Under an Amber Sky

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Under an Amber Sky Page 7

by Rose Alexander


  Frank chortled from deep within his throat, a sound that was as forceful and brief as his handshake. ‘Sorry, luv, I’ve worked on building sites since I were fifteen and it’s hard to change the habits of a lifetime.’

  He hammered a few nails into the doorframe.

  ‘But it’s true that my wife did leave me for my mate, and also true that he did have a higher voltage power drill than me. She didn’t go because of that, though.’

  Frank dangled the hammer from his hand as he began to examine his handiwork closely. He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate on the leaving-wife saga and Sophie didn’t ask. That was another thing she had got out of the habit of over the last few weeks and months – being interested in others, wanting to find out about them.

  Before, she had always been curious, especially about people and their families. Relationships fascinated her and she was almost alone among teachers in enjoying parents’ evenings, relishing the opportunity to see the students with their mums and dads, or occasionally their grandparents or older siblings, which often proved so revealing.

  ‘I think you need a new lock.’ Frank had been absorbed in his inspection of the door but now he peered inside, up the ramshackle stairs to the bare, wide hallway above and the rickety door that led to the garden. His eyes wandered back down to the paint pots piled up in the centre of the floor, alone in the emptiness. ‘Not that there’s much to lock up.’

  ‘I’ve only just moved in,’ retorted Sophie, defensively. ‘It’s – well, it needs a bit of work.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there, gel.’ Frank stepped further inside and Sophie moved aside to make way for him before she realized that she hadn’t invited him in. He looked around, appraisingly, running his hand over the exposed stone walls. He took a pair of glasses out of his pocket to investigate the roof beams, then, appearing satisfied with what he’d seen of the ground floor, moved towards the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I need to have a good look around if I’m to help you sort this mess out.’

  ‘I haven’t asked you to sort it out.’ All Sophie’s earlier goodwill deserted her and she felt rage flare up inside. ‘I don’t know if I want you to. Hell, I don’t even know you.’

  Frank paused, slowly looking back over his shoulder in her direction. ‘Name’s Frank Savill, Savill’s General Builders and Roofers. No job too big or too small. I think you’ll find you need me.’

  ‘I don’t want help.’ Sophie’s tone was obdurate and reinforced by her body language, arms folded across her chest, feet wide apart, grounded. ‘I can look after myself – and the house – perfectly well.’

  The expression on Frank’s face said everything about what he thought of that response. Sophie glanced down at herself, at her filthy torn jeans and tatty sweatshirt, and then at her house, taking in its air of neglect, the rotting stairs in the corner. She thought for a wild moment of making up an ‘old man’ who was about to come home and would not be best pleased to find a stranger there, but then thought better of it. Such a lie would only be found out and it was a bit primeval, really, to think she had to invent a husband when she already had a perfectly good one, if only he weren’t dead.

  ‘Well, maybe I could do with another pair of hands, just for a bit,’ she reluctantly conceded, at the same time as a wave of nausea struck her.

  This strange man, this uninvited visitor, had made her think of Matt in a joking way. She could not believe she could be so callous, so uncaring. As she followed Frank around the house she became more and more appalled at her betrayal of Matt’s memory.

  Back downstairs, Frank took a seat on the stone between the two front doors that Anna had dubbed the coffee stone, and produced from his bag two bottles of beer. Sophie, unable to articulate or even properly understand her distress, sank down beside him and wordlessly accepted the bottle he proffered towards her.

  ‘I’ve actually got a local builder coming round to see me tomorrow.’ It was not strictly true – all she’d done was ask Darko if he could recommend someone – but she couldn’t, at that moment, think of any other way to put Frank off, to get rid of him. ‘I know you mean well but I don’t know how it would work, to have more than one person on the job.’

  She took a swig of beer.

  ‘Do you speak the language?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Sophie pursed her lips cautiously, her resolve wavering already. ‘But – I’m sure he’ll speak some English and he knows how to restore these old houses. I don’t want anything fancy; I just want it habitable. I can’t afford anything other than that.’

  Frank shrugged and drained his bottle.

  ‘Well, luv, if you think a pretty smile and a heap of charm is enough to get you by, then good for you. But to my mind, you can’t do without me. I’ve been working in Belgrade for a few years, I can make myself understood in the local lingo, plus I can start straight away. You’re going to need new plumbing and electrics; I can see that already. All those rotten beams and floorboards need replacing, not to mention new plasterwork – and I haven’t even had a good look round yet so I should imagine that there’s a lot more of what we like to call hidden nasties lurking, awaiting discovery. All the methods you use have to be earthquake compliant. You get lots of tremors in these parts; I’m not sure if you’re aware of that, not as much as those poor buggers across the sea in Italy but still, enough to have to take notice of …’

  As Frank elaborated on the myriad jobs that must be done, all of which Sophie was only too aware of, she found herself drifting away, to Matt and how she would have handed all this over to him, let him deal with it, left him to strike the bargains and so on. Now Matt wasn’t here and she had to take the lead. You can do it, she whispered internally to herself, incanting the words like a prayer. She had always thought that she couldn’t do it alone, that she didn’t know how. But maybe she could. Maybe she had just never given herself the chance because she’d never had to; but now she had to she would find that she was more than capable of rising to the challenge. She hoped so, anyway.

  She looked at Frank, still opining about all the problems that simply had to be addressed in this ridiculous old pile she had landed herself with. He was right, she couldn’t possibly do the heavy work herself, even if she knew the first thing about how to go about it. There was no other builder waiting in the wings and she had been shrinking from the challenge of finding one. She called to mind one of her mum’s favourite phrases: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. It seemed that Frank was indeed that thing and so she should take advantage of his serendipitous arrival.

  ‘Something funny, luv?’ He snorted sardonically. ‘Not much to smile at that I can see. This is going to cost you an arm and a leg, getting this lot sorted.’

  Sophie resolved to remain strong. ‘It can’t cost an arm and a leg because I haven’t got that much.’ She considered for a moment. ‘I can give you a forearm. Perhaps a calf. No more than that.’

  Frank drained his beer and gave a hearty sigh. ‘You go and get us another beer,’ he instructed. ‘And while you’re at it, I’ll get my notepad out and start making some plans.’

  ‘OK.’ Sophie went back into the house to find her purse. She wobbled slightly on the uneven stones and realized she was a bit tipsy. It was so long since she had drunk alcohol. The sensation was pleasant, like floating, and she wanted more of it.

  At the mini-market, she bought four beers and a couple of bottles of wine. Might as well get some stocks in while she was here, she reasoned. The shop lady, who had chestnut brown hair with an immaculate permanent wave, smiled as she always did and greeted her in Montenegrin. Sophie had already established that she didn’t speak any English, and together with Sophie’s incompetence in the local language that meant that meaningful communication of any kind was impossible.

  Summoning her courage, she replied, tentatively, to the handing over of her change. ‘Hvala.’ She tried her best to imitate the way she had heard the word for ‘than
k you’ said by locals but even to her own ears it came out sounding wrong. Despite this, the woman’s smile broadened.

  ‘U redu je,’ she said, followed by a further incomprehensible stream of unfathomable words.

  Sophie hurried out, feeling further pangs of self-reproach as the doorbell clanged behind her. Her one word seemed to have opened the floodgates but surely the shop lady couldn’t have thought she had gone from absolutely zilch to near fluency in the few days since she last went in to buy some milk? But her enthusiasm was deeply affecting, proof of how much people wanted to be friendly, wanted to talk to her, and how grateful they were when she made the slightest effort. She resolved to try harder, despite the difficulty of this language that seemed so much more impenetrable than French or Spanish – which she also had never been any good at.

  Frank seemed pleased with her purchases, examining her beer choices closely. She hadn’t been able to find the same one that he had produced but had chosen a few others, basing her choice solely on how much she liked the label, a technique that had never let her down before. Opening one of the bottles, Frank took a long swig.

  ‘Thirsty work, renovations,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a good look round and I reckon I can get started tomorrow. Here’s what I’ll need straight away.’ He handed her a page torn from his notebook. ‘Oh, and I’ll take the top bedroom on the left,’ he added, casually.

  A shock of horror flooded Sophie’s body. She opened her mouth to protest, to express her displeasure at his assumption that he’d been invited to move in as well as to work for her, then abruptly shut it again. He might as well stay. There was plenty of space.

  ‘I’ve got me sleeping bag but I’ll need a mattress and a couple of chairs, please. Folding ones will do. And don’t worry about dinner. I’ll be going out in a bit.’

  Laughing, partly in disbelief and partly in admiration of his chutzpah – she’d agreed to let him stay, not to be his personal cook and housekeeper – Sophie poured herself a generous glass of wine. To hell with it. She had a lodger whether she wanted one or not. She sipped the wine, the taste that had grown unfamiliar after so many months of abstinence bringing memories of happier times flooding back. In for a penny, in for a pound. She quite liked the idea of going to bed a bit drunk tonight.

  Chapter 9

  Next day, head aching somewhat, Sophie went off to the DIY store again. The same cab driver came to pick her up.

  ‘What you going to do with all this?’ he asked her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in bemusement as he gave her an indulgent smile.

  ‘I’m renovating the house,’ she replied, stashing a box of assorted tools in the boot.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No – I’ve got a –’ Her thoughts ranged wildly. How to explain Frank? ‘A friend of mine’s come over from London. He’s going to help.’

  The cab driver nodded. ‘I will let my wife know. She has been worried.’

  Sophie looked at him in astonishment. ‘Your wife?’ she questioned, in the kind of voice that she immediately knew made it sound like having a wife was something illegal, or at least underhand. ‘Who is your wife? How does she know me – and what am I doing that’s worrying her?’

  The questions spilled out before Sophie had time to think that perhaps this poor cabbie didn’t deserve an inquisition.

  The driver merely laughed. ‘You are in the bay; everyone knows everything about everyone.’

  Of course, a small community anywhere would be aware of a newcomer. It would be different, probably, in the height of summer when the area was jampacked with strangers, but in the winter months nobody visited except mad, widowed, eccentric English women – and the only one of those was her.

  ‘My wife works in the mini-market by your house. She has been worried about you, but she doesn’t speak English so she could not talk to you. When I told her I had picked you up in my taxi, she say to me why you didn’t invite her? Why you didn’t bring her to our house for some rakija? So I invite you now, before I get into trouble again.’

  They had reached the roundabout from which all roads diverged – left towards the Lustica peninsula with the sandy beach Tomasz had so loved in the summer, straight on to the airport and the luxurious super-yacht marina Porto Montenegro, or left towards Kotor and the bay and home. The cabbie stopped talking to concentrate on driving whilst Sophie pictured his wife in her mind’s eye: the pretty, smiley lady who was always so friendly and seemed to will Sophie to understand what she said even though Sophie quite clearly couldn’t.

  Sophie bit her lip, feeling emotional again. These people’s interest was not prurient or invasive, it was purely concerned and altruistic. She felt hugely touched and did not know how to respond. To be invited for rakija was a small thing that meant so much more.

  ‘Sandra – that’s my wife – she said you are too thin and too alone. It is not good to be always by yourself,’ continued the driver, ‘so when do you come?’

  ‘Gosh, you are so kind.’ Sophie thought for a moment. ‘What would suit you? Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after? Or next week, if that’s too soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow is good. My name is Petar, by the way, and my wife is Sandra – but I already told you that.’

  ‘Sophie.’ Sophie went to hold out her hand and then, realizing Petar couldn’t shake it as he was driving, withdrew it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and meant it.

  As they were unloading outside the house, Frank came bounding down the stairs. Unfortunately, the spring went out of his step as he hit the broken board on the final tread, slipped, did a comedy back bend and recovered just before he fell. Sophie turned her face away to stop herself sniggering. She didn’t want to be mean but he had looked funny, so big and broad and suddenly unbalanced.

  ‘Your friend!’ Petar tactfully ignored the pratfall. ‘So you really are not so lonely any more,’ he added, beaming at her.

  Sophie had a sudden flash of horror that Petar had thought she had invented her so-called friend.

  ‘Oh – well, he only came yesterday,’ she explained. Petar would think she was a fraud, accepting invitations to drink rakija when she was not actually on her own at all. It was all too confusing.

  ‘That is great news!’ explained Petar. ‘So you both come tomorrow. Will be fabulous.’

  He didn’t seem at all put out by the fact that her solitude was no longer the case; rather he came across as mightily relieved. Sophie’s confusion lifted.

  Arrangements fixed, Petar climbed back into his taxi and drove away to his next job. Frank held something out to Sophie. As soon as she saw it, she knew what it was: the box with the mother-of-pearl inlay, the box that contained the letters.

  ‘I found it upstairs,’ he explained. ‘Wondered if you wanted to keep it. Not that you deserve it, after the way you just laughed your head off at me.’ Frank sniffed reproachfully.

  Sophie’s heart banged in her chest as she took the proffered box from him and embraced it in arms that ached from carrying all the building materials.

  ‘Oh, I do want it,’ she affirmed, nodding her head fervently. ‘I totally do.’ Opening it, she was reassured to see that the letters were still inside.

  ‘Yours, is it?’ enquired Frank, frowning.

  ‘No, it was in the house when we viewed it in the summer and I – well, it just interested me I guess.’ Sophie suddenly felt embarrassed. It seemed such an odd, inconsequential thing to be interested in. But her inquisitiveness overrode her concerns about what Frank might be thinking. ‘Where on earth was it? I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’

  ‘It was shoved into one of those boxes of crap in my bedroom,’ Frank explained. ‘I finally got round to clearing everything out and I noticed it. Thought I ought to show it to you before I binned it.’

  Sophie noted the proprietorial use of the possessive pronoun ‘my’ with reference to Frank’s bedroom, but it didn’t bother her. In fact, she found she liked it. It was nice to think of sharing her house, which
, though run-down and dilapidated, was still beautiful – and far too big for one.

  ‘Thank you – for unearthing it and for giving it to me and not just throwing it out.’ Sophie indicated with her head towards the box’s contents. ‘I want to find out about these, who wrote them and who to.’

  Frank rolled his eyes and tutted dismissively. He obviously couldn’t see the appeal. ‘Well, good luck to you.’ He peered down to inspect the haul from Sophie’s shopping trip.

  ‘This my mattress, is it?’ he asked, pointing to a long, thin box.

  ‘Yep. All yours. And I even spoilt you and ordered a bed to go with it. It’s going to be delivered tomorrow. It’s flat-pack, though, so you’ll have to get your big tool out to put it together.’ Sophie grinned. The power drill joke was simply never going to die.

  Frank tried hard to suppress a smile. ‘I won’t dignify that remark with a response.’ He stood the box on end and ripped the stiff cardboard open as if it were tissue paper, pulling out the mattress and clutching it to him as if it weighed nothing.

  ‘I’ll take this to my room, then.’ He stomped off towards the staircase. His vision obscured by the size of his load, he stepped onto the bottom step, put his foot through the broken board again, and fell forwards, landing in an awkward sprawl on top of the rolled-up mattress.

  Gales of laughter engulfed Sophie and her legs went weak with the hilarity. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry – but you do look funny –’

  Frank, recovered enough to turn around and face her, was also laughing. ‘I’ll get you back for this. Twice in one day the joke’s been on me! First thing we’re going to do – pull up all this stone and re-lay it, flat. All righty? Then – and only then – I’ll mend the stairs.’

  Sophie’s laughter stopped in its tracks. She gulped. ‘Righty-oh. You’re on.’ It sounded a horrifying prospect. She wasn’t used to manual labour but the work needed to be done if they were ever going to get a kitchen installed down here.

 

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