Love, Pending Inspection

How it begins

The stair rail had been repaired with the handle of a very good garden fork.

Sarah Miller looked at the polished wood, then at the man holding the inspection door open.

"Was this yours?"

Andrew West glanced at the rail.

"The fork or the idea?"

"I'm still deciding which requires the longer conversation."

The apartment block smelled of laundry, damp plaster, and somebody's ambitious lunch. Sarah had been sent to assess reported defects, not to admire the residents' ingenuity. Ingenuity nevertheless appeared to have been keeping the place upright for several years.

On the landing, pots of tomatoes caught what little sunlight reached the window.

"You garden indoors," she said.

"We garden wherever the landlord hasn't found a way to charge for the sky."

She almost smiled. Then she tested the rail as her training required and felt the small movement beneath its apparent solidity.

Andrew saw her expression change.

"It wasn't meant to be permanent."

"How long?"

"Since the last time we were told someone would come on Monday."

From upstairs, a woman called down to ask whether she could pass. Sarah stepped aside immediately. The woman descended slowly, one hand resting on the repaired rail.

Neither Sarah nor Andrew spoke until she reached the hall.

"I need the repair requests," Sarah said. "Dates, replies, photographs if you have them."

"You believe us?"

"I believe there's a problem. Finding out whose responsibility it is comes next."

Andrew let go of the door. It stayed open on a wedge made from a neatly cut piece of timber.

For the first time, he looked less prepared to argue.

Sarah took a photograph, careful to frame the repair rather than anyone's home.

On the window ledge, one tomato had turned bright red while all the others remained green.

"That one's mine," Andrew said, noticing her glance. "Before you write up the entire building for uneven progress."

This time, she did smile.