The Undomestic Goddess (12 page)

...What?

OK, lets forget the manual. Lets just use common sense. I briskly press at the keypad in
my best housekeeper manner.

PROGRAM K3? the machine flashes at me. PROGRAM K3 ? I dont like the sound of program K3. It sounds sinister. Like a cliff face or secret

government plot.

No, I say aloud, jabbing at the machine. I want something else.

YOU HAVE CHOSEN K3, it flashes back. HEAVY-DUTY UPHOLSTERY PROGRAM .

Heavy duty? Upholstery ?

Stop it, I say under my breath, and start banging all the buttons. Stop! I kick the
machine in desperation. Stop !

Everything all right, Samantha? Trish appears at the laundry door. All signs of tears are
gone and shes applied fresh lipstick. I wonder what she was so upset about. But its hardly
my place to ask.

Er... fine! Just... getting some washing on.

Well done. She holds out a stripy shirt to me. Now, Mr. Geiger needs a button sewn on this
shirt, if you would be so kind.

Absolutely! I take it from her, praying my trepidation doesnt show on my face. And heres
your list of duties! She hands me a sheet of paper. Its by no means

complete, but it should get you started

As I run my eyes down the endless list, I feel a bit faint.

Make beds... sweep and clean front steps... arrange flowers... polish all mirrors... store
cupboards tidy... laundry... clean bathrooms daily...

Now, theres nothing here that should present you with a problem , is there? adds Trish.

Er... no! My voice is a little strangled. No, it should all be fine!

But make a stab at the ironing first . she continues firmly. There is quite a lot, Im afraid, as youll have seen. It does tend
to mount up rather... For some reason, Trish is looking upward. With a slight foreboding, I follow her
gaze. There, above us, is a mountain of crumpled shirts hanging on a wooden drying rack.
At least thirty.

As I stare up at them, I feel wobbly. I cant iron a shirt. Ive never used an iron in my
life. What am I going to do?

I expect youll whip through these in no time! she says gaily. The ironing boards just
there, she adds with a nod.

Um, thanks! I manage.

I reach for the ironing board, trying to look matter-of-fact, as if I do this all the
time. I tug briskly at one of the metal legs, but it wont move. I try another one with no
luck. Im pulling harder and harder, till Im hot with the effort, but the bloody thing wont
budge. How am I supposed to open it up?

Its got a catch, Trish says, watching me in surprise. Underneath. She takes the board from
me, and in two movements has opened it up to exactly the right height. I expect youre used
to a different model, she adds wisely as she clicks it shut. They all have their own
little tricks.

Absolutely! I say, seizing on this excuse in relief. Of course! Im far more used to
working with a... a... a Nimbus2000.

Trish peers at me in surprise. Isnt that the broomstick out of Harry Potter ?

Damn. I knew Id heard it somewhere.

Yes... it is, I say at last, my face flaming. And also a well-known ironing board. In
fact, I think the broomstick was named... er... after the ironing board.

Really? Trish looks fascinated. I never knew that! To my horror she leans expectantly
against the door and lights a cigarette. Dont mind me! she adds, her voice muffled. Just
carry on!

Carry on? Theres the iron, she adds with a gesture. Behind you. Er... great! Thanks! I
take the iron and plug it in, as slowly as possible, my heart

banging in fright. I cannot do this. I need a way out. But I cant think of one. My brain
is totally blank. I expect the irons hot enough now! says Trish helpfully. Right! I give
her a sick smile.

I have no choice. I reach for one of the shirts overhead and spread it out awkwardly on
the ironing board. Unable to believe what Im doing, I pick up the iron. Its far heavier
than I imagined and emits a terrifying cloud of steam. Very gingerly, I start lowering it
toward the cotton fabric. I have no idea which bit of the shirt Im aiming for. I think my
eyes might be shut.

Suddenly theres a trilling from the kitchen. The phone. Thank God... thank God... thank
God...

Oh, whos that ? says Trish, frowning. Sorry, Samantha. I should get this...

Thats fine! My voice is shrill. No worries! Ill just get on

As soon as Trish is out of the room I put the iron down with a crash and bury my head in
my hands. I must have been mad. This isnt going to work. Im not made to be a housekeeper.
The iron puffs steam in my face and I give a little scream of fright. I switch it off and
collapse against the wall. Its only nine twenty and Im already a total wreck.

And I thought being a lawyer was stressful.

By the time Trish comes back into the kitchen Im a little more composed. I can do this. Of
course I can. Its not quantum physics. Its housework .

Samantha, Im afraid were going to desert you for the day, says Trish, looking concerned. Mr. Geiger is off to golf and Im going to
see a very dear friends new Mercedes. Will you be all right on your own?

Ill be fine! I say, trying not to sound too joyful. Dont you worry about me. Really. Ill
just get on with things...

Is the ironing done already? She glances at the laundry room, impressed.

Done?

Actually, I thought Id leave the ironing for now and tackle the rest of the house, I say,
trying to sound matter-of-fact. Thats my normal routine.

Absolutely. She nods vigorously. Whatever suits you. Now, I wont be here to answer any
questions, Im afraid, but Nathaniel will! She beckons out the door. Youve met Nathaniel,
of course?

Oh, I say as he walks in, wearing ripped jeans, his hair disheveled. Er... yes. Hi, again.

It feels a bit strange seeing him this morning, after all the dramas of last night. Hi, he
says. Hows it going? Great! I say lightly. Really well.

Nathaniel knows all there is to know about this house, puts in Trish, who is doing her lipstick. So if you
cant find anythingneed to know how a door unlocks or whatever hes your man.

Ill bear that in mind, I say. Thanks.

But, Nathaniel, I dont want you disturbing Samantha, adds Trish, giving him a severe look. Obviously she has her own established
routine.

Obviously, says Nathaniel. As Trish turns away, he raises an eyebrow in amusement and I
feel my color rise.

Whats that supposed to mean? How does he know I dont have a routine? Just because I cant
cook, it doesnt follow I cant do anything .

So youll be OK? Trish picks up her handbag. Youve found all the cleaning stuff?

Er... I look around uncertainly.

In the laundry room! She disappears through the doorway for a moment, then reappears,
holding a gigantic blue tub full of cleaning products. There you are! she says, dumping it
on the table. And dont forget your Marigolds! she adds merrily.

My what?

Rubber gloves, says Nathaniel. He takes a huge pink pair out of the tub and hands them to
me with a little bow.

Yes, thank you, I say with dignity. I knew that.

I have never worn a pair of rubber gloves in my life. Trying not to flinch, I slowly pull
them onto my hands.

Oh, my God. Ive never felt anything quite so rubbery and... revolting . Must I wear these all day ?

Toodle-oo! calls Trish from the hall, and the front door bangs shut.

Right! I say. Well... Ill get on.

I wait for Nathaniel to leave, but he leans against the table and looks at me quizzically.
Do you have any idea how to clean a house?

Im starting to feel quite insulted here. Do I look like someone who cant clean a house?

Of course I know how to clean a house.

Only I told my mum about you last night. He smiles, as though remembering the
conversation. What could he have said about me? Anyway. Shes willing to teach you cooking.
And I said youd probably need cleaning advice too

I do not need cleaning advice! I retort. Ive cleaned houses loads of times. In fact, I
need to get started.

Dont mind me. Nathaniel shrugs.

Ill show him. In a businesslike manner, I pick a can out of the tub and spray it onto the
counter.

So youve cleaned lots of houses, says Nathaniel, watching me.

Yes. Millions.

The spray has solidified into crystalline little gray droplets. I rub them briskly with a
clothbut they wont come off.

I look more closely at the can. DO NOT USE ON GRANITE. Shit .

Anyway, I say, hastily putting the cloth down to hide the droplets. Youre in my way. I
grab a feather duster from the blue tub and start brushing crumbs off the kitchen table.
Excuse me...

Ill leave you, then, says Nathaniel, his mouth twitching. He looks at the feather duster.
Dont you want to be using a dustpan and brush for that?

I look uncertainly at the feather duster. Whats wrong with this one? Anyway, what is he,
the duster police?

I have my methods, I say, lifting my chin. Thank you. OK. He grins. See you. Im not going
to let him faze me. I just need... a plan. Yes. A time sheet, like at work.

I grab a pen and the pad of paper by the phone and start scribbling a list for the day. I
have an image of myself moving smoothly from task to task, brush in one hand, duster in
the other, bringing order to everything. Like Mary Poppins.

9:30-9:36 Make Geigers bed 9:369:42 Take laundry out of machine and put in dryer
9:42-10:00 Clean bathrooms

I get to the end and read it over with a fresh surge of optimism. At this rate I should be
done easily by lunchtime.

9:36 Fuck. I cannot make this bed. Why wont this sheet lie flat?

9:42 And why do they make mattresses so heavy ?

9:54 This is sheer torture. My arms have never ached so much in my entire life. The
blankets weigh a ton, and the sheets wont go straight and I have no idea how to do the
wretched corners. How do chambermaids do it?

10:16 At last. Forty minutes of hard work and I have made precisely one bed. Im already
way behind. But never mind. Just keep moving. Laundry next.

10:26 No. Please, no.

I can hardly bear to look. Its a total disaster. Everything in the washing machine has
gone pink. Every single thing.

What happened ? With trembling fingers I pick out a damp cashmere cardigan. It was cream when I put it

in. Its now a sickly shade of candy floss. I knew K3 was bad news. I knew it There must be a solution, there must be. Frantically I scan the cans of products stacked

on the shelves. Stain Away. Vanish. There has to be a remedy... I just need to think...

10:38 OK, I have the answer. It may not totally workbut its my best shot.

11:00 Ive just spent £852 replacing all the clothes in the machine as closely as possible.
Harrods personal-shopping department was very helpful and will send them all tomorrow,
Express Delivery. I just hope to heaven Trish and Eddie wont notice that their wardrobe
has magically regenerated.

11:06 And... oh. The ironing. What am I going to do about that?

11:12 I have a solution, via the local paper. A girl from the village will collect it,
iron it all overnight at £3 a shirt, and sew on Eddies button.

So far this job has cost me nearly a thousand pounds. And its not even midday.

11:42 Im doing fine. Im doing well. Ive got theHoover on, Im cruising along nicely What
was that? What just went up theHoover ? Why is it making that grinding noise?

Have I broken it?

11:48 How much does aHoover cost?

12:24 My legs are in total agony. Ive been kneeling on hard tiles, cleaning the bath, for
what seems like hours.

There are little ridges where the tiles have dug into my knees, and Im boiling hot and the
cleaning chemicals are making me cough. All I want is a rest. But I cant stop for a
moment. I am so behind...

12:30 What is wrong with this bleach bottle? Which way is the nozzle pointing, anyway? Im
turning it round in confusion, peering at the arrows on the plastic... Why wont anything
come out? OK, Im going to squeeze it really, really hard

That nearly got my eye.

12:32 FUCK. What has it done to my HAIR?

By three oclock I am utterly knackered. Im only halfway down my list and I cant see myself
ever making it to the end. I dont know how people clean houses. Its the hardest job Ive
ever done, ever.

I am not moving smoothly from task to task like Mary Poppins. Im darting from unfinished
job to unfinished job like a headless chicken. Right now Im standing on a chair, cleaning
the mirror in the drawing room. But its like some kind of bad dream. The more I rub, the
more it smears.

I keep catching glances of myself in the glass. I have never looked more disheveled in my
life. My hair is sticking out wildly, with a huge grotesque streak of greeny-blond where I
splashed the bleach. My face is bright red and shiny, my hands are pink and sore from
scrubbing, and my eyes are bloodshot.

Why wont it get clean? Why?

Get clean! I cry, practically sobbing in frustration. Get clean, you bloody... bloody

Samantha.

Abruptly I stop rubbing, to see Nathaniel standing in the doorway. Have you tried vinegar?

Vinegar?

It cuts through the grease, he adds. Its good on glass.

Oh. Right. I put my cloth down, trying to regain my cool. Yes, I knew that.

Nathaniel shakes his head. No, you didnt.

I look at his adamant face. Theres no point pretending anymore. He knows Ive never cleaned
a house in my life.

Youre right, I admit at last. I didnt.

As I get down off the chair, I feel wobbly with fatigue.

You should have a break, says Nathaniel firmly. Youve been at it all day; Ive seen you.
Did you have any lunch?

No time.

I collapse onto a chair, suddenly too drained to move. Every single muscle in my body is
in pain, including muscles I never even knew I had. I feel like Ive run a marathon, and I
still havent polished the woodwork or beaten the mats.

Its... harder than I thought, I say at last. A lot harder.

Uh-huh. Hes peering at my head. What happened to your hair?

Bleach, I say shortly. Cleaning the loo.

He gives a muffled snort of laughter, but I dont respond. To be honest, Im beyond caring.

Youre a hard worker, he says. Ill give you that. And itll get easier

I cant do it. The words come out before I can stop them. I cant do this job. Im...
hopeless.

Sure you can. He rifles through his rucksack and produces a can of Coke. Have this. You
cant work on no fuel.

Thanks, I say, taking it gratefully. I crack open the can and take a gulp, and its the
most delicious thing Ive ever tasted.

The offer still stands, he adds after a pause. My mother will give you lessons if you like.

Really? I wipe my mouth, push back my sweaty hair, and look up at him. Shed... do that?

She likes a challenge, my mum. Nathaniel gives a little smile. Shell teach you your way
around a kitchen. And... anything else you need to know.

I feel a sudden burn of humiliation and look away. I dont want to be useless. I dont want
to need lessons. Thats not who I am. I want to be able to do this on my own, without
asking assistance from anyone.

But... the truth is, I need help. Apart from anything else, if I keep on going like today
Ill be bankrupt in two weeks. I turn back to Nathaniel. That would be great, I say. I
really appreciate it. Thanks.