Thirty years of inspecting houses has given me a raft of knowledge about where their owners and occupiers keep certain things.
I stress that I do not snoop and pry but in the pursuit of information and insight into the structure and condition of a property I have a legitimate and implied reasonable right to open cupboards , lift edges of floor coverings, shine a bright torch into the dark recesses of a loft space and probe about in the far extremities of rooms.
In doing my job I have elicited the following amongst many ;
1)Everyone has a kitchen drawer packed with odds and sods.
2)Someone at some time has hidden money under a carpet.
3)Spare house keys are always on a hook in the most visible position possible .
4)There is an improvised weapon against intruders propped behind a bedroom door.
5)A boxed up, unused foot spa is always stashed in an attic.
6)The tool to lower the ceiling access hatch is in the airing cupboard.
7) Embarrassing vinyl records are stowed away in the top of a wardrobe.
8)The man of the house has a collection of dodgy magazines in a Sainsbury carrier bag on a garage shelf.
Sometimes this information is of use to me. Take a couple of days ago.
In a fully furnished but unoccupied house I was in desperate need of a screwdriver, brass polish and a jar of Marmite.
The place was an old cottage, built around 1800 or earlier in a small village. It could be described as ticking most boxes for an idyllic rural residence with a white picket fence, fruiting ancient pear tree trained up the front wall,cutesy dormer windows and traditional sliding sash windows. The description of a chocolate box illustration was pushing it a bit as at some period in its lifetime the structure had settled at one end giving more of a Grimm Brothers crooked cottage vibe. If there had been a broom made of twigs and a black cat at the front porch I would not have been too surprised.
In this instance my job was to find out and give an opinion as to whether the distorted appearance was a matter for concern or just part and parcel of an old artisan dwelling.
A basic test for any ongoing movement is to check on the operation and fit of the internal doors. Any historic movement will have been catered for by the trimming of the top edges of doors to achieve a snug fit. Telltales of sticky doors, an inability to close or evidence of recent hasty planing can be a give-away as to a problem of progressive movement.
Having struggled up a blatantly obvious gradient through the ground floor rooms from end to end I mountaineered the staircase up to a small central landing.
There were four rooms off with authentic plank doors, all of which were open.
The handles were shiny brass ones as a concession to modern style but had been fitted onto the ends of the old square shanked spindle which turned the catch in the old retained and operational door plates.
I pulled, in succession and working clockwise , the four doors shut. There was a reassuring click for each one as they engaged the lock plate on the frame. No issues to arouse suspicions of a problem there.
In repeating the sequence to open up the rooms I came to the last one, onto the main bedroom, and it was jammed shut, firmly and undeniably. Exerting a little pressure on the old planking did not do anything. Rattling the top and bottom of the door gave no hint of release.
Adopting a ruse I had seen in a spy thriller movie I retrieved my out of date plastic library card from my wallet, inserted it into the door jamb and slid it down over the position of the concealed door catch. Nothing.
I was annoyed, to say the least not helped by the laminated card threatening to snap off.
The situation was an unwelcome distraction from my job but at the same time I had to get into the room to complete the inspection. I could scarce afford to come back another time for just one room.
I leaned into the wood with my shoulder, It was not going to yield at all.
Armed with my knowledge of householders habits I descended the cliff-like stairs and went to a kitchen drawer. This was the usual place to find a screwdriver which, reluctantly, I would have to use to remove the three brass screws holding the handle to the old planking. I returned with a spoon and a stainless steel knife. The occupiers did not follow the rules.
My maternal Grandfather would have been aghast at my behaviour in using kitchen implements having been a skilled carpenter with great respect for trusted and well cared for proper tools for the job.
The spoon, a slim handled tea one was useless with the soft metal bending from trying to turn the first screw. The knife was a bit better although had to be inserted at an odd angle causing the blade end to skip about leaving scratches on the brass fittings and the door front. I had to find a screwdriver to speed up the process.
It took ten minutes to hunt down a sorry example from the back of a drawer in a Welsh dresser.
As the last screw was extracted I removed the handle. A disc of tarnished gold colour fell at my feet. It was part of the original 19th century lock.
The cause of the immoveable door was now clear to see.
The spindle was not projecting from the hole in the door but had started to slip out to the inner side. I tried to coax it out with the screwdriver but it only threatened to fall into the bedroom completely.
For some reason I thought of Marmite.
It may have been an attempt to comfort my anxiety at the ridiculous predicament as many a time a sandwich of the famous yeast extract had got me through difficult and trying times. However, I was this time inspired to use the gloopy and binding nature of Marmite to try to retrieve the spindle before it tumbled out of reach.
The screwdriver, pushed into a jar of Marmite in the pantry accumulated a reasonable residue of the black substance.
You can rely on Marmite to stay on a blade edge when being carried through a house, unlike that runny and insipid beefy Bovril stuff.
I had grossly overestimated the ability of Marmite to adhere to metal. The spindle, not obviously a lover of Marmite, shuddered a bit and did not move.
I contemplated at this stage to just refit the handle and abandon the property. It would be necessary to conceal my actions but in attempting to wipe away the Marmite from the door the spindle finally surrendered to gravity and I heard a soft, carpet muffled sound as it fell out into the room on the far side of the door.
I was distraught.
From the kitchen I brought more implements. Barbecue skewer, corkscrew, pallet knife, various pieces of cutlery were all thin enough, I estimated, to insert in the vacant space left by the spindle and by which to turn the catch to open the door. A pair of scissors eventually did it.
The swinging open of the previously impenetrable barrier was an Alleluia moment for me even though it was only a bedroom and not the hiding place of the Holy Grail or Nazi Gold.
Making good my trail of mayhem and destruction was in contrast quite pleasureable. The Brasso polish was a finishing touch to remove greasy fingermarks and perspiration stains.
Crime Scene Investigation would find no evidence of my ham fisted work.
On the drive back to the office I again thought of Marmite.
I remembered a former collection of the old style metal lidded, distinctive smoked glass jars and their residual contents which had remained palatable for perhaps 30 years. A horrible thought hit me. I had not fully wiped away the globules of Marmite from the spindle. I could envisage an occupier of the cottage, at some time in the future, being mystified by a strange, persistent but familiar odour lingering at the top of the stairwell.
Oh well, all adds to the character of the place.
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