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Letters from Tara · June: The Comments Box

The draft she did not send

Danya,

The June exam went fine. I could think, which turns out to make a big difference to exams. Owen got his resit, in August, so that's something.

I'm writing this sitting on the floor of Room 214 surrounded by boxes. Mum's coming at ten tomorrow. The room looks very bare without my things in it, and very small, and I'm a bit sad about it, which I didn't expect.

The hall did the end-of-year checks this week. Somebody came round with a clipboard while I was at the exam. I got the email an hour ago. They're keeping £115 of my deposit. £75 for a scorch mark on the desk, and £40 for a stain on the carpet. They said the room was in good condition when I moved in, so the damage must be mine.

I know. I know they're both from before. But it's June, and it's late, and I'm so tired, and I don't want my last night here to be an argument. And it was August, ten months ago. I can't even remember exactly what I wrote on that form. I'll sort it out from home later, if I can face it. I'll ring them in July or something. It's probably not worth

The draft stopped there, as all the drafts did.

Tara read it at about eleven at night, sitting on the floor between a box of books and the kettle that changed colour as it boiled. The window was open. The square of grass outside was full of people saying goodbye to each other.

She noticed something. It was the oldest plan of all, in its summer clothes. From home. Later. In July or something. By July the room would have been cleaned and painted and given to someone else, and the desk might have been sanded, and Mr Okoro would be on holiday, and she would be two hundred miles away, explaining a scorch mark to a voice on a phone.

She looked at the sticky note inside the front cover. Six lines now.

The cheapest time to say the thing is before there is a plan for it to be against.

Ask on the second day, not the last.

First chance, not last.

A no on the day costs a minute.

The first minute is the cheapest.

You don't have to be sure to ask.

Then she remembered, properly, what she had written on the form.

She put the draft in the back of the notebook. There were ten now.

What she had made in August

She found it on her phone in about a minute, because she had put it in a folder called Room 214, which was the most organised thing she had done all year.

There was a photograph of the inventory from the day she arrived, signed at the bottom, with three lines in her own handwriting in the comments box. There were twelve photographs of the empty room, every one of them with the date on: the last Saturday in August, before a single box of hers was in it. Three of the desk, with the brown ring in the corner the size of the bottom of a mug. Three of the carpet under the chair. Three of the cracked tile behind the sink.

And there was the email she had sent Mr Okoro that same evening, with the photographs attached. He had replied with one line: Thanks, Tara, noted on our copy.

She had been embarrassed at the time. It had felt like making a fuss on the very first day. Her mum had worried she would seem difficult.

Now it was ten months later, and she had a record that nobody had to remember.

Eleven at night

She did not wait for the morning. She did not wait until she was home.

The email was four sentences. She wrote it sitting on the floor, to the hall office, and copied in Mr Okoro.

Dear Hall Office, it said. I've just had your email about Room 214. The desk scorch and the carpet stain were both there when I moved in on the last Saturday in August; they are written in the comments box of my signed inventory, and I sent Mr Okoro dated photographs the same day, which are attached again. I'm here until ten tomorrow morning if anyone would like to look. Thank you, Tara.

She read it once. It was short, and plain, and it had the pictures on it.

She sent it, and then she packed the kettle.

Mr Okoro

He knocked on the open door at half past eight the next morning, with a mug of coffee and the tired, kind face she remembered from August.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "The end-of-year check is done from a list. Two hundred rooms in four days. Whoever did yours didn't look at the comments. I found your email from August in about thirty seconds." He looked at the desk, at the brown ring, which was exactly where it had been all year. "That's been there since before I started. I've taken both charges off. The full two hundred and fifty will come back to your account next week."

"Thank you," said Tara.

"No," said Mr Okoro. "Thank you for writing it down. You'd be amazed how few people do." He looked round the bare room. "And for telling us last night, not in August next year. By then I'd have had no idea."

Her mum arrived at ten, and they carried the boxes down to the car. On the last trip up, Tara stopped in the room for a minute on her own.

Then she took a sticky note out of her bag, wrote on it, and stuck it on the inside of the wardrobe door, where the next person would see it when they hung up their first coat.

Read the inventory standing next to each thing. The ring on the desk was here before me. So was the stain under the chair. Take photos on the first day. Good luck in 214.

Rhian, three doors down, was going home that day too. Tara told her about the note.

"I wish someone had left me one of those," said Rhian.

The letter she sent

Danya,

The June exam went fine. Owen gets his resit in August.

This month I used something I'd made on my first day.

The hall tried to keep £115 of my deposit for a scorch mark and a stain that were there before me. I wrote you a whole letter about how I'd sort it out from home later, in July or something, because I was tired and didn't want my last night to be an argument.

Then I remembered August. I'd written the marks on the form and taken photos with the date on and emailed them, and I'd felt like a fuss for doing it.

So I replied that night, four sentences and the photos, while I was still in the room. Mr Okoro took both charges off before breakfast. The full £250 is coming back.

A record made on the first day only works if you use it while you're still there.

I left a note in the wardrobe for whoever gets 214 next.

Tara

P.S. Ten drafts now. In this one I wrote "from home, later" as if distance made it easier. Distance just makes it longer.

The question for your own table

Is there something you wrote down, or photographed, or kept, that would settle a disagreement now: a receipt, a letter, a message, a note on a form? When would be the cheapest time to use it?

Something to do

Next time you sign for something, a room, a hire car, a repair, write down what is really there before you start, and keep it where you can find it. Then, if anything is disputed at the end, answer the same day, while everyone is still in the room.

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