5 - The landlord

That house in Grantham Road was a former worker's back-to-back in a row of houses once occupied by mill workers or miners.Very few alterations had been made since it had been built back in the XIXth century when the industrial revolution was at full throttle. Still, we did have hot water and a shower so we could not complain. But there was no central heating, just fireplaces in which gas heaters had been fitted. Those contraptions had a meter system and only worked when fed 10p coins which they swallowed rather greedily; that meant we always had to think of keeping a supply of them. Indeed, I remember often being cold, especially, in all the places which the heating did not reach: the stairs, the passage going to the bedrooms, the bathroom and also the tiny kitchen, equipped with very basic appliances. The street was cobbled and one could still easily imagine the dry noise of hooves hitting the polished stones of the street, as cars were rarely seen in that part of the city, populated mainly by poverty-stricken Asian families or students like ourselves. Now, however, most of the houses in the street belonged to Pakistani landlords who had bought them when they were still in employment but who now could no longer afford to make any repairs or improvements unless they did not really care. Many of the women who lived in those houses never came out or, if they did, very rarely, they were veiled from head to foot. Some of those houses were let to students and landlords expected to be paid in cash at the end of each week.

Our landlord sometimes came round to visit us. In those days, I had not yet reflected on the issue of culture clashes. I was myself a foreigner but I was not aware that this presented me with any special difficulties. The reality was perhaps that I was young and absolutely willing to adapt to the mores of the people I was now sharing my life with. I was all in favour of tolerance, of course, like any young person educated in the seventies in a French state school where the watchwords of liberté, égalité, fraternité were drummed into us. However, I had not come to realize that racism or intolerance were to be found everywhere, in all groups and ethnicities. For example, it had not occurred to me to think about what a Muslim man born in Pakistan might think of a young western woman living in a house with two young men. Well, I was going to find out!

One day, Tony had just left the house and Steve was away for the day; I had only been on my own for ten minutes or so when I heard a knock on the door. I had been looking forward to having the place to myself for once with no hung-over would-be musicians left over from the previous night, monopolizing the settee and my attention, while nursing a lukewarm upteenth cup of tea. So it was with a none-too-pleased expression on my face that I opened the door to find Mr. Hussein, our landlord, standing there, a sugary smile on his lips. I thought I was going to be able to send him back easily, given that in the past he had only paid attention to the men of the house and I was not sure he had even noticed my presence. But to my surprise, when I told him that I was on my own, instead of turning back, he pushed past me through the open door. I repeated that neither my boyfriend nor our housemate were present, thinking that possibly the combination of his heavy Pakistani accent and of my marked French one had led to misunderstanding. But I soon realized that this was not the case. Mr. Hussein had come with an intention. "Cup of tea, dear!" I heard him say, not knowing whether this was an order or whether his poor command of the English language didn't allow him a more polite form of address.
I busied myself in the kitchen while, from the corner of my eye, I could see him sitting down at the dining-room table. A few minutes later, I was bringing the tea pot, a cup and saucer and sugar. While I was pouring the tea into his cup, he patted the chair near him and uttered "Come and sit!"
Not knowing what was expected of me and still thinking that he wanted to discuss the rent, I obediently sat down on the chair close to him, a little worried now. "Come closer!" he added, the sugary smile was beginning to make me feel ill-at-ease. I shuffled my chair, and only brought it one inch closer. "Look, if this is about the rent...." I started, but I suddenly felt his clammy chubby hand over mine and as he was looking into my eyes, I heard him say "You, very sweet lady!". My blood curled. I withdrew my hand as fast as I could and said raising my voice: "Is there a problem with the rent?" "No, not a problem with the rent. Do you like it here with the men?" I remained speechless. "I'd like you to come and see me sometimes, soon, you'd like it". I couldn't believe what I had just heard. I stood up abruptly and said gasping: "I'll send my boyfriend round to your place", emphasizing the word 'boyfriend' hoping that I was clear enough about my unavailibility. But Mr. Hussein didn't seem to see it that way. The sickly sweet smile never left his face. So I rushed to the front door, opened it wide and waited for him to figure out that he was not welcome any longer. "I see you soon I hope" were his parting words, as I nearly had to push him out. "You certainly won't", came my reply as I slammed the door shut. I was fuming. "How dare he?" I kept repeating to myself. I couldn't wait for Tony's return, to tell him all and for him to express his shock and his desire to avenge me. Little did I know!