Mr Fennel and Mr Green

I used to clean 2 houses, an hour a week in each house, and I'd leave with £10 - easy money.
Mr Green was an unhappy soul, one who'd never get over his wife's death, never accept he could no longer do all the things he used to, and never accept my inferior cleaning skills.

Mr Fennel, a retired Sargent, lived happily in retro squalor. Cleaning the house was the least of my priorities when I got there  - "sit down girl, have tea and cake with me" I was a bit of company masquerading as a domestic help.

Mr Green would subject me to a 5 minute run-down of his latest health scare before instructing me to polish the myriad ornaments, trinkets and photographs (sporting achievements of offspring circa 1982).
I never seemed to fit in all the chores within an hour, he insisted I dust all 6 Venetian blinds by meticulously brushing each metal strip. I'd always leave there feeling I'd earned the £10.

On to Mr Fennel, 80 years old, widowed ("she was a good woman, very smart - but she liked to spend MY money all the time"). A very tall man, even at 80 Mr Fennel commanded a presence, I instantly respected him the day I met him.
Mr Fennel's cakes left everything to be desired, made with sour butter, rotten eggs and burned dried fruit, it took all my strength not to wretch (I have a VERY strong stomach). I started making my own, to "save him the trouble" but he always insisted I'd done everything wrong, before polishing off 3 slices.
I'd spend the final 20 minutes cleaning, but he always walked behind me saying "leave that girl, I already cleaned that" (when? just after decimalisation came in?).


One week, after Mr Green had decided I was OK after all, he told me his life story. It was mainly unremarkable, peppered with financial struggle, sacrifice and "lovely holidays in Majorca", where the majority of the 'lovely' trinkets originated. The story ended with advice - "don't ever smoke, my wife died of lung cancer, and all my problems are down to fags".
It seemed strange that he was so pre-occupied with the cleanliness of the blinds at first, but I realised his late wife was fastidious and liked the house to be gleaming - he wanted to keep this pride alive.


Mr Fennel liked to spend the hour bragging about who he knew, where he'd been, and what he'd done. I think he liked to imagine I was in awe of him, and once he said "If I was 20 years younger" (hmm, you'd be 60, still 3 times my age and very much on the back burner of potential suitors). 


I always felt a bit sad cleaning both houses, imagining that when they die, all the house contents being given away in one fell swoop. A lifetime of collections and memories, all creating a feeling of nostalgia - eras, decades, experiences frozen in time - a stagnant pool. The buzzing of a nebulizer replacing the buzz of family life, children running in and out.
The scratch of a cheap biro on paper, circles being scribbled 'til it bleeds ink - a crossword where they used to be the scratch of a record, a couple dance as they make up after cross words.

Mr Fennel sat like a caged lion, he still had fire in his belly, he looked strong, didn't seem to care much for the ever-decreasing circle of life which was all around him - in his mind he'd always be a handsome young man.

Mr Fennel's advice for me was unforgettable. Nothing to do with health, money, relationships or experiences:

"Always buy loose tea, Lucy, none of that tea-bag muck. Jesus, I'm glad I had my teeth in when I said that!"

I laughed uncontrollably - maybe he did still 'have it'.

I liked Mr Fennel.