Cleaning up the cleaner’s act

Not only did I successfully air my grievances to her, but I also threatened to replace her on the spot. This was a much overdue ticking off, something I am not particularly good at in any circumstances -- least of all in a foreign language and culture. But it worked -- she came back the following week, a reformed character and worked conscientiously for the correct time with only a modest lunch and tea break thrown in.

And for a few months this continued. Now you might wonder why I had put up with this behavior for so long. But it has to be said, she is a brilliant cleaner when working at her maximum capacity, is very trustworthy with money, has a certain amount of initiative for searching out areas of my house that require additional attention, performs kind deeds such as bathing and massaging my aged (sorry mum) visiting mother's feet in warm water, has offered to accompany me to the hospital for a forthcoming operation (no charge) and, quite frankly, I enjoy listening to her gossip -- it's good for my Turkish.

The excuses

However, over the last couple of months, things have deteriorated. First there were very plausible reasons for her to disappear off the premises for a short while: last day to pay the electric bill, something urgent to do at the post office, some essential cleaning fluid needed to finish her work, a trip back home to sort out an electrical problem or the absence of water from her house. Then came the late arrivals. Ordinarily, I wouldn't be here to witness the time she chose to report for duty -- I would be far away at the crèche where I work, and this task falls to my husband, who normally works from home. Since I am currently off on an unwanted and unexpected period of sick leave, my dealings with Sibel have become rather more regular. So, although I drag myself out of bed before the 9 a.m. deadline for her anticipated arrival, I find myself being frustratingly thwarted by her non-appearance at the door. When she does arrive, there is, of course, always some fantastic excuse which I, for some reason, swallow down whole.

One week, nearly 40 minutes late, it was a plain and simple, “Çok özur dilerim. Geç kalktım!” (Very sorry. I overslept). OK, fair enough, we all do that sometimes -- and she set to work with gusto and the minimum of breaks.

The prodigal son

Next time, she arrived on time, made her customary pot of tea and then launched into a long story about her son, recently returned from his two-year military service. I'm sure I failed to comprehend the full details, but I understood the gist. Apparently, and understandably, since she is a single parent clearly dependent on her own earnings to make ends meet -- not easy with inflation rising at such an alarming rate -- she is keen to get this son out of the house and into some profitable employment. However, this involved taking him today to sign up for a training course to become a security guard. “Ne yapacağım? Bugün kayıt için son gün” (What can I do? Today is the last day to sign up). What could I do -- except perhaps speculate as to why a 20-something young man needed his mum to accompany him -- but perhaps it is a legal requirement over here? Anyway off she went, promising to return as soon as possible. It was nearly three hours later before she was back -- in desperate need of more tea and lunch before an afternoon's work could begin.

Next week, a follow-up visit was apparently called for in order to complete the bureaucratic procedures required for such transactions. Again, I went along with the story, pleased for her that some work would be forthcoming in the near future for her beloved, but I suspect slightly lazy prodigy, and allowed her another couple of hours off. “Why did these things so regularly happen on the one day of the week she comes to my house?” Alarm bells were ringing, but I like to assume the best in people unless proven wrong.

Nighttime raids

The next visit, started again with a late arrival, this time nearer to 11 a.m., when I had virtually given up all hope of seeing her that day. She was clearly very flustered and began muttering the usual apologies for having slept in late. The rest of her story was at least novel! During the night, she had been woken up by strange noises and looking out of her window had caught a “hırsız” (thief) in the act of rappelling down the side of her building from an apartment above her own. Clearly frightened by the experience, she called the police and consequently was unable to get back to sleep until after five in the morning, thus requiring the extra hours in bed. How could I not believe such a story -- but the late arrival and the hour or so it took to recount the details, drink copious amounts of therapeutic tea, eat a couple of simits and smoke a few nerve-calming cigarettes meant that she was already nearly three hours behind schedule -- staying much beyond the knock off time of 5 p.m. is, apparently, not an option she considers possible.

Emergency doctor visits

This week, she arrived more or less on time. “Good,” I thought, and didn't begrudge her the tea and toast she tucked into straight away -- breakfast is after all an integral part of a Turkish working day -- or even the postprandial cigarette. She then disappeared upstairs, announcing that she would start with the ironing before tackling the cleaning. This was fine with me. I was feeling particularly unwell that day, suffering mostly from the side effects of the nasty but good chemotherapy treatment I am currently undergoing and had consequently installed myself in my customary position on the sofa. My rest was rapidly disturbed by Sibel, her face screwed up to indicate what I assumed to be pain, a packet of half eaten pills clutched in one hand, and some vigorous gesticulating with the other clearly indicated I was in for another story. It transpired that she had previously been to the doctor, but these pills were not working, she still had a lot of pain. “Ah, ne yapacağım?” she wailed. What could I say, but suggest she go back to the doctor and try some different medicine? Off she scurried, promising, of course, to return as soon as possible -- though I noted that she took her house shoes with her. That was the last I saw of her that day. She did ring in the evening and offer to come on Sunday, but I prefer to have my Sundays undisturbed by a cleaner so that brought the next possible day round to a week later.

So I spent the week mentally rehearsing a few choice phrases with which to express my disappointment with her work and of course an ultimatum to clean up or move on. Of course, the reality was different. Sibel arrived as close 9 a.m. as was possible, worked like a Trojan the entire day, even refusing to stop and join us for lunch and tackling extra jobs -- the cupboard that formerly contained a mass of towels and a heap of dust is now like something out of a Homes and Gardens magazine -- so what can I do but wait for next week?