Awk! It's a madhouse around here! I've just stepped on Sparky, the prone electrician (who yelped, then grinned), and squeezed past the long-suffering painter to gawk at a rat's birdseed stash crammed between the just-delivered sofa's cushions. (That discovery marked the few seconds I've paused today to remember how fiercely I'd battled those huge, determined home invaders for more than three months.) Today, six days before I return to America, is the busiest since this saga began. The end of four months of hard work is at hand.
The "removals" van (a lorry long as Manhattan) is parked in the driveway's wide apron; two burly men grimace and puff as they haul endless boxes of books up 30 big stairs, through the open, main sliding door. More furniture and boxed dishes follow. Stuff is plunked down in the rooms they'll be folded into. Walkways narrow to toothpick-thin. My visiting sister, Kath, and our cousin, Nancy, unwrap each beautifully packed item; shouts of delighted recognition ring through the din. "Hey, I remember when Mom/Aunt Barb bought this ..." Mountainous discarded paper soon envelopes both ladies; comments become muffled. I desperately cram wads back into emptied containers and shove them out the door. Soon that's blocked. Huge, languorous black flies buzz about, and overweight bumblebees, bewildered by walls and windows, hover, confused, over flowery dishes. (The British don't "do" screens, ever.) Bryn Garth cottage is bursting at the seams with boxes, bodies and bonhomie.
Two desperate carpet fitters, who have removed the pantry toilet's door, try to measure and cut as bodies tramp past. Shouts of, "The bloody loo door is gone and we need a toilet!" distract me from gathering paper. I open my bathroom to the relieved workers. Soon a ragged, chatty queue forms.
One carpenter's saw whines just outside the cottage; both "chippies" fashion waist-high library wall panels that look posh -- but are made "quick and cheap."
Three gardeners on the nearby patio pry out Godzilla-sized dandelions from the fountain's rim. (Weeds here rocket to mammoth proportions in Britain's 10-month growing season.)
Three cleaners climb ladders to avoid being trampled while they wipe down each filthy, ceiling-high bookshelf. Soon they'll unpack, wipe clean, then place each tome in its home. Steadily, foot by foot, that lovely room emerges. I need only poke my head in there to feel my spirits soar.
The plumber, carrying a radiator, inches past boxes and bodies until, finally losing patience, he mutters he'll return tomorrow when the madness subsides and he can actually move well enough to do his job. Gulp. I sense his frustration is huge. As he leaves, I contemplate begging ... my bathroom is freezing. But I stifle myself, cultivate a stiff upper lip and resign myself, with a sigh, to one more cold night.
Toward day's end, working flat out, things are nearly sorted. Finishing touches will happen for the next three days, then ... heavens. It's difficult to grasp, but I think I might have a decent, done home here.
Kath, Nancy and I open a dusty bottle of Spanish wine, then slice Double Gloucester cheese and crusty bread to dip in olive oil and salt; real dishes clatter. The sun flames out in a giant, fiery ball of brilliant orange behind the Black Mountains as we survey the still messy cottage with satisfaction. I run around switching on lights and poking dust-free sofas, thrilled. Then, in the soft English twilight, we toast a 200-year-old beauty snatched back from the brink:
To a lovely cottage:
May misfortune follow you
all the days of your life --
and never again catch up!
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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