Selective sobs of my landlady
I’ve always had a rather strained relationship with my landlady who also happens to be my next door neighbour. It took several months, many tearful tantrums and slammed doors (on her part), as well as the intervention of a neighbour, for her to finally realise that the fact that I was renting the place from her did not give her licence to walk into the house or garden whenever she felt like it.
I’ve woken up to her hosting coffee mornings with friends in my garden because she has no garden furniture of her own for guests to sit on. I’ve had her inspecting my flower beds and then subjecting me to vociferous criticism for my choice of plants. I’ve even endured several episodes of her standing over me in my kitchen making sure I eat enormous plates of unappetising food she has brought over to ‘fatten me up’. Fortunately, over time the situation has mellowed and we appear to have reached some form of equilibrium, and for the past year we have enjoyed a more balanced relationship.
The slightest thing reduces her to tears. Every month when I pay the rent, she cries. If I offer to give her a lift to church, she cries. Token gifts at Easter and Christmas, she cries. After seeing the aftermath of her garage once the builders next door had removed a wall, her outpouring of grief could probably be heard in Latsia. And so, when it came to having to tell her that LB and I would be moving out, I was dreading it. We kept putting it off and finding a new excuse each day, until finally last Saturday, we could leave it no longer otherwise we would have ended up paying an extra month’s rent just for the sake of delaying the inevitable.
I should point out that despite her regular church attendance she is, frankly, the most un-Christian woman I have ever encountered. Her tears are of the crocodile variety and her treatment of her lovely housemaid, which I’ve mentioned before, prompted the normally thick-skinned and passive Diane to lodge a formal complaint. Diane also recently suffered a cancer scare. Naturally this elicited more tears. When my landlady came round to break the news that Diane had to go to hospital she proceeded to bawl her eyes out. In between her sobs she wailed that her “mavroui has a lump and what will I do? What will I do? I have no one.”
Despite all of this we both still felt bad at leaving her in the lurch. Whilst the house is very charming and the rent is extremely reasonable, the chance of her finding tenants while there is a noisy construction site next door is rather bleak.
Saturday got off to a rather bad start as we woke up to find a stranger in our garden. Turned out he was the landlady’s cousin and had come round to unblock some drains. Unfortunately he hadn’t brought any tools with him, so he decided to use my garden trowel for the rather yucky job. This prompted LB to ask him very kindly if he would mind finding something else to use.
Upon hearing this reasonable request, the cousin’s wife appeared out of nowhere and started berating us, telling us the drain problem is all our fault as we cook food with sauces at night. As we had never set eyes on these people before, we were somewhat perplexed at their knowledge of our culinary proclivities. Anyway, we finally managed to calm them down; relative peace was restored and we waited for them to leave so we could tell the landlady our news.
Armed with a box of Kleenex and a small monetary sweetener, we rang her doorbell. She wouldn’t open the door until she knew who it was. She seemed quite relieved to find us on her doorstep and invited us in whilst telling LB something in Greek. They then started chatting away and although I couldn’t understand what he was saying, I guessed by her impassive expression, that he hadn’t got round to breaking the news yet. Or that’s what I thought until I saw him handing her the money. My ever-tearful landlady hadn’t bat an eyelid, shed a tear or even changed her expression.
Diane then appeared and so we told her our news. Once she realised that very soon the only company she would have on the street would be that of the landlady, she burst into tears. It did not go at all as we thought.
LB told me later that the landlady’s reticence in opening the door was because she had been expecting a taxi driver to come and collect his fare for taking Diane to and from the hospital and that she didn’t want to pay him. Not only that, but she had told Diane not to go to the hospital for the follow-up visits and to change the dressings herself. She didn’t want to pay for any more taxi journeys.
It’s enough to make you cry.
