‘That’s the problem there,” Mike the plumber says, shining a torch into the scorched guts of our boiler. He tells me the brief fire that precipitated its collapse was caused by a faulty seal. It’s the sort of thing, he says, that might have been avoided if we’d had our boiler serviced annually, instead of never.
“It could be a lot worse,” he says. I had fully expected to preside over the official decommissioning of our boiler this morning, but Mike says it’s fixable, although not for a week. After he leaves, I have a strong desire to look up the word solenoid.
Apart from the boiler, things have rarely looked better: sunlight streams through clean windows on to gleaming surfaces, there are flowers in every room and all the beds are made. This is only because an estate agent is coming to take pictures, but it still feels sort of glamorous.
“This house is great,” my wife says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s stay.”
But I’m cold. The weather’s fair and the house is no more than a few degrees off its daytime average, but I sit in front of a computer all day. After a couple of hours, my little fingers start to go numb. Eventually, I realise I am shuddering.
A few days later, my wife catches me with my arms in the oven.
“What are you cooking?” she says.
“My hands,” I say. “I’m cold.”
“Go and put another jumper on!” she says.
“People are coming to look at the house!” I shout. “I can’t be wearing two jumpers!”
“You’re like an old man!” she shouts.
“Why is that window open?” I shout.
“It’s spring!” she shouts.
When the first people show up, I am sitting in my office with my hands in my armpits. I listen as they go from room to room downstairs, knowing they’ll reach me eventually. I’ve written nothing all morning, but as the voices get louder, I start typing furiously. A moment later, there is a soft knock at my door.
“Come in!” I say brightly, still typing. A couple and an estate agent put their heads round the door.
“Sorry it’s a bit messy,” I say. As I turn towards them, I continue typing, which must look preposterous. Their eyes travel from the walls to the window to me. They nod.
“Thank you,” the man says.
“Not at all!” I say. I keep typing until their voices fade, producing three paragraphs of nonsense. Later, I decide to keep one of them.
When the doorbell rings again late that afternoon, I leap from my chair and run into the youngest one’s room. To my surprise, I find him at his desk consulting a textbook, pencil in hand.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Mechanics,” he says.
“Can I help?” I say.
“You could if you understood mechanics,” he says.
“I can’t be in my office alone when these people come up,” I say. “Pretend I get it.”
I look over his shoulder as he explains the problem, something to do with a mass on a string, an inclined plane and a pulley.
“Huh,” I say after a long silence. “What’s the answer even going to be in?”
“Newtons,” he says.
The door opens, and three people walk in. “Sorry for interrupting,” one says.
“That’s OK,” I say, nodding towards the youngest one. “I’m home-schooling him.”
“He’s not,” the youngest says.
“He can’t be in a regular school.” I say. “Long story.”
The boy gives me a hard stare, while I smile at the people and the people look at the walls. When I turn to him after they leave, he’s still staring.
“Same thing tomorrow,” I say. “10am.”
