The One About Mark, the Window Cleaner

This one isn’t about our father, I promise ish. When we were young, our father had a monumental heart attack on a family bike ride. Comes with flying endless hours of cargo around the world in horrendous circumstances. Anyway, that’s another set of stories for another day, so from a dude used to leaping over the globe in a kaleidoscope of every single adventure, he was grounded for 18 months in rural Lincolnshire - that did not sit well. For anyone. But, still, gave him the time to transform avionics so a bit of give and take.

Our mother, a stellar warhorse, mobilised, and it was all systems go. And in that time, we were reliant upon - far more than I still realise now - a community. I was 12, and my sister younger. We suddenly had a host of Aunties and Uncles. Stuff you never think about at that age, like clean windows, became part and parcel of everyday life. Making your bed because the window cleaner was coming. So we got a new window cleaner, fresh out of school with nary a GCSE, Mark.

When Dad was dying, 14 years later, Mark was still doing the windows, and asked if he could come and visit Dad. I was all, sure, but he doesn’t look great so prepare yourself. And Mark sat and held Dad’s hand for ages, talking about sodding gaming consoles and when he left, he cried on the doorstep and thanked me, wiping his hot, torn face. Turned up at the funeral, best bib and tucker.

I speak to Mum most days, newsy, and whatever, and she says, Mark’s been and done the windows, as if having a window cleaner for well over 30 years, who also cleans the gutters, is completely normal. I said, out of interest, what does he charge now? Oh, same as he’s always done.