightened. She moved furniture to cover the wallpaper problems. Mirrors sparkled, dust disappeared. Rugs I had never seen before appeared over the worst of the red carpet. She ran water through the taps, unlocking the air bubbles that made them shake. She muttered about the colour of the water, but she didn’t
Similar Books
