I must have mentioned something to Marie over lunch, just as a way of making conversation, how things seemed to be falling apart. The second Tuesday of each month, that’s when we meet. Years now. The Yacht Club, where she’s a member, or the Blue Bell down by the river. Every month, save for November when she and Gerald go off to their timeshare in Florida, and, recently, June, which these days they tend to spend with their daughter and her family somewhere near Lake Garda. Otherwise, it’s a nice white wine, not too dry, chicken escalopes, pumpkin risotto or Dover sole, and then rather too much about Gerald’s progress, greasing his way up the slippery pole of investment banking. Although, to be fair, she’s been quieter on that front of late. What we’ve had are the grandchildren instead. First words, first steps, potty-training disasters that are meant to elicit laughter, photos of chubby faces, each, to me, indistinguishable from the other. Isn’t he gorgeous? Isn’t she lovely?
I do my best, I really do. Make an effort to show some interest, manifest concern. Marie is my best friend, after all. Just about the only one I still have since all the hoo-hah of the divorce, the dirt that Squeegeed out on to the front page of the local paper. What kind of a woman is it who argues for financial parity over the custody of the children? A woman who was clearly no better than she should be, that’s what. A husband’s long-term adultery with his secretary more acceptable than a wife’s dalliances with a PR client on a jolly to Cap d’Antibes. All of that before Victor had slithered on to the scene.
And so because she’s stuck with me all this time, I do try, between the crème brûlée and the coffee, to share Marie’s delight in her burgeoning family. But children, other people’s children, I’ve always found it hard to warm to, and where grandchildren are concerned, well, I’m just not ready. I mean, I am, of course. Chronologically, biologically – but mentally…
It’s one of the great advantages of marrying early, Marie says, not like so many women today: you have your grandchildren when you’re young enough to enjoy them. Maybe. But there are other things I feel young enough to enjoy and they don’t include a return to nappy changing or singing “Baa-Baa Black Sheep” for the umpteenth time.
Which led, I suppose, to Victor, a black sheep if ever there was one, though a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
And then to Harry. Poor Harry.
“What you need,” Marie told me solemnly, after yet another report of some small domestic malfunction, “is a handy man.” Straight-faced, not a trace of innuendo. “Here, look…” And from her bag she took a business card, not new, turned down a little at the corners.
CARPENTER/HANDY MAN
Shelves, doors, locks, windows, floors
Good work, friendly service
Estimates free
References available
Harry Campbell
“We’ve used him once or twice,” Marie said, “just for little things. Not too expensive, I’ll say that for him. Turns up when he says he will, too. Not like some. And quiet. All I could do to drag a word out of him.” She smiled. “Tea with milk, no sugar. You could do worse.”
I started fishing around for something to write down the phone number, make a note of the email, but Marie said to keep the card, so I slipped it into my bag and that’s where it lay for quite a while. Until one afternoon when I pulled hard at the cutlery drawer and the whole front came away in my hand.
All I got at first was an automated message on his answer phone; then when he called back that evening I was just on to my second glass of wine and settling down to watch Kenneth Branagh in something Swedish and bracing.
“Mrs Francis? It’s Harry Campbell. I’m not disturbing you? It’s not too late to call?”
His voice was a trifle slow, but sure; traces of an accent I found hard to place.
“No. No, Harry, it’s not too late.”
Harry. First-name terms from the start. For me, at least. He would continue to call me Mrs Francis for quite some little time.
Eight o’clock, he’d said, and there he was on the doorstep, true to his word. Brown cord jacket and denim shirt, grey-green trousers – chinos, I suppose they were; canvas tool bag slung over his shoulder, grey van parked on the street behind. Broad-shouldered, tall. Imposing, is that the word?
“I’m not too early?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
I hadn’t quite finished dressing when he rang the bell; the wretched zip on my skirt had stuck, not for the first time, and I’d scarcely had time to run a brush through my hair. Standing there, I fastened another button on my blouse before stepping back to let him in.
“You’d like a cup of tea, I dare say?”
He’d set his bag down in the middle of the kitchen floor.
“No, I’m all right for now, thanks. Maybe in a while.”
I hadn’t been meaning to stare.
“Something about a busted drawer?” he said. “A few other things that needed sorting?”
I showed him what required attention and left him to it for the best part of an hour. Made the bed, fixed my face, watered the plants and riffled through the pages of a magazine. A voice I didn’t recognize burbled away between songs on Radio 2. The Telegraph still lay, folded and unopened, on the table in the hall.
“How about that cup of tea?” I said.
He was stretched out on the floor, ratcheting something underneath the sink.
Slowly, his head eased back into sight. “Thanks. Just a drop of milk and…”
“… and no sugar.”
“That’s right.” When he smiled, the skin crinkled around his eyes.
“I would offer you a biscuit, but…”
“It’s okay.” He patted the flat of his stomach. “Got to watch the weight.”
The cup seemed so small in his hand I thought it must break.
“I suppose you’re kept busy,” I said aimlessly, unable to sit there saying nothing.
“Busy enough.”
His eyes were pale blue; his hair, quite wiry, was starting a little prematurely to go grey. I supposed it was prematurely. He was what? Late-thirties, forty, little more. Not so great a gap. His other hand, on the breakfast bar, rested innocently close to mine.
“These units,” he said, glancing round, “I’ll do what I can, but it’s a bit like, you know, shifting the deckchairs on the Titanic.”
“You mean we’re going to drown?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Kate Winslet, I thought. Leonardo DiCaprio. Little more than a boy.
“You could get them replaced. IKEA. B &Q. Needn’t be expensive, if you don’t want.”
“I don’t know. This place, I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to stay.”
“Well, just a thought.” He set down his cup and was quickly to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”
“You’ve not finished already?”
“Good as. I’ll sweep up those shavings if you’ve a dustpan and brush.”
“Only I was wondering…”
He looked at me then, waiting.
“The shower, upstairs, it’s been leaking. Quite badly now.”
“Seal’s gone, I dare say, needs replacing. I’ll take a quick look, but I’ve not got the right stuff with me now.” He glanced at his watch. “I could probably drop back later.”
“Yes, all right. Do. I mean, if that’s okay with you?”
It was raining hard when he returned. A darkening across the shoulders of his jacket and, as he came into the hall, careful to wipe his feet, a few drops fell on to his face from where they’d caught in his hair and I wanted to wipe them away.