Learning to Stand Upright Here
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LEARNING TO STAND UPRIGHT HERE A NOVEL By Helen McNeil ‘Not I, some child, born in a marvelous year, Will learn the trick of standing upright here’ Allen Curnow 23 CHAPTER ONE; 1975 You get to 13 King Edward ten minutes early. Just in case. It’s not good to keep a client waiting. The sign in front of the house has been pushed over again. You pull it upright and it leans drunkenly. Maybe you should open the doors and windows. The house has been empty for a while now, and it does get musty. It’s the big trees, really they should have been trimmed back. Too late now, the vendor’s gone overseas. A car pulls up with two people in it. You look down at your note from Melanie, she didn’t get a name. A young couple, probably their first home. Better play down the damp in the back bedroom, talk about the sun they’d get if they trimmed the trees. You walk over to meet them. She’s having trouble getting out of the car and he’s helping her. No wonder, she’s pregnant. And he puts a hand on her back as they walk up towards you, a tender hand. You smile, hoping the lipstick hasn’t smeared your front teeth. You smile and lead them to the front door. The door jams, you push it open with a jerk and it shudders. You smile over your shoulder. A gust of old dust, unbreathed air, someone else’s memories, better come more often and open it up. He’s running his hand down the scrim on the walls of the lounge. It’s baggy, barely holding on. “What about damp?” he says. “It’s a house that breathes. It’s original, you know, great to have a house someone hasn’t tampered with, means you can put your own stamp on it.” He moves on down the hallway. You take a step towards the windows, maybe you should open them. Then you remember, both of them are jammed shut. “When’s baby due?” you ask his wife. And the story comes out. About the mother-in-law who’s had a fall, and the husband who wants her to come and live with them, and how worrying it all is, what with the baby coming, and how hard it will be to look after a new baby and a mother in law who’s already really forgetful. You nod, frown a little, give a little mmm when she stops for breath. You sneak a look at your 24 watch. She’s crying now. Just quietly, in a resigned kind of way. You pull out your little bundle of tissues you always keep in your handbag. They’re necessary in this job. You move towards the lounge door, hoping she’ll get the hint and follow you. The scrim on the wall billows as you pass and you sneeze with the dust. So much dust. You really must get the commercial cleaners back in. “There’s three big bedrooms, good size, at the back,” you say. But he’s already decided and they’re out of the house and into their car before you can hand them your card. “And thank you very much too,” you tell the empty street. You won’t air the house today. You get the mallet out of the back of the car, at least you can bang the sign back in so your name is sitting straight. That’s when you break your fingernail. Damn, right across. Today’s been an early start. It’s not even nine when you get to the office. There’s only Melanie there anyway. She’s on the phone so you head down the hall to the Ladies. It’s Tuesday. The boys won’t be in for another half an hour or so. One more month like this one, and you’ll be included in those breakfast meetings. You count it up again - five sales, and you’ve worked up ten new listings. Thirteen King Edward aside, you’re good at this real estate game. You bend to retie your new shoes, stack heels that tie around the ankle – the string’s been digging in. But they’re perfect with this trouser suit. Red, it’s bright red. A power colour, the book said. You smooth the trousers. You stand three inches taller and tell the woman in the mirror – “Today is life – the only life you are sure of. Live today with gusto. Page thirteen.” You say it three times. Well, you whisper it three times, just in case Melanie hears you. The book said it should be spoken loudly, with lots of expression and conviction, but yesterday when you did that Melanie came in to see who you were talking to. You have got lipstick on your teeth. Damn. No wonder they didn’t buy the house. You reach for a paper towel, grimace into the mirror, and rub hard. You’d better keep an eye on that. Nothing looks worse than lipstick on the teeth. You breathe in, smile an unblemished smile, and walk back into the office. 25 “Just you and me,” says Melanie. “You want to do the new listings? Himself rang, said you could take your pick. What makes you the flavour of the day?” “Well, Melanie, it’s like this. The royal road to a man’s heart is to talk to him about things he treasures most. Page thirty seven.” You reach for the pile of papers at the edge of Melanie’s desk. The top one looks promising. Another villa. You’re good at them. “What are you talking about, Sandra?” “It’s from that book I was telling you about. It’s very good. It says you talk to men about what they’re interested in.” “Huh, what’s new about that. If I want my Fred to listen it has to be about who made the last All Blacks.” “Well, I’ve been learning about golf so I can talk to the boss. Putters, irons, handicaps, even birdies. He loves it.” “Sweetening him up, are you? I’d be careful. He might take you the wrong way, girl.” The ten or so new listings are mostly flats, two commercial properties. There’s a villa in Wairere Road. You run your finger down the specifications. Damn, that broken fingernail. It looks terrible. You’ll have to do a repair job. You hope you’ve got the right colour in your handbag. Three bedrooms, a formal dining room. Good for a handyman. That means it’s a mess. You scribble in the margin – “When fate hands you a lemon, make lemonade. Page 93.” You’ll take it. You pull the next one out, the address…it’s the house next door to your flat. Number fifty-four, yes, that’s it. It’s a beautiful house, been restored. Oh, you’d love a house like that. You drift over to your desk with the two sheets of paper in your hand and pull out your cigarettes. You push the filter end into your cigarette holder and light it. The smoke drifts. You often look over the hedge into the next door yard. There’s a big deck on the back of number fifty- four and the people who own the house never use it. 26 You can just see yourself out there with a table set for eight, with linen napkins, and large white plates that sparkle from the dishwasher. There’s two kinds of glasses, one for water, one for wine. And you’re bringing out a serving dish with a roast chicken, cooked to golden perfection, with the carving fork standing up. You put it in front of…. “Good morning, girls.” It’s the boss. And the boys. Three of them. All in dark suits, all with matching ties. “Good morning,” you call. “How was the meeting?” “Ah, Sandra. Did you get my message?” “Yes, thanks. I’ve found two I’d really like to handle. One’s a dump probably, and the other’s been done up. That’s not too greedy is it?” You check out the three men behind the boss. They’ve drifted off to their desks. You notice the boss’s eyes flick, very quickly, from your face down to your stack heel shoes, and back again. You smile with your lipstick free teeth. “Hmm, two you say? Villas? A woman’s touch is always good with a villa. Go ahead Sandra.” Your smile fills your whole body. Today, live today with gusto. You turn back to your desk, reaching for a pad and paper. There’s vendors to meet, photographs to take, advertising to organize. It’s late before you leave work. You’re the last one. You lock the front door, holding your new stack heeled shoes in a plastic bag. On the way home you dream about that house, next door, how good it would look painted grey, with a dark grey trim. You’ll try the Pattons tonight, when you get home. It wouldn’t do to just drop in, it’s probably not a good idea to let them know you live next door, that wouldn’t be professional. As you get the mail from your letterbox, you sneak a look over the hedge. There’s a light on, you’ll ring tonight. There’s a letter in your box, tucked into the advertising for specials at Four Square.