Sunday DIY

Sunday morning at the Jackson house began with the sound of somebody moving a ladder.

Then came the sound of somebody dropping something.

Then came Barry’s voice.

“DID ANYONE BREAK IT?”

“No!” called Mr Brand.

“WHAT WAS IT?”

“Nothing!”

“THEN WHY DID IT FALL?”

“Barry!”

“I’m just asking!”

Marjory stood in the middle of her newly replastered lounge and smiled.

She was wearing old jeans, an enormous T-shirt and trainers that had seen better days.

All around her were paint tins, dust sheets, brushes, rollers and the assorted paraphernalia of a decorating project that had been waiting patiently for someone to have enough time to actually do it.

Today, finally, that someone was everyone.

The Jackson house was a large five-bedroom Victorian semi, very similar in layout to the Brand family’s house.

It had high ceilings, tall windows, long corridors and the slightly intimidating ability to make one small job become seventeen considerably larger jobs.

Marjory had owned it for years.

But restoring a Victorian house was not particularly compatible with being a neurosurgeon, being on call, raising a four-year-old and, more recently, dealing with the enormous hole left by losing her husband, Mark, in a hit-and-run just over three years ago.

So the restoration had progressed in stages.

Very slowly.

The kitchen diner, however, was now finished.

And it was glorious.

The walls were beautifully decorated.

The units were fitted.

The dining table sat beneath the lights.

The whole room felt warm and finished.

The patio doors opened onto what was currently a large expanse of mud.

A patio would come eventually.

One day.

Probably.

Marjory liked to joke that the garden was currently designed by a landscaping company called “Rain.”

The first floor was also finished.

There was Marjory’s bedroom, Marmaduke’s bedroom, the family bathroom and Marjory’s en suite.

The second floor was another matter.

Mr Brand had been slowly working his way through it.

There was a small room that had originally been intended as a cot room and two slightly larger rooms.

One was going to become Marjory’s home office.

The other would be a guest bedroom with an en suite.

That, unfortunately, involved more banging.

More pipes.

More work.

And a plumber.

Marjory had reached the stage where she was beginning to feel personally offended by the existence of plumbing.

She was also thoroughly fed up with parking beside a skip every evening.

“It’s been there for four months,” she said that morning.

Mr Brand looked towards the window.

“The skip?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You’ve named it.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

“What did you call it?”

“Steven.”

Barry appeared.

“Who’s Steven?”

“The skip,” said Marmaduke.

Barry looked impressed.

“Why’s the skip called Steven?”

Marjory sighed.

“Because after four months, you get attached.”

Mrs Brand arrived carrying a large bag.

Behind her came Alfie.

Then Barry.

Then Marmaduke, who had apparently been at the door waiting for them since seven thirty.

“Painting!” announced Marmaduke.

“Painting,” agreed Mr Brand.

“Can I paint?” asked Barry.

“Eventually.”

“When?”

“When we’ve covered everything that shouldn’t be painted.”

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

“So not yet.”

“Correct.”

Alfie was already examining the room.

“Where are we starting?”

Mr Brand pointed.

“Walls.”

Alfie nodded.

“I’m going to help with the edging.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Of course you are.”

Alfie looked slightly embarrassed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“You just said that like a professional decorator.”

Alfie shrugged.

“I like doing things properly.”

Barry appeared beside him.

“I like doing things quickly.”

“That’s because you don’t like doing things properly.”

“I do.”

“When?”

Barry thought.

“Yesterday.”

Marmaduke laughed.

For the next hour, the house became a hive of activity.

Mrs Brand carefully painted around the edges.

Mr Brand rollered the larger areas.

Alfie concentrated on getting the edges straight.

Marmaduke was allowed to paint a small section under supervision.

Barry was given an even smaller section under very close supervision.

“Don’t put too much paint on the roller,” said Mr Brand.

Barry nodded.

“How much?”

“Enough to cover the wall.”

Barry loaded the roller.

It was covered in paint.

Mr Brand looked at it.

“That’s too much.”

Barry looked at the roller.

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s dripping.”

Barry watched a blob of paint fall onto the dust sheet.

“Oh.”

Marmaduke leaned over.

“It looks like a snowball.”

Barry looked at him.

“Snowball!”

He immediately became distracted.

“Do you think Snowball would like this colour?”

“She doesn’t care.”

“She might.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She has opinions.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“She certainly does.”

Barry carefully rolled the paint onto the wall.

It was, surprisingly, not a disaster.

Marjory stood back and looked around.

For the first time in a very long time, the room looked as though it was becoming part of the house rather than a reminder of everything still left to do.

She smiled.

“Thank you.”

Mr Brand looked at her.

“For what?”

“All of this.”

Mrs Brand stopped painting.

“You don’t need to thank us.”

“I do.”

Marjory looked around.

“I’ve been meaning to get this room finished for ages.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“We know.”

“I just never seem to have the time.”

“We know that too.”

She smiled.

“And every time I come home and see that skip…”

“Steven,” said Marmaduke.

Everyone laughed.

“Yes. Steven.”

Marjory shook her head.

“I think I finally hate him.”

Around lunchtime, there was a break.

Everyone went into the kitchen diner.

It looked beautiful.

Sunlight came through the patio doors and lit up the room.

Beyond them was the muddy garden.

Barry stared at it.

“When are we getting the patio?”

“When we can afford it,” said Marjory.

Barry nodded.

“Can we have a swimming pool instead?”

“No.”

“A small one?”

“No.”

“A paddling pool?”

“Possibly.”

Barry smiled.

“I’ll put that on the list.”

Marmaduke looked out at the garden.

“It’ll be nice when the patio is done.”

“It will,” said Marjory.

Mr Brand looked towards the doors.

“You’ve done an amazing job with the kitchen.”

Marjory smiled.

“It feels like the first room that actually belongs here.”

Mrs Brand looked at her.

“It really does.”

There was a little silence.

Everyone knew what she meant.

The house had changed enormously.

But there were still reminders everywhere of the years before.

Of Mark.

Of the life Marjory had expected to have.

Of the future that had suddenly disappeared.

Then Barry broke the silence.

“What’s in the garage?”

Marjory looked at him.

“A sofa.”

“A sofa?”

“A new sofa.”

“Why is it in the garage?”

“Because I bought it months ago.”

Barry’s eyes widened.

“months?”

“Yes.”

“Does it know it’s a sofa?”

Marmaduke laughed.

“I think so.”

Marjory smiled.

“I’ve been waiting to get the lounge ready before bringing it in.”

Barry jumped up.

“LET’S GET IT!”

The new sofa was, indeed, still in the garage.

It was wrapped up carefully.

Four months of garage dust had settled around it.

Mr Brand and Marjory examined it.

“We need to get it through the door,” said Mr Brand.

“Obviously,” said Marjory.

“Just checking.”

The adults worked out the angles.

Alfie watched.

Marmaduke watched.

Barry provided commentary.

“Turn it.”

“Other way.”

“No, that way.”

“It’s stuck.”

“It’s not stuck.”

“It looks stuck.”

“Barry, please move.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re standing in the doorway.”

“That’s helping.”

Eventually, after considerable manoeuvring, the sofa entered the house.

Then it entered the lounge.

Then it was positioned.

Everyone stood back.

Marjory looked at it.

She smiled.

It was beautiful.

For months it had been hidden away in a garage.

Now it was finally where it belonged.

Barry sat down.

“It’s very comfortable.”

“You’ve got paint on your trousers,” said Mrs Brand.

Barry looked down.

“Oh.”

“Don’t move.”

Barry froze.

Marmaduke looked at the sofa.

“It’s a nice sofa.”

Marjory nodded.

“It is.”

Mrs Brand disappeared briefly.

When she returned, she was carrying a large wrapped parcel.

“I’ve got something for you.”

Marjory looked surprised.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

She opened it.

Inside were several large scatter cushions.

They were beautiful.

The fabric was a rich combination of blues and greens, covered in a detailed map design of Barbados.

Marjory stared at them.

“Oh.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“I saw the fabric and immediately thought of you.”

Marjory ran her hand over one of the cushions.

The map showed the shape of the island.

The places where she and Mark had grown up.

The places where both their families still lived.

For a moment, Marjory didn’t speak.

Then she smiled.

“Jen…”

Mrs Brand hugged her.

“It just felt right.”

Marjory held one of the cushions close.

“They’re beautiful.”

Marmaduke came over.

“That’s where Mummy’s from.”

“Yes.”

“And Daddy?”

Marjory nodded.

“Daddy was from Barbados too.”

Marmaduke smiled.

“That’s why we have family there.”

“Yes.”

He touched the cushion.

“Can we take it to Barbados?”

Marjory laughed through slightly watery eyes.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a cushion.”

“We could put it in a suitcase.”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“It’s probably safer staying on the sofa.”

Marmaduke thought about this.

“Okay.”

Barry picked up another cushion.

“What’s this?”

“A map.”

“Of Barbados.”

“Yep.”

“Where’s our house?”

“London.”

Barry examined it.

“That’s a long way.”

“It is.”

“Could we walk?”

“No.”

“Could we cycle?”

“No.”

“Could we get a bus?”

“Several.”

Barry looked disappointed.

“That’s annoying.”

Marjory laughed.

By late afternoon, the lounge had been transformed.

The walls were painted.

The new sofa was in place.

The Barbados cushions sat beautifully against it.

There were still things to finish.

There would still be plumbers.

There would still be banging upstairs.

There would still be a skip called Steven.

There would still be a patio to build.

But the room felt different.

Finished.

Warm.

Loved.

Everyone stood together admiring it.

Marjory looked around.

She thought about the years it had taken.

The work.

The hospital shifts.

The boxes.

The decisions.

The things she hadn’t had the time or energy to deal with.

And the things she had simply not been ready to deal with.

Then she looked at the sofa.

At the cushions.

At Marmaduke.

At her friends.

At Mr Brand, who had spent much of the day doing jobs without once complaining.

At Mrs Brand, who had somehow found a fabric that felt like home.

At Alfie, who was still inspecting the paintwork.

And at Barry, who had a tiny smear of blue paint on his cheek.

“It looks lovely,” she said.

Mr Brand nodded.

“It does.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Any time.”

Barry raised his hand.

“I helped.”

Marjory laughed.

“You did.”

“Can I help with the patio?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you painting the grass.”

Barry looked thoughtful.

“What about the mud?”

“Also no.”

He sighed.

“Everyone’s very difficult.”

Marmaduke put an arm around him.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

Barry looked around the finished lounge one last time.

Then he smiled.

“Okay.”

Marjory watched them leave.

The house was still unfinished.

There was still work to do.

But for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like an unfinished house.

It felt like home.

She sat down on the new sofa.

The Barbados cushions were behind her.

She looked at the map of the island.

And for a moment, she could almost imagine the sound of the sea.

Then Mr Brand appeared in the doorway.

“Marjory?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

She frowned.

“What?”

He pointed towards the window.

Barry was outside.

He was standing in the muddy garden.

Marmaduke was beside him.

Both boys were looking at the patio doors.

Barry had apparently found a stick.

Marjory sighed.

“What has he done?”

“Nothing.”

“Yet?”

“Exactly.”

Marjory smiled.

She looked around her newly painted lounge.

Her beautiful new sofa.

Her Barbados cushions.

Her friends.

Her son.

And the home that, little by little, was becoming hers again.

“Leave him,” she said.

Mr Brand raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Barry waved his stick through the air.

“LOOK! I’M BUILDING THE PATIO!”

Marjory laughed.

“Actually…”

She stood up.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Mr Brand grinned.

“Thought you might.”

“Barry!”

The four-year-old looked up.

“Yes?”

“Put the stick down.”

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

Then at the mud.

Then at the newly decorated house.

He sighed.

“Fine.”

And, remarkably, he did.

Because even Barry understood that some things were worth taking care of.

Especially when they belonged to people you loved.