by Graham Hamer
She brushed past him and closed the door behind her.
MONDAY 15 APRIL
Ian peered at the figures on his steel tape. “Hold it tight on the corner of the brickwork,” he shouted above the noise of a landing plane. “Okay, that's it, Pete. Wind the lines in and you and Stitcher can get started.”
After four hours of head scratching and measuring, he had just completed the final check of the 'setting out' for the factory extension at Three Leggs Manufacturing, and excavation could now begin. Ian stepped over the building lines and approached his son. “Thanks, Pete, that seems to have gone quite well. Grab the level out of the boot of the car will you. I've got to go and find Tweedle.”
“Problems?”
“Don't think so. He sent a message down on Friday evening to get in touch with him. Something about checking some figures. I didn't bother getting hold of him over the weekend because — well, you know why.”
Pete's brows drew together in a frown. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Thanks son, but I don't think so. Your Mum and I seem to be going through something of a rough patch at the moment. She's blaming it on the business, but it seems to be something deeper than that.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know: women can act strangely at times. Perhaps things will be a bit calmer these next few days with Philippe and his sister coming.”
Pete brightened. “Oh yes. I'd almost forgotten, what with the — well, you know what I mean. What time do they arrive?”
Ian nodded towards the nearby airport buildings. “I've got to meet them here in a couple of hours. It'll be good to see Philippe again. I'm going to take a day or two off and spend some time with them. Why don't you grab a bit of time off yourself and come and join us. Bring Denise with you.”
“Twist my arm, Dad. She'll be chuffed to escape.”
“Does Richard know about you two yet?”
“No. But if she gets that job with William, he'll soon find out. She won't stay at the house once she's earning, and we won't need to keep our relationship secret.”
Ian smiled. “Must be going. Go and get the level, then I can shoot off.” He tossed his car keys to his son, and stepped over the taught building lines to have a final word with Stitcher, the digger driver, who was busying himself greasing the joint of a digging bucket. “How's it going, Stitch?”
Stitcher looked up. “All ready?”
“Yeah. Just keep an eye on the far end where the ground rises. I know Pete's used the level before, but it's still worth checking once in a while. You know what I mean don't you?”
“Sure I do. I'll show him how to set up and use a traveller, he's a good lad.”
“Thanks Stitch. See you later.”
“Oh, hang on,” said the digger driver. “I forget to tell you. Dave had a word with me. He said to give you a message from his Aunt Kate, the one that cleans for Tweedle, she said to watch out 'cos he's scheming something.”
“Dave's aunt said to watch out?”
“That's the message. Dave said she'd made a point of calling him at the weekend, after she'd finished cleaning for Tweedle. She didn't know anything definite, just bits of overheard conversation she said.”
“Who is Aunt Kate, Stitcher?”
The digger driver wiped the nozzle of his grease gun with an oily rag. “You mean apart from being Dave's aunt?”
“I mean why should she get to know something that nobody else does?”
Stitcher chuckled. “I take it you've never met the old dear then. Well I have, just once, and that was enough. She's an innocent little old spinster. Well, perhaps not that innocent. She's never been married but there are rumours that she had a kid when she was young. Who knows? Anyway, she's a batty little old lady who likes to know the ins and outs of a cat's arse. She got my life history out of me inside five minutes. Dave reckons that if anyone does anything on this island, Kate Qualtrough gets to know about it the same day. If she doesn't have the low-down on someone, she'll make it her business to find out. He also reckons she's stark staring potty. You know, two fingers short of a full fist.”
“And she said I've got to watch out?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, I'm always watching out with Tweedle, so I guess that's nothing new.” He turned and crossed the car park. What the hell could Dave's crazy aunt know? Sean Legg emerged from the building, as Pete slammed the lid of the car boot.
“All set, Dad,” Pete said, grappling with the tripod on which the level would stand. “When things are a bit more settled at home, I could do with having a quick chat with you about something.”
“What's that?” Ian asked.
“Oh just something Denise told me. I guess it'll wait though.”
“No, go on Pete, tell me what it was.”
“Ah, Ian, miboy. You look as though you're about to go,” Sean said, clapping a mighty hand on his shoulder. Pete smiled at them both and headed off towards Sticher's digger, the level under his arm.
Ian turned to Sean. “I've got to go and sort out a bit of business with Tweedle. The blokes are all set up now, so you'll see some big holes appearing over the next few days. Then we'll fill them all in again.”
Sean beamed. “Bloody funny game this building, I think I'll stick to engineering. Listen, mi boy. I was thinking of blowing a few bubbles at Port Soderick in a couple of weeks, to test out my new octopus. How do you feel about joining me? Just a couple of dives, we'll go have a look at the wreck of 'The Kirsty' then poddle round the base of the cliff at about fifty feet and see if the winter storms have changed the landscape any.”
“Sounds mighty good to me, Sean. I could do with a change of scenery.”
“Sure an' I'll give you a ring when my wobbly bits are delivered,” Sean said, falling into the diving slang they had developed between them.
“Do that,” Ian said, jumping in his car. “I'd be happy to grab a day off and get away from Tweedle.”
Half an hour later, as he steered the car between Richard Tweedle's gates, he fumbled in the glove compartment for his Rennies. Strange that he always needed them when he had to talk to Tweedle.
As they entered the sitting room Richard's opening was in traditional style - as though he'd been to a great feast of words, and overindulged. “Sit down, old boy, sit down. Weather's much improved now, isn't it. How's the new site at Legg's place? Do you want something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Ian said, choosing the final option. “Garfield said you had a little problem or something.” He waited while Tweedle lit a cigarette and took a deep pull, fingers spread wide over his face.
Tweedle's words swirled upwards in a stream of blue-grey smoke. “Oh yes, I remember. I don’t think it’s anything very much. It was just something that Ronald thought I should ask you to look into. Something to do with the way you make your monthly claims for payment.”
“What's that? I though it was all straightforward. I give you a list each month of materials for which we've been billed, plus the men's time, and add for the use of machinery and vehicles. I can't see the problem.”
“The problem, old chap, is that our assessment of the value of the buildings under construction, plus the ones that are complete, doesn't seem to tally with the total we've paid you to date.”
“But you've had a list each month and there's never been any query. What basis are you using to assess the value of the completed work?”
“Ah, you've got me there, old boy. I'm just a plain businessman, not a valuer or anything, but Ronald assures me there's a discrepancy and, until we can get the matter sorted out, we've no choice but to hold back payment.”
“This is ridiculous.” Ian snapped. “What the hell does Scott know about building work? Has he included the stock on site? Has he allowed for the infrastructure work completed - the drains and roads?”
“Ronald may not be an expert on building,” Tweedle said, playing with a letter opener in his free hand, “but he's a genius with figures. I pay him to advise me and i
t would be silly to ignore that advice. He's always been right in the past, so I've no reason to doubt his judgment now.”
Ian stood up and paced the room, struggling against the growing urge to explode. “Ron might have advanced as far as maths is concerned but he's not yet acquired the habit of thinking. So what I need to do to convince you the figures are right?”
Tweedle dropped his cigarette in the ashtray, ignoring to stub it out. “I'm glad you asked that, old boy, because that's exactly the question I asked Ronald.”
“And what was friend Ronald's reply?”
“Well he thought it through and concluded that the only way of doing it would be for you to provide us with a list of all charges, accompanied by copies of all invoices and time sheets appertaining to the site. He felt that the list should be split between the different plots so that we know what each one has cost to date.”
“That's bloody preposterous! We've been building at Headland View for nearly three years. There are thousands of invoices and time sheets. It'll take weeks to compile a list like that, never mind the cost of photocopying.”
Tweedle lit another cigarette, the old one still smoking in the ashtray. “Sit down, old chap, before you have a heart attack.”
“But this is bloody crazy. Scott's a friggin' imbecile.”
“Ian, sit down and listen. I happen to agree with you, old chap. The cost of photocopying invoices and time sheets would be a complete waste, and you, more than anybody, are aware that I am not predisposed to wastage. If there's something Ronald wants to check, he can always go to the office and do it. I'm still a shareholder of Snaefell Homes so I have to wear two hats at once sometimes. I also argued our case for not having to split the charges for each plot, so that should save some time. But as far as making a list is concerned, I agree with Ronald that Bishops Road should have one at this stage, so that we know exactly where we stand. Once we've agreed everything, we can pay you right up to date – everything. You never know, old boy, we might even owe you more than you've claimed.”
Ian shook his head in disbelief. “It's still a helluva task. We'll have to sort through and list thousands of invoices and time sheets. That's well over a week's work for both Dave and myself. Why has this happened right now? Why hasn't Ron asked for these figures before if he felt the need to check everything?”
“Oh that's an easy one to answer, old chap. During Garfield's visit on Friday we asked for more funds so we could pay you everything we owe. Garfield questioned the size of our existing loan against the value of the collateral at Headland View, so Ronald promised he'd check things out for him. That's why he decided we must have a list - something to show Garfield, you see. I know it's a little inconvenient, old boy, but it is rather essential.”
Ian sat back in the chair, mentally winded. He reminded himself of his pledge. He wasn't about to allow Tweedle to browbeat him into anything he didn't want to do. On the other hand, the man was being unusually reasonable in his own pompous way and, if he couldn't pay until Old Garfield was satisfied, then it didn't seem as though there was much choice. “Okay,” he said, sullenly. “I'll get it done as soon as I can. It's likely to take several days though.”
“Well, just push ahead as fast as you can, old boy, then we can transfer some money. I told Ronald you'd understand if I explained it to you logically. Thank you for your comprehension, old chap.”
“You're welcome.”
As the Tweedle house receded behind him and Ian reached the end of the driveway, the road offered him the option of either a short drive into Douglas or a ten-mile drive to the airport. The imminent arrival of Philippe and his sister postponed any start on Tweedle's lists.
A short while later, the approach of the FlyBe Dash 8 - 400 with its distinctive emblem, could be seen from the upper lounge of the airport terminal. Ian checked his watch as he saw the telltale puff of smoke from the tyres that signified contact with the runway.
Within a few minutes, the plane had taxied to the concrete apron and the passengers were disembarking down the bright yellow steps, which the ground crew had positioned even before the engines had stopped. As the first passenger crossed the few yards of concrete to the terminal entrance, Ian spotted Philippe ducking through the opened door of the plane. Behind him, a woman in her mid thirties, with shoulder length auburn hair held her hand to her face to protect against the backdraught from the dying engine. As Philippe set foot on Manx soil, he turned and spoke to the lady, taking a small overnight bag from her to leave her hands free. Ian scrutinized her trim figure as she crossed the open ground.
He was in no rush to return to the ground floor. Small though the airport was, they would be another few minutes before reclaiming their baggage. He stared out through the glass wall in front of him - south across the flat, open expanse of mown grass, which had once been Ballagilley Farm, to the dominant, square, stone tower and buildings beyond.
King William's College was the respected seat of education and learning where both he and Philippe Le Petit had spent five years together as inseparable friends. They had laughed together, swatted for exams together, played rugby and cricket together and, when possible, crept down to 'The Ship' for an illicit pint of beer together.
His own attendance had been due to the granting of a scholarship, which was awarded each year to four of the brightest and best of the island's schoolboys. Philippe's, on the other hand, had been as a result of his parents' decision to give their only son 'une education bourgeoise', and the opportunity to become bilingual. Like many overseas students, his parents' choice of educational establishment had been made as a result of scanning the lists of Britain's top private schools. When Ian left College at the age of sixteen, Philippe had continued his studies there until he was eighteen, after which he had returned to France to attend university.
Ian studied the shadows on the walls of College Chapel at the end of the runway. His father's face stared back at him. It wore the same expression that it had on the day he had told him that he wanted to leave College without completing his education - more disappointment than anger. When he had begun work in the offices of Three Leggs and embarked on his studies for accountancy exams his architect father's normal good humour had returned, and then grown to pride when Ian had followed in his footsteps and begun drawing construction plans as a paying hobby. Ian dropped his accountancy studies only after his father's death. At least his father had been spared a second disappointment. He closed his eyes and wondered what his father would think now; an uncertain job and an unpredictable partner. When he opened them again, the face had gone and the shadows on the Chapel wall were just shadows again.
He checked his watch and made his way to the sunlit main hall on the ground floor. As he reached the glazed doors that lead to the luggage reclaim area, he could see Philippe and his sister collecting their bags from the carousel. Once again, he found himself admiring the lady. It wasn't just her figure, trim and petite though it was, it was her whole appearance and expression. Though she wore faded jeans and a generous, chunky, red pullover, there was some indefinable quality - a refinement and elegance, as if the garments had been made especially for her. Her face, though a little tired, exuded a generosity of spirit. A tiny smile played in the corners of her mouth as she spoke to her brother.
As they entered the arrivals hall, Philippe recognized his old school friend immediately and strode towards him, dropping his case to the floor as he offered the hand of friendship. “Ian, it's good to see you again. How kind of you to meet us.” He turned to Claire, standing to his side, a little behind him. “Claire, this is Ian. - Ian, Claire.”
Ian offered his hand, which she grasped complaisantly; hers being slight and delicate; his large and robust.
“Hello, Ian,” she said. “I've heard so much about you from Philippe. It's good to actually meet you at last.”
The hint of a smile on her lips and the startling depth of her eyes caught Ian unawares. It was as if she were able to portray her whole character in a
single expression. She bore an honest, unblemished face; a determined, slightly square chin supporting an intriguingly wide mouth and well-proportioned nose. The sunlight, which streamed through the airport's panoramic windows, shone on her hair like gold upon copper. But it was the steel-blue eyes that engrossed him. Their depth held his gaze and he stuttered, “Er — hello, Claire. I'm delighted you could come with Philippe —” His voice trailed off as the eyes blinked and smiled at him, and he released her hand, aware that he might have held it a moment too long.
“Actually, I'm glad of the chance for a little holiday,” she said. “I've not been to England for several years.”
“England?” Philippe said, laughing. “Be careful, Claire, you'll be having us deported before we've even landed if you call the island 'England'. You're looking at a genuine full-blooded Manxman here.”
She smiled a generous unpretentious smile. “Sorry. You'll have to excuse me, Ian. I have a habit of saying the wrong think at the wrong time. Philippe's always telling me that I should engage my brain before I speak, not afterwards.” Her voice sang like only a French voice can. Her accent was undeniable, but not harsh or obvious - just enough to turn her speech into music and honey.
Ian laughed. “Claire, you can call me English or even Welsh, so long as you keep smiling at me like that —”
A pause.
“Sorry, myself. I didn't mean to say that. It was — “
“It was rather nice,” she said, increasing her smile.
* * *
The other five sat back while Ian poured coffee. It wasn't often that they used the long, oval, mahogany dining table; preferring to eat in the kitchen most of the time.
“Ian, Nancy, that was excellent” Philippe said, his vowels as crisp as a freshly laundered towel.
“Thank you,” responded Nancy. “I'm sure it's nothing like the food you normally eat, it's plain and ordinary.”
Ian smiled to himself, knowing the time and effort she had put into the meal. “It's the best we British can manage,” he added.