We were optimistic about living at home through our renovations, smug even.
We soon had the smiles wiped from our faces. It all began when we pottered out into our overgrown garden one fine February morning and promptly lost our son in the undergrowth. He was missing for ages, plenty of time to sketch out new plans for four sandstone terraces framed by Buxus to make, you know, organic rooms. One would be planted out with Shademaster Buffalo for rowdy games of whatever, and one might have a fishpond. As I explained to the nice policeman who found our son, water features are so relaxing. It wouldn’t be difficult, I said. The terraces sort of already exist and, look, there are some rocks we can use. Who would do the planting? Oh, we would. And we’d bury our old bathtub for the pond. How hard can it be? We’d entice some friends over with the promise of a sausage sizzle in our garden. We’d supply that, of course, and they’d provide the gardening. Easy.
Three months and several overdrafts later, we had our terraced garden. We had installed our pond and invested in a worm farm that we promised solemnly to feed every single day. Picture it: we’d fling wide our French doors – no, no, wait, slide open a funky set of biofolds – and live apres. Marvellous idea. Before we knew it, we’d hired some blokes who charged like wounded bulls to knock down walls, the outside laundry and toilet, and excavate the concrete slab of a garden. The bloke who delivered the news that we couldn’t live at home for a while told us it would only be for a few days. “A week, tops, just while we lay the pipe work,” he said, with what we took to be a comforting grin. All our friends were still a little huffy over the barbecue incident – since we didn’t actually have a barbecue, we’d rustled up a salad instead – so we packed a few plastic bags and decamped to my mother-in-law’s tiny harbour-foreshore apartment. She was still in living in it, but we planned to be no bother at all. Except for when we’d bring her a cup of tea in bed, she’d hardly know we were there. Anyway, our children would be far too busy exploring the harbour foreshore and stubbing about for crabs to get under her feet. And if she wanted – but only if – she could take them on a ferry ride and point out Sydney landmarks. There might even be fireworks on Saturday evening, we being on the harbour and it being so close to Christmas.
There were fireworks all right. We were there for two months, and there were fireworks nearly every bloody night. They lit up the sky like day. Then there were the parties, below in the boatshed or out on the party boats that ended with a splash as someone fell in or was tossed in with great hilarity. And if the kids begged to go down to the foreshore to count boats, beer bottles, cigarette butts, passed out bodies, syringes or whatever unspeakable things they found one more time, I’d toss them into the harbour myself. I swear.
It was exhausting. Twice a day, I’d gather up my swatches and quotes and haul myself over to meet a tradesperson who more often than not wouldn’t bother to turn up. I’d stumble over planks of wood and holes filled with water and ladders leading nowhere and make unsuccessful grabs for the kids as they made a dash for wet concrete, a bobcat, rusty nails or whatever. I’d go home, hang out the washing, make endless rounds of calls to reschedule site appointments or find a cheaper door handle, prepare dinner, bath and put the kids to bed.
“A cup of tea would be lovely,” my mother-in-law would murmur weakly from the sofa. She had found her house guests, like fish, had begun to stink. Luckily, she adored her grandchildren. When her grandson dug up the native violets to hide his matchbox cars, she laughed. She didn’t feel queasy, or not very much, when her granddaughter, feeling sure they’d make good pets, began to collect snails. It could have been a stamp collection for all the encouragement she offered. So what if she needed ten cups of tea a day? Frankly, it was a very small price to pay and I don’t know who was more sad when we returned home.