by D K Mitchell

Created on: April 18, 2010

It was going to be a difficult challenge to clean for old Mr. Greaves, a local anthropologist.

On first entering he had guided me to the study where apparently he spent the majority of his day. Following quietly I observed the artworks dotting the hallway walls.

At a cursory glance the large collection appeared ordered and satisfactorily clean; perhaps it was the dim hall light that caused this deception.

The polished floor was in obvious need of a broom with dust bunnies littering the corners but the sheen was fine aside from the narrow strip where foot traffic was defined.

By the time I walked into the study I had calculated a mere two hours work and was rather disheartened, hoping for at least six hours to make a fair day.

The study itself was a conglomerate of mismatched bookcases and shabby metal adjustable shelving that looked like it belonged in a workshop rather than the home.

On the far wall a smudged window looked out into the rambling cottage garden; a sunflower dominating the centre view.

Far from daunting the extra work pleased me no end.

A quick scan of the sill and frame and I knew at least another hour of work was to be had.

It must have been smoke that discoloured the paintwork in such a way. I could see patches of cream paint through the speckle of overall yellowish brown. The walls were hard to see with so many bookcases hiding them but I could tell they were a deep green, like a racing green in colour.

The ceiling too had once been cream tone with the majority of staining above the large antique carved oak desk indicating the smoke was not from the little fireplace but from the cigars smoked while Mr. Greaves worked.

The floor in the study was not the polished boards of the hallway but a lay of ancient Persian rug threadbare but elegant and a bitch to clean; and it was filthy.

‘Add another four hours’, I thought with a secret smile.

“Basically I want you to clean the house, stay out of my way and don’t make a noise.” Mr. Greaves instructed. “I’m not a bad boss but I have an aversion to noise and movement when I am working.” He added.

“You can only clean in here,” he said meaning the study, “before ten in the mornings each day. After that I want no sign of you having been in here other than where you have cleaned, so don’t go leaving buckets or rags lying around. Distractions, I hate.”

“So it’s more than one day then?” I asked hopefully.

“Why yes of course. I want you to come daily Monday to Friday from eight until five. Didn’t they tell you?” he answered surprised I wasn’t aware.

My insides were doing somersaults! Far more than I had anticipated when the agency had sent me around to see Mr. Greaves. They had indicated a few hours not full time.

It was as I was curbing my elation I noticed just how dusty and grimy the numerous years of shelf stacking was; and the thousand of oddments and books all shoved in together.

He must have noticed my recoil when I spotted the rat trap on a lower shelf.

“Don’t worry; it hasn’t caught one for years.” He laughed.

“I must show you to the kitchen before you make a decision.” He said kindly.

I hadn’t realized I got to decide, generally when the agency sent me out I worked immediately and that was that. I thought I knew what my decision would be, after all who could turn down regular work as opposed to the infrequent calls received from the agency?

On the way out I tried hard not to run.

Mr. Greaves newer rat catcher was resident in the kitchen. It slithered amongst the precariously balanced plates and pots on the sink; and with free roam of the house!

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