RP: Cleaning, Finally
Date: November 16, 2004
Character: Roger Davies
Location: River Place 2A
Status: Private
Summary: Roger decides to (finally) get his flat straightened out, only to be distracted again.
Completion: Complete
Roger figured things were looking up. He’d just applied for a job, which was a first for him. Never having actually applied for a job before, he felt accomplished- and a bit strange. It wasn’t as if this particular job was a huge deal to him. It was more the fact that having, really, any sort of job meant that he’d actually be sticking around for a while.
When he’d played professional Quidditch, which had been the only thing Roger had ever been paid to do, he hadn’t considered it work at all. It had been like a non-stop party for him- until, of course, it did stop. Abruptly so. And so for four years he’d been moving all over Western Europe. At least for the first two he’d not been alone. He’d had a partner. After losing her, he couldn’t stand still, hadn’t been able to. Now, he’d been sleeping in the same flat for two weeks and counting. And looking for work, no less.
What a trip. Maybe it was strange to feel this way, but it really was weird, attempting to settle into a normal life that had seemed utterly out of his reach only two weeks ago. And when he’d arrived here, Roger hadn’t a clue where to start. At least now he was getting his arse in gear a bit. If he got the job, great. If not, he’d look for something else. He wasn’t picky at the moment.
And so today, in the spirit of getting said arse in gear, Roger was endeavouring to clean his flat.
A flat, he mused, that was currently approaching a most unholy level of…untidiness. Although, as Roger stepped into his bathroom he thought that maybe “untidy” was a bit of an understatement.
He knew that there was a floor under all the clothes. Erm. Somewhere. He was, officially as of this morning, completely out of clean clothes. So this little cleaning jaunt was unavoidable. Roger transfigured the soap dish on the sink (he mostly just tossed the soap anywhere on the counter, anyway) into a large basket and just began shoveling the clothes from the floor into it. (Oh. So the floor had white and blue tiles. He tilted his head. Interesting.) Then he threw his towels and washcloths in. After setting the basket outside the bathroom, he headed for the kitchen, deciding to skip the living room for the moment. It wasn’t as bad. There was the corner where his desk and new favorite chair were, not that you could see them underneath all the books and…books. But on the whole, he could leave it be for the present.
The kitchen, however. That was screaming for attention. The dishes were piled so high in the sink that they were beginning to teeter precariously back and forth. Roger approached the pile carefully, moving in a sort of half circle around it, trying to figure out the best way to tackle it. If he went in from the right and grabbed the pitcher, the small stack of upturned glasses would topple. But if he went in from the left and removed the wooden spoon, he feared he might disturb the intricate arrangement of saucers and bowls he’d been constructing over the last week. Hmm. Best thing would be to try to go from the top down. Roger began to gingerly lift a metal pot lid.
Crash. Distracted by the sudden sound of large wings beating against the window, Roger jerked and brought the pile of dishes down in a much more eventful way than he would have liked. Bleeding-Buggering-Hell.
Who’d possibly be owling me? Roger thought as he quickly repaired the worst of the broken dishes with a wave of his wand before heading to the window to open it and take the parchment from the talon of the tawny owl. The handwriting hadn’t been at all familiar, he noted before tearing open the wax seal and reading.
Dear Mr. Davies,
I do most sincerely hope this letter finds you well and in good health.
My name is Eadgar Smethwhyte, and I knew your parents well. Please allow me to express my deepest regrets for your loss. My primary purpose for this letter, however, is due to my position as executor of your parents’ estate. I've only now been able to locate you and for that I apologise. I should like to speak with you regarding the requests laid forth by your parents in their Last Will and Testament.
It is my wish that we discuss this in person, at your earliest convenience. I wonder if you could at all manage to come to my office in London? It is located on Brook Street in Mayfair. Simply send a return owl and my assistant will modify the wards to admit only you. You may visit at any time during normal business hours, and I will make the time to speak with you.
It is as I said, Mr. Davies. I knew Miranda and Sebastian well. They were decent and honourable pureblood wizards, and it was my pleasure to work for them over the years. I was deeply sorry to hear of their passing. I await your Owl.
Sincerely,
Eadgar Goldthwait Smethwhyte
Roger let the letter dangle at his side for a moment as he went over to the sofa and lowered himself to the arm. He let out a breath. For some reason the letter hit him like so many bricks. He’d known about his parents’ death for weeks now, so it wasn’t shock.
He was not prepared to handle his family’s property. Or what was left of it, he supposed. He’d seen the mansion. It was little more than a shell, really. And even if there was money tucked away somewhere- which he doubted, as his parents were highly unlikely to have any put away in a Muggle bank- he didn’t want it. He didn’t want it while they’d been alive, and he couldn’t take it now. Still…they had been his parents, whatever issues he’d had with them, and the guilt he felt over having cut ties with them so long ago was a sort of niggling itch in his chest. And now there could be no turning back or making things better.
So. It looked like Roger was headed to London in the near future. First, though (and he had no problem putting it first, now), he had dishes to wash and laundry to do. And maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get started on the living room, after all.