The estate agent, who is wise beyond his years, says: “It’s harder for people who’ve been in a house for a long time. You accumulate stuff.”
Friends, who are sage, say: “Doesn’t the house hold a lot of memories?”
My neighbour, who leaves milk and bread on my doorstep when I’m coming home from holidays, says: “I’m shocked! I’ll miss you.”
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My children, who are grown up, married, gone, say: “What?” Followed by shrugs and scowls. Followed by “But why?”
My grand-daughter, who is one and a bit, says: “Hiss.” (By which she means, House. One of her words. The other is Hat.)
I thought, OK, make the decision, take the plunge. I know it’ll be hassle for a couple of months. But then it will be over and I’ll be in a new place, starting a new life and everything will be great.
By hassle I meant physical stuff: all that cleaning up, tidying, decluttering, getting rid of things, packing. And oh yes, finding somewhere new to live.
For some time, some years, since my husband died, I’d been saying, “I think I’ll move. It’s too big here. I feel lost in the house, especially in the winter.”
I thought, this summer, 2½ years on, it’s time. I’ll do it. So, contact the agent. Two nice people, a man and a woman, come and have a look around. (It’s always two, a man and a woman. Later one disappears.) Then they have a little chat, in the garden. They say how much they love the house and then or a day later suggest a price, which is slightly lower than I would have hoped for. (So much money, as well as stuff, goes into a house, over 35 years!)
Ball rolling
But, the ball got rolling. I cleaned and tidied, and threw out several bags of clothes, several bags of books, several old paint tins and rusty bikes and old garden shears.
The photographer came and took the photos. The agent wrote the advertisement. The first viewings were arranged.
Every day for a few weeks I woke up feeling sad. It’s a lump in my stomach, a band around my heart, a cloud over my head.
This was something I hadn’t anticipated at all. The sadness of letting go, of loss. It doesn’t make sense since this is a choice. Nobody is forcing me to do it. Indeed, many people are doing the opposite.
I comfort myself with the thought that possibly nobody will want to buy the house, and then I won’t want to move.
“A strange attitude,” say my children, to whom I am an eternal puzzle, apparently.
“Hiss,” says my grandchild. Followed by “Shiss.” (Meaning: Shoes. She’s accumulating new words as fast as I am shedding old “stuff”.)
But the sadness evaporates when I am cutting grass, weeding, hoovering, pushing unsightly objects into the garden shed, the boot of the car, tidying up the dressing table/kitchen table/dining room table/ desk.
One result of all this tidying is that the house looks great. A tidy house is a nice house. I have always known the theory. But it’s hard to put it into practice. Even now when it’s all tidied up it can slide back into a state of lived-in-ness in the blink of an eye – the price of feng shui-ness is eternal vigilance.
I start to look at the property websites and actually go and view some places. They are all very tidy and clean, as if no one lived in them. The ones I like have hundreds of people queuing to get in the door and get sold at high prices before I am over the threshold, which leaves ones I don’t like. Kitchens with no windows. Apartments with no balconies or storage facilities. Houses that are “in need of modernisation”. But hey, I’m old, I’ve done my stint at modernisation. There’s only so much modernisation any human being should do in a lifetime.
I decide that the new place, though smaller and in a different area, has to be at least as presentable as the house I am leaving. I have to actually like it, just as I liked this when I walked into it 35 years go with my about-to-be husband. Somebody else has to have done the modernisation. But is there such a place in existence within my budget? Will I ever find anywhere suitable?
Fear
Sadness gets replaced by fear. What if I sell my house but can’t find anywhere to move to? What will I do with all my “stuff”? And, more to the point, with myself?
When people come to view, that panic gets replaced by another kind. Will anyone come? Will anyone like it? The soft emotions – sadness, memories, nostalgia – get replaced by very hard ones. Competitiveness. Now selling is the only thing. The goal is to get an offer, offers, and sentimental stuff is chucked out in the skip with all the other junk of half a lifetime.
It is a roller coaster all right.
But, says my sister, who as always steps on board to help at the crucial moment, isn’t it exciting!
6 Seafield, Shankill, D18
Novelist and critic Eilís Ní Dhuibhne’s home is a three bedroom detached house in a cul de sac looking over the beach at Shankill, Co Dublin, with views of Killiney Bay and Dalkey Island. It’s in a peaceful setting 10 minutes walk to Shankill Dart Station and one kilometre from Shankill Village. Built in the early 1960s (1734 m), the house includes a lounge, dining room, library and three bedrooms. With a deck to the front for morning sun, the private west facing back garden has a stone patio, lawn and shrubs.
Agent: Quillsen, Dún Laoghaire, €650,000
