The bad news is that it’s filthy. When Evan mentioned it needed cleaning he wasn’t joking. The floorboards are grey black with some stubborn ingrained dirt. Cobwebs fill every corner and the windows thick with the grime of ages. this place hasn’t been cleaned in a hundred years. Thank God for Wyn.
He’s a freckled, ginger-haired teenager who comes carrying a mob, a bucket full of brushes and other cleaning products and an eager expression. “I live in Kendric House and help out with everything,” he says as if cleaning is his favourite game.
Together we scrub the windows until they shine, wash the walls which prove to be an elegant off-white not a murky brown, and Wyn climbed a tall ladder and obliterate all the cobwebs. The floorboards are the main problem. An hour on my knees hasn’t made much difference.
“I think we need something more than just a cloth. Maybe a hard brush or a scraper?” I ask Wyn.
“Better ask Alex. He says if anything needs more than a soft cloth we have to ask him.”
“Alex the builder?”
“Alex?” Wyn stares at me wide eyed as he jumps off the last three steps of the lader and lands with a soft thump on the floor. “He’s not the builder. I mean he has some builders working for him but he’s like an expert.”
“Expert in what?”
“Mosaics, ceramics and historic building restoration,” Wyn says proudly. The big words sound like an official title.
“He’s all about antiques, has a big website. I can show you.” He whips out a smartphone and scrolls through to show me.
ALEXANDER MCLAVERTY
HERITAGE BUILDINGS RESTORATION
Wyn takes his phone back and dials a number. A moment later someone answers
“Alex, can Leonie scrape the floor with a brush or something to clean it. The dirt is not coming off.”
Wyn lowers the phone and tucks it away in his back pocket.
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t. He cut me off.”
“Why?”
In the next instant, a breathless Alex runs into the room. “Don’t touch it.” He holds a hand up to stop us. “Let me look.”
I rise from the floor and step back rubbing a hand over my painful knees.
Alex drops to examine the floor, then taking out a small bottle from his toolbelt, wets a corner of the cloth and rubs gently. He reminds me of a beautician cleansing someone’s face.
A little later, the wood begins to emerge from under the hard layer of grime. “I thought so,” Alex says. “All the bedrooms in this wing are the same.”
“What?” I ask intrigued by his attention.
“Come and look.” He beckons me closer. “This is Versailles tiling. It’s a kind of parquet which was very popular with Victorians.” He traces a finger over the intricate interwoven pattern of squares, rectangles and triangles that fit together like a puzzle. “But here they’ve used two kinds of wood. The lighter one is teak, and this is cherry. Alternating sequences.”
Now he’s explained, I can see how beautiful it is. “It’s like an art work,”
“Yes,” he says still rubbing gently to clean up more of the small section. “It’s a lost art.”
“I feel bad walking on it.”
“Don’t. It was made to last. But you have to look after it. I’ll get you some of this oil to dissolve the dirt, just rub it in and the tiles should be good as new.” He looks at me. I’d changed into an old pair of jeans and sweatshirt to clean the room. “Don’t wear anything you don’t want to lose, This oil stains forever.”
An hour later, the floor is indeed a work of art. Alex comes to check and gives his approval. He glances around the room which now it’s clean looks big and airy. “See you’ve got one witha dressing room.” He points to the arch separating the room into the two. You can use this side as sitting room or study.”
“I doubt I’d need either. I’m only here for three weeks. At most.”
