‘That twat from number 21 was on the phone when you were
out.’ Announces assistant manager T before I’ve taken my coat off.
‘The repossession?’ I query, feeling another problem
growing along with the incipient ulcer bubbling away in my stomach.
‘Yes, he doesn’t seem to understand it’s not his house
any more.’ Grumbles T.
‘Give him a break.’ Counters negotiator S, looking at me
for the support her bra is struggling to give. ‘He’s lost everything.’
‘Should have kept up the monthly money then.’ Says T
callously.
‘Or taken out some payment protection insurance with me.’
Adds moribund mortgage man M to looks of disbelieve.
‘It never pays out.’ Snaps S, turning her ire on M.
‘Pays pretty good commission, or used to.’ Chuckles M,
his jowls vibrating like jelly on the Circle Line.
‘What does he want?’ I ask T, trying to avoid a full
blown internal argument when I can take my pick from half a dozen public spats,
daily.
‘To speak to someone in higher authority.’ Says T his
eyebrows rising towards the heavens where I’ve found nothing but a thinning
ozone layer, to date.
I’ve detested repossessions since my first round of
snatch-backs in the late eighties. A certain, there but for the grace of a God,
feeling has dogged me on every appointment with bailiff and locksmith. The, I’m
only following orders and if I didn’t do it someone else would, line wears
a bit thin when you’ve pasted scores of goods and chattels notices on newly
secured front doors, giving the ex-owners 28 days to remove their remaining
possessions before the house clearance lads turn up with a skip and a
steam-cleaner.
‘Couldn’t you sort it then?’ I ask T wearily.
‘Idiot says he needs several hours there.’ Replies T. ‘I
told him we can’t wait around that long while he loads bin-liners. There’s
sod-all worth keeping there anyway.’
‘It’s probably sentimental value.’ Suggests S with a
rather magnificent pout. Don’t go there, says the internal voice admonishingly
– it’s someone else’s property.
‘He says we can leave him with the new key and he’ll drop
it back.’ Continues T, before adding sneeringly. ‘As if we’re that stupid.’
It’s not unheard of for evicted non-payers to break back
into homes after the court order has been executed. I’m guessing the lender
wouldn’t take too kindly to more lengthy legal proceedings if we hold the door
open while a squatter takes up residence, no matter how altruistic the intent.
The corporate department wouldn’t be too pleased either. They nurture cosy
reciprocal agreements with banks and building societies involving much mutual
back-scratching and long expenses paid lunches. I take the number,
appropriately enough a mobile one, and ring the man. If hate could pass across
the airwaves I’d be long dead. I agree to stay for an hour maximum.
‘F***ing parasite.’ Will have to pass for a thank-you.
‘You lot love this. It’s an easy sale.’ Snarls the
dishevelled ex-owner later, as he and his tattooed partner lug bags of
threadbare clothes, some forlorn looking children’s toys and a few ropey
electrical appliances on to the front lawn. Their man with a van hasn’t arrived
and it looks like rain judging by the blackening sky.
‘You know you are selling this way too cheap.’ Says the
heavily inked woman. I tell her the asking price has been set after two
independent surveyors’ valuations, but she’s far from convinced. Granted three
others in the road are on the market for twenty grand more, but they won’t be
selling in a hurry.
‘I’m never buying again.’ Spits the man as I look at my
watch surreptitiously. No you won’t be mate, but not for the reasons you’re
thinking. His credit score will read like a Greek budget report.
‘I don’t know how you can do your job.’ Sneers the woman,
eyes colder than a dead fish. ‘You are all part of the conspiracy.’
I’m not that sophisticated lady I ache to say. I’m just
trying to keep a roof over my own family. But sometimes you need to know when
to stay silent.
‘Good day?’ Asks my wife. I just shake my head and open a
beer.
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For the cost of a soft drink the property ebook they can't burn..
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