Done and dusted. And we got the asking price, which was a nice finish. The ‘home open’ was held on the weekend, and we stalked our own house by sitting on the opposite neighbours front porch with them sharing a few cups of tea, TimTams and watching the parade.

Some of the things we have seen in the 14 days we have had the house on the market have been quite interesting, if not bizarre. For example:

The man who stood out the front one morning just after sunrise, then walked down the length of the side fence on the neighbours side and continuously climbed the fence rail to look into our yard from all angles. He walked around and did the same thing on the other side;

The young couple who parked their  car around the corner (so we couldn’t see it?) the stood on the neighbours fence and proceeded to take loads of photographs of the front (which is on the Internet listing anyway);

The woman who stood under the the little gate porch in the pouring rain at dusk and shone her torch around the garden;

Then there were some conversations.

The woman who asked the agent if the television in the bedroom  (a flatscreenon the wall) could be left behind so she could watch ‘certain’ pay TV shows on it with her partner;

The woman who asked if we had nice neighbours, since her 3 dogs barked all the time and she wanted to live somewhere where people didn’t complain;

The couple wanted to know if the tumble dryer was included in the sale of the house since it seemed to be raining a lot more in this street than other streets (!).

Anyway, the people we have sold to seem really lovely and not unlike us in many ways.

I guess we can now take a deep breath and prepare to move on.

You know my mother Iza, is always good for a story. You might remember the lesbian cucumber  post, for one?

Anyhow, between trips  from the Wild West to over here to our sunny shores for a family visit, she is taking 2 glorious weeks at Norfolk Island. So telephone communications have been a little more frequent of late, understandably.

When my mobile chirps and I see Iza’s name on the screen,  I look forward to hearing news from family so I answer. But all I can hear is her talking and laughing with friends. I figure she probably doesn’t realise I have answered yet, so I wait a minute.

Or so.

Still a lot of talking.

“Hello, hello!”  I repeat, several times. “hell-looo?”

Talking.

“hell-looo! HELLO!”

Talking. Laughing.

I figure she has repeated her often done trick and left her phone in her bag, unlocked. Connecting the ‘go’ button with the side of her purse or her lipstick or any one of the umptyzillion things a woman of a certain age carts around in her purse, her phone has rang me on speed dial and she has no idea I am on the end of the line*.

*Again.

As Iza is becoming hard of hearing, she often has the ‘speak’ volume on her phone turned up very loud or on handsfree, so I figure if I yell loud enough and for long enough she will know I am there.  So putting on the voice projection thing (being a teacher has it’s perks) I begin. “Hello! MUM. Grandma! Pick up!”  “Hello! Grandma! GRANDMA! MUM!”

I hear talking. A cackle. Laughing. Clueless is Iza.

I delve deeper. In the biggest deepest voice I have, I yell into my phone.

“THIS IS YOUR HANDBAG CALLING. PLEASE PICK UP YOUR PHONE”.

Silence. Then I hear a woman say “Iza – your handbag appears to be talking to you”.

Shuffle shuffle bump – then a soft and quizzical “Hello?”

“Hi mum”.

“Oh – it’s you!” she says. “Hello love, how are you?”
“Umm just fine mum, ta – -”
“What can I do for you, love?” Says mum.
“Mum, YOU rang me.”
“No I didn’t” she says. “I’d remember that.”
“Well mum, if I had rung you, don’t you think you would have heard the phone ringing?”

“I did”, she said. “I heard you calling me from my handbag. We all did.”

Sigh.

Iza, you are not the only one who needs a holiday…

Maintaining a house that is available for sale is an exhausting exercise. I knew it would be demanding, I’ve done it before. But I had forgotten just how much of a drain it can be.

First off, people want to come in at the drop of a hat. A quick phone call from my agent – “Hi, had a query call, can I show some people through in around, oh – 10 minutes?”- has become the norm.  I don’t mind really. I think our agents are fantastic and are wonderful. I like that they prefer private showings and often schedule back to back appointments with viewers. They don’t rush anyone, they take their time. Some couples and young families have been here for up to 90 minutes.

What it does mean though, is that I am not able to be home much on the days I am not at school.

Secondly, to me presentation is everything. And I am such a fuss bucket that I would rather be caught with dirty hair than a house that looks less than perfect, especially for an inspection. But it’s hard to vacuum, mop or mow when you are not home!  The surface areas have to remain clutter free. The stove clean, the bathrooms gleaming, the beds wrinkle free.  Every exit from the house includes hiding away the cat bowl, emptying the bins, picking up dog poo (!!!) and keeping logs smouldering in the fire place to create a warm, cozy feel.  Turn on the waterfall in the pool. Flip on the stereo to soft music.  Straighten everything and make sure the beds are gorgeous. Don’t forget to take the dog and his leash. A lot of work to head out for a loaf of bread!

Thursday afternoon a couple came through at 12.00.  Just based on calls of interest and appointments, we were not able to come back into he house until 7.30 that night. Yesterday, the 11.00 AM appointment turned into back to backs until 4.30.   I had to have geek boy up the coast for a camp by 6.30 PM. I have had my mother here on a vacation for a week before she flies to Norfolk Island – the poor woman hardly had time to unpack her suitcase. This morning I had to have her at the airport t 6.30 AM for her flight, then a call from the agent as we headed home meant we cruised around the neighbourhood until 12.00 today.

In between, when we are home, we hear the slow motor sound of people cruising by for a sticky beak. As they slow to a stop outside the house, geek boy runs in and yells “Stalkers!”

Of course he upside to this (and I am so happy to report there is an upside) is he ever growing liklehood of being presnted wih multiple offers, which is very good for us as the sellers.

I am home right now and have washing in both the tumble dryer and the washing machine at the same time. I should not be wasting time typing – I have the bed linen to change but I am worried I’ll get caught mid sheet flap. I might just nip off and vacuum while I have time, then I can mop when it gets dark.

Here are some photos from the real estate listing. Would you stalk this house?

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
you make me happy when skies are grey
you’ll never know dear, how much I love you
please don’t take my sunshine
away…

Last night the geek boy crept into my bed. Something he has not done for many a year.

“It feels strange”
“what does, honey?”
“Looking at my room.”

Pause.

“Someone else is going to sleep in there and look through my window and watch the storms at night and see my stars and look at moon until they fall asleep.”
“Yes, mate, yes they are.”
“And someone else is going to get up early and slip outside and swim in our – the – pool and look at the water and sit under the tree…”
“Yes, yes they are.”
“And someone else…”

“yes?”

“Someone else is going to sit on top of Hammy and water near Tuppy and  not talk to them.”*

Blink away the tears. Cough gently. There seems to be something stuck in my throat.

“Yes, honey they are. But if we tell them where Hammy and Tuppy are buried, I am sure they will know not to dig them up.  Is that still OK with you?
“Yeah, I think so… but it’s…. weird….”

“Mum?”
“Yes, mate?”
“Can I make a plaque and put it near the spot? Like ‘Don’t dig here please, dog bones underneath’ or something?”
“Sure, honey.”

Today, several private show throughs are due to tour the little house. If they look carefully, right up the back behind the gazebo, a concrete block says “Don’t dig here, dog bones sleeping. ” And under the fern tree?  ”Tuppence is here in the ground. She likes shade“.

Hamilton the chocolate lab, buried under the gazebo where we sit, Tuppence the cat, buried under the skipper’s 35th birthday present, a large tree fern in the garden.

They bought the house in the early 1950s. It was the second-to-this house to be built on the street, it stood very grand -  2 levels and state of the art – boasting what was predicted to be the newest trend: ‘art deco’.  Rounded corners, odd angles, chrome and linoleum. Oranges, lime greens, black fake marble. Long windows with caftan style curtains. Chocolate brown. Swirls.  Indoors, the furniture was purchased to suit the style was chosen with much care. 3 legged tables with chrome feet, saucer style chairs, canisters and containers in shiny coloured aluminium. Over head cabinets which angle away from the wall. Big vinyl recliners. Direct from the Sydney glossies came designers, containers and crates.

The house has not been altered in almost 60 years.

 The first thing we did when we moved in next  door was install a 6 foot fence along the side.

Then we planted a border of tall, fast growing natives.

Then we looked over at the weed infested, trashy yard and flaky peeling painted home and wondered how long it would be before one of them died and the house sold.

Then, we didn’t know her story.

The wife was young, and really quite beautiful.  She came from a family of wealth, a family who disowned her when she left  the large ancestral estate in the country to marry her handsome young truck driver. He was beneath her, they said. He was a drinker, a smoker, bawdy brave and boastful. He was common, they said.  But she had stars in her eyes and the romance of rebellion. He filled her head with dreams, promises and stories. She  ran away from her roots, her and her truck driver, to build their dream home by the sea.

In due time, the stork delivered, and the boy arrived, grew, thrived, and was the apple of his father’s eye. Like his dad, a love of anything motorised was his passion. Fast cars, fast motor bikes. A fast life rapidly cut short at just 17.

After an argument with the truck driver, the boy rode blindly head first into irony. A truck, right at the end of the street.

Devastation filled the Art Deco house. The truck driver turned to alcohol and drowned his grief. Alcohol induced Alzheimer’s and took his liver, his mind and eventually, his life.

The woman was left alone to deal with her ghosts.

 We have lived next door just over 7 years. We went to the funeral 5 years ago with a sense of duty.  It’s only been in the last 5 years that she has left the house. She visits the cemetery every Sunday. Geek boy mows her lawn once a week and skipper and I put out the rubbish. Slowly, we have gotten to know her. We call out over the 6 foot fence and talk through the fence posts. I take over hot meals and make sure she has milk.  We keep her spare key and let her in and out when she loses her own keys.

I have shared a growing number of cups of tea in her 1950′s kitchen, and listened to her life story over and over. She tells it with misty eyes and a slightly shaky hand. She shows me his room. Like the rest of the house, in her eyes it is unchanged from that horrible day in late 1971.  She doesn’t see the cracks in the window pane or the peeling paint. She doesn’t see the faded curtains, peeling wallpaper, cracked brickwork on the path. She sees her son in his prime and her strapping young truck driver. She sees them. She remembers and she cries.

Who would she have if she didn’t have us?  she says. I nod and pass her a handkerchief.

Today, I have the chore of going over to tell her we are moving.  It’s going to be hard.