The Three Rs

by Ashe Barker

  Most of the post looks like junk to me. Advertising stuff, bright and glossy with pictures of such interesting items as power tools, uPVC window frames, paving slabs. I pile those up for Phyllis. At least now that she knows about my issues I won’t need to try to justify why I haven’t been more discriminating. The rest I can’t make head nor tail of, frankly. Official looking stuff, closely typed sheets, could be anything. I leave those neatly stacked for Phyllis too, and get on with coloring up my pictures. Needless to say, I leave the computer well alone.

  The phone rings a few times. Someone enquiring about whether we do gardening—I tell them we don’t. Another caller tries to sell us a subscription to something called Plumb Line, which sounds like a magazine. I agree they can send us their brochure. Cain phones to ask how my day’s going, I tell him I’m fine. I’m even finer when he tells me that Mrs Henderson has overruled her bolshy architect and has agreed to a quote of forty thousand pounds all in for the extension. Cain thinks we can do it for that—no profit, but no massive loss either. It’s a result.

  * * * *

  Phyllis’ Stan is still not himself according to her message on the answering machine the next morning so she’s taking another day off. She promises faithfully to be in tomorrow. Even if Stan’s still poorly, her neighbor has agreed to sit with him if need be. I’m not enthusiastic about another solitary day in the office, but I don’t make a fuss as Cain heads off for Rothbury and that wonderful building site. After that he’s meeting Beth the glamorous plumber to get started on a central heating installation in Morpeth. I ask him to give my regards to Rachel and to Beth, as I start on this morning’s post.

  Today’s crop is much the same as Monday’s, just there’s less of it. The piles of promotional glossies and other boring stuff on Phyllis’ desk are growing, but still I resist the lure of the shredder. And the computer. Myself, my water colors and my sketchpad spend a quiet day together, interrupted only occasionally by the phone. I make appointments for Cain to price up a job in Hexham and another in Alnwick. Next I agree to send our brochure to a developer based in Edinburgh who needs a specialist traditional stone mason to do some sub-contracted work. He’s found us on the Internet so Cain’s marketing must be working. This sounds like the sort of thing Cain likes best. Beth phones to confirm she’s available for the central heating job and on her way to the address Cain texted her over the weekend. Again, I consider plumbing as a career choice. It would be nice to actually work with Cain properly—doing something useful and skilled. My resolve firms even more. I will make next week count.

  On Thursday morning Cain drops me off just before eight. He has to get to Morpeth for another hot date with Beth and the intricacies of eco-friendly heating systems. I find the door unlocked, and Phyllis looks to have been at her desk for at least an hour already. Her computer is fired up, and so is mine.

  “Morning, love. I’ll be with you in a moment. Just wading through all these emails.”

  I feel a shooting pang of guilt that it’s all been just left for her, while I’ve spent two days painting. Not for much longer. I make her a cup of tea, it’s the least I can do.

  “That pile looks to me like just advertising stuff, junk mail.” I point to the stack of glossies. “Let me know which you want shredding, I’ll do it later. Not so sure about those though.” I tilt my head in the direction of the ‘official’ pile.

  “Most of that’s probably junk as well. I’ll check after I’ve got my inbox cleared.”

  She’s clearly busy, I leave her to it as I attack today’s post and add to the growing mountains of correspondence yet to be dealt with.

  It’s half an hour later—just as I’m contemplating a second cup of coffee—that Phyllis’ muttered expletive reverberates around the tiny office. “Shit! Shit, shit shit! When did this come?”

  I turn, alarmed. She never normally speaks like this.

  “What? When did what come?”

  “This.” She’s brandishing something from the boring pile. I abandon my immediate plans for renewing our beverages and take the sheet she’s waving at me. I glance at it, and I’m no wiser really. Apart from the initials in the heading—H.S.E—I can’t manage to decipher anything else especially meaningful.

  “I don’t… What is it?”

  But Phyllis isn’t paying any attention to me. She’s already on the phone, dialing Cain’s mobile number.

  “Cain? Yes, yes it’s me. Yes, I’m back. He’s fine. Much better. Look, you need to get to Newcastle, the Health and Safety Exec offices. Yes, now.” She pauses, no doubt listening to whatever Cain’s saying on the other end, but she interrupts him.

  “They want to interview you, about that incident last month in Rothbury, when Rob broke his arm. Apparently there’s been a complaint about safety procedures…” She pauses again, briefly, before breaking into his flow, “It’s not short notice. Not really. The letter’s dated the beginning of last week, but it only arrived in this week’s post. Must have got held up on its way here. It arrived Tuesday, I think. Your appointment was yesterday.”

  She pauses, then, “Yes, of course. I’ll scan it and email you a pdf. And I’ll phone them and make our excuses for yesterday, tell them it was because I was off sick. I’ll let them know you’ll be there today.”

  She hangs up, then turns to me, “Well, that settles it. You’ll have to tell him now.”

  “Why? What? Tell him what? What’s happened?” I’m baffled, totally at a loss. Something momentous seems to be going wrong—both Phyllis and Cain are rushing around, dropping everything to attend to whatever’s on that sheet of paper. And I haven’t a clue what’s happening. If anything, this is even more terrifying than when the solicitor’s letter arrived all those weeks ago, back in Bradford, disrupting my, up till then, reasonably untroubled existence. At least then I could prop the offending article unopened beside my breakfast cereals, make it wait until I was ready. This situation is hurtling forward, out of control. And I’ve no idea what’s coming next.

  Phyllis draws a deep breath and sinks onto her chair. “Last month one of our scaffolders, Rob, fell from a platform and broke his wrist. Nothing too serious—could have been a lot worse. But any accident on a site gets reported and is investigated by the HSE—Health and Safety Executive. They came, did their checks, spoke to the other workers, interviewed Cain, looked at the paperwork, and it seemed everything was in order. But now it appears Rob’s made a complaint, probably to do with insurance, but even so, the HSE are back on it. They’re entitled to call in managers, developers, site supervisors, anyone with responsibility for health and safety stuff. Here, that’s Cain. They wanted to see him at their offices in Newcastle on Wednesday, and it’s a fineable offense just not turning up. Plus it’ll make them even more suspicious and they’ll examine every detail, not just that job but everything else too. When they do, they always find something. We’re a tight-run ship, Cain makes sure of that, but they only need to dig out one example of a policy not followed, one scrap of documentation not in the right file, one box not ticked anywhere, and they can throw the lot at us.”

  I stare at her, aghast. “This is bad, isn’t it?”

  Phyllis returns my gaze. “Yes. It’s bad. And the worst thing, while the investigation is going on, HSE can insist that all work has to be suspended till they give us the all clear. That can take weeks. At best though, they’ll pull us off the job in Rothbury, and if—when—that happens, there’s a good chance A.R.T. will ditch us from the project entirely. Breach of contract, plus they have deadlines of their own to meet. So yes, Abbie, this is bad.”

  I flop into my chair, the awful ramifications of this only now beginning to make sense to me. We could, will, lose money. But there’s our reputation to consider too, the loss of future work with A.R.T. and others like them. They’re not the only ones with deadlines—we could have other clients going elsewhere. Christ, what a mess.

  Something in Phyllis’ remarks puzzles me though. “What did you mean, I’ll have to tel
l him now.”

  Phyllis looks at me, her expression sympathetic, but there’s also frustration there too. A hint of annoyance. I don’t understand. What have I done? The accident was nothing to do with me, it happened before I even came here, and there’s nothing I could have done as far as the investigation was concerned. She puts me out of my misery.

  “Our big problem now stems from missing that interview yesterday, and not sending any reason. We could have re-scheduled, but you get fined for just doing a no show.”

  “Right…” I’m still not getting it.

  “The letter asking us to come in arrived on Tuesday. You opened it and put it on that pile, just left it on my desk. Now, I know why you did that, I understand why you didn’t, couldn’t have known how important it was. But Cain won’t have any idea why you didn’t phone him as soon as you saw it to tell him he needed to show up in Newcastle on Wednesday. A day’s notice isn’t much, but it’s enough.”

  My heart does a delicate little lurch, and not in a nice way. Not at all. Oh. My. God. Fucking bloody hell. All this could have been avoided if I’d been able to read even enough of that letter to know it was serious. Just showing it to Cain when he came to pick me up on Tuesday afternoon would have been enough. But no, I buried it with all the other ‘junk’. Left it until now, when it’s too late. When the damage has been done.

  I’m just contemplating the full enormity of what’s happened and my unwitting part in it when the phone on Phyllis’ desk rings. It’s Cain, naturally. She picks it up, speaks briefly, then hands the phone to me.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  I take the receiver from her, put it to my ear, as she mimes an emphatic ‘tell him’ at me across the desk. Rudely, I swivel my seat to face away from her.

  Phyllis’ manners are better than mine. She walks across the office to pick up her coat. “I’m just going for a breath of air. I’ll leave you to talk.”

  I turn back to her, nod apologetically as she slips out of the office, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Abbie, when did that letter come?” No greeting, no pleasantries, just straight in. His tone is curt, chilled. He might have been angry, at least at first, when he realized about Mrs Henderson’s quote. This time, he’s absolutely furious. With me.

  “I-I’m not sure. Tuesday, I think.”

  “You think? Either it was or it wasn’t. Has Phyllis got it wrong then?” He doesn’t raise his voice, he has no need to. Just the clipped tone, the brusque words are enough to convey how very, very pissed off he really is.

  My stomach clenches, my nerves jangling. But I can’t let any of this drop on Phyllis’ toes. “No. She’s not wrong. It was Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday. Right. But you didn’t bother to tell me? Why not, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I didn’t realize it was important…” Even as I utter the lame excuse, I know how pathetic that sounds. Even I’ve heard of the Health and Safety Executive. If I’d known what I was holding in my hand, I’d have realized it was important. And I would have known, if I could read. This time next week, maybe, I would have known. But not now. And definitely not on Tuesday when it mattered. “I’m so sorry…”

  “Don’t, Abbie. Don’t even start to say you’re sorry. This goes beyond anything ‘sorry’ can put right. We could be out of business if I can’t manage to convince the HSE to go easy on us. Was that the plan?”

  What?

  “What are you talking about? What plan?”

  “No way was this a mistake. Another ‘accident’. You saw that letter, you must have known. And you decided to keep it to yourself. That looks to me like a plan, Abbie.”

  I’m truly stunned. He seems to think I’ve done this on purpose. I might be a bit dim, but that’s plain stupid. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I…?”

  “I have absolutely no fucking idea. What I do know though, is that this sort of rubbish did not happen before you came here. The wrong figures being given to customers, and now this. Bloody fucking hell, Abbie. I know you didn’t want to come, this wasn’t your first choice of job. You made it clear enough you didn’t want to work in the office, and I thought we’d got past that, sorted out a compromise. But no, you go and do this.”

  “I didn’t, really, it was…” My voice trails off, I’m lost for words. I have no idea what to say. He’s right about one thing, this sort of screw-up didn’t happen before, it is all down to me. Phyllis’ advice was clear enough. Tell him. Explain. He’ll still be livid, but maybe, eventually, he’ll understand that it was genuinely a mistake.

  But he’ll also understand what a dismal failure I am, or have been up until now. I dismiss any notion of telling him the truth—opting again for an undisguised grovel.

  “Please, Cain, it was an accident. I just didn’t read it properly. I didn’t realize.” True, as far as it goes.

  “Spare me that. I’m not interested in fucking apologies. I’m interested in saving this business. My business. James screwed it up enough just getting you involved, but I’m not letting you sink us completely. I may not be able to sack you, more’s the pity, but I can sure as hell make you wish you’d never messed with me. And you can start by canceling that little jaunt of yours tomorrow. You’ll be busy here all next week, helping to sort this pile of shite out.”

  I don’t respond at first, I can’t. He can’t. I have to go. Everything, my entire future, all the plans I’ve started to make for myself, hinge on next week. If I put it off, I might as well just give up altogether. I need to go, and it has to be now. It’s that simple.

  “Cain, please, it’s all arranged…”

  “Unarrange it. I’m not bloody arguing with you. You’ll be here tomorrow. And next week, and the week after and every other fucking week, like I will, until this is sorted. Get used to it.”

  His tone is one usually reserved for when I’m naked—then his implacable sternness is one of his finest features. Now, it just terrifies me. If I obey him, and he clearly means me to do just that, all my dreams are in tatters. Even now I suppose I could tell him the whole truth and he’d probably let me go. Hell, he’d probably insist on it, drive me to the station himself. But at what cost? His respect? His trust? It certainly seems as though I’ve lost those anyway, but at least I have some shreds of self-respect left. And the determination to make this right. To make me right. I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes. Steady myself, firm up my resolve. I know why I’m doing this. It’s the right thing. It has to be.

  “No. I’m not canceling. I’m going. In fact, I’m going now, today. If there’s anything I can do before I leave, any way I can help, just tell me. But I’ll be on a train by the end of today.”

  The silence at the other end is deafening. Long moments drag by before he responds, “Abbie, if you do that, if you run out on me this time, I don’t want you coming back.”

  “I’ll be back a week on Sunday, like I said…”

  “No. You won’t. If you disobey me and leave now, do not even think about coming back. You won’t be welcome.”

  “Please, Cain…” I’m sobbing now, how can he be so unrelenting? And in spite of my grief, and my genuine regret at all that’s happening, there’s still a mutinous part of me buried not too deep. A spark of rebelliousness that he hasn’t managed to spank out of me, that wonders how he came to be dictating terms. It surfaces.

  “You can’t stop me. This is my business too.”

  His tone is even icier, if that were possible. “Is it? Is it really? Stay in Bradford, Abbie, if you’re so hell-bent on going. I’ll send you your money, though there’ll be precious little of that for a while. But if you value your hide, and if you have any shred of respect left for me, you just stay away. I never want to set eyes on you again. Are we clear? Are we absolutely fucking clear?”

  I don’t reply. There’s nothing to say. He evidently thinks so too, because the line goes dead after a few seconds. The resounding click as he hangs up on me is as final as a coffin lid.

  Chapter
Nineteen

  The journey to Bradford is a blur. I got on a train at Berwick station, managed to change at York a couple of hours later, eventually rolling into the tatty little station in Bradford city center some four hours or so after I clambered into a taxi outside Cain’s house. My battered hold-all was once again bulging with my possessions, or at least those things I couldn’t bear to leave behind—my sketchbook, my paints. A copy of a book with a gray tie on the cover—a present from Phyllis, pressed into my hand at the station where she came to wave me off. Adult reading material, she assures me. Cain’s spare bedroom is still full of my other boxes. I’ll work something out with him later, when I’m less vulnerable, less emotional. When I’m able to write to him asking for the return of my stuff.

  I catch a bus from the station in Bradford to the estate where my flat still waits patiently for me, on the seventh floor. Tower blocks are not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’ve never had any quarrel with it. And the view’s superb. I’m glad I didn’t burn my bridges entirely by giving up the tenancy. I suppose Sally would have put me up on her sofa, at least for a while. But it’s good to know I have a home, my own place, security. I need that now, more than ever before.

  I let myself into my flat, shivering at the chill in the unheated rooms. I flick the dial on the thermostat to kick the system into life then start to unpack my bag. It doesn’t take long. By ten o’clock in the evening I’ve run out of things to do to keep my mind off today’s catalog of disasters. As if…

  I go through the motions of getting ready for bed, and slide between the chilly sheets. Just twenty-four hours ago I was in bed with Cain, warm and sated, still tingling from his spanking followed as always by his skilled and inventive fucking. I recall vividly the erotic and sensuous thrill of his cock sliding into me, slowly, inch by glorious inch. His sweet murmurs of appreciation, as well as the wickedly dirty things he likes to say to me just before he comes.