[Living in Antalya - 26] Return of the Prodigal Son

About 20 minutes later, Sibel is ready to start work. Well, not quite. First, of course, there is the çaydanlık for her to ferret out of the back of the cupboard, where it has been gathering dust since her last visit. In between her appearances, we stick resolutely to a kettle and English tea bags. One or, maybe, two cups of tea later, she gets to work, only to discover a distinct lack of the one most important cleaning material required to do the job. So at this point I, of course, abort my attempt at catching up on some emails and set off to the nearest Bim supermarket in order to satisfy her request.

By 11 a.m., a mere two hours after her agreed start time, Sibel gets down to business. Left in peace (for the time being, at least) I wonder, yet again, why I am paying her for six hours work when what I actually get is four hours work and two hours conversation. Not only do I say nothing about her late arrivals, but I also collude in her procrastinating techniques with my sympathetic participation in her conversation. I have never met the prodigal son, but I have, over time, spent many hours empathizing with the difficult demands he makes on her -- both financially and emotionally. I also have three grown-up children back in the UK who, like children anywhere, continue to give me sleepless nights (though, to be fair to Sibel, none of them has had to serve in Tunceli).

I shout up the stairs to Sibel that I am popping out for an hour and sneak off for a cafe latte in our mercifully air conditioned local branch of Starbucks. Returning home after 45 minutes or so, I find Sibel engrossed in a very animated conversation on our house phone. Yet again, I say nothing, but tactfully tiptoe around her so as not to disturb her call. Once off the phone, she is clearly bursting to tell me her news. From what I can gather, “the son” has invited his girlfriend’s family around this evening at 7:30 p.m. “Ne yapacağım?” she wails. Is it to be tea, coffee and cake? Or does she need to cook food as well? Having little idea myself of Turkish etiquette involved in this kind of social gathering, I confine my interjections to yet more sympathetic nods and much shoulder shrugging. Twenty minutes later, Sibel makes her way back upstairs to return to her cleaning duties, but I note that she has taken her mobile phone with her. Sure enough, before long I can hear her chattering away, no doubt to a more helpful friend than me, about her predicament. I hope, probably in vain, that she is at least managing to waft the mop around with her free hand.

From the sound of the nearby mosque, I regretfully realize that it is now, officially “lunch time.” In the UK workers don’t expect their employers to feed them. Usually they bring sandwiches. Here, of course, there is a very different tradition. I must now make lunch for Sibel. Fortunately, as it continues to be almost unbearably hot in Antalya, some salad and bread is a relatively quick and easy option. I call Sibel down and sit with her in the garden listening to her list the possible options of food to make for her visitors. I try to make some helpful suggestions, but am somewhat out of my depth with the intricacies of Turkish cuisine. Half an hour later, she thanks me politely and gets back to work.

So far, in total, at a rough guess, I reckon she must have worked for a maximum of two hours and it is now nearly 2 p.m. I have never yet known her to stay beyond 4 p.m. I feel that I should be cross with her, but in fact am more annoyed with myself for my inability to crack the proverbial whip. I employ a cleaner because I resent spending my precious free time on housework. I have a demanding job working full time at a creche and prefer to be able to enjoy my time away from work in ways which do not involve housework. So ever since I began teaching in the UK twenty years ago, I have tried to employ a cleaner at least a couple of times a month. I guess in the UK it was easier to communicate my expectations, and whether or not I was happy with their work through a more subtle use of language. Here, though I would like to be able to be polite but firm, I find myself, with my limited command of Turkish, erring heavily on the side of being polite and completely unable to demand that extra ounce or two of effort from her. I guess I have grown “fond” of Sibel and her problem son and, to be perfectly honest, I can’t help but be enormously grateful to anyone who is prepared to come and clean my house time after time.

The remaining two hours of Sibel’s allotted time progress fairly smoothly. I only notice one more phone call and two very short cigarette breaks. And yes, when I look around the house, the bathroom floor is spotless, the pile of ironing is immaculate and the kitchen work surfaces are gleaming. Just as I am parting with a fairly large sum of money -- (in fact more than I make in a day spent teaching), Sibel’s face lights up. “Aklıma geldi!” She exclaims. Expecting more insights into tonight’s menu, I am surprised when Sibel enlightens me with her thought. Apparently it is exactly one year ago today that Sibel made her first visit to my house. Not a date that had registered in my mind, but clearly it had made an impression on Sibel.