There was still a birthday party
to attend. We drove there in complete silence. We stayed there on autopilot. I
kept face, but I think I muttered a total of maybe 50 words, which was low even
for my standards. The kids, completely oblivious to the hell that we were just
put through, were enjoying themselves, that’s all that mattered. I was counting
off batches of 15 minutes, making through each one. It was a lovely party, it
really was.
Some sentences were strung
together during the drive back to Gozo that Friday afternoon. I have little
memory of what happened thereafter, only that we agreed that we had to go to
the bank first thing the next morning to make sure we got our money back as soon
as possible. We also got in touch with some agents to set up some viewings.
Again.
Yes, there was no time to lose.
We had to force ourselves to trudge on. We were back to square one, only this
time we weren’t in the comfort of our own flat. We were now in a smaller one,
paying rent, and we had to limit our searches to Għajnsielem. Well, I say “had”
like it’s a bad thing, but by then we had rooted ourselves into the locality
and had grown very fond of it. But options were now far less, and we couldn’t
spend any time drowning in sorrow.
Impressively we managed to line
up a few for that following Saturday. But first, the bank. We made our way to
the branch and found a representative. We sat down, gave her the cheque and
waited for her to tell us that it had been processed. I assumed we’d have to
endure a few days before seeing the refund in the account, which just created a
fresh warm batch of anxiety for me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest easy
until I could say all ties with The Developer were fully cut.
“Oh dear, I can’t process this
cheque.”
“…What? Why?”
“It wasn’t filled in properly.
See, the names need to be written in full. I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask the
remitter to issue a new one.”
God. Dammit.
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