by Graham Hamer
“Listen, Boy,” Stitcher said, cuffing the youth's ear, “If your boss says make him a cuppa, you make him a friggin' cuppa and stop asking damn fool questions.”
“Ouch! Piss off Stitcher, that bloody hurt.”
“It was meant to you little shit. Now make the man a cup of tea, and make sure you do it right.”
The lad, a beef-witted vegetable of a youth who stood head and shoulders above the stocky digger driver, muttered to himself but obeyed while the older man kept an eye on him. Known to all on the site as 'Boy', the spotty young man had incurred almost everybody's wrath at one time or another, as a result of his idleness and cheek. His constant sniffing did nothing to endear him to the other men.
While the men of Snaefell Homes were preoccupied with their tea, none of them had noticed the arrival of a small, dented van. None, that is, except for Ian and Dave who were in Ian's office. Having spotted the black, hearse-like vehicle bouncing across the rutted site, they watched fascinated as it pulled to a jerky halt, inches from the unforgiving metal bucket of a dumper truck. Richard emerged, ambled around the rear of the van to the driver's side, and proceeded to help his brother dislodge himself from behind the steering wheel.
The outer door of the Portacabin cracked as it was given a kick. It burst back on its hinges and smacked against the inner wall.
“Happy New Year, gentlemen. No work to do? I see everyone has their tea; perhaps it would be prudent to resume activities some time soon. Time's money you know, time's money.”
“Good morning, Richard,” Ian said, striding down the corridor with Dave following. “Happy New Year to you too. Good morning Frank.” He favoured them both with a weak smile.
“Ah Ian, old chap, your men seem to be catching bad habits, all tea and no work. Come on now, chaps, a bit of team work wouldn't go astray you know.”
Pat Murphy did what he could to rescue the situation. “We were just discussing the roof trusses, Richard. It's a bit too blowy today to stand them up, but I was wondering whether we couldn't get them lifted onto the brickwork so we can pitch them when the wind calms down a bit.”
“Too windy? I know there's a bit of a breeze out there, but really old boy —”
“Richard, it's blowing a gale out there,” Ian said. “It's far too dangerous to try and fix roof trusses.”
“Nonsense. Good heavens, you've all had a fortnight's break and now, as soon as work is mentioned, you want to go back on holiday again. Whatever is this younger generation coming to? A word in your ear, Ian.” Tweedle tapped the lobe of his ear with his finger, which Ian understood to mean that he wanted to talk in private. “Pat, you and Dave remain here a moment, the rest of you can get back to work.”
He shepherded Ian back to his office, followed by a wobbling Frank, and closed the door behind them. “Listen Ian, old boy, it was only a few weeks ago that we had a somewhat tiring discussion about payments. I dare say we shall be due for a similar discussion in the next few days. I believe I mentioned to you at the time, the urgent need to get the roofs on the houses for which I have signed contracts, so that I can pull stage payments off the punters. I can't help you with your payments if you can't help me to get the work finished. Am I making myself clear?”
“Abundantly, Richard, you want— “
“Good, then can I suggest you go straight back to where those men are standing idle at my expense and get some bloody action?”
“Richard, you can't expect men to balance roof trusses in this wind. Have you any idea of the weight of those things? It's a difficult enough job in calm weather. To try it in this sort of gale would be suicidal.”
“Stop and think, old boy, stop and think. How many men does it take to fix the trusses?”
“On a calm day, at least three, maybe four, depending on the span of the roof.”
“Okay, well why don't you set five, or even six of them on the job? That way, the work would get done and nobody would be putting themselves at risk.”
“But it's not as simple as that.”
“So explain to me the problems,” Tweedle said, flicking his ash on the floor.
“Well if the wind catches the trusses before we can get them cross-braced the whole lot could go flying.”
“But with extra men, you can get them cross-braced or whatever it is, straight away.”
Ian had heard these stupid arguments before from the ultracrepidarian Tweedle - a man who had an ability to be expert on anything, on the basis of no experience whatsoever. Unfortunately, in the past, Tweedle had always been proved right. Whatever objections Ian had raised to something, Richard had found a way round the hurdle and the work had progressed without the predicted complications. He could have done without this on the first day back to work.
Tweedle spoke as if he had read his mind. “Ian, be reasonable, old boy. We've had these discussions before, and you know I've always been right in the end, don't you?”
“Yes, but —”
“I don't think there are any 'buts' about it. If we don't get those roofs on, I can't pay you. You know what that means don't you?”
His argument was persuasive. “Yeah, okay Richard,” Ian sighed. No matter how long he argued, the eventual outcome was predictable anyway. “Let's get five of them on it. Six if they need it”
“Good man, Ian, good man. You know it makes sense. It's only a case of thinking these things through.”
The two men paced back to the tearoom, where Murph and Dave awaited their brief. Frank lumbered behind, like a good-natured dinosaur.
Ian gave his instructions, though he didn't like doing it. “Dave - you, Murph, Pete, Stitcher and Boy get cracking on those trusses. I think five of you should be able to manage them okay. If you find you need a sixth, get one of the others to help you.”
Dave Kelly nodded before replying. “Okay, boss, you've got it,” he said. “Me, Murph, Pete, Stitcher and Boy.”
“Where is Boy?” Richard asked. “I need a word.”
“He just left with the others,” Dave replied.
Without a word, Tweedle stepped out of the site cabin along with Dave and Murph. Frank and Ian returned to Ian's office, Frank's bulk causing the floor to bounce. He squeezed himself into an old chair that groaned under his weight. Ian sat behind his desk as he glanced out of the window. “What happened to the van?” he asked. “It seems to have grown another bump.”
Frank wore the expression of a schoolboy caught up an apple tree, though it would have had to have been a substantial apple tree to support Frank. “I know,” he said. “I really should wear my glasses shouldn't I?”
“Why what happened?”
“Bit of an argument with a gate post.”
Ian grinned. “You're not telling me it jumped out in front of you, are you?”
“Oh no,” Frank said, without a hint of humour in his voice. “I just didn't see the damn thing. One minute it wasn't there, next minute it was squatting on the front wing. Made a bit of a mess didn't it. Never mind, though, I can soon fix —”
His monotone droned into the background as a movement outside caught Ian's eye. In an uncharacteristically friendly gesture, Richard was walking against the wind, with his arm on Boy's shoulder. They seemed to be deep in conversation and Ian could see Boy's nostrils pinch together every time the youth sniffed. As the two parted company, Richard put his hand in his back trouser pocket and passed Boy a note, a note that appeared to be worth twenty pounds. Boy smiled, nodded, sniffed, and then left to join the others, who were already beginning the task of hoisting the formidable timber trusses high onto the scaffolding around the nearest house.
“ —so, with a bit of filler and a splash of paint —”
Frank's distant discourse was interrupted by Richard's re-entry into the Portacabin. Crash — crump, crump, crump — Whack — crump, crump, crump, crump, crump. “Job done,” he said, looking with concern at the lit end of his cigarette. The wind had burned the tobacco too quickly, leaving a scorched tab of paper sticking out. He nipp
ed off the offending scrap and continued his smoke. “Right, Frank, old boy, about ready are we?”
His brother eased himself forward with difficulty. The chair was inclined to stick to his over-generous bottom and his legs were unsteady as he tried to stand. He leaned on the desk to support himself, knocking a file and some pencils onto the floor as he did so. Ian jumped up to help him and, as he retrieved the file and replaced it on his desk, Richard turned his head at an angle to read the name that was written on the cover.
“Sean Legg eh?” he said, almost to himself.
Ian cast him a calculating glance. “Yes, I've got to go and meet him in half an hour or so, to discuss an extension at the factory.”
“Good, good, let's see some profits coming into this company other than the ones that Frank and I pay you.”
“Richard,” Ian said, “the agreement is that we don't get any profits from you until the site is finished, and as far as paying is concerned, we're still— “
“Know what you're going to say, old boy. You're going to try and remind me that Frank and I still haven't caught up, aren't you? But don't forget our conversation before Christmas. You were going to sign the bank guarantee so that we could get you up-to-date, weren't you? So, tell me, have you made an appointment yet with Garfield to do the business?”
“Nancy and I have talked over the proposition,” Ian said, shifting from one foot to the other, “and are agreed, in principle, to the idea.”
“Good, good. So you'll be going to see Garfield at the bank will you?”
“Er — well not quite yet. We've er — we've got to get the boundaries sorted out first.”
“Forgive my ignorance, old chap, but what the hell are you jabbering about?”
“The boundaries on our house, Richard. Will Garfield accept the house as security while there's still some uncertainty about the actual boundary?”
“There's no uncertainty, Ian, none at all. The land is yours.”
“Well, yes, I know that, but will Garfield know it?”
“Of course, dear boy, I'll tell him.”
“Yes but, I mean — the banks tend to like everything properly tied up, don't they. You know. Legally”
“Look, don't worry about Garfield,” Richard said. “I'll soon sort him out. I can sign the land documents at the same time you sign the guarantee. Now be a good chap and get straight onto it, we can't keep financing both companies for ever you know.”
“But Richard— “
“Come on Frank, old boy, mustn't hold Ian up, the man's got work to do.”
“Coming,” replied his brother meekly as he waddled round Ian's desk.
* * *
Though the high walls of the old stone bridge protected Nancy's car from the worst of the wind, they also blocked her view of the river valley below. She took a right turn and slotted into one of the handful of parking spaces available at the top of the hill. The electric trams which, during the summer months, conveyed tourists along the coastline or to the summit of Snaefell, were not in evidence this first Thursday of January. And while the surrounding trees provided her with some shelter as she swung her stockinged legs out of the car, it was not enough to prevent the wind from trying to lift her short green skirt, which she held down with one hand.
Her high heels tapped out a rhythm as she crossed the road and swung open the tall wooden gate in the high stone wall adjacent to the tram tracks. As she closed it behind her she looked upwards at the twenty-three steps that led to the garden above - a garden that was level with the top of the wall. As she had done almost every Thursday morning for over five years, she braced herself for the climb.
The view from the high garden was breathtaking and she stopped for a moment in the lea of a tall oak tree. Nancy looked up the Laxey valley, over the tangled roofs of the old miners' cottages. Lady Isabella, the colossal water wheel that had pumped underground water seepage from the former mines, stood firm and solid against the wind - its red, white and black paintwork renewed on a regular basis to preserve its ancient structure. Beyond the wheel, the river had gouged a deep ravine where generations of miners had toiled to extract the lead that lay buried beneath the hills.
Nancy turned and walked to the house that had once been a vicarage. As was the style at the turn of the century, it was an imposing, square building with tall windows, which she knew benefited from one of the best views on the island. Though built on steeply sloping ground, the fifteen feet high wall, which stopped the garden from tumbling onto the tram tracks below, made it almost impossible to see the residence from the road.
She reached for the doorbell but, before she had an opportunity to use it, the door swung open.
“Hello. I saw you coming.”
“Hello,” she said. “How's my favourite bachelor?”
* * *
At the lithesome age of twenty-four, Sandy had seen more of life – and death – than most people with twice her years. She had outgrown childhood well before her father had stopped calling her 'Poppet', and had slipped into mental maturity without passing through the distress of adolescence. But despite accepting and embracing premature adulthood and despite her unnatural beauty, her deep brown eyes and enigmatic expression could not conceal the sadness of a lost youth. With an hourglass figure that caused other women to steer their husbands in the opposite direction, her only unnatural feature was on her left breast where a small but elaborate tattoo depicted a fearsome-looking knife. She had had it put there at an age when her swollen buds were just beginning to blossom into two perfect models of womanly form, and had never regretted its effect on her life.
She tossed her coat onto the settee, stifled a yawn, and collapsed into the adjacent armchair. “Dirty old bugger,” she said, tossing back her long, black hair. “I'm fed up going round there. All I want is a nice hot bath and some proper sleep.”
“Patience, my dear,” Ron Scott said, picking up his pink velvet bow tie from the table and brushing off some imaginary dust.
“It's all right you saying 'patience', Uncle, but you don't have to do what I have to do.”
“I'm sure it's not the most pleasant of tasks, Sandra, but over-excitement at his age is bound to prove fatal in the end.”
“That's what I thought,” she said, crossing her long, supple legs and examining the hem of her short skirt, “but I'm beginning to think I'm wasting my time.”
Scott blew his beak-like nose. “You're wrong,” he said, scrutinizing the contents in his handkerchief. “Both your father and I think your plan's a good one.”
“Yeah, but I feel so damned dirty afterwards. I don't mind older men - you know that - but he gives me the creeps. He's all wrinkled like a pickled walnut.”
“It reminds me of an old lady once, back when your Dad and I were teenagers. She was as loaded as—”
“Well I don't find it particularly funny. The sooner he croaks, the sooner we can move on. It's the only thing that keeps me motivated.”
Her uncle faced the mirror and tied his bow tie in a slow, meticulous way, checking the knot before savouring the delights of a final minute adjustment. He bent to kiss his niece on the cheek. “Must rush, otherwise I'll be late. Don't worry, my dear, you'll do it. You'll succeed. You've done it before.”
“True,” she said, turning her face away, “but this one's the big one.”
“I know, Sandra. So does your father.”
* * *
Ronaldsway airport was important to Sean Legg. Not only did it make entry and exit from the island a simple matter of crossing the road from his factory complex, it also provided freeport facilities for the sixty percent of 'Three Leggs' machinery that was due for export beyond the United Kingdom.
Ian steered his Audi into the visitor's car park, switched off the engine and picked up the file that Tweedle had commented on earlier. He passed through the reception area, nodding and smiling in recognition to the receptionist, and found himself tapping on a white, panelled door bearing a brass plate that read, 'He who pa
ys the bills and takes the blame'.
“Come in, come in, whoever you are,” called a deep voice.
Ian swung the door open. “Top o' the mornin' Sean.”
The broad-shouldered Irishman stood up and offered a beefy paw across the desk. Ian shook it and noticed, not for the first time, that his own hand disappeared inside Sean's.
“Ian, it's good to see you, miboy. Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Don't mind if I do, thanks.”
Sean picked up the receiver and pressed a button in the base of his telephone. After a moment, a voice that Ian recognized as that of the receptionist who he had just passed, came over the office intercom. “Yes Sean?”
“Cathy, can you rustle us up two coffees please? You know mine, and Ian's is—”
“Black with one sugar.”
Sean replaced the receiver. “Cheeky little cow,” he chuckled. “Can't stand these know-all women, can you?”
Ian smiled to himself. Sean's reputation for smooth-talking the ladies was legendary. Though he'd never married, he'd never been short of a girlfriend either - usually very pretty and quite young. It was, Ian thought, the result of being a self-made man and a polite man - a man who never confused bluffness and honesty with being rude. Though a colossus of a figure, he was well proportioned, with mischievous eyes and a personality that matched his stature.
“Not exactly good diving weather is it?” said the Irishman, nodding towards the window.
Ian agreed. “Mind you, if the wind drops and we get a couple more degrees on the thermometer, we could unpack the dry suits again.”
They spent the next few minutes talking scuba diving and drinking their coffees, which had been served with biscuits and a smile. To Ian, diving was an enjoyable hobby, a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, but to Sean Legg it was a passion; one that he had discovered five years earlier at the age of forty-five. He had the ability to turn any conversation into a diving discussion, as Ian well knew, having worked for him for over fifteen years. But he was content to listen as the other man expounded his views on gas and air mixtures for deep diving. Sean was as good a talker as he was a businessman.