The Cleaner

A short story inspired by my friend’s stories of the worst houses she has cleaned.

The shovel was heavier than she had expected. Normally the walk from home through the village and on to the lane only took 12 minutes but with the added weight she was definitely late. Terry had loaned her the shovel, the head had a special angle and it curved deeper than garden spades, it was just what she needed- he had told her. He had neglected to mention how much it actually weighed. Terry had spent his Thursday night cleaning it up for her. She tried moving the shovel so it rested over her shoulder. Not far to go. The grey ankle boots she had chosen slipped on the wet leaves that plastered the pavement. October had finally flexed its muscles and with it big winds and heavy rain had brought the burning leaves down from the trees already. Not a crisp slow autumn this year, a furious damp dumping of mild weather. 

The face of a skeleton made her jump. Her body jolted visibly; the shovel slipped from one shoulder and her handbag from the other. She had forgotten about number 16’s decorative window display. The grotesque skull was part of a skeleton that had been arranged to look like it was climbing up onto the window ledge. Red eyes glinted menacingly at her through the glass. It was surrounded by other ugly decorations including a witch doll with a hooked nose that featured an uncomfortably realistic wart. She made another one of her mental notes to walk the long way home with Little Terry when she collected him from school later, so he could peer into the window too. He liked Halloween more than Christmas at the moment. Last year she had been forced to give in and let him keep the glittery fake pumpkins on display on his bedroom window ledge.

She kept walking, pulling her scarf out from inside her jacket to try and cool herself a little as she made her way up the hill to the house. It was known as The Big House in the village and on her estate. It sat apart from the rest of the buildings like a monument that everyone else had come to the village to pay tribute to. She had been so excited just over a week ago when Mary in the Co-op had told her that the family were looking for a new housekeeper. 15 hours a week across Monday, Wednesday and Friday; the laundry would need doing but no ironing. £200 a week. What a dream. When she went for her interview, she had discovered by way of the sign on the gate it was actually called Long Copse House. Probably because of the long sweeping gravel lane that led to it, flanked by trees and trios of tiny cottages.

‘They once belonged to the house’ The Lady had said wistfully nodding to the nine neat houses. ‘But at some point, after the Second World War, they were sold to be private homes. I won’t let anyone change them or park cars in front of them, really this road is ours so I have that right.’

The Cleaner had nodded and smiled as if she knew what it was like to be able to tell other people where to park their cars. She had worn a smart black skirt and pale cream blouse to meet The Lady. She thought that looking the part was important, like someone from Downton Abbey, but modern. Of course, The Lady wasn’t really an actual Lady – not one with a title – but The Cleaner had been too nervous to think of anything else to call her in her mind. It seemed to fit, made their places clear. The Cleaner liked things ordered in her mind as much as her clients’ houses, that’s what made her good. She was quietly very proud of how well she could organise other people.

‘We’ve got seven bedrooms, two downstairs bathrooms and four upstairs bathrooms. I’d like you to keep on top of the guest bedrooms and bathrooms as sometimes the children use them. It’s a Georgian building so high ceilings you will need to dust, and these large windows you will need to clean, and plenty to do in every room.’ The Lady had shown her all the rooms explaining the current housekeeper had just finished for the day. She huffed about the lack of commitment from local firms she had used, whereas in Kensington they had kept their housekeeper for years.

‘I mean really it’s here I need the help as the children are here, we’re barely up in town anymore.’ The Lady had said in her clipped accent. Her hair was long and blonde and her nails looked perfectly manicured. When the Cleaner stood close to her at the foot of the oldest child’s pristine bed looking at how the stuffed animals were arranged, she caught an odd smell. A fermenting scent. Something sweet and rich but with a rotten edge that played on her nostrils.

On the walk home she had stopped and bought prosecco to celebrate the new job. Three five-hour shifts, she would need to be efficient: Mondays the kitchen would need to be deep cleaned and the playroom organised from the weekend. Wednesday she should strip the beds and get mid-week laundry loads cleaned and dried. Fridays she would make everything perfect for the family, fresh pjs folded on the end of each kid’s bed. The house was already so neat and they didn’t even want her to iron!

A lot of her other clients, like the young couple on the new build estate, asked for at least their bedding to be ironed. She knew Emily (that was the name of the new build lady and she had been very clear about being called it) always needed anything made of linen ironing and she was happy to do it. She liked cleaning the new build house, and in the school holidays Little Terry came along and played in the garden and pulled pieces of string along the floor for the cat. Sometimes Emily left extra treats like Easter eggs or ice lollies in the summer. It was always a mess when The Cleaner got there every other week. Emily would hover in the hallway giving off an air of nervous chaos which explained a lot of the mess, and the random things tucked into cupboards that she had obviously panicked over that morning. But she was nice and asked about both Terrys and what was happening in The Cleaner’s life except, Emily called her Lauren. On that same walk home after The Lady had asked her to start on Monday, she had thought maybe by the Christmas holidays she would know The Lady well enough to ask if Little Terry could come and help her clean. The playroom was a treasure trove full of magic; Little Terry would lose himself in there for all 15 hours and she could trust him to leave things organised, he was like her.

That weekend she had been so eager for Monday to come. She had made a mental map of the house thinking back through each beautiful room. The sumptuous fabrics the colours and the features; she would be able to add her favourite touches throughout the house. Vases of flowers, a bowl of fresh lemons or fresh eggs in the kitchen, maybe more fruit in the dining room like the paintings she had seen all that time ago on a school trip. She thought about how beautiful it would be in the spring opening the large sash windows to let in fresh air to her perfectly clean rooms. 

Yet one week later she was carrying a shovel. Her jeans slipped down from walking so fast, damp sweat between her shoulder blades and her plans had been all muddled. She turned her key in the lock as it clicked, she took a deep breath of the fresh rain scented air. Holding her breath wasn’t enough though. The acrid scent of unflushed toilets wafted down the stairs accompanied by the unmistakeable pang of old nappies: shit stink and the disguising talcum perfume that caught in the back of her throat. The Cleaner gently placed the shovel against the door and fished in her handbag for the plastic overshoes Terry had convinced their neighbour who worked for British Gas to give her. She ventured into the house. The soiled nappy was open on the floor by the plush blue velvet sofa in the kids living room. It also looked like dinner had been thrown across the room again and a damp rusk sat in a puddle of liquid on the play table. The Cleaner crept through the ground floor of the house opening doors and windows. The real oak kitchen floor was streaked in chicken shit, tyre marks from the kid’s scooters laced yet another pattern over the floor. She picked up the bin with its crisp softly fragranced liner firmly in place as she had left it on Wednesday.

‘Empty.’ She muttered.

She held the bin against her body with her left arm and worked her way methodically through each room on the ground floor first just collecting the rubbish. The nappy, the crisp packets, satsuma peel, apple cores, discarded tissues and bloody plasters that were scattered across the house. Somewhere in every room: behind cushions, thrown into corners… as if each item was in the place they felt it best to leave it for her. Something that might have been yellow had dried onto one of the couch cushions, it was from The White Company – she had seen that Tesco had done a good copy when she had been thinking of some new cushions for her couch. She carried it to the utility room, as she pushed on the door something on the other side was caught so she shoved, using her whole body. The flagstone floor (as close to original as the family could source) was no longer visible. Silk blouses, crumpled work shirts, cashmere jumpers, school uniforms, knickers, boxers and muddy trainers, all tangled in a mass of fabrics she would need to sort and launder. She reached over and placed the cushion on the draining board of the Belfast sink taking stock of what lay before her. She judged the volume, various fabrics, and contrasting colours and from this began to calculate how many potential loads would be needed. She needed to get upstairs and strip the beds.

Without looking, she flushed each of the seven toilets hoping the contents would disappear in a few flushes and not need any further intervention beyond oodles of bleach. She used the shovel to clear a path through the playroom where, once she had the laundry started, she would systematically and quite literally shovel all the objects back into the various storage boxes. On Monday she had spent time organising all the toys into categories for storage only to find everything dispersed over the playroom floor again on Wednesday. Her first battle conceded she had decided just to shovel them away. She would have to inspect each shovel full for rotting snacks. She stripped the beds efficiently, but her hand still caught a soggy biscuit on one of the pillows.  When she went to check the master bedroom, she found a note on the dressing table:

‘Amy was sick in our bed on Wednesday so flip the mattress.’

The Cleaner looked at the sweeping sleigh bed with its dove grey sheets bunched in a tangle, one corner left neatly in place.

The smell gave it away.

***

The tonic bubbles fizzed and lifted the ice cubes swirling into the large measure of gin the bartender had poured her. The tonic tasted clean.

‘I am so sorry I am late, couldn’t get away from the mother in law, not that she knows she’s got the kids so I can meet you in the pub!’ Ali said as she dumped her handbag and jacket on the stool next to Lauren and started untangling herself from a blanket masquerading as a scarf.

‘I’ll have a large glass of sauvignon please babe, ohmygod so it was your first week! What’s it like in there? Do you think I can come and have a nosey? I’m dying to see their kitchen I bet it’s amazing, what colour are their walls painted? Is it all like cool colours you see on insta?’

Lauren looked up from the lime wedge gently rotating in the tonic bubbles.