Raising the wreck: the false dawns of slow progress 12 months into a renovation
Two months ago–so ten months after moving into this damp, seven-bedroomed Victorian wreck on the East Sussex coast–I found a two-bedroom flat for sale on our old estate in Notting Hill. “We can go home!” I whooped, forwarding my Rightmove findings to almost everyone I know. It cost £150,000 more than what we had sold our almost identical flat for only a year earlier, and it needed serious work. But I was undaunted; poring over the familiar floor plans, I could see exactly what I’d need to do, and exactly where every piece of our furniture would go (back). “But why now?” Asked my husband. “We’re through the worst, the roof no longer leaks and we’ve finally got a mostly working kitchen–we’ve even got bathrooms!”
True, we did–and I appreciate having a non-ornamental dishwasher. But, in pursuit of further progress, and dishwasher aside, we were again subsisting in chaos, to the extent that I wondered if that previous period that had followed a time of utter bleakness hadn’t been a false dawn. For at the moment I found that potential out, our bathrooms had neither doors nor curtains, and during working hours (and I work from home) we were living with at least four people we weren’t related to. Namely, Toby the plumber and his rotating crew, who were endlessly up and down the scaffolding, and Sammy and Carlo from Wandsworth Sash Windows, who were at least five days over their estimate and nowhere near finishing; what's more, they had lined every corridor with vast, precariously balanced panes of glass, just in time for the school holidays. The final straw came when, in a break from Rightmove, I went down the metaphorical rabbit hole that is Instagram and discovered that one of the men working on our house is also an enthusiastic tantric sex promoter; his (public) account includes many images of him oiled up in scanty silk underwear, with his similarly unattired partner. I couldn’t unsee it, nor anymore look him in the eye, and we were existing is such intimate circumstances that there was genuine threat of encountering him with his trousers down, in my ensuite. And it was raining. Of course I wanted to return to London. “But we can’t,” said my 9-year old daughter Esmeralda. “I actually can’t endure another move, with you.”
So, here we (still) are, a year on from that fateful evening of arrival when we discovered that the previous owners not only hadn’t left, but furthermore hadn’t finished packing or caught their cats (one of which stayed on for a month). Certainly, there is a sense of overwhelming relief attached to knowing we’ll never having to go through those first few weeks of carpet stripping, de-fumigating and discovering rotting lintels, ever again. There’s also much that we’ve learnt in our most recent push towards completion.
Firstly, scaffolding totally puts the kibosh on gardening plans. We missed the spring window for lawn-laying, and now have to wait until October. In the interim, we’ve inadvertently created a fox hangout so popular (they bring their babies and sunbathe on the scorched earth) that Esmeralda has suggested we leave the garden exactly as it is. I’ve countered by taking her to Great Dixter and Sissinghurst and pointing out their many aspects of fox-less beauty. However, re-doing the plumbing–which is why we had the scaffolding–has brought many benefits, not least being able to lie in a steaming bath in the breeze of an open window. Also, we’ve doubled the number of bathrooms–though Toby did have to come back and fix the fact that they initially flushed with hot water.
Secondly, having windows that open, and that we can see through, is revolutionary. I stand by my initial thought that, with windows, you can either pay a lot and be satisfied, or pay a lot and then some and love them. We picked the second option, and I still take inordinate pleasure in throwing up a sash to let in the sea air. Also, Sammy and Carlo did a brilliant job, because–and there’s another lesson here–we’d done a few things in the wrong order, specifically re-plastering and painting rooms before the windows were done. They made good (do check the terms of your contract if you’re intending on doing similar) and the reason that they went over their time estimate is because they painstakingly restored and repainted all the original mouldings, thus maintaining the intended proportions.
Thirdly–and speaking of mouldings–doors. Looking at the layers of paint on ours, and considering the price per hour of our painter who sands everything in the most thorough (i.e. irritating) fashion, we concluded that Dip’n’Strip would be cheaper. Their need to keep the doors for longer, in order to put them through the process a second time, validated that choice–but, obviously, also meant we had no doors. Incidentally, if you do similar I would suggest finding a means of marking which room each door comes from, prior to taking it off its hinges; though finally back, I fear our doors might stay stacked in the hall forever.
Needless to say, none of the above has lessened my emphasis on directing the decoration, because, ultimately, it’s details that make the difference. Beds look quite improper, valance-less, and I am hugely enjoying the ability afforded by a larger house to finally employ all the fabrics I’ve loved for so long. And, actually stopping me from hotfooting it back to Notting Hill is a pair of curtains, consisting of 18 metres of Susan Deliss’s Grenadine in Persian Yellow, made for the floor to ceiling bay window in my bedroom that has a sea view, along with a painting so large I’ve had to hang it over both the picture rail and dado. Neither would fit in a low-ceilinged 1970s maisonette. So we’re staying put–and this time, I hope that we really are through the worst; in its current (still uncarpeted) state, the house certainly holds a dawn-like promise.
1/5The finished kitchen, painted in Edward Bulmer's ‘Drab Green’, and decorated with plates found at auction by Jane Churchill.
2/5The new windows in Fiona's bedroom–which took out a big chunk of the budget–and a newly commissioned headboard in Susan Deliss's Grenadine, to match the curtains.
3/5Fiona's bathroom, with a café curtain made from a Day Dress fabric.
4/5The same bathroom, which is painted in ‘Rose’ by Edward Bulmer and features Balineum tiles on the splashback.
5/5The sitting room, after a major rehang of all the art.
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