The Three Rs (23 page)

“Sweetheart, you’ve missed your turn every day since you arrived. I’m not about to get picky now. You soak while I cook.” He hands me the keys so I can go and get in the van while he re-sets the alarm.

My bottom is still making its views felt as I settle into the passenger seat, but I decide it’s a pleasant, warm sort of soreness.

I could get used to this.

Chapter Thirteen

We arrive at the yard-cum-office before Phyllis the following morning, despite having indulged in our usual wake-up ritual. Hot, down and dirty sex is one sweet way to start the day. Definitely sets me up till lunchtime. Probably better than hot, sweet coffee. I think. Up to now I’ve not had to choose between them.

“You just get on with whatever you feel like, I’ll get started on that boiler.” Cain leaves me perched on my chair—scene of so much more pleasant activity yesterday—as he hauls his massive toolbox up the narrow internal staircase to the upstairs flat.

The computer is sitting quietly, minding its own business. I see no reason to disturb it so I head into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The sound of the door tells me Phyllis has arrived so I reach for a third mug from the cupboard.

“Morning,” she calls out.

I answer her, and there’s a distant ‘morning’ from upstairs too. I finish making the drinks and I place her cup of weak, milky tea on her desk. I take Cain’s coffee up to him. All that’s visible is his rather tight and seriously attractive bum hanging out of the airing cupboard. I place the coffee on the floor behind him and pat his arse smartly as I turn to leave.

“You’ll get yours, Abbie…” The voice is muffled, but he’s doing his best to sound stern.

“I do hope so. Sir.”

Back downstairs Phyllis has obligingly turned on my computer as well as her own so at least I can put off having to ask her how it’s done for a little longer. My desktop is now glowing happily on the screen, waiting for me. I sit at the desk and stare at it. A few minutes later, Phyllis notices my lack of any productive activity.

“Did you forget your glasses again, love?”

“What?” I turn to her, puzzled.

“Your glasses. On Monday you said you couldn’t read the screen without them. I was just wondering…”

I seize the excuse, hoping she hasn’t spotted my slip. It’s true what they say, that liars need exceptionally good memories. Mine could stand some improvement. “Oh, yes, right. Yes, I left them at home again. Is there any more envelope stuffing I can do?”

“No. All done. I blame you.”

“What?” I’ve no idea what she can mean.

“Me? Why? What have I done?” Cain’s voice from just behind me gives me a surprise. I never heard him coming down the stairs.

“You keep rushing this poor girl out in the morning without her specs. She’ll strain her eyes. You need to take her home to collect them.” Phyllis is also doing her best to be stern this morning, it seems. And I’m sure it would have had a sporting chance of working if Cain had a clue what she was talking about.

“What glasses? Abbie doesn’t wear any.”

I look from one to the other, desperately casting around for some sort of excuse or explanation. They both look to me to clarify matters.

“I do. Sometimes. For close work. And computers.”

His eyebrows lift in mild surprise. “Oh, right. Well I need to nip home for my electric screwdriver. I’ll pick them up for you. Where are they?” Cain grabs the keys to the van and waits expectantly for further instructions.

“I-I-I’m not sure. I don’t use them that much.”

“No. Can’t say I’ve ever seen you in them. And I haven’t seen them anywhere around the house. Could they be in the spare room?”

I’m conscious that Phyllis’ ears have pricked up. She’s clearly not above a little friendly curiosity regarding our sleeping arrangements.

“No. Yes. No.”

Cain hesitates by the door, clearly perplexed now. “Abbie?”

“I don’t think I brought them with me. From Bradford.”

“But, don’t you need them?” Phyllis is looking concerned. And confused. “I never go anywhere without mine.”

“Well, I do. I forgot, that’s all.” I make to get up, intending to head for the loo. Cain soon puts a stop to that.

“Abbie, sit down.”

I drop back into my chair immediately. What is it about that voice, that certain inflexion that demands immediate obedience? He comes back across the room to hitch his hip on the corner of my desk, and takes his time studying me as I perch uncomfortably in my chair.

“What is all this? You don’t need glasses, love.” His tone has softened, maybe, a tad, and he reaches to pick up my sketchpad from yesterday, still lying open on Phyllis’ desk where he left it last night. “This is close work, some really intricate stuff in here. You had no trouble drawing these.”

“Ooh, is that your stuff? I wondered who drew these. They’re lovely. I like the building site…” Phyllis reaches for the sketchpad and Cain hands it to her.

“Yes, Abbie’s very talented it seems.” He cups my chin in his hand. “But unfortunately not above telling a few fibs to get out of something she doesn’t want to do.”

He doesn’t know the half of it.

He turns his attention back fully onto me. “Abbie, I appreciate this is not your cup of tea, I really do get that. You said all along you don’t want to work in an office and I don’t expect you to do it indefinitely. I can see we’ll have to advertise for another admin assistant for Phyllis, and then you’ll be able to concentrate on the artwork for our promotional stuff. It’s a much better use of your talents in any case, I
can
see that. But until we get someone else in, I expect you to help out here as we agreed, to do what needs doing and not make excuses. We all need to do things we’re not exactly happy about sometimes. You can’t always pick and choose. I won’t ask you to spend all day, every day in the office, but I do expect you to pull your weight. And not to dream up lies to get out of working. Are we clear?”

I gaze at him, and see my excuses and alternatives falling away. Put like that, I can see how my pathetic fabrication would look to him. I feel ashamed that he’d believe I was lazy or being selective in what I’m prepared to do, but the truth is even more damning. I really have no option but to do my best to make myself useful. He sees my acceptance in my eyes, and smiles at me.

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’m sorry to have to get heavy with you but I need you to understand how important this is. It won’t be for long, I promise. Phyllis can place an ad today…” He glances at her, enquiring.

“Oh yes,” she chimes in brightly. “It’ll be in the Observer next week. We could have someone starting in two or three weeks’ time. There’s always bright young folk looking for work round here.”

How encouraging.
Until then, though, I’m stuck.

* * * *

Cain is soon back with his missing screwdriver, and returns to his task upstairs in the flat. I pass the next hour or so pointing and clicking and desperately hoping I don’t stumble across anything on the computer that I could inflict irreparable damage to. If Phyllis notices my lack of productive effort, she’s too kind to comment, and I’m happy for the reprieve when she observes that it’s about time for a nice cup of tea.

“I’ll get it.” I’m up and headed into the tiny kitchen before she can volunteer, and I quickly rustle up three drinks. I’ve memorized everyone’s preferences so it doesn’t take me long. I carry Cain’s black coffee upstairs to him, not sure of my reception after this morning’s bit of nonsense. I needn’t have worried. His smile is as dazzling as ever as he turns to me, wiping his hands on a rather disreputable piece of rag. I can’t decide what I prefer to see him in—dirty and worn work clothes like now, or the smart casuals that he wore yesterday to visit the site in Rothbury. Or nothing at all, the state he’s in when we wake up and he treats me to his own brand of morning service. The latter probably, on reflection.

“Thanks, Abbie.” He takes the mug from me and tosses the rag back into his huge toolbox. Most of his tools are back in there too, and a glance at the new boiler now on the wall over the sink, its green lights blinking happily, suggests he’s just about done here.

Sure enough, “That’s me finished. Give it twenty-four hours for the system to get up to strength again, and it’ll be warm as toast. Not that you’ll be needing it…?”

I smile back. “No, seems not. Should we rent the flat out?”

“Could do. Or Phyllis’ new assistant might want to live here. We’ll see.” Then, in a sudden shift of direction, “Are you busy this afternoon?”

I glance at him, surprised. I may be a lot of things, but busy is not one of them. I shake my head.

“Right. Well, I’m going over to Morpeth to see a new client who wants a quote for a job. Small, but fairly specialist. A cottage refurb and extension. Do you fancy coming with me?”

Do I?
What’s that about bears shitting in woods? Still, no harm in playing it just a little bit cool.

“Sure. I don’t think there’s anything that won’t wait until tomorrow. Shall I just check with Phyllis?”

He grins, knowing full well I’m bluffing. “You do that, Miss Fischer. Be ready to get off in half an hour. I’ll just finish up here and I’ll see you downstairs.”

* * * *

The drive to Morpeth is as interesting as yesterday’s expedition to Rothbury was. Although most of the journey is on the busy A1, the Northumberland scenery is stunning. I’ve never been a landscape artist especially, but I could easily develop a taste.

“Have you always lived here?” I think he probably hasn’t, Cain doesn’t have the distinctive Berwick accent I’ve been hearing all around me, an almost Scottish brogue. His speech sounds not too different from mine.

“No. I grew up in Leeds. Only came up here when I started working for my uncle. It’s been about ten years now though.”

“Do you like it? Berwick, I mean. The north east.”

He shrugs. “Not at first, too isolated and too fucking cold and windy for my taste. No decent entertainment nearer than Newcastle or Edinburgh. Remember, I was a randy lad of nineteen then…”

“Right. And now you’re a randy lad of what—thirty?”

“Twenty-nine.”

But I note he doesn’t deny being randy. How fortunate.

“Since I started taking over more and more of the business, I’ve not had time to worry about my limited access to the fleshpots of Newcastle. I get enough entertainment scrambling up and down scaffolding, and until you came and started disrupting my domestic arrangements, I usually spent my evenings doing the paperwork. Occasional clubbing, just to avoid becoming a total recluse, you understand. You’ve corrupted me, Miss Fischer.”

Good thing too.
And I can imagine the sort of clubs he frequents. I don’t point any of that out though. Instead, I enquire about the project we’re going to look at.

“It’s a period cottage, two bedrooms, eighteenth century. The new owners want to extend it to three bedrooms, but want the job to be done tastefully. Sympathetically. I gather the building isn’t listed, so that simplifies things. We’ll meet the owner and architect, get a feel for what they want to do, take some measurements and then let them have a price for the job.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Watch, listen, learn. Take some notes perhaps.”

I stiffen, but manage not to let my voice give away my sudden nervousness. “I didn’t bring a notepad or pen.”

“No problem. I always have that stuff. We’ll do fine.”

Well, that remains to be seen. The rest of the journey passes in near silence. I don’t doubt Cain’s thoughts are focused on the intricacies of sympathetically extending a two hundred year old rural cottage. Mine are on how to hide my inadequacies yet again.

We find the cottage easily enough and Cain does a quick assessment from outside. The client meets us there and immediately launches into an outline of her thoughts on how the place might be improved.

“Two stories, stone, with slate roof. The ground floor room will be a kitchen-diner, the upstairs an additional bedroom. We want the interior to be in keeping with the period—stone floors, mullioned windows. The less you can see the join, the better I’ll like it.”

We’re standing in a little huddle in front of the cottage, gazing at the soon-to-be-transformed frontage. The owner, Mrs Henderson, is the head teacher of a primary school in Newcastle. The cottage is to be her rural country retreat, her place of solitude and seclusion where she can unwind and recover from the stresses of trying to impart wisdom and learning to the young minds of Blythe. Cain shoved a notepad into my hands as soon as we arrived, clearly expecting me to make notes of Mrs Henderson’s detailed requirements. Instead, I’ve been sketching.

Our client-to-be has very clear ideas regarding how she wants her new home to look, and as she describes her vision, I’ve been quickly committing it to paper. I’ve sketched the new window configuration, the roofline, the gable end where the extension will re-shape the proportions of the house. I’ve even embellished the whole thing by sketching a new forecourt and patio for her, optional of course. The architect is a nondescript little individual, whose name I can’t recall. He follows us around, agreeing with everything Mrs Henderson says. It’s quite clear who is the creative mind here.