My boss has promised me more hours soon. We’re not in debt any more, and Sheila has just started selling cakes at a market stool on Saturdays; so things are looking up in some respects. This is what I keep telling myself anyway.
Sheila however is a bit more concerned (to put it lightly). Especially after last week’s interview at the bank, which is what we’re arguing about now. She wants a house you see. Nothing too fancy. A one bedroom would be enough. And I know how much she needs a real home, somewhere to call her own. But the thought of it makes me sick inside with worry. Even with living in the bed-sit and being so careful with money we’re only saving about two-hundred pounds a month; a deposit’s gonna be ten thousand at the bare minimum.
The guy at the bank kept writing out sums for us over and over again. The confusing thing was that each time the figures and percentages were different. “The upshot of it all,” he said finally, “is that you’re not the sort of people we want to be lending money to.”
Or words to this effect, at least. Sheila sat there most likely thinking, “Where do we go from here?”
“Where do we go from here?!” she’s still asking me. I tell her we simply need more time to save more money. Once we have enough for a deposit and I’ve been in my job for longer (touch wood I can keep it) we should be in a better position to apply for a mortgage.
Although the truth of it is, the sickness in my stomach rises up once again as I think about the financial responsibility involved in looking after my own property. There’d be no phoning the landlord over a blocked sink or faulty connection in the wiring. I wonder how much plumbers and electricians cost these days.
Feeling angry I tell Sheila she should stop complaining and go get a cleaning job if it’s more money she wants. She replies that she doesn’t want a bloody cleaning job. What she wants is a baby. Somewhere to live that’d be suitable for starting a family. Where we wouldn’t have to routinely scrape mould off the walls; and lie awake on a futon, listening to the midnight arguments from the couple next door: The screams of frustration, and then the moaning of ecstasy as they’re making up once again.