*
The Main Chance.
(I have changed the names of those involved;
this story is not fiction.)
Once part of the even larger property next door the house into which I moved was big, old and crumbling away. All the rooms were very spacious and tacked on one to the other. The first in the line used to function as a stable, the next as a harness room, then came the coach house (the double doors long since bricked up) and finally came the dung heap which I use as a dining room, cleaned up a bit of course.
My friends were appalled. “You must be mad,” I was told by Duncan. “Look at the walls! They bulge out.”
“And in,” I reasoned. “In fact they’re made of compacted chalk and what you see is just the result of the higher points settling down.”
“Yes, straight onto the ground.”
“Doesn’t that worry you?”
“No.”
Trevor was appalled. “But you have no foundations!”
“It hasn’t been an issue over the last two hundred years,” I replied calmly.
I won that round so the attack shifted. George took up the cudgel. “The windows are glued in place with at least fifty layers of paint!”
“Thus deterring all but the most determined thief!”
I got agreement on that one. “He’d need a blow torch.”
“Good, isn’t it!”
“Is it?” asked Charles. “What about when the weather is fine and you want some fresh air?”
“I go outside.”
Another point to me.
Edward was ruefully examining his ankle. “Your floor boards are rotten. I’ve just gone through one.”
“So you have. Concrete will fix that.”
Len helped Edward to a packing case (my only chair was in another room) and then gave me a worried frown. “The wiring is dangerous. The insulation is crumbling away.”
“Don’t you think power bills are ridiculously high these days?”
“Not for you. The moment you switch on you’ll short out the lot!”
“That’ll cut the bill.”
George tried a comeback. “You’ve got mould on the walls,”
“That’s a big plus; my pot plants will flourish in here.”
In unison George, Len, Charles, Trevor and Duncan cried, “Why on earth did you buy this dump?” Edward said nothing. He was still ruefully examining his foot.
“It’s all your fault,” I told them. “That, and the price.”
They stared at me, speechless. Except Edward. He tried to stand, gave a howl of pain the moment his injured foot touched the floor and then collapsed back onto the packing case. He must have found one of the few solid planks. A tear appeared in his eye. “I’d never recommend this, this...”
“Pigsty?” offered George.
“Slum,” Trevor insisted.
“Crapulous,” agreed Len. He is the literary one.
“Muck heap,” from Duncan.
“Are you insured?” Edward demanded. “I may sue.”
“No point,” I retorted. “I have no assets. Except this place.”
“You have no assets,” George insisted.
“Look guys, I tell you, apart from a semi-detached shoe box in the worst area of town this house is all I can afford.”
George inclined his head. “It is difficult to argue with that. But why blame us? If you’d asked our advice we’d have kidnapped you until the madness passed.”
“That’s why none of you were consulted.”
“So don’t blame us,” Edward snarled.
“Oh, but I do.”
“How come? Even for a female you defy all logic!”
“Not really. I’ll let you into a secret. If you were not my friends I’d never have touched this pigsty, slum, crapulous muck heap... ”
“Death trap,” interjected Edward.
“How true,” I agreed. “Without you I’d never have touched this not ideal home with a barge pole!”
“But, but, we were not involved!” exclaimed Duncan.
“Precisely. But you will be.”
“How does that make us responsible,” demanded Len. Sometimes he is a bit slow on the up take.
“That’s an easy one. I know you’ll help me fix it up. You will, won’t you?” I appealed and gave them my “You know I’m a reckless and silly female lacking male abilities and commonsense,” smile. As a clincher I offered one and all a cup of coffee; no delay. There and then.
They accepted so my strategy had worked. Despite a very limited purse I’d managed to get a roof over my head and all the unpaid help I needed to make the place habitable.
John, my sister’s husband, was a wrecker so I got him to rip up the floorboards. He wanted to help with the concreting but I drew the line there. For one thing it was quite unpredictable what he’d destroy in the process and for another I wanted to do it myself. There’s something very satisfying in mixing all that sand and cement and water (No mixer, no money for extras) in your own front room and then treading it in with your feet. Of course I got pretty messy so I didn’t wear much, which is the other reason I declined John’s help. He fancies himself and he fancies me.
Another challenge was to smooth out all that mix without trapping myself in the corner furthest from the door. I laid it six inches thick. I did take advice though, from Graham. He’s gay so no problem there and I let him monitor my progress. By the time he confirmed it was no longer green and safe to walk on I had a base to be proud of that would last a hundred years.
“You’ve probably strengthened the whole building,” he told me, with approval, late one night over a steaming cup of cocoa in my curtain less kitchen. That meant my neighbours could see in. How envious they must be of all the willing helpers I had.
Gordon, a dab hand at plastering, attacked the kitchen on another evening. His hands tend to wander which meant more mess and possible problems so suitable precautions had to be taken. I invited his girl friend over and while we exchanged confidences he stripped to the waist for it was warm work (remember those windows) and concentrated on what he should, buoyed on by her admiration for his abs and promise to see him right later if he did a good job.
More than once I congratulated myself that I’d had the courage to do my own thing, with the help of my friends and without unnecessary complications. Being alone suits me. Men are fine just so long as you take a few obvious steps and make sure they don’t hang around too much. Even Edward limped in and attacked the wiring after his day job (wiring). His safety net was to remove the fuses every so often so some of the task had to be done in the dark. Dodgy, but I held the torch and he behaved himself; in his state he knew he’d never catch up with me and he was far from clear about the solidity of the other floors in the house. They were fine but I didn’t tell him that.
My project was going so well that a disaster was inevitable. It arrived in the form of a solicitor’s letter. You know the kind of thing, a heavily embossed letterhead “Twistem, Rookham & Bolt,” followed by turgid legalise requiring a dictionary and tortuous logic diagram to interpret. An ex boy friend offered help following my panic phone call. He called round, and not out of friendship. He’s a legal leach too. “It is quite clear,” he informed me smugly, “Your neighbours require you to lay down a new water supply.”
“The one I have is perfectly serviceable. The taps drip, though. Do you know a reliable plumber?”
“No I do not, and it isn’t the point.”
“You may tolerate drips. I won’t.”
“My dear girl, you must grasp this issue. Your water is supplied via a branch pipe which is connected to your neighbour’s main. They are quite within their rights to insist you make other arrangements.”
“Rights is one thing, cost is another.”
“Again, not the point. What you use is charged to them.”
“Oh no it isn’t. We pay a fixed charge for availability, not for usage.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Larry the lea
ch informed me, with a legal leer. “They can cut you off any time they like. You should be grateful. I see they’ve given you a month.”
“But, but, it will cost money.”
“Indeed. Better than undergoing litigation, believe me.”
“I haven’t got any money.” This was true in the sense that what I had was already carefully allocated elsewhere.
Larry the ex boy and lousy friend got up off the packing case (the single chair was still elsewhere). “It will not be any good sending you an invoice then?”
“What for?”
“My consultation fee, darling.”
I should have remembered. He is an ex because of his job and unremitting remitting and avaricious attitude. “No, it is not.”
“Then goodbye. Don’t call me again.”
He strode to the front door, opened it and collided with a stranger who stood on the threshold, about to knock.
“Don’t threaten me,” Larry cried. “I’ll have you in court if you do. I might anyway. I’ve a witness.” He looked back at me.
“Have you, Larry? I must say I don’t see anyone else here.”
“You are sufficient.”
“Oh, I was totally distracted, thinking about rising mains.” I looked at the stranger. “Did Larry attack you?”
“Maybe. Er, well yes. Maybe he did.” How unusual, a quick on the uptake male.
Larry was not amused and with a parting “Hmmp!” he took off.
I eyed up the stranger. About my age, quite dishy in fact. “Don’t just stand there. Come in for a coffee and a disaster.”
He stepped into the hall ex harness room and then the ex coach house kitchen. Looking about he said with approval, “You’ve certainly made an impact on the old place.”
The kettle was still hot; I’d put it on mistakenly believing Larry would be sympathetic and help. It took but a moment to produce a coffee.
“Do sit down.”
He hesitated, looking around, so I took the opportunity to examine him in more detail. He was about my age, fresh faced, a great unruly mop of fair hair sprouting from his scalp and although you could tell he was educated from the way he spoke he was wearing overalls.
“Oh, silly me,” I said, for he really was quite dishy, “No chair. I’ll get you one.”
“I’m in my working clothes,” he told me. “They’re not exactly pristine.”
“No matter,” I retorted, and fetched the chair. “Sit,” I told him, firmly. I was not being excessively polite. Men are far less threatening when they are seated. It would keep him occupied, too. Three of the legs were still firm but the fourth was ok only if you did not wriggle too much. The back creaked, like a ship’s moving timbers stressed by a gale, but that was not a problem for me. I liked the association. As for the seat, the best you could say was it was sound. The upholstery had long since worn away and its place taken bit a piece of unpainted chipboard, strategically nailed. You had to watch those nails.
“Sit,” I repeated.
“Actually, I think I will. Thank you.” A look of surprise momentarily crossed his face. I think he’d found one of those nails.
To distract him I asked, “You don’t by any remote chance know of a good, reliable and very cheap plumber, do you?”
Modestly, he looked down. “Well, actually,” and he fingered his overalls, “that’s what I do. As best I can.”
Most guys would have boasted and blinded me with science. Not this guy. He continued to look bashful. Suddenly I not only liked him I loved him. I’d put brandy in his next cup of coffee, lots of it and once he was suitably relaxed and vulnerable I’d take full advantage and get fun out of it too. Probleme, no brandy. Oh well, not a probleme, I thought, fluttering my eyelashes. Time to praise his hair do.
I did so and then showed him the taps, taking care to stand close. “Will fixing them be expensive?” I asked, resting a hand on his arm.
“Well, actually, good grief, no. I could pop round this evening and do the job in my own time. I’ve plenty of washers, they’re very cheap you know, and the rest is just labour. This job won’t cost you a bean.”
“You are kind.” I meant it, too. I let my hip brush against his. He caught his breath so I plunged into my main problem and explained all about my need for a new, rising main.
His reply was a surprise. “Well, actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“Really?” Did he have second sight?
“Yes and I’m afraid it is not good news. You see we’ll have to dig a trench from the road and tunnel under the walls...”
“There are no foundations to worry about,” I explained helpfully, whilst wondering about his use of the word “we”.
“That’s a bonus, actually. The job doesn’t end there, I’m afraid. You’ll need a new pipe run once we’re inside the house, plus a stopcock of course. I’ll probably be able to er, arrange as it were sufficient alkathene tube to do the job. Do you like alkathene?”
“Not in coffee,” I replied, pondering again that use of “we”.
He explained it was a type of non-metallic pipe, easily persuaded to curve round er, curves, as he put it, eyeing me up. “At the depot there are usually a number of discarded off cuts available. I should have no difficulty finding sufficient for your needs.”
“Depot?” I queried, becoming confused.
“I’m from the Water Board,” he explained, proudly. “I’m really here to let you know that the Board’s normal practice is to do all work outside your property quite free of charge.”
“Wow! Thanks friend.”
“It is part of our service to our customers. There is a snag, though, from your point of view. Once we reach the boundary of your property well, actually the cost is down to you.”
I was tempted to tell him, “Well, actually, you are no help at all.” Instead I stated flatly, “I’m broke.”
He nodded. “Actually, that is a problem.”
To gain time and his support I made him another coffee and then showed him over the house. The tour finished in the ex stable front room where I proudly pointed out my six inches of perfectly smooth, rock hard concrete.
He approved. “You’ve done a very good job there.” Suddenly he was blushing.
I twigged immediately. “You saw me mixing it up? How come? Oh, of course. I have no curtains.”
“It’s a pity.”
There’s nothing wrong with my figure. I’ve worn less on a beach, so the proprieties weren’t violated.
His blush deepened. “You were treading it in, actually.”
“Good fun it was, too.”
“Yes, I imagine so. It is a shame some of it will have to come up.”
Arms akimbo I retorted, “Over my dead body.”
He traced a line from the inside wall across the floor. “This is the shortest route. “
“Is there no other way?”
He, actually, didn’t say actually. “I expect there is but,” he sighed, “It will involve more pipe work and more digging outside and so, I’m afraid, more expense.”
“Oh, bother.”
“I have the use of a pneumatic drill if that’s any good.”
The real world is harsh, requiring from time to time the taking of difficult decisions. If cutting up the concrete would significantly eat into the bill what other alternative was there?
“I’m not sure I could use one of those.”
“Well, I can, actually. If you wish.”
We discussed the details of when and how he would do the job. He really was so co-operative and so understanding of my problems that when he turned to go I said, “You’d better give me a contact number in case I need to call you.”
His answer was a bombshell. “There is no need for that.” He pointed to the mansion next door, the source of my present problem. “Actually I live there.”
“You what!”
“Well, yes.” He was now blushing bright red. “That’s how accidentally I came to see you through my window. Actually I’
m afraid it was a loose remark of mine that has caused you this problem for until I told the parents they didn’t know they could cut you off!”
Now honesty is rare so I warmed to him. Then I went on the attack. “You... you idiot! You numb brain. What possessed you to do that? Didn’t you like the show?”
“Oh no.”
“What do you mean, oh no?”
“Oh yes, actually. You are beautiful, especially splattered with concrete.”
“That’s better.”
“It was the parents, I had to placate them. They’re getting on and want a quiet life and they’ve been quite upset at all the goings on.”
“You said I’d done a good job.”
“So you have. But there have been so many comings and goings, and at all hours. Hundreds of different men have been calling. And what annoyed Mum most was you didn’t ever bother to pull the curtains.”
“I don’t have any.”
“I see that now.”
“As for my visitors, they may perve a bit but they came here to work! All you’ve done is generate trouble whilst invading my privacy.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, actually...”
“One of my men,” I sneered, “Is an ace carpenter so you can tell your ancient parentage I agree with them. I shall raise the fence between us at least six feet! Now, get out!” I pushed him through the door and slammed it shut.
What a disaster! First had come the legal letter bringing trouble, then mop head had turned up with a possible solution so that despite the damage to my concrete pride and joy I had warmed considerably towards him only to receive the latest information which instantly turned love into instant hate. What a mess!
I spent time at the library, reading up about water works. It was all very interesting and I thanked the librarian, one Oliver by name, and added, “I wanted something on domestic water supplies, actually.” Dammit, I’d caught the disease.
“This book covers all of that,” he replied.
“I mean, act... installing your own.”
“You mean plumbing. Why didn’t you say so?”
I was sitting in the kitchen eating a hot cross bun because it matched my mood and reading “Plumbing for Beginners” when there was a tentative knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Whoever it was evidently didn’t hear so I got up off the packing case and opened the door. It was moron-tousled head from next door. “You!”
“Well, actually, yes. May I come in?”
“Why?”
“I thought this book might help you.” He held up “Plumbing for Beginners.”
“I’ve got my own copy from the library, thank you.” I moved to close the door.
“No, wait. People tell me it is brilliant. Do you think so?”
“It’s ok.”
“I’m so pleased.”
“Why?”
“I wrote it.”
“Fabulous,” I grimaced. Then, putting prejudice aside I dragged him into the ex harness room hall.
“I’m so glad you approve,” he gasped. “Every time I reread it I’m completely hooked.”
There’s modesty for you. “Then tell me who is this chap Whitworth? I think I grasp a point then he intrudes. That’s not you, is it?”
“If only,” he replied, following me into the kitchen. “That’s immortality for you. Whitworth,” he explained, “is a standard of measures but a lot of stuff is metric now, so joining new stuff to old can cause all your joints to leak.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my joints.”
“You haven’t done any work yet. But actually there could be mega problems if you don’t watch out.”
“Have you called off your parents? That will fix everything.”
“Well, actually, no I haven’t,” he admitted. He then went on, “I do rather over use that word.”
“Actually,” I smiled, “You do.”
“Sorry.”
At least he had some self-awareness. Add that to honesty on the plus side.
We were quite close now and it must have been me moving for he hadn’t and I found his proximity just as pleasant as I had before I hated him. Somehow his arm had got tangled round my waist. I leant forward, full of expectation as his lips met mine. It was only later I realised he was wearing his working overalls and he pointed out a smudge of Boss White neatly bisecting my breasts.
“It’ll stop your buttons rusting,” he claimed. “I can remove it for you.”
“Hands off,” I told him, firmly, backing away.
“Actually, it’s all right because I think I love you,” he said, simply. “So hands off may be a bit difficult.”
He was getting to me. “I can understand your problem.” Now who was being immodest.
“You do?”
“I think so,” I replied, shakily. “A problem shared,”
He laughed. “Is bloody inconsiderate! However, I don’t mind. Let’s explore the difficulty.”
“Uhuh,” I cautioned and manoeuvred until the packing case was between us. “Keep your distance, plumber boy.”
“But why?”
“Because.”
He was completely at a loss so I spelt it out. “For one thing you keep saying actually, actually.”
“It is a habit,” he admitted.
“Then work to fix it.”
“Are there other issues?” he asked, edging round the packing case.
“Actually, there are two. The first one I’ve already told you. Don’t say actually ever again. And second you must persuade your ancient parents to leave my equally ancient water works alone. I positively refuse to dig up my concrete or let you bring a pneumatic drill into my ex stable front room.” I may sometimes be cupid stupid, Larry the legal letch is proof enough of that, but I ain’t plain daft. I’ll use my advantages when I spot them.
“But darling,” he cried. “They are quite determined.”
“So am I,” although I warmed to the other D word.
“And how can I stop saying Act... you know, when Mum uses it a hundred times a day?”
“Over to you, tousle head. If you want more of me it means much less of her.”
He stopped circling the packing case. “That’s reasonable,” he admitted.
“Then act on the thought. Want a coffee?”
We spent some more very enjoyable time chatting of this and that and despite being severely tempted I suppressed the longing and refused to let him touch me, no, not even when he offered to remove the Boss White at which, he assured me, he was an expert. That I did not doubt.
Now my Mum would have said my good behaviour lasted until he was at the front door, about to go. Sorry Mum, I came to my senses at that point and somehow it took half an hour before breathless, Boss White less and with bruised lips, I eventually pushed him away.
Early the next morning he was back, haggard and hollow eyed. My goodness, what had happened?
He was also miserable. “I’m a failure,” he announced sadly, after taking at least fifteen minutes to deposit a big grease stain just above, well, never mind. I didn’t care so of course I knew I was serious about him.
“I spent all night arguing with them,” he went on, coming up for air. “It’s no good. They won’t budge.”
I was appalled. “You stupid jerk!”
On cue he jerked back. “W, what?”
“You Wally! You pea brain! Have you no sense? No, you’re male. For goodness sake, you know what got under their skin in the first place, disturbed nights. So what do you do? You keep them awake, telling them what they positively don’t want to hear!”
“It could have been an error of judgement,” he conceded.
“Could have been!”
“I’m a bit of a moron.”
“Only a bit? There’s more, isn’t there. Oh, I see it now. They think a loose woman has descended on them, right?”
“Right,” he mumbled agreement.
“So they are full of moral indignation, right?” r />
“They are rather old fashioned.”
“So, bright boy that you are, you told them you’d fallen in love with me!”
Downcast he said, “You’re not wrong.”
“There’s no need to look so miserable about it. Boy, you may know something about pipes, and Whitworths, but your wits are non existent.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” he explained. “I had to tell someone how wonderful you are!”
I could not argue with that. “Ok, I agree. You are partially forgiven. I’m not changing my mind, though. Two conditions, remember? I won’t, I positively won’t dig up my ex stable front room. It’s a matter of principle.”
Big eyes were fastened on mine. “What can I do?” he appealed, helplessly.
“Go and dig up their kitchen and see how they like it,” I retorted. “But give us a kiss first.”
Just as my heart was beginning to bump uncomfortably, just as my legs were weakening, just as I was having second and third thoughts about the stupid conditions I’d laid down, just as I was bending my mind to the problem of getting him upstairs to look at a leaking wash basin I did not have, he pulled away!
“Actually, you know,” he said thoughtfully and then breaking into a smile, “that’s not a bad idea.” He beamed. “Brilliant! Marvellous.”
“You’re ok, too,” I admitted, tugging at his arm to drag him to the stairs.
He broke away. He actually disentangled himself and broke away. “Digging!” he exclaimed. “That’s the key. Digging!” He dashed out of the front door leaving me with one hand on the unpainted banister.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I’ve got some lovely pipes to look at. Lovely, lovely,” he cried as he disappeared from view.
I sighed heavily. Whatever turns you on, plumber boy.
Larry, the legal louse, had once stood me up in favour of a pressing matter of litigation, at least that’s what he called her, but to be rejected in favour of a rising main was to reach a new low.
Sadly I wandered back to my front room ex stable. That beautiful concrete; the carpet isn’t made I’d lay on top of it. Yet in life you sometimes have to make hard decisions. It was going to have to go.
I was chalking out the line of destruction when he came back.
“I’ve done it!” he cried, taking the chalk from my hand and hurling it into a corner. He lifted me off my feet and swung me round and round. “I’ve done it. I’ve done it!”
It felt good, so good that I didn’t even think about the industrial muck he could be depositing on me. Instead I wondered if they make baby rattles to look like a plumbers wrench.
Eventually he put me down. “Don’t you want to know?” he enquired, anxiously.
I ran my fingers through his beautiful and thick mop of hair. “What?” I asked, completely relaxed. Once you make the hard decision (dig up my concrete) all anxieties melt away.
“Don’t you want to know just how clever you are my darling?”
“That’s not news.”
“You said dig up the kitchen.”
“It was a bit spiteful.”
“Well, yes, but it got me thinking. You see, to put in a new pipe for you is easy but you’ve got to block off the old one.”
“I know that. Plumbing for Beginners says,”
“Precisely. And then, dear genius, you have to disconnect the other end. Otherwise you get dead water and that’s a health hazard. The regulations won’t allow dead water.”
“Sensible,” I commented, wondering when the punch line would arrive so we could get down to more interesting activities.
“Where does your present pipe branch off from ours, eh?”
“Does it matter?” I asked with some indifference, stroking his left ear.
“It is crucial!”
“Is it?”
“I’ll say! In this case that junction is right underneath our kitchen and six feet down!”
His ear was distracting me; for once I was slow on the uptake. I mean how could anyone get excited by a pipe joint? Was he really the man for me? “So?”
“So suddenly Mum isn’t so keen to cut you off. We’ve just laid cork tiles on the floor in there. And then a six foot deep hole right beside her cooker, wow, what a mess!”
Maybe he is to be my fellow after all I thought as finally I caught on. “What a happy coincidence!”
“Well, actually, no it isn’t.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure no one else was listening. He lowered his voice. “The truth is I haven’t a clue where the join is but they don’t know that.”
“You devious plumber boy!”
“Don’t you let on!”
“As if I would.” Coming along nicely, he was.
“I explained about your real situation, you know, late visits, no money,” he grinned, “but lots of assets. I think I’m beginning to win them over.”
That was when, over his shoulder, I saw an elderly man and woman hesitating on the front door step. Plumber boy looked, too. He let me go, went over to the door and ushered them in. “Meet Mum and Dad, darling,” he cried happily, “They’ve come to make friends.”
“Well, actually,” said his mother, glancing around my hall ex harness room, “It is a bit more than that.” She eyed the tatty banister. “Father here is something of a painter and I’m good with curtains. You need curtains,” she told me, firmly.
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