The Ferals

When we stepped off the plane the following morning as was almost as if Goa released a breath that she had been holding until our return. The colours, textures and smells tumbled around us like treasure from a chest, inviting us to dive right in and become part of it all. With much manipulation of space and pushing, our huge suitcases were eventually crammed into two taxis and we made our way to our new house. For those of you that know us, you will know that for the weeks prior to our moving we had shown countless pictures of our new house in Britona. With walls the shade of buttermilk and an unusual indoor garden, it seemed to be a dream come true. I have lost count of the daydreams I had about the house, fairy lights twinkling whilst I prepared Thai feasts, children splashing in the pool whilst I wrote my best selling novel – well, finally we were on our way there and I couldn’t wait.
Reality however proved somewhat different. Our friend Samir had overseen the delivery of beds, fridges, TVs … whilst we were in England, so when we walked in, Samir had done his best to make it seem welcoming. But there was nowhere to sit, apart from a couple of cane chairs well past their sell by date and, quite simply, the house wasn’t finished. Workmen were scurrying about like ants, wielding an ever more disturbing array of power tools and paint pots littered the living room, making any attempt to reach the pool an obstacle course worthy of ‘The Krypton Factor.’ Giles immediately wanted us to move to Coco Shambhala, but we wouldn’t hear of it – we were here and we were staying.
Trying to ignore the installation of air conditioning currently being undertaken in the master bedroom and the muttered curses of the cleaning lady as she battled against never-ending clouds of dust from the workmen’s tools, I braved my way upstairs, dodging drills and wires to see the bedrooms. Fuff had already set out her dolls; jewellery and treasured bamboo calendar from an Irish Chinese restaurant (try to get your head around that one!) I walked out on the balcony and looked at the pool which seemed an alarming shade of blue tinged with green also it was mysteriously empty. I could hear Giles downstairs talking to the builder, demanding to know why the house wasn’t finished so I put my game face on and marched downstairs. Soothing ruffled feathers I assured him that it wasn’t so bad, we would make do – after all we have lived in worse. Giles reluctantly agreed, and later on that night, when the children were asleep, we cracked open the champagne by the side of the river, laughing and excited about our new life.
A couple of days later though, the laughter had turned to tears. As the kitchen was still a mess, we were unable to cook or use it in any way, Holly’s toilet overflowed on a regular basis and the outside pool was a poisonous pit – so full of chemicals that if you had put your hand in, you would have been lucky to have come out with bone intact. The garden contained the soak pit, which basically meant our children would have been playing above everybody else’s waste and it was covered in rubble, broken glass and empty chemical pots. Now, I am all for children having their freedom and exploring new, unfamiliar terrain – but you have to draw the line somewhere!
As building work was still ongoing, our house was used for all manner of things. One morning I got up, wandered downstairs wearing usual night attire – t-shirt and knickers, only to find two workmen stood in the living room, hooking up their tools to our electricity supply. Torn between my desire for a drink and outrage, I calmly suggested that they might want to ask permission before coming into our home and using our electricity supply. This was met with shrugs, embarrassed grins and shuffling feet, but they did not move and carried on plugging in their equipment as if I wasn’t there. I debated whether to make more of an issue of it, but, given said attire, decided this skirmish was over and retreated hastily to the bedroom in search of bigger pants, preferably ones that reached my ankles! People wandered in and out of our storeroom at will and the security guard stationed himself outside our balcony window every evening so we had no privacy at all. In fact, he became part of our existence, every conversation we had – inside or out – was enhanced by stumbling English comments from the direction of his plastic chair. It is hard to vent your frustrations when you have a small, wizened, grinning referee enjoying the match. The dream was becoming a nightmare and something had to give.
Whilst Giles and I were stressing about the state of the house, the children were loving it. The man responsible for painting and general maintenance of the properties had three children himself that lived with him and his wife on what was essentially a building site. Their children were gorgeous, beautiful smiles and eyes, but they couldn’t speak any English and, for the most part, they were allowed to run wild. They became affectionately know as ‘The Ferals’ and our children wasted no time in recruiting themselves into the feral way of life which consisted of running, screaming and hitting each other with sticks. It was like the bl**dy ‘Lord of the Flies’ outside, until Oscar revealed that he liked cricket and from then on, we had The Ashes series Britona style – England versus The Ferals. Feral cricket was fascinating – teams were quickly organised in order of feralness and then the game would commence. The rules were – well, really there were no rules. If you didn’t hit the ball, you were whacked with the plank of wood, also known as ‘the bat’ – this proved a very effective method of improving your game – when you live in fear of the bat – you hit and you run!
At the end of Day 2 in the Britona House, we had had enough. Giles entered into negotiations to release us from the contract before driving us to our real estate contact. Our mission was to find another house asap so we sat in the office, fans whirring overhead and perusing the houses on offer. There was little choice and we were starting to lose hope when Annalisa suggested a house in Sangolda. Ironically enough, it was a house that we had looked and dismissed on a February visit. I shrugged as Giles arranged a viewing, at this point; I didn’t feel that we had much to lose.
As we stepped into the cool, dim exterior of the house, we were surprised at our recollections – it was bigger, more beautiful and had every convenience known to man. After seeing the kitchen, I almost wept – it was immaculate and I wouldn’t have to negotiate with workmen, dirt or power tools to get a glass of water.There was not even a decision to make, the house in Britona, literally, was a minefield - this house had provided the answer to our prayers.
As Giles signed contracts at the office, I returned to Britona with the children and threw everything back into the suitcases with the fervour of a madwoman. Samir arrived in the taxi and again, the cases were squeezed into the back whilst the children wedged themselves into position. With a screech of tyres, we left the little yellow house behind. I didn't risk a backward glance as both the Ferals and the security guard were crying brokenly, holding out their hands as if to prevent our leaving.
And so, within three hours, we were ensconced in our very own bling palace in Sangolda …