Patterns of Judgement
‘What do you think of the house? Is this a place you could call home?’ The real estate agent’s eyes shone, wide and encouraging, her jewelled nose pin glinting in the weak sunlight.
‘Um,’ said the woman. She had pale skin and a ponytail, which no doubt bounced splendidly as she made cardiovascular use of the tight lycra outfit hugging her body.
The agent, feeling every gravitational pull of her forty-five years, was not to be diverted. ‘You mustn’t look at the décor. I know this won’t be your style. But your budget would allow you to make it your own, wouldn’t it? Focus on the space. Imagine it empty. Think what you could do with it.’
The woman sighed deeply. ‘It’s just so … too … chintzy.’ The corners of her mouth turned down.
The agent bit the inside of her lip, remembering her roots, the stories told to her by her family. She came from a line of Indian artisans who, over thousands of years, devised methods for block printing and fixing colourful dyes, using chemical processes so complicated even modern-day scientists shook their heads in puzzlement. She remembered her grandfather’s stories of how these fabrics delighted Europeans during the 17th and 18th centuries, bringing colour and life to plain, drab homes. So popular, in fact, Britain and France banned them to save their own textile industries. The result? Entrepreneurs were not to be thwarted in the face of a desired commodity, of course, leading to industrial espionage, the stealing of techniques, and the set up of their own printing factories. There followed a golden age of devotion, householders marvelling at the elegant home-spun designs, the Indian roots all but obliterated by the new sources of manufacture. And, finally, lamentably, the diminishment of the unique craft through mass production; a proud legacy burdened by notions of fashion, old, ‘has been’. The name transformed into something repugnant and undesirable.
The agent’s eye’s swept the room. For all her sadness and irritation, she couldn’t help but agree with the woman’s summary. It bore little resemblance to her own understanding of the term, the prints on the bright kaftan’s she wore at day’s end, lifting her mood with vibrancy and natural comfort. She considered righting the wrong, providing a swift lesson in history, but thought better of it. She had mouths to feed.
‘Terrible, isn’t it. Most of it will be gone by the time the owner moves. Just getting rid of the furniture and curtains will help. The carpets are plain, without all the rugs. Honestly, a few weeks work removing the wallpaper …’
‘Ugh, yes, that HAS to go.’
‘Exactly. Then it would be a blank canvas. Can you see it, in your mind’s eye?’ That white, soulless, void, she stopped herself from saying.
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s twice as big as any new build. You’d never get room sizes like this, now.’ She raised her eyebrows, signalling the need for serious consideration.
‘I’m about to go overseas so … I don’t know. I’m really not sure it’s the house for me.’
‘Where? If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘India. Kerala province. Do you know it?’
‘Yes. My family comes from there. I’ve been back a couple of times.’
‘It’s famous for spices and textiles, but I guess you know that already.’
‘My family worked in the calico printing industry, way back.’
‘Chintz, yes, it came from there, didn’t it? Sorry, I was wrong to use that term to describe this place.’
The agent dipped her head to hide a smile.
The woman continued. ‘I’m a buyer for a small interior design business. We’re looking for the next big thing. I reckon the world has had enough of monochrome. A chintz comeback. Will we succeed, do you think?’ Her expression had brightened. Gone was the tightness, the closed-in. She bloomed.
‘With that enthusiasm, I’m sure you will. I hope you will. It would mean a lot to my family, of course.’
The woman wandered from the lounge into the large, tired kitchen, stopping abruptly to look at her watch. ‘Crikey. I’ll have to make tracks soon, sorry. Yoga class.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘You know, I shouldn’t be daunted. I do this all the time for other people. And, you’re right, the rooms are huge. If I bring back some fabulous fabric samples back from Kerala, well, that might clinch it. Nothing worse than white, clean lines.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thanks again and I will think about it, promise.’
‘Good. As they say, never judge a book by its cover.’ The agent felt heat rising on her cheeks.