Someone estimated the other day that England is short just now of five
hundred thousand houses. This is a miscalculation. She is really short
of five hundred thousand and one, the odd one being the house that we
are looking for and cannot find.
We have discovered many houses in our tour of London, but none that
gives complete satisfaction. Either the locality or the shape or the
price is all wrong; or, as more often happens, the fixtures. By the
fixtures I mean, of course, the people who are already in the place and
refuse to come out of it; London is full of houses with the wrong people
in them.
"I wonder," says Celia, standing outside some particularly desirable
residence, "if we dare go in and ask them if they wouldn't like to
move."
"We can't live there unless they do," I agreed. "It would be so
crowded."
"After all, I suppose they took it from somebody else some time or
other. I don't see why we shouldn't take it from _them_."
"As soon as they put a 'TO LET' board outside we will."
Celia hangs about hopefully for some days after this, waiting for a man
to come along with a "TO LET" board over his shoulder. As soon as he
plants it in the front garden she means to rush forward, strike out the
"TO," and present herself to the occupier with her cheque-book in her
hand. It is thus, she assures me, that the best houses are snapped up;
but it is weary waiting, and I cannot take my turn on guard, for I must
stay at home and earn the money which the landlord (sordid fellow) will
want.
Sometimes we search the advertisement columns in the papers in the hope
of finding something that may do.
"Here's one," I announced one morning; "'For American millionaires and
others. Fifteen bathrooms--' Oh, no, that's too big."
"Isn't there anything for English hundredaires?" said Celia.
"Here's one that says 'reasonable offer taken.'"
"Yes, but I don't suppose we reason the same way as he does."
"Well, here's one for four thousand pounds. That's not so bad. I mean as
a price, not as a house."
"Have you got four thousand pounds?"
"No; I was hoping _you_ had."
"Couldn't you mortgage something--up to the hilt?"
"We'll have a look," I said.
We spent the rest of that day looking for something to mortgage, but
found nothing with a hilt at all high up.
"Anyhow," I said, "it was a rotten house."
"Wouldn't it be simpler," said Celia, "to put in an advertisement
ourselves, describing exactly the sort of house we want? That's the way
I always get servants."
"A house is so much more difficult to describe than a cook."
"Oh, but I'm sure _you_ could do it. You describe things so well."
Feeling highly flattered, I retired to the library and composed.
For the first hour or so I tried to do it in the _staccato_ language of
house-agents. They say all they want to say in five lines; I tried to
say all we wanted to say in ten. The result was hopeless. We both agreed
that we should hate to live in that sort of house. Celia indeed seemed
to feel that if I couldn't write better than that we couldn't afford to
live in a house at all.
"You don't seem to realise," I said, "that in the ordinary way people
pay _me_ for writing. This time, so far from receiving any money, I have
actually got to hand it out in order to get into print at all. You can
hardly expect me to give my best to an editor of that kind."
"I thought that the artist in you would insist on putting your best into
_everything_ that you wrote, quite apart from the money."
Of course after that the artist in me had to pull himself together. An
hour later it had delivered itself as follows:--
"WANTED, an unusual house. When I say unusual I mean that it mustn't
look like anybody's old house. Actually it should contain three
living-rooms and five bedrooms. One of the bedrooms may be a
dressing-room, if it is quite understood that a dressing-room does not
mean a cupboard in which the last tenant's housemaid kept her brushes.
The other four bedrooms must be a decent size and should get plenty of
sun. The exigencies of the solar system may make it impossible for the
sun to be always there, but it should be around when wanted. With regard
to the living-rooms, it is essential that they should not be square
but squiggly. The drawing-room should be particularly squiggly; the
dining-room should have at least an air of squiggliness; and the third
room, in which I propose to work, may be the least squiggly of the
three, but it _must_ be inspiring, otherwise the landlord may not obtain
his rent. The kitchen arrangements do not interest me greatly, but they
will interest the cook, and for this reason should be as delightful as
possible; after which warning anybody with a really bad basement on his
hands will see the wisdom of retiring from the _queue_ and letting the
next man move up one. The bathroom should have plenty of space, not only
for the porcelain bath which it will be expected to contain, but also
(as is sometimes forgotten) for the bather after he or she has stepped
out of the bath. The fireplaces should not be, as they generally are,
utterly beastly. Owners of utterly beastly fireplaces may also move out
of the queue, but they should take their places up at the end again in
case they are wanted; for, if things were satisfactory otherwise, their
claims might be considered, since even the beastliest fireplace can be
dug out at the owner's expense and replaced with something tolerable.
"A little garden would be liked. At any rate there must be a view of
trees, whether one's own or somebody else's.
"As regards position, the house must be in London. I mean really in
London. I mean really in central London. The outlying portions of
Kensington, such as Ealing, Hanwell and Uxbridge, are no good.
Cricklewood, Highgate, New Barnet and similar places near Portman Square
are useless. It must be in London--in the middle of London.
"Now we come to rather an important matter. Rent. It is up to you to say
how much you want; but let me give you one word of warning. Don't be
absurd. You aren't dealing now with one of those profiteers who remained
(with honour) in his own country. And you can have our flat in exchange,
if you like--well, it isn't ours really, it's the landlord's, but we
will introduce you to him without commission. Anyway, don't be afraid of
saying what you want; if it is absurd (and I expect it will be) we will
tell you so. And if you _must_ have a lump sum instead of an annual one,
well, perhaps we could manage to borrow it (from you or somebody); but
smaller annual lumps would be preferred."
When I had written it out I handed it to Celia.
"There you are," I said, "and, speaking as an artist, I don't see how I
can make it a word shorter."
She read it carefully through.
"It does sound a jolly house," she said wistfully. "Would it cost a lot
as an advertisement?"
"About the first year's rent. And even then nobody would take it
seriously."
"Oh, well, perhaps I'd better go and see another agent." She fingered
the advertisement regretfully. "It seems a pity to waste this," she
added with a smile.
But the artist in me was already quite resolved that it should not be
wasted.