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My husband has inconsiderately obtained a job in the United States. He is about to morph from an anaesthetist to an anesthesiologist. He is about to exchange a rundown south London teaching hospital for an imposing concrete skyscraper that looks like a subsidiary of Enron. He is about to swap London for a small town in Pennsylvania.
So now we are visiting the US to look for a house. This entails a flight to Newark followed by a long car journey in a rented Kia, which resembles a rather large sardine can on wheels. We were meant to get a Ford Focus, but owing to a misunderstanding with the rental desk, we showed our American drivers’ licences instead of our British ones. This apparently invalidated the rental contract. It also meant that we had to spend over an hour on the phone to Auto-Europe negotiating a replacement vehicle. On the plus side, the rental desk lady took pity on us and issued us with a complimentary GPS.
The drive to Steelburg takes several hours. It is pitch dark and raining incessantly. We arrive at the Best Western in Steelburg at nearly midnight. The front desk, as represented by Joe, is very excited to see us.
“Welcome to Steelburg,” says Joe. “Are you guys from England?”
“We’ve just flown in from London,” says my New York husband, with modest pride.
“Neat,” says Joe. “I just love your accent.”
He hands us two plastic swipe cards and a handwritten note from the local real estate agent.
Dear Jim & Melissa It has been wonderful corresponding with you by e-mail!!! I am looking forward to meeting you in the flesh!!! I have some beautiful houses to show you which I am sure you will adore!!! I will see you in Reception at 09:00 tomorrow morning. Sincerely Janice J. Flugelman
“I hate her already,” I mutter to Jim as we push open the door to our faux tartan hotel room.
As threatened, Janice meets us in Reception the following morning. She is wearing a bright turquoise suit and a determined smile. Outside, it is raining more heavily than ever.
“You are both going to love the house I’m about to show you,” Janice announces, as we bowl down the Interstate in her black Chevy Impala. The windscreen wipers squeak alarmingly as they scrabble frantically back and forth.
The rain turns to sleet as we head off the Interstate and into the hills. The house is on a back road that would clearly be impassable if the weather got much worse.
It is also for sale.
“I think,” I say apologetically, “that we’d prefer to rent at this stage.”
Undeterred, Janice takes us on a round of the available rental properties – all three of them. The first is too short-term, as the developer plans to rent it only as long as it takes to find a buyer. The second is small and smells funny. The third is OK, and it is on Easy Street, which appeals to me.
But before we sign on the dotted line, we have one more rental house to view. This is not one of Ms Flugelman’s properties, but one that was listed in the classified section of the Steelburg Examiner. It is a large house half a mile out of town, owned by one Susie Spreckels. I have spoken to Mrs Spreckels by phone several times and have established that 1) She is desperate to let the house; 2) She needs to show it today as she is attending a wedding tomorrow; 3) She cannot understand my accent.
It is getting dark as we set off for the Spreckels’ house, which is down a long winding road flanked by a sheer rock face on the right and the Susquehanna River on the left.
“Arriving at destination. On right,” says the GPS, without conviction. I can see her point. There is no road on the right and we have not brought our rock climbing gear. An emergency call to Ms Spreckels establishes that the GPS may have been mistaken, and we eventually arrive at a large white clapboard house half a mile further down the road.
Mr and Mrs Spreckels arrive by pick-up truck ten minutes later and show us round the property. Mrs Spreckels is wearing a shapeless blue dress and a white linen cap, and I realise she is a Mennonite. Mr Spreckels is more conventionally dressed in khaki polycotton.
The Spreckels quiz us about our family situation and are dismayed to learn that Jim has been married before. They ask whether he will be responsible for mowing the lawn and he loses further brownie points by refusing.
The house is dismal. Nylon carpets of vermilion and mustard vie with dirty walls of orange and brown. The fridge has been ripped out of the wall and several doors are off their hinges.
We promise to call them in the morning to let them know whether we want to rent the property. The parting chit-chat revolves around farming, and how the rain has spoiled their crops. Mrs Spreckels brightens visibly as she remembers the author of her misfortunes. “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away,” she says, shooting us a buck-toothed smile. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
“Well, that settles that,” I say to Jim, as we drive back to the Best Western. “I guess we’re going to be living on Easy Street.”
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Copyright © 2010 Melissa Arden
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