‘You need your chimney swept,” my sister told me after I complained about the fireplace in our new house not drawing properly. “Find out when your landlord last had it seen to. It’s his responsibility.” I figured I’d just go ahead and sort it out alone – landlords like tenants who take the initiative – and so it was off to planet Google where, imagining undernourished Victorian children being urged up the flue by a soot-stained Fagin-like character, I typed “Chimney Sweeps Brighton”.
I got a dozen references for sweeps – or as the Americans apparently like to be styled, chimney service technicians – all of whom were members of the Guild of Master Chimney Sweeps. This august body, I learnt, was “established with the goal to improve standards within the industry by introducing professional training and assessment for sweeps … safeguarding both the public and trade from the risk of chimney fires and CO poisoning”. Chimney and fireplace maintenance had clearly come a long way since the time of Dickens. There was even a woman sweep in my area.
But it was "Gary the chimney sweep" who caught my eye. I liked his "does-what-it-say-on-the-tin" branding. His website was neat and navigable with lots of reassuring info about safety and he was a member of the guild. I picked up the phone.
In mid-December chimney sweeps must either be busy Christmas shopping or swamped with calls from people who want a cosy blaze over the holidays, because the earliest he could make it was January 5. It was the same story with all the others, and so I stayed with cheery Gary.
Come the day, Gary was a pleasing blend of efficiency and world-weary experience. “Well that hasn’t been cleaned in ages,” he said, letting out a long and practised whistle, his neck craning up and into the blackness. “You’re lucky you didn’t have a chimney fire. No wonder it wasn’t drawing.” I mopped his brow. “Landlords always say they’ve been swept but they simply can’t be bothered half the time. You should see some of the ‘clean’ chimneys I’ve seen. In any case you’ve got the wrong cowl.” I nodded with absolutely no clue what he was talking about. “You need to get one for solid fuel burning.”
Of course I did. “So even if we sweep the chimney now, I can’t use the fire?” I asked, trying to regain some grip on the conversation. “Correct mate.” I told him I’d talk to the landlord and that I’d be in touch. “No worries. Just gimme a call when you want me to pop by.” He thrust a business card into my hand. Gary El Hoss. He had to be kidding me. Surely not?
“Er, it’s none of my business Gary, but are you Lebanese?” He looked up from packing his tools. “You know what? You’re the first person my 10 years of sweeping to ask me that. Yeah, my dad’s Lebanese. The last time I went back there was three years ago. The tourists have gone. The place was empty. Now my dad won’t go back any more. He’s scared of the situation. How did you know I’m Lebanese? You lived there?”
He clearly had no idea. I wasn’t going to tell him that placing someone by their name is a Lebanese pastime for those of a certain generation. It’s not a game I play, but even I know that the Hoss family are a large Sunni clan from Beirut and its suburbs. In Brighton, his name carried no such baggage. He was plain old Gary El Hoss. People probably thought the name was originally Spanish.
“Actually I’m also Lebanese.”
He beamed. “Ah, right. Yeah. Nice. So you’ll give me a call, yeah?” I nodded, flashing his card with what was on reflection a rather silly look of sincerity.
But he wasn’t going. Was he waiting for some validation of our new-found bond? Should we hug? Kiss? High five? Pump fists? Start talking Arabic? “Look the call out fee is £20 (Dh111) but I’ll only charge you a tenner. I didn’t do much and it’ll cover my petrol,” he laughed. The embarrassed Englishman kicked in. “Oh yes, sorry. Of course. How forgetful of me. Yes. Quite. Here you go.”
Gary stuffed the two fives in his top pocket. “Nice one,” he beamed. ”Happy new year.”
Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton.
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