The Trauma Cleaner: One Woman's Extraordinary Life in the Business of Death, Decay, and Disaster(2)

What Sandra does here is magnificent. Beautiful. If we all talked to each other in this way, with warm camaraderie and complete non-judgment, much pain would be spared and happiness generated. And though I will not say that it is entirely altruistic—that so unselfconsciously does she handle her wounded clients that she appears, from where I stand, like Saint Francis of Assisi cooing at an anguished dove—it is still absolutely heartening to watch.

One of Sandra’s talents is that she is superb at—I won’t call it small talk because, though that too is true, it is the form rather than the function—she is superb at instantly conveying a bespoke blend of respect, warmth, humour and interest that establishes a basic human equity and makes nearly everyone comfortable enough to immediately return the favour. This gesture is the opposite of the shaming to which she has been subjected consistently throughout her life, and it is lovely to witness its salutary effect on the whole spectrum of humanity.

Of course, Sandra’s skill at making others feel secure also eliminates a whole host of threats to herself and optimises her ability to move forward with her work and with her life, because Sandra is a virtuoso at survival. As she said to me once, ‘What I feel that I’m good at is that I can talk to Mrs Rich Bitch, Mr Penny Pauper. I can put myself on any level, because I’m probably an actress, you know what I mean? I can then deal with who I need to deal with and how I need to deal with.’

The house is dark, though some light filters in through the cracks around the window coverings. A wooden marionette dangles by the front door. Different-coloured words are written all over the walls. ‘This is the Hilton compared to what it was,’ Kim says, explaining that she’s been up cleaning for two days without sleep. She itches at one of the open sores on her arm.

‘What I’m thinking of doing here so that we can clean it all out for you—tell me what you think—is we’re going to bring a safe container in for all your stuff,’ Sandra explains softly, before being interrupted by her phone. She takes the call, turning herself towards the wall. The timing is agonisingly awkward but there are extremely few, perhaps no, conversations Sandra won’t interrupt to take a phone call. And it’s no use getting terribly offended over it because, in the Great Karmic Cycle of Pankhurst, there are extremely few, perhaps no, conversations that she won’t interrupt to take your call. She briskly deals with whatever it is before returning to focus on the conversation.

Kim is waving at the outside of the house. ‘That was just my outcry. It’s done now, it’s finished,’ she says quickly, explaining how she tried to paint over the words, even though the paint wasn’t an exact match, as a gesture of goodwill towards the landlord. Inside, though, she insists that the writing on the walls is therapeutic.

‘I’ve got lots of trauma, right? And what I’m doing here is running what is called a domestic violence hypnotic behavioural therapy lab.’

‘Right,’ Sandra murmurs, encouraging.

‘OK, so that on the wall’—Kim motions around the room—‘is to do with shock, it’s to do with trauma. I started this myself. I was traumatised. I’m only just walking around this complete house myself, ’cause the garage burned down and set…things…off. Very bad.’ Kim’s voice quivers and she explains that the garage caught fire four years ago.

Motioning to the makeshift splint around her shoulder, Kim says, ‘I’ve got…really…bad muscles. I think it’s to do with my tumours that’re causing bad signals in my body. This time I’ve done a lot of work and my shoulder is very sore, so it’s a reminder not to use it.’ She sets her mouth in a stoic line and looks down at the floor.

‘I want to get your opinion about how you want it to be here, because that’s what my goal is,’ Sandra says soothingly.

A small dog scratches at the screen door and Kim warns Sandra not to let it in because her rats, who act as ‘door security’, are not in a cage. ‘They live in a chair,’ she explains, motioning to a large armchair with a blanket puddled on the seat. ‘And they walk around the house. But they won’t move. They’re actually shit-scared at the moment.’

‘How would a compromise be, if we got this cleaned up and we got you canvases that you could do the exact artwork on for your therapy treatment? I think that’s the best way, don’t you?’ Sandra looks down earnestly at Kim.

‘It is, it is,’ Kim agrees, sighing deeply. ‘But do you know what it is…I draw. It’s my therapy or whatever. But I’ve been locked up, institutionalised, shackled illegally. Mate, to look at white walls…’

‘I understand that,’ Sandra cuts in. ‘But if we could make it like a gallery, with your proper artwork, we’d be killing two birds with one stone.’

As part of her quoting process, it is Sandra’s custom to take photos on her small camera. Kim advises against using the flash too close to the fireplace where a heater has been ripped out. ‘It’ll aggravate them,’ Kim explains, referring to the rats. Then she starts insisting that this clean cannot be like the last attempt. The previous cleaner stole her DVD player. ‘But possessions are nothing. What’s really cut me up is that I come home’—she is indignant, incredulous—‘and he’s chucked these rats out all over the backyard.’

‘Unacceptable,’ Sandra barks.