Fawlty Towers - Tuesday

‘We were hoping for  bit more than that.’ Says the elderly lady, and her crinkly husband nods in agreement. Either that, or he’s fallen asleep.

I’m sat in another dusty, overheated lounge, shelves stuffed with a lifetime’s mementoes. It’s mostly gift shop tat and doubtless will go in a skip when the beneficiaries get to clear out the couple’s last resting place.

‘Well you did say you wanted a realistic valuation, Mrs Glover.’ I counter gently. ‘And the developer will be needing the same.’

‘That’s true dear.’ Mumbles the man. Reassuringly he’s still alive. Probate can really hold up a sale.

‘It’s just….’ Begins the old lady falteringly.

‘Go on.’ I urge.

‘It’s just that the other two agents said much more than you.’

‘They were barely out of short trousers mind.’ Says her husband. ‘Didn’t like the cut of their jib.’

This is a familiar problem. Ever since I entered the industry I’ve been plagued by over-valuers. Agents who mislead potential clients to get their property on their books - often on a long sole agency - then batter the hapless vendors down to a sensible price once competitors, who were honest and accurate with suggested pricing, are locked out.

‘Well, did they show you comparable properties to yours that have actually sold?’ I ask. 

‘Not really.’ Admits the wife.

‘Told you they were charlatans.’ Croaks the old fella. I’m really warming to him. Just hope he lasts the protracted sales’ process.

‘Yes but it’s thirty thousand pounds.’ Continues the wife doggedly.

Not if you’re never going to get it, I want to shout.

‘And the flat we want is ever so pricey, we need every penny we can get.’ Says the old lady, not unnaturally.

‘Thought we were downsizing,’ confides the husband. ‘But we’re going to end up hardly banking anything once we’ve bought the sheltered flat.’

It’s a pet hate of mine. One that grows with every passing year as I move towards the same dilemma this pair are facing. The largely illusionary safety of an old persons’ home, with built-in security and the comfort of a pull-cord to tug when you collapse on the bathroom floor. In reality any shitester can con a resident to buzz them in to the building and the emergency call goes through to a dis-interested call-centre worker somewhere at the cheaper end of the Commonwealth.

‘What do you think we should do?’ Presses the husband. Damn it, and I really like this couple. I could tell them it would be cheaper to stay put, get a gardener and some home help. Avoid paying , way over what I consider sensible for a one bedroom retirement flat. A flat with punitive service charges, an onerous lease full of pitfalls and unfair charges for the beneficiaries when they come to try and sell, and one that will be worth less than their parents paid for it.

I could open a tourist shop with the amount of fudge I’ve dispensed over the years. We agree to market the home at £20,000 more than I’d like, but £10,000 less than the smoke-blowers have suggested. It’s a win, of sorts.

‘Got the developers of the retirement flat, the Glovers are hoping to buy, on line one.’ Says negotiator S, an hour after I’ve returned to the office and before I’ve even uploaded the sales’ particulars. I tense. I don’t like this lot, but then I deal with people I wouldn’t share a drink with, daily. 

‘Cheers. Put them through.’

‘How much could you sell it for, in six weeks?’ Presses the lady sales consultant. 

I offer her a gift-wrapped, metaphorical, 200gms of salted caramel product.

‘We need absolutes.’ She says curtly.

You don’t get those in property, lady.

‘If we take their house in part-exchange we want it sold quickly.’

I bet you do. And you’ll offer them 85% of it’s actual value - my original price not the over-inflated figure - and expect them to pay, what is about 150% of the true price, for your shrunken square-footage box.

Have a feeling I’ll be needing that gardener’s phone number.

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Follow Me Men - Tuesday

‘Right,’ I say clapping hands together dramatically. ‘We need contracts to exchange this week. So let’s chase those solicitors.’ The last time I saw so many disenchanted faces was at Wembley Stadium and the less said about that night the better.

‘Most of them won’t even take your calls.’ Pronounces assistant manager T imperiously, to nods of confirmation. It’s not the sort of second-in-command support I’m looking for. T is a man born too late. I could envisage him sipping red wine about twenty miles behind the front line while the distant sound of guns struggle against the sound of the Belgian prostitute pleasuring him. I, of course, am knee deep in the mucky stuff with my head above the parapet.

‘If we can just get two or three exchanges before the end of the month we’ll have a fighting chance of meeting the quarterly target.’ I plead, imagining the inevitable phone call I’ll receive from the bean counter boss if the office under performs. He’s another one likely to be sucking on a bottle of Bordeaux, while a piece rate European worker fiddles with his…balance sheet.

‘I can never get a solicitor to speak to me.’ Says dozy trainee F to suppressed giggles.

‘We need to nurture these relationships,’ I pontificate, to looks of distain. ‘Granted it’s a love hate thing.’

‘Yes they love to hate us,’ replies T. ‘And we hate having to love them.’

‘Or at least pretending to.’ Adds negotiator S.

I can see I need to lead by example again. No man’s land beckons dangerously.

‘Lawyers can give us lucrative probate business.’ I tell the team.

‘We give them more solicitor-free buyers usually.’ Responds S

‘And the only outfits with probate departments are the old fogey firms with a load of ageing dinosaurs still practicing. You try dialling a Diplodocus.’ Says T to an irritating round of laughter.

I thought the same way when I started it this business, but some of the lolloping, vegetarians my team are referring to, used to play me at five-a-side football in simpler times. I like to think I’ve evolved. These guys don’t respond to emails, shy away from e-commerce and take a fortnight to turn round a letter. Extinction beckons – as it does for me if I don’t get some income invoiced.

‘So,’ begins F with his now standard hesitance.’ The firms with probate departments….’

‘Have lots of elderly clients.’ Interjects T

‘They’re just the least responsive to deal with.’ Says S.

S is right, but if we get a cold winter and plenty of icy pavements I want to be taking their calls, or more likely opening their letter, charged at £50 a pop to the deceased estate.

I can feel the meeting drifting so I look at the empty diary and make a decision.

‘Everybody in my office, I’ll make a speakerphone call and show you how it’s done.’ The words are still bouncing off the filing cabinets and I’m already regretting them. You are supposed to learn by experience.

The ringing tone echoes round my office as my team lean in expectantly. It chimes for long enough to really annoy someone in sales, but I persevere. It’s one of the firms I’ve been referring to and the file has been outstanding nearly three months. Finally someone picks up and I press a finger to my lips dramatically.

I recognise the voice and feel my confidence swell.

‘Hello Carol.’ I announce in a familiar but professional manner and I give her my name.

‘Who?’ She replies frostily, to the sort of silent hilarity not seen since the last Laurel and Hardy film with no soundtrack, played to a packed cinema of Flappers.

I press on daunted, telling her the client and case I’m chasing.

‘That’s all progressing fine.’ Says Carol dismissively, as eyebrows raise and a few murmurings stir. This tells me nothing. I ask to speak to the partner in question.

‘I’ll see if he’s in.’ I give the thumbs up to all as Carol adds. ‘Who shall I say it is again?’

After a minute, I already know the answer - but there’s no gap in the barbed wire.

He said he was out.

---

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Key To Another Door - Tuesday

‘Don’t you get spooked by dead people’s homes?’ Asks dopey trainee F nervously, as we pull up outside a ramshackle semi-detached house with the look of a decade or two’s neglect clinging to the elevation. I have the keys nestling in my pocket and the covering letter from the probate department of a local solicitor, is in my briefcase. It gives me a nice warm feeling.

‘Death, debt and divorce.’ I remind F as we open a rusting iron gate to a groaning accompaniment. ‘I’ve told you, they are the estate agent’s best friend no matter how the economy is doing.’

‘Yeh but it’s a bit…’ Begins F, tailing off as we dodge round a wild looking buddleia that’s trying to reclaim the crumbling path.

‘A bit what?’ I snap, as a thorny runner from something low-lying snags my trousers and I stoop to unpick it warily. I can’t afford to lose another suit to wear and tear.

‘A bit like grave robbing?’ Ventures F uncertainly.

I tell F curtly that we are providing a service, as I fumble with the tarnished brass keys and try to find the right one for the peeling front door. Remind him, with both debt and divorce we are putting people out of their misery and that with death it’s already been done. He doesn’t look convinced.

‘The deceased don’t grumble about the price and fee.’ I tell F sagely as I finally find the right key and the lock turns with a throaty rasp reminiscent of a death rattle. Bit creepy.

‘Yes but the beneficiaries still do.’ Replies F with unusual accuracy. Perhaps he is learning something.

The door gives after a couple of shoves, but stops after a foot or so as I encounter a few months worth of junk mail. At least I hope I do. I wouldn’t be the first estate agent to find a dead owner. A colleague bustled in a few years ago, viewer on their heels, to find a note on the stairs warning them not to go to the bedroom and to call the police. The man hoping to view the home grumbled that his time had been wasted even as the ambulance crew shook their heads and prepared the body bag.

‘Smells stale in here.’ Says F unnecessarily as I kick the free papers, take away menus and final demands to one side and we enter the hall. A locked house starts to feel musty after a week on holiday, if a stiff has been swinging from the loft hatch for a month or so, the stench will linger for months no matter how many times you try to gloss over it…

‘People like to know what happened to the owner before they buy don’t they?’ States F semi-rhetorically, as I feel a cobweb cling to my face while we move into the kitchen. ‘Best to keep the detail to a minimum.’ I advice F, adding. ‘Act dumb.’ He looks a little hurt, but he’ll get used to it.

A stack of unwashed plates is cultivating some sort of mushroom-style culture, as a tap drips mournfully behind.

‘I wonder what his last meal was?’ Questions F as he peers at the detritus. Probably something pureed I think glumly, as I glance down the jungle-like back garden and wonder who we’ll get to clear the shrubs.

In the cramped sitting room the remains of a real fire sits coldly in the grate. Ashes to ashes. The room is dark, with the threadbare curtains pulled against the daylight.

‘We’re going to need someone in to clear this lot.’ I say to F. ‘Not a lot of value here. Might have to pay to get it taken away.’

‘That’s wrong isn’t it?’ Says F morosely. ‘You live all your life and your stuff just ends up in the council tip.’

I glance round the room and spot the spaces where ornaments, a clock or two and some photographs must have sat, judging by the dust patterns. ‘Relatives have been in and taken all they want.’ I tell F as I open my brief case.

The second professional to measure-up recently.

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