Tentatively Tasmanian

Sorry, dear Reader. It has been a long time since visiting this blog. Like my physical self, it has periods of intense activity followed by slovenly neglect.

We had been based at an Air BnB in Moonah for nearly three months and it was only during our final week when I was busy wearing out the tarmac between Moonah and Howrah that I had any decent conversations with our landlady.

She personifies Moonah perfectly. Working class, working hard, a kind word for all of her neighbours but not left with much to support herself at 65 after her husband left her for another woman. Her house is indicative of many in the area – weatherboard with seventies’ updated aluminium windows, a built in front porch that might have seemed like a good idea in the same time period but unfortunately does a lot to remove the historical prettiness of the place. The obligatory Hobart cement driveway and the living areas festooned with memorabilia and homemade art works.

When Marg’s husband left her he immediately declared himself bankrupt and therefore unable to share any future earnings or his upcoming superannuation with her.
Marg has dealt with this by converting her back shed into a rudimentary one bedroom flat and sealing off the driveway which is where her ex-husband’s long-retired hunting dogs (aged 16 and 15 respectively) gather to pass judgement on my driving skills or voice their hatred of the postman.

The original house has the two bedrooms, an updated kitchen, living and dining room and a compact but serviceable bathroom and supplements her meagre allowance as her mother’s carer by being offered as an occasional Air BnB rental. It was all we needed, but the fridigity of the place has been moaned about in this space before. As one UK mate said, “I remember living in a share house in Hobart back in the 1990s. It was about as warm as a garden shed.” Kate was not wrong.

But in my comings and goings – usually off for a powerwalk to the Cenotaph and back under the Tasman bridge or using the nanna cart Marg had kindly lent me to waddle into Woolies and clutch the handle so as not to fall over in shock at the prices – revealed many facets of the challenges facing Marg.

We were allowed to put our car in the non-dog area of the driveway while she left her Mazda bubble car (circa 1994) in the street. It had been inherited from her 96-year-old mother who was no longer prepared to drive and knew that her daughter needed something to get around in after the husband left with the SUV.

“Let me show you my plans for the back,” Marg said one day, as she no doubt heard the parachute material of my oversized parka swishing home as I unlocked the front door.
Reader, we had rented the front of the house; the ‘normal’ part, all winter. WINTER. In Hobart. While we were in relative comfort, Marg was living directly behind us in a cement block shed with a lined bedroom and bathroom that was heated, but the living, kitchen and general art and painting area was dusty, decorated with cobwebs and the sink with the hose poking through a hole in the wall made it clear that heating and modern comforts as related to council building approvals, cooking, cleaning or relaxing were non-existent.

I oohed and aaahed politely at her pretty damn good art works, admiring them mostly for the fact that her fingers could wield a paintbrush in such arctic conditions, and heard that our Air BnB rent would hopefully pay to line the kitchen and living part of her shed. Heating would have to come later, but she assured me that her bedroom was the place to retreat to read and watch YouTube videos on art techniques if the shed got too cold.
Air BnBs are being more closely scrutinised these days for making rent affordability impossible for locals or for imposing expensive cleaning fees. I offered to do all the cleaning for Marg, who had already told me that she would clean it every week as part of our fee. After seeing where she was freezing and hiding herself while her marital home of several decades, her pride and joy, was being used by strangers actually made the chores bearable. Almost like giving the house some respect and, in turn, hoping that Marg would see how much we appreciated being there too.

Marg explained that she liked us being at the front of the house because she could see lights on and felt less alone and more safe. “You never know who might come sneaking up the driveway and the dogs are more likely to unlock the gates for them than scare ’em off.”

In our last week, Marg popped over to apologise. “I’m really sorry for doing it so often and I know it’s wrong.”

My bemused expression indicated that I had no idea what she was apologizing for. For asking me to bring in the wheelie bins if I got home before she did? For not letting us use the fire place because the previous renter had burned a literal hole into the floor that we covered with a pottery vase?

“My ex was a real old bastard, but I’m lonely, and that’s a fact. My son comes and sees me, I care for my mum and have good mates, but at the end of the day, I’m back at home on my own and I need something to get me through.”

“Oh no worries, Marg. You’ve probably noticed that Craig and I have put more than our fair share of cider and wine bottles in the recycling bin—-”

“No, no. It’s weed. I smoke a joint or three every night.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s the reason why I’ve divided the property so that you guys get the real house and front car park and I get all the garden around the back. I grow my own and smoke it and the smell must have driven you mad.”

To be honest, we’d never even had a sniff of it. I did not want to hurt her feelings by telling her that we would not have detected even a faint memory of rock concerts attended in the 1980s due to eagerly shutting every curtain and blind and wooden shutter in our efforts to not freeze to death or let any cold night air in.

“It keeps me sane and, on a clear night I get my binoculars out and – fuck me – it’s amazing what you can learn about how small and insigificant you are by what you can see up there.”

“Honestly Marg, you go for it. I hope you create a cosy flat for yourself at the back and you have a bit more financial security by renting out your house at the front.” We gave each other an awkward brief hug, as it had been our first little ‘moment’ of vulnerability shared and she was already running late to take her mother to the GP.

And there I’d been, impatient to move in to the house we’d bought, worrying about what kind of work I might find, friends I’d make or, biggest concern of all, having the energy to even try, and Marg was suffering frostbite in her shed and using whoopy weed to get over her divorce and financial strain.

So, despite its draftiness, forbidden fireplace, erratic dishwasher, awfully uncomfortable sofa that surreptitiously pushed you off and down onto the floor and no garden to sit in when the weather improved, she was given five stars. All I want is for her shed to be lined and for every part of her tiny home to stay warm. It’s the salt of the earth Margs from the Moonahs in this world that aren’t the ones that need to be triple taxed their council fees for air BnB rentals, but the multiple owners and companies chased down instead. Perhaps even use those taxes and fines to making the Margs of the Moonahs in the world have the comfortable life they really deserve.