splotches. If so, that’s exactly it.
The answer to this problem of the peeling house was to repaint it. Obviously. A lighter colour that reflected the sun, rather than absorbed it. A few years ago, just after Dad went away, Mum realised this. She went to the hardware store on a mission to buy paint and to hire someone to come and do the job. She came back quite excited — forher — with a small piece of cardboard that was a grey-blue colour.
‘Sea-mist,’ she announced, fanning the card in my face. ‘Our house will be this sea-mist colour. We could even call it that, put a little plaque on the front door.’
I liked the idea a lot. It didn’t matter that we lived inland, where no sea-mist would ever drift. I had secret hopes that this development might lead to some more modern improvements, such as Sky TV.
But two days later, a man and a woman came to the front door and asked to speak to my mother. The man was wearing too-short jeans that sagged in the backside and a shabby navy sweatshirt. The woman was agrarian Karori, head to toe. I stood behind Mum as they introduced themselves as members of the local Heritage Committee.
‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’ asked Mum.
‘It advises the council,’ replied the man. ‘About our lovely heritage properties.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mum, looking them both up and down.
‘Can we come in for a moment?’ asked the woman.
‘I’m just going out, sorry,’ said Mum. I didn’t know this, and I wondered where. Then again, the visitors’ clothes would have been enough to justify a fib, as far as my mother was concerned.
‘Oh. Well, it’s just an enquiry,’ said the man. ‘We understand you’re having your house painted.’
Mum’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Heavens to Betsy, you understand , do you? And in what way is that anyone else’s business but mine?’
Neither of them answered.
‘Are you aware your house is heritage listed?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, of course.’ Mum smiled her old money smile: understanding but all-knowing.
‘The thing is, you are obliged to keep to the original colours of the house, Mrs Des Moines. It is spinach green, that you’ve chosen?’
I was behind my mother, so I couldn’t see her face. But from the back she grew, like the Incredible Hulk during his transformation. Her hands flew to her hips.
‘Excuse me? Spinach? Would you like to come and have a look at what burnt spinach looks like?’
‘We know how hard it is, Mrs Des Moines,’ said the woman. ‘The upkeep of these heritage properties. But …’
‘Are you offering to pay for the paint job?’ Mum interrupted.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry. There is provision in the bylaw to provide funding for restoration, except when the owners are able to meet the expense themselves.’
‘Well, let me assure you, this owner isn’t.’
‘But have you not already ordered paint?’ said the woman.
‘Yes, I have ordered paint.’
‘Well, then,’ said the man.
‘I’ve ordered long-lasting, heat-reflective, inoff ensive seamist . I will not pay for wilting spinach.’
‘I’m afraid if you are going to paint the house, it must be in spinach,’ said the man. The agrarian woman nodded at him and Mum with one of those Hey, what can you do? expressions on her face.
‘For crying out loud,’ said Mum. ‘If that’s the case, I won’tbe painting it at all.’ And she shut the door.
That’s how our house came to be in such a state. My mother refused to touch a thing after the row on the front steps with the people from the committee. She seemed to take a pride in abandoning even the inexpensive maintenance. I’d watch her kick her way down the front steps every morning, holding her good skirt close to her so it didn’t get snagged in the overgrown rose bushes along the front path. She left the broken gate swinging, and headed off to work.
The lawnmower sat unused in the shed, the handrail fell away from the broken concrete steps
The answer to this problem of the peeling house was to repaint it. Obviously. A lighter colour that reflected the sun, rather than absorbed it. A few years ago, just after Dad went away, Mum realised this. She went to the hardware store on a mission to buy paint and to hire someone to come and do the job. She came back quite excited — forher — with a small piece of cardboard that was a grey-blue colour.
‘Sea-mist,’ she announced, fanning the card in my face. ‘Our house will be this sea-mist colour. We could even call it that, put a little plaque on the front door.’
I liked the idea a lot. It didn’t matter that we lived inland, where no sea-mist would ever drift. I had secret hopes that this development might lead to some more modern improvements, such as Sky TV.
But two days later, a man and a woman came to the front door and asked to speak to my mother. The man was wearing too-short jeans that sagged in the backside and a shabby navy sweatshirt. The woman was agrarian Karori, head to toe. I stood behind Mum as they introduced themselves as members of the local Heritage Committee.
‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’ asked Mum.
‘It advises the council,’ replied the man. ‘About our lovely heritage properties.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mum, looking them both up and down.
‘Can we come in for a moment?’ asked the woman.
‘I’m just going out, sorry,’ said Mum. I didn’t know this, and I wondered where. Then again, the visitors’ clothes would have been enough to justify a fib, as far as my mother was concerned.
‘Oh. Well, it’s just an enquiry,’ said the man. ‘We understand you’re having your house painted.’
Mum’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Heavens to Betsy, you understand , do you? And in what way is that anyone else’s business but mine?’
Neither of them answered.
‘Are you aware your house is heritage listed?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, of course.’ Mum smiled her old money smile: understanding but all-knowing.
‘The thing is, you are obliged to keep to the original colours of the house, Mrs Des Moines. It is spinach green, that you’ve chosen?’
I was behind my mother, so I couldn’t see her face. But from the back she grew, like the Incredible Hulk during his transformation. Her hands flew to her hips.
‘Excuse me? Spinach? Would you like to come and have a look at what burnt spinach looks like?’
‘We know how hard it is, Mrs Des Moines,’ said the woman. ‘The upkeep of these heritage properties. But …’
‘Are you offering to pay for the paint job?’ Mum interrupted.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry. There is provision in the bylaw to provide funding for restoration, except when the owners are able to meet the expense themselves.’
‘Well, let me assure you, this owner isn’t.’
‘But have you not already ordered paint?’ said the woman.
‘Yes, I have ordered paint.’
‘Well, then,’ said the man.
‘I’ve ordered long-lasting, heat-reflective, inoff ensive seamist . I will not pay for wilting spinach.’
‘I’m afraid if you are going to paint the house, it must be in spinach,’ said the man. The agrarian woman nodded at him and Mum with one of those Hey, what can you do? expressions on her face.
‘For crying out loud,’ said Mum. ‘If that’s the case, I won’tbe painting it at all.’ And she shut the door.
That’s how our house came to be in such a state. My mother refused to touch a thing after the row on the front steps with the people from the committee. She seemed to take a pride in abandoning even the inexpensive maintenance. I’d watch her kick her way down the front steps every morning, holding her good skirt close to her so it didn’t get snagged in the overgrown rose bushes along the front path. She left the broken gate swinging, and headed off to work.
The lawnmower sat unused in the shed, the handrail fell away from the broken concrete steps
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