Rental block
Jeremy Clarke
Dartmoor, said the box ad. One-bedroom cottage. Five hundred pounds a month. I called the number and an elderly woman answered.
I’m interested in renting the cottage, I said. Is it still available? Are you single? she said. I am, I said. You don’t have a girlfriend? Sadly not, I said. This was good, she said, because the house is suitable for one person only. She didn’t want partners living there as well. If I found myself a partner during my tenancy, they could stay overnight, but only occasionally. Are you certain you don’t have a girlfriend? she said. You’re not gay, are you?
No, I’m not gay, I said. I’m just on my own and more or less celibate. I have no sex life. I touch myself occasionally. That’s about as far as it goes. Well, I don’t agree with celibacy, either, she said. How old are you? Fiftyone, I said. Your active years might be pretty much behind you now, she said, but I don’t think celibacy does anybody any good. It has peculiar consequences. Just look at all those priests in America. It was a risk I was willing to take, I said. And if I blew up and had a woman to stay, or started eyeing up the wild ponies, I’d report it straightaway, I said.
How tall are you? she said. Six foot, I said. Well, 5’8” is the maximum height, really, she said. The ceilings are low and people over 5’8” bang their heads on the beams. It is possible, of course, to accustom oneself to stooping, so it is not an absolute rule. I once had a very good, quiet tenant who was six-foot-two-and-a-half. He committed suicide. But it was because he was in debt. It had nothing to do with the low ceilings. You have a job, of course?
I said I was a journalist. There was a pause while she considered. You don’t sound like a journalist, she said. What do journalists sound like? I said. Educated, she said. You don’t sound educated at all. Well, I’m just a hack, I said. With us hacks it’s a case of the less education the better. As an explanation she found this entirely satisfactory. I see, she said. Have you any furniture? Only books, I said. And a punch-bag. I don’t know what you want a punch-bag for, she said. There certainly isn’t room for one of those. And the cottage is fully furnished. You may, however, bring some books with you. Have you a question?
Is there a fireplace? I said. It was the only question I wanted to ask. To my mind, an open fire is a sine qua non. A log fire burning continuously in the grate is virtually the whole point of renting a cottage on Dartmoor. No, she said. There is no fireplace. Or rather, there is, but I’ve had it bricked up. What do you want an open fire for? They’re far too much trouble with all the lifting and carrying, and they make a mess.
But I enjoy an open fire, I said. I enjoy all the cutting and chopping and fetching and carrying. Splitting sticks with an old meat cleaver I find especially therapeutic, I said. When you get to my age you’ll think differently, she said. When you get to my age you want heat at the turn of a knob.
And do you live very far from the cottage? I asked. The cottage is an annexe of my house, she said. There is an interconnecting door, which I rarely use, though it’s handy for keeping an eye on things. If you decide to take the cottage, I will require two months’ rent in advance. I also require one month’s notice if you want to leave. The last tenant left after just a fortnight without giving any notice whatsoever. It was most inconsiderate. He even left some washing on the line. He had to get back to civilisation, he said. And I don’t allow smoking. Do you smoke? Only when I’m drunk, I said. You get drunk? Of course I get drunk, I said — I’m a journalist. It’s expected of us. I see, she said, again finding the explanation perfectly satisfactory. As long as you don’t smoke inside the cottage, she said.
This Dartmoor cottage was the first place I’d tried. I’d forgotten what a demoralising business finding somewhere to live at the bottom end of the rental market can be.
Previous page
