THE GREMLINS IN THE PIPES
© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1994-1997
It was stuffy in the reception area. The air smelt of damp clothes and the "No Smoking" sign was filmed with nicotine. Outside it was raining. Inside they were queuing two-deep to the door.
"I can’t stand it any more. My Wayne’s toddling now and the new one’s due in three weeks. When are you lot going to give me somewhere decent to live?"
"I told you about the blocked gutters three weeks ago and nothing’s been done. You can’t use our front door when it’s raining. It’s like a bloody waterfall and it’s all seeping through and ruining the carpet."
"My mother’s eighty-seven and she’s been on your list since God knows when. Who can I talk to who’ll give me a straight answer in this place when you’re going to house her?"
In every housing department the length and breadth of the land it was the same, reflected the receptionist cynically. Monday, bloody Monday. Give ‘em two days to think things over and in they came, first thing Monday morning to let you know exactly how to do your job. What a way to earn a living! The only difference between this and the stocks was that usually people didn’t throw things. Usually!
"Excuse me miss," said a timid voice. "I don’t like to cause trouble, but we got they gremlins in the pipes again, and they’re knocking something dreadful."
Two small figures stood, holding hands, little more than eye-level with the high reception desk. The speaker was a stocky woman with a round pale face. Her worried brown eyes were hugely magnified by the thick glasses she wore. But for the streaks of grey in her carefully parted hair, she could have passed for a school-girl. The little woman holding her hand skipped and bobbed excitedly. She gave the receptionist a gap-toothed grin.
"I got a new dress!" she warbled, and twirled around, holding her raincoat open. Her sister cuffed her with a practised hand.
"Don’t take no notice of her, miss. T’ain’t new anyroad. I took her down Oxfam Saturday. She don’t know the difference. Now shut up Babs. The lady don’t want to know your business."
Babs laid her head on the reception desk and watched from one blackbird eye as her sister and the lady sorted out about the gremlins. There was a red pencil stub lying over by some papers. Babs liked red. Of course it was wrong to steal. Babs knew that. But maybe if her fingers danced the Lords and Ladies dance then she couldn’t help it if they touched it and picked it up.....
"Lords an’ Ladies dancin’ ... Lords an’ Ladies dancin’ ... up they go, back they come, up they go, back they come, one step, two step, three step, four step ..."
She breathed through her open mouth, her cheek laid flat on the polished wood, her breath making soft droplets on the sheen, watching her stubby fingers trace the patterns of a fairy-tale gavotte.
"That’s alright then," she heard Cissy say. "Mr Harrison will come and sort it out will he? Well thank you miss, and I’m ever so sorry to cause trouble."
The Lords and Ladies grabbed hold of the pencil. Cissy had not noticed. The lady met her eye for a moment, then seemed to smile a little bit, and winked. Babs grinned back. She wasn’t going to tell! Babs had a new red pencil, a new dress, and Mr Harrison was going to come and see them! She laughed and sang as her sister bustled her out into the cold November rain for the long walk home.
Miss Celia and Miss Barbara Tapper had lived in the same house all their lives. It was an old fashioned three bedroomed terrace with a shed at the bottom of the garden, and the bathroom downstairs, converted from the old scullery. Celia could still remember the excitement when the bathroom was put in. Oh the glory of the pure white bath! The marvel of the geyser that fizzed and popped, and spewed out a shaky stream of red hot water! Babs had been a baby then. Celia remembered her slippery body, taut with fear, pink with heat and anger, bawling and howling in the soapy water. She had helped her mother to sponge the tears from her thick, Mongoloid features. They dried her, dressed her in her flannel night-gown, and put her, still crying, to bed. Then they scrubbed out the bath until it gleamed..
"There now!" said Mother, sitting back on her haunches, her upper lip glistening with sweat. And Cissy knew she was content.
Years passed. Her older brother John got married in the local church. Cissy’s arms ached with the memory of towing her sister down the aisle behind the bride, stumbling in her shiny shoes, her face lit up with the wonder of the taffeta, the lace and all the flowers. Babs crooned to herself through the service. Cissy showed her the place in the hymn-book for the songs, and she tore them out quietly and stuffed them down the front of her frock so that she would not forget them. She wanted the picture of Jesus behind the altar, but Cissy said that it belonged to God and she mustn’t touch it.
After the church there was the reception in the parish hall. John, in his dark suit with the white carnation proud in his buttonhole, drank a toast to his sisters and all the family said didn’t they look lovely, and hadn’t Babs behaved well, considering. Babs gave her huge laugh and flung her brawny arms around her new sister-in-law, crushing her veil and getting a smear of jelly down her bodice. The doll-like bride pulled back, quivering with rage. John flushed with embarrassment. Cissy took charge, plugging the gale of sobs that was welling up in Babs’ anguished face with a sugar rose hastily broken off the wedding cake.
"Silly stuck-up bitch," she muttered, stroking Babs’ hair. "She don’t know no better, or her mother never taught her no manners. Now don’t you go spoiling your face by cryin’ or I won’t let you have no more lemonade."
Babs snuffled, sucked on her sugar rose, and buried her sticky face contentedly in her sister’s bosom.
Time passed - one day ticking quietly into the next for the Tapper girls. Their life revolved around their home in a daily cycle of cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing. Cissy’s schooling was soon over. Capable she may be where Babs was concerned, but academic matters were beyond her. Her teachers managed to do little for her apart from some reading and arithmetic, and basic needlework skills. She left as soon as she could and stayed home to help her mother.
Mrs Tapper’s heart had left the house along with her first-born and only son, and the apple of her eye. His rare, brief visits were like jewels to her - their richness and sparkle to be turned over in her mind’s eye long after the event. For John, the house was scrubbed until it shone. For John, the china tea-pot was set upon the flowered cloth, and the fire lit in the front room. News of his exploits in the world of affairs - the world of men and business - occasionally filtered through to them. To Cissy and Babs such matters were as bizarre and haunting as news from another planet.
"Our John reckons he might get promotion come Christmas if he don’t get passed over by Mr Thompson in Accounts, " Cissy confided breathlessly to the next door neighbour. And Babs, whose education consisted almost totally of readings from the Children’s Illustrated Bible by a kindly nun at her special classes, saw John shivering in a thatched stable while Mr Thompson flew overhead with the Angel Of Death on dark, satanic wings, endlessly seeking him out.
Our John had a semi-detached with a garage and a telephone, and fitted carpets right through the house. "He don’t have to pay no rent to the Council, " Cissy told Babs, "because he got a mortgage."
The arrival of Young Stephen had widened the gap between John and his family. Mrs Tapper’s dreams of cosy grandmotherhood were dashed by her daughter-in-law who had Strict Views on how her son was to be reared. These views did not include hand-knitted bonnets and home-cooked buns around the unguarded coal fire in Mrs. Tapper’s kitchen. And of course it was dangerous to allow Barbara to play with the child. How was she expected to realise that he was not just another cuddly toy? Cissy and Babs accepted this stoically. They had each other and were accustomed to the rejection of the outside world, where everything moved at such a confusing pace. They took pleasure in hearing of their nephew’s achievements. He did well at school, shooting up through the ranks like a meteor, and when the news came that he had been accepted at University, it was as if Heaven itself had opened the gates and admitted him to some Elysian field.
By the time Young Stephen graduated in Economics, his two aunts lived alone in the large, terraced Council house. His grandparents had succumbed to a stroke, and a heart attack. Cissy had laundered and cooked her way through the relentless progress of her parents’ last illnesses. Like a cart-horse, with her slow plodding tread, she had pulled the burden uncomplainingly. Many people admired this stocky, capable, simple-minded woman. It was for her sake that the Council staff overlooked Babs’ little thefts, and even occasionally indulged her by leaving out some small trophy for her to find. It was generally known that although Miss Celia Tapper was a bit slow on the up-take, she was honest, reliable, and good-hearted. When the Council maintenance men called to do routine repairs, they would often check a plug for her, or sort out a fault on her hoover. The local butcher, where Cissy with her gentle "please" and "thank-you" had been shopping for many years, would occasionally let his hand slip with an extra kidney. Cissy lived by her mother’s simple doctrine: "You got to look after your home, Cissy, and keep it clean - and make sure Babs acts respectful."
She succeeded to her parents’ tenancy, and it was a worry to her when papers came with the Council postmark addressed to Miss C Tapper. No matter how many times she may read through a letter, she was always sure that she had misunderstood it, and somehow someone from the Council was angry, and would come to tell her off. Sweating and afraid, she would present herself at the Housing Department for punishment, and would need patient reassurance from her housing officer. Her rent was paid by the Benefit, and the Social gave her the housekeeping, plus some money for looking after Babs. She was far from rich, but had never learned expensive habits.
The nearest thing to a man in Cissy’s life was the Council’s District Maintenance Officer, Mr Harrison. She had met him before on many occasions, but the first time he had every really sat down and talked to her was when the Council planned to install central heating in the house. He explained where the pipes would go, and exactly what would happen. He wore his sleeves rolled to the elbow and accepted a mug of tea from her in the kitchen. He put her at her ease, and reminded her of her father and brother rolled up into one.
As the work progressed, he would drop in to inspect, carefully examining what had been done and answering all her questions - reassuring with his tuneless whistling, his broad, ruddy face, and his endless fund of simple jokes that made Babs giggle.
Dan Harrison had been amazed at what he found when he inspected Miss Tapper’s house. She actually used dummy plugs to fill in the unused electric sockets because her mother had told her the electric would leak into the room if she didn’t. She kept a line of Bisto tins on the kitchen shelf marked "GASS" "ELECKTRIC", "WARTER" and "RENT and religiously put five pounds in each tin every week. "Miss Tapper," he had said, "I don’t like to interfere, but aren’t you asking to be burgled if it gets about that you keep cash on the premises?"
Cissy had blinked at him, puzzled. "Mother always did it this way - reckoned no-one’d steal from us, not with Babs the way she is."
"But why not have a bank account instead?"
"Oh no. They banks steals your money and it ends up costing." And she would not be dissuaded. Soon afterwards she got a friendly letter from her housing officer telling her there was no need to put aside five pounds a week for rent, because it was fully covered by Benefit. Cissy was obdurate. She would carry on doing it just in case. Then, if anything happened, they wouldn’t tell her off, because she’d be able to say "Look! Here’s your money!" Mother had told her - Cissy, you got to make sure you pay the rent. When the rent tin got full, she emptied it into one of the biscuit tins in the cupboard under the stairs, She didn’t tell Mr Harrison that in case he got on to her again.
The central heating was fully installed, and Mr Harrison came round to test the system. Babs twirled and skipped, sensing Cissy’s excitement. The new white pipes gleamed with the polishing they had given them. The moment came - the system was switched on. Then - disaster! There was a roaring and a rumbling and a banging as though every pipe was trying to break loose from the walls. Babs howled with fear. Cissy, pale and shaking, smacked her to be quiet. Only Mr Harrison was calm. With his familiar whistle, he was ambling from radiator to radiator adjusting the stop-cocks, listening to the crazy din like a conductor to an orchestra - trying to hear which note was out of tune. Gradually the noise subsided.
"What is it?" asked Cissy, still trembling.
Mr Harrison winked at her. "Only the gremlins," he laughed. "You’ve got to let them out by bleeding the pipes at the stop-cock to get rid of any air." He grinned at Babs, teasing. "That’ll make sure the gremlins stay nice and quiet for you."
The two round, currant bun faces looked back at him, blankly.
"Look, it’s working alright now," he said, suddenly embarrassed. "If you get any problems, just let me know."
"We got goblins in our pipes!" Babs told the butcher the following day.
"Don’t be so silly!" said Cissy. "Mr. Harrison got rid of them all, and anyway they’re gremlins, not goblins."
But Babs was not convinced. She had seen pictures of goblins in her fairy-tale books. Nasty brown pointed little men with big staring eyes. In vain did Cissy explain that the pipes were full of water, not goblins. That made it worse. They were in there, floating in the darkness like the rat she once found in the water-butt outside, with slimy fur and drowned, swollen, fishy eyes. She would run around the house at night, turning the stop-cocks to let them out before they drowned. Then the banging would start up again and down they would go to the Council to sort out for Mr Harrison to come and deal with it.
At last, Cissy had had enough. Babs had to be told not to meddle, and if Dad wasn’t there any more to lay the law down, then it would have to be our John. She went to the public telephone box and made one of her rare calls to him.
"John, you got to come and sort out Babs - - - - - - - no, she’s fine, but she won’t stop fiddling with the heating - - - - - - - - I don’t know - - - - - - - - - no I don’t think so John. Reckon Mr Harrison would’ve said if it’d been dangerous - - - - - - - no John - - - - - - - - - - - - no - - - - - - - - - - - no she ain’t goin’ in no home. But you got to come an’ sort her out for me. I don’t like to keep botherin’ them up at the Council - - - - - - - - - - but I don’t pay them - - - - - - -- - no, I don’t. Benefit pays them - - - - - - - - - - - John, please -- - - - - - - - - - - - Alright then. Tuesday."
John came on Tuesday evening. Cissy sat Babs down at the kitchen table, and laid out her copy of the tenancy agreement and the Tenant’s Handbook. John did a creditable impersonation of his father. He paced to and fro, He emphasised his point with a sharp finger. He read from the tenancy agreement about Wilful Damage and finally made Babs repeat after him that she would not, ever again, touch the stop-cocks. She was pale, round-eyed and subdued. At the end of her catechism, she sucked her thumb. John and Cissy exchanged relieved glances. This was her sign of contrition.
"You’re a good girl, Babs," said John. She smiled at him around her thumb. Cissy expertly wiped away the resulting dribble. John wondered for the umpteenth time how his sister coped.
He sat for a while in the familiar kitchen while Cissy put Babs to bed, drinking tea and leafing through the tenant’s handbook. He felt guilty. He always did when he came home. This was the one place where so little had been asked of him, and so much given. He could drop his aitches here. He did not have to make decisions, express opinions, entertain friends. His could sit and drink tea out of a striped mug with his shoes off. He looked around the immaculate room. Everything polished, scrubbed and cleaned by Cissy. No wonder she looked so tired. And now all this crazy fuss over Babs and the wretched radiators. He hated to think of Cissy so afraid that some spotty youth from the Council would give her a good telling off. Subservient - that’s what she was. And now Christine was badgering him to move to Sussex. How could he move away without seeing Cissy settled? He turned the pages of the handbook and a title caught his eye. "Tenant’s Right To Buy".
"Ciss," he said quietly, "did you know that you had the right to buy this place?"
"She’s done WHAT?" asked the housing officer incredulously.
"She’s applied for the right to buy."
The two women read through the application form. It had clearly been filled in for her. The handwriting was educated, and there were no spelling mistakes. But the signature - "Miss Celia Tapper (Miss)" - was unmistakable. Even so, they checked it against other signatures on her tenancy file, just to be sure.
"But why would she want to do that? Does she realise that Housing Benefit won’t cover mortgage payments? And how the hell would she get a mortgage in the first place?"
"Looks like her brother is putting up the money. That’s who John Tapper is, isn’t it?"
A further dredge through the tenancy file - back to yellowed carbons typed on manual machines.
"Yeah, he’s the older brother - used to live there when the parents were alive, before Miss Tapper succeeded to the tenancy"
"And I suppose Mr John Tapper will go running round there every time the loony sister fools around with the central heating system?"
"God yes! That’s a thought! Do you think she realises that she won’t get any maintenance done? Dan’s been tearing his hair out with her, the last few months. Round there practically every day doing something or other."
"I don’t like it."
"Why?"
"Well, what’s in it for her? Nothing. She’s no better off, in fact she’s worse off. She’ll have no-one to call out if anything does go wrong. I mean, what if we get gales again this autumn like we did last year, and she gets slates off the roof? What if Brother John gets fed up paying the mortgage for her? Isn’t there any way we can block it?"
"No. She’s got the right, and she’s applied properly. There’s nothing we can do."
"Well, we could bring her in and explain about the maintenance. Make sure she understands."
Miss Tapper arrived for her appointment with the Housing Officer in a state of fear. She sat, pale and sweating, in the windowless interview room with her eyes fixed in the fire extinguisher. Overhead, the extractor fan buzzed like a trapped hornet.
"I have asked you to come here today to discuss your Right To Buy application," began the housing officer. Cissy’s heart thudded. She had done something wrong. She knew it. Oh Mother, I’m so sorry!
"At the moment," continued the officer, "you are the Secure Tenant of the Council, and you have a lot of rights. You have the right to transfer and exchange your tenancy, so if you ever wanted to move house ......."
"No! I don’t want to leave my house! Where else would I go!"
"That’s fine, Miss Tapper. No-one’s saying you have to move, but if you ever changed your mind - if for example your sister needed residential care, and you wanted to move to be near her ......."
"Babs ain’t going in no home," muttered Cissy, clinging to the childhood mantra with mounting terror.
"If you ever wanted to move," continued the officer, desperately, "you would have the right to do so. I mean, you may come to find the garden too much of a strain. People move for all sorts of reasons."
"You sayin’ I can’t look after the place?" The cornered animal was beginning to turn.
"You look after the place beautifully. All the maintenance staff have always said how clean and tidy you keep the house. It’s a credit to you."
Cissy relaxed slightly. So they weren’t going to tell her off about that, then.
"Now that brings me to the subject of maintenance," continued the officer, cautiously. "You have often needed our maintenance staff to come round and sort out a problem for you. The new heating system, for example ..........."
"Babs didn’t know!" cried Cissy. "She didn’t understand about not turning they stop-cocks!"
"..............has had it’s teething troubles. But that was alright, because you knew you could come here and report the problem, and we would send someone out to deal with it."
"She won’t do it no more! She promised our John!"
"Miss Tapper, the point I am trying to make is that if you buy the property, we won’t be able to do that any more. We would no longer own the property, and therefore we would be under no obligation to repair it. Also, you would no longer have the right to transfer to another property, and you would not be able to claim Housing Benefit which pays your rent at the moment. The mortgage payments will be your responsibility, and the Council will not be able to help you. Do you understand?"
"Oh yes," said Cissy, who didn’t, but wanted to get out as soon as possible.
"Now I want you to consider carefully whether you want to proceed with your application. If you decided to withdraw it, you would not lose your right to buy."
"Oh yes," said Cissy, since a response seemed to be expected. The buzzing fan was getting on her nerves and she was worried about leaving Babs with the neighbours.
"Are there any questions you want to ask me?"
"No thank you," replied Cissy, relieved that it seemed to be almost over.
"Just one last thing." The officer cleared her throat nervously. "Your maintenance officer, Mr Harrison, told me that you keep a lot of cash on the premises. Now obviously it’s not my business, but I am concerned that you may put yourself at risk ...."
"You’re right miss! T’ain’t none of your business how I runs my home!" snapped Cissy. "And it ain’t none of Mr Harrison’s business to be spreading tales about me!"
"But I’m only trying to ....."
"You got your job to do and that’s fine. But don’t you go tellin’ me how to run my home. That’s my business and no-one else’s! Now, miss, I got to go and fetch Babs."
Shaking with anger, Cissy rose to her feet and stalked out.
John listened in growing fury to her tearful, garbled version of the meeting. So, they threatened her did they! Told her she might have to move. Told her she couldn’t have any repairs done. Told her Babs had to go into a home. Told her she couldn’t get any DSS money. Tried to persuade her to withdraw her application. Well. The sooner his sisters were out from under the thumb of the Council, the better.
The purchase went ahead. Miss Tapper qualified for maximum discount and was able to buy her home for a fraction of its true value. John Tapper had been staggered by the amount of cash Cissy actually had on the premises. When she said she had money and could help with the purchase, he had expected her to offer, maybe, £50. By the time they had unearthed all the biscuit tins from the cupboard under the stairs and counted the contents, the sum was nearer £5,000. He raised the rest himself, and retired to Sussex with an easy mind.
It was a windy night. Babs sat up in bed and whimpered quietly. She clasped her hands around her knees and rocked herself, listening to the moaning gale. The sash window in her room shuddered and banged. The bathroom door creaked and slammed, creaked and slammed, over and over again. Knocking, creaking all over the house. Knocking. Knocking. She knew what she must do, even though she was sure she had promised John she wouldn’t. But John wasn’t here any more, so he wouldn’t know. And she couldn’t let the goblins drown. Quietly she pattered down the dark stairs to do her errand of mercy.
Cissy didn’t speak to her the next day. Babs was bundled into her coat and smacked when she started to protest. Cissy wouldn’t let go of her hand, and wouldn’t let her stop on the bridge to look at the ducks. They got to the Council offices. Babs was happy. They hadn’t been there for ages, and the nice lady might have something for her. She bounced eagerly up the steps and to the familiar high desk. Cissy talked to the lady for a long time and said "please" a lot. The lady said "What about your brother? Can’t he help?". And Cissy said "but he’s in Sussex!". And the lady said "I’m sorry," and "try Yellow Pages for a plumber".
"Ain’t Mr Harrison comin’ Cissy?" asked Babs. Her sister’s face looked different, and for a while Babs couldn’t work out what was wrong. Then, panic-stricken, she asked in a tiny voice, "Cissy, why you cryin’?"
Modified:25/7/97
Created:25/7/97