I hobbled to the pounding at the front door. ‘Elsa from the agency!’ A portly, pony-tailed woman breathed heavily. ‘I use all me own equipment and cleaning materials. Don’t worry showing me around. Bath and vac mainly is it?’
‘Pardon? Oh, yes,’ I replied meekly. Already I was regretting this request for help.
Elsa lumbered in, pulled on a back-pack vacuum while dragging a couple of buckets filled with bottles and cloths across the varnished wooden floor. She speedily buckled down. No instructions required.
The pungent dust aroma of previous homes from that Pacvac overwhelmed.
I felt trapped and restricted by the knee surgery. Sounds of my Royal Doulton plates reverberated in the lounge-room. Elsa took phone calls regularly. However, the vacuuming, bathroom swishing and spraying continued uninterrupted. This girl was full-on, I had to admit.
When the bedroom was clear I sank gratefully onto the unmade bed, stretching my complaining knee, swollen and purple.
The hour’s booking seemed interminable. Finally, Elsa yelled out. ‘Finished now… see ya in a coupl’a days!’
‘I thought this was a fortnightly booking, and only for a month or so?’ I queried.
‘Aren’t you having your windows done too? Set for Wednesday.’ My heart sank. ‘Oh, you do those as well?’
‘I do everything… Jill of all trades, mistress of none!’ Elsa laughed with gap-toothed heartiness at her well-worn line.
Grabbing a cardigan I shuffled to the front porch to see Elsa out. ‘Don’t bother…with that gammy leg you won’t get yourself to the gate!’
Returning to peace, I noticed my keys were not at their usual spot on the cabinet. Was Elsa a thief? Panic subsided when, relieved, I felt them in my cardigan pocket. Guilt flowed.
Despite resenting the intrusion, I reluctantly welcomed my home’s now squeaky clean pride.
Burnside Writers Group 