Bob knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. Normally, on a Sunday, he would wake to the reassuring aromas of coffee and burnt toast, with the prospect of doing nothing more strenuous than tackling the Sunday papers and the pile of aspirational supplements. He would read about cars he’d never own, restaurants he’d never visit, exotic holiday destinations that would remain off-limits to a man on a postman’s salary. But not today. He wrinkles his nose; he can smell something caustic and lemon-scented, and that doesn’t seem right. It’s noisy too; why the hell is Cath banging pots and pans together so early on a Sunday morning? Bob pulls the duvet over his head and tries to blot out the noise.
Cath’s been up and about for an hour, which has given her the opportunity to rehearse what she’ll say to Bob and the kids when they finally show their faces. “Look at this place”, she’ll say. “It’s a dump. I’m not prepared to go on living in this squalor for one more day. Whatever you had planned for today, forget it. We’re all going to roll our sleeves up and give this house a proper spring clean”. She’s all fired up and doesn’t want to lose momentum; she runs upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and whips the duvet off Max’s bed. “Up, up!”, she yells. Emma tries to hang on to her bedding and her dignity, but she’s no match for Cath in full flow. “Up, young lady, up!” Bob is next. One minute he’s warm and cosy, lost in his Sunday morning reverie. Then, without warning, he’s exposed; a postman can feel very vulnerable when he’s curled up in a foetal position wearing only his underpants. “Get up!”, says Cath. “There’s work to be done.”
Straight from sleep they’re disorientated and confused. What greets them, in the kitchen, is an array of mops, dusters, brooms, and buckets. Cath issues instructions, before anyone gets the chance to plead a prior engagement or think up a convincing excuse. She tells Bob to take the rugs outside, and hands him a carpet-beater. Emma gets a bucket of hot water, foaming with detergent, and is dispatched to the bathroom. Max, blinking away tears, is given a duster; he’s never seen his mum like this before, and it’s scaring him. Cath tackles the greasy cooker, with a proprietory cleaner and a quiet ferocity.
Emma scrubs at the tenacious tide-mark around the bath, and rehearses what she’ll say to Social Services when she reports Cath for cruelty to children. Max flicks a duster round, without much enthusiasm. When Cath isn’t looking, he slips back upstairs, to his bedroom, and starts reading a comic. But Cath finds him, drags him downstairs and gives him a sweeping brush. Will this nightmare never end?
Bob, in contrast, is warming to his task, as he wipes beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Beating a rug, and raising clouds of dust, is proving quite cathartic. Thwack! That’s for the owner of the Lakeland Terrier that nips at a postman’s ankles. Thwack! That’s for his bank manager, who last week refused him a loan. Thwack! That’s for his boss who kicks up such a fuss when Bob delivers letters to the wrong address. It’s a mistake any postman could make, especially if he’s keen to finish his round and get to the Farrier’s for a lunchtime pint. An hour later an exhausted Bob has gone right through his roster of retribution, and the rugs are ready to be taken back inside.
The house looks better - even Bob can see that - and smells more fragrant too. The cooker gleams, and the work surfaces are pristine, right up to the moment when Max attempts to pour cornflakes into a bowl. He expects a telling off from his mother for making a mess, but the spring-cleaning whirlwind seems to have blown itself out and Cath, thankfully, is back to normal. Coffee and burnt toast have never tasted so good. “It’s too late for breakfast”, she says, smiling for the first time today. “We’ll call it brunch”.
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