The Three Rs (24 page)

“What about heating? Will you be wanting to extend the existing system? I’m not sure the boiler will take the extra load.” Cain is peering into the airing cupboard under the stairs, assessing the rather ancient looking boiler in there.

“Ah, no”—Mrs Henderson waives her hand airily—“that clapped out old thing, it owes us nowt.”

Her strong Yorkshire accent reminds me of home, and I quickly add a Yorkshire terrier to my impression of her future garden.

“Rip that out and put in something new. Something efficient, economical.” She’s quite definite, and I suspect she’ll get no argument out of Cain.

Sure enough, Cain nods his agreement, clearly relieved not to have to attempt to wrestle the last dregs of life from the noble old boiler. “And the kitchen? Will you want us to fit it, or do you have other plans?”

“No, lad. I want it all sorted at once. Traditional units. And an Aga, naturally.”

“Naturally. We’ll cost all the internal fitments separately. Could you make a note of that, please, Abbie?” Cain glances at me expectantly.

I nod, and quickly sketch my impression of an Aga.

“Right. Now some measurements.” Cain pulls a gadget not unlike a mobile phone from his pocket. “We can handle this bit. I’ll come and find you when we’re done.”

Mrs Henderson seems perfectly content to leave the measuring to us and bustles off inside. I’m expecting to be given one end of a tape to hold, so I’m somewhat perplexed when Cain just starts striding about pointing his gadget in various directions.

“Do you have your pencil handy?”

“What, yes, of course…” I’m not sure how I’m going to handle this, but ever the optimist I dutifully poise my pencil anyway.

“External dimensions first then. Length, five-point-five meters. Width six-point-two. Total height to apex, nine-point-nine.”

I heave a sigh of relief. I can do numbers. Pretty much. I write down the figures as he calls them out to me, concentrating hard.

“Windows. One-point-two by two meters, three on this elevation. Hardwood, sash type.”

This is harder, but I jot down the numbers, and draw a sash window. Then we’re on to the door, which is apparently to be a stable type. I draw that, and write down its measurements as dictated by Cain. He’s hardly glancing in my direction now as he quickly, efficiently, gathers the information he’ll need to be able to calculate the cost of the work. I follow him around, managing to keep up as he calls out more and more numbers which I just add to my growing list.

At last we’re done. Cain turns to me. “Did you get all that?”

I nod hopefully, my notepad clutched to my stomach.

“Let me see?” He holds out his hand, and I have no option but to pass him my notebook.

He studies my unorthodox approach to recording the dimensions of our project, and looks up quizzically.

“Christ, Abbie, your writing’s bloody awful. I hope you can read this because I sure as hell can’t. Doubt if Phyllis’ll be able to either. You’ll have to go through the costings with her tomorrow. Nice pictures though.” With an amused smile he hands me my notepad back, and turns to go find Mrs Henderson.

* * * *

We’re just clambering back into the van as Cain’s phone rings. He swipes the screen to take the call.

“Hi, Beth. How’s things?” He pauses, then, “Right. I’m in Morpeth so I can call at the builders’ merchants and pick some up. I’ll be there in an hour or so.” He ends the call and turns to me. “Beth’s my plumbing subbie. Remember, I mentioned her before? She needs some sealant. Do you mind?”

I shake my head. “No, no problem. Do we get to do the shopping then?”

He laughs. “Well, I prefer to think of it as logistics, but yes, it boils down to shopping today. Making sure all my—our—sub-contractors are on site and working to capacity. So, to that end, Beth needs sealant.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent, very pleasantly in my view, purchasing several large tubes of some waterproof sealant from a builders’ supplier then taking it to a job on the outskirts of Newcastle where the formidable Beth is elbows deep in installing a new bathroom in a smart semi-detached house. She comes out to collect the supplies from us.

“Beth, meet Abbie. Abbie’s now a co-owner at Parrish’s. She’s learning how we do things and meeting our most valued associates. One of which is you.”

Beth grins at us as she pulls her long blonde hair back into a severe pony-tail, securing it with a rather grimy scrunchy. Despite the vivid green overalls, I have never seen a less likely looking plumber. Beth would do justice to any magazine cover, she’s absolutely lovely. Blonde, seriously sexy curves, vivid blue eyes, peachy complexion. She holds out her hand, and I shake it. I’m not sure if I ought to admire her or hate her. I settle for returning her infectious smile.

“Pleased to meet you, Abbie. Please remind him how valued an associate I am when it comes time to settle my invoice.” She turns to Cain. “Almost done here. Now I’ve got the sealant, I’ll stay and finish off. My mum will have to collect Jacob from school.”

“Thanks, Beth, I appreciate it. How are you fixed for a central heating installation next week? I’ll need an extra pair of hands.”

“That should be fine. I’m taking Monday and Tuesday off because Jacob’s off school. Teacher training or some such. Anyhow, I’m all yours from Wednesday.”

He dumps the tubes of sealant into her arms. “I’ll text you the address. And I’m hoping we’ll have another decent extension to do soon. Just been to meet the client and take a few measurements. We’ll submit a price and see how that goes. I’ll let you know.”

She smiles brightly, ready to start work again now she’s supplied with sealant. “It all counts. See you soon.” She nods at me, mock salutes Cain and saunters back into the house.

I stare after her. “I wouldn’t have had her down as a plumber. A glamorous receptionist maybe, or a model.”

Cain heads back toward the van. “Well, appearances can be deceptive. And a self-employed plumber will always make more money than a receptionist. Plus, the hours are better for a lone parent than modeling would be. And, she’s her own boss.”

I haul myself back into the passenger seat, contemplating yet more missed chances and wasted opportunities. Plumbing might not seem the most obvious career choice, but I envy Beth her independence. My regrets are coming thick and fast now. Sometime soon I really must do something about this little issue of mine. Maybe I’ll give Sally a ring later, find out if her offer of help is still open.

Chapter Fourteen

When I wake the following morning, I’m alone. Cain’s side of the bed is long cold. I recall he told me he was setting off early for a meeting in Edinburgh, and that I’d need to make my own way to the yard.

I glance across at the clock.
Christ!
Eight-fifteen. I need to get moving. I throw the duvet back and aim my feet at the carpet, wincing as my weight rests on my well spanked bum. Cain is definitely a most diligent Dom. I suspect I’ll be reminded of his attentions all day. I’m feeling distinctly contented with life as I shower quickly then pull on some clothes. I had intended to wear jeans, but they rub my tender buttocks so I opt instead for a loose skirt.

Downstairs I grab a bowl of cereal, fill Oscar’s bowl with his catty breakfast, make sure he has plenty of water then head for the door. It’s a pleasant half hour walk to the yard, and I arrive just before nine-thirty. Phyllis is already well ensconced at her desk, looking as though she’s been here for hours. Maybe she has. She’s efficiently typing in that way she has, where she doesn’t even need to look at the keyboard. She never breaks her speed as I come in and she calls out her cheery greeting. I hang up my coat and head for the kitchen to get us both a drink, noting as I pass my desk that Phyllis has kindly fired up my computer as well.

Ten minutes later, unable to put it off any longer, I lower myself carefully into my chair. My bum doesn’t hurt too much. I settle myself into a reasonably comfortable position and stare disconsolately at my desktop.

“Cain emailed. He says you have the measurements from yesterday and he wants the costings for that job worked out as soon as possible.” Phyllis’ voice is matter of fact, business like.

And I’m rescued again. I dig in my bag under the desk for my battered notepad.

“Yes. I have them here. I don’t know how to work out the costings though…”

“Not to worry, love. That’s the easy bit. You just yell ‘em out and I’ll put ‘em into the spreadsheet. The machine does the calculations for us.”

Ah, how convenient.

I flick through the pages of my notebook until I come to my scribblings from yesterday. I stare hard at the first page, the jumble of numbers, and try to remember exactly what Cain said. Luckily, I have a good memory. I’ve had to cultivate one.

“External measurements first. It’s five-five, six-two.”

“Five-five, six-two what?” Phyllis’ nimble fingers are poised over the keyboard

“Length was five-five, width was six-two.” I’m sure it was that way round, so I look up at her confidently. “Are you ready for the windows yet?”

Apparently not. Phyllis has more questions. And now it’s getting really technical. “Are we talking imperial or metric measurements here?”

“What?”

“Feet and inches? Or meters?”

Feet and inches. Must be. So that’s what I tell her.

“Are you sure, love? Cain usually deals in metric. I just ask because five-five, and six-two sound more like imperial. Feet and inches.”

I know exactly what he said, I wrote the numbers down as he yelled them out to me. So there’s no doubt in my mind as I assure Phyllis that we are indeed discussing feet and inches.

“It seems like a tiny extension then, that’s all I can say. Hardly worth bothering with. Right then, go on love, fire away.”

“It was a small cottage,” I offer, by way of explanation. “Windows now?”

Phyllis nods briefly, fingers at the ready again. “Windows.”

* * * *

I spend the rest of the morning sketching an impression of how I expect the extended and refurbished cottage will look, based on Mrs Henderson’s description. Maybe we could send her my drawing along with the quote for the work, sort of an added bonus. A free gift.

Phyllis has printed off the figures, based on my measurements, and leaves the sheet on her desk, stapled to what I now understand is our standard schedule of work. She’s altered the details to suit the specifics, no two jobs are exactly the same, but the general framework doesn’t seem to vary much. I guess I’m managing to pick up some of the basics, and I’ve not even been here a week yet.

Phyllis leaves at twelve as usual, but not before asking if I’d mind spending some time this afternoon checking for any unpaid invoices that we ought to be sending out reminders for. At my perplexed expression she explains that I need to look through the file of invoices—helpfully she dumps a large, red folder on my desk—then I need to compare each invoice against the spreadsheet in our accounts where payments coming in are listed. She shows me how to navigate to the accounts section on my computer, and brings up the correct spreadsheet on my screen. Any invoices without a matching payment in, and where the date of the invoice is more than a month ago, are late and need chasing. We’ll send them our standard reminder letter. If the bill is more than three months overdue we get heavier, she explains. That’s when we start mentioning the prospect of legal action.

This is not going to be easy, I know that. But I can probably manage to compare names, especially as I’ll have all afternoon to do it, and no one watching me. At least she doesn’t seem to expect me to send out the reminder letters. I nod, smile encouragingly and tell her to have a nice afternoon.

“You too, dear. See you in the morning.” She buttons up her coat and is out of the door, leaving me, my file of invoices and my spreadsheet.
Happy days.

The next two hours crawl past. I need to study the paperwork so carefully to be sure I’m looking for the correct name in the column on the left of the spreadsheet, and when I don’t find it I’m not entirely convinced it’s actually because the invoice is overdue. It could just as easily be that I’ve made a mistake. We could end up sending out nasty letters to really good customers, customers who’ve settled their bills on time and would have perhaps put more work our way if I hadn’t pissed them off.

The more time I spend struggling with the task, the more nervous I become. This can’t go on. I need to come clean before I do some real damage to this business that Cain has worked so hard to build. I look across at the small pile of supposedly overdue bills, wondering if I should perhaps check again that they’re not lurking somewhere on that spreadsheet. I turn back to study the screen again, reach for the mouse.

And it disappears. The screen is blank. Well almost. There’s a pattern of empty oblong shapes, nothing more. There should be numbers and words in those boxes, not this screen full of absolutely nothing. A moment ago it was all there, now it’s gone. I click the mouse. Nothing. I click both buttons, starting to panic. A list of words appears, none of them make any sense. They’re not my spreadsheet of paid invoices. Christ! I’m clicking desperately now, the little arrow darting across the screen as I frantically, futilely, search for the missing information.