by Rolfe, Bill
He failed to lift his head and look at Daniel. “That one’s not for rent, sir; I’m sorry.”
“Then why is it on a rental lot?” Daniel replied with a little sarcasm.
“Because it brings me to work each day.” The man was immersed in the black and white screen under the counter.
“I see. Well, then, give me the best thing you have available.”
The thought of missing the next few minutes of his show disappointed the agent, but he created the paperwork necessary to make a car available.
* * *
As Daniel stared at the scenery and the endless road ahead, he began to wonder if the little brown sedan would make the journey safely. When he reached any reasonable speeds, not only did the steering wheel shake violently, but the clutch made a painful grinding sound with every shift into subsequent gears.
After an hour’s drive southeast of London, he arrived at his first destination, which Nancy had highlighted on the map: the city of Canterbury, located in Kent. Canterbury was beautiful, with origins dating back prior to the first century. Christian landmarks and well-restored cathedrals lined the city core.
The black smoke that continually appeared with each press of the pedal forced him to cut short any tourist excursions and select lodging quickly. He pulled over next to a small park and carried his single suitcase across the street toward a simple hotel.
It was not the higher class of lodging he would have booked if he had wanted to sightsee or had company to enjoy the scenery with. He wasn’t planning on spending much time in this city anyway.
Once he had obtained a room key, he ascended to the third floor loft, dropped his suitcase on the bed, and took a few minutes to refresh himself in the small washroom adjacent to his bed. Then he was back at the checkin counter. He confirmed the basic directions that Mr. Stines had given him to find his inherited house.
The elderly woman was surprised to see him again so soon. Somewhat concerned, she asked, “Is everything all right with your room, sir?”
“Yes, it’s fine, thank you,” he said as though he had taken a moment to see it, which of course he hadn’t. “I was wondering if you could check out this map and tell me how far it is from here to the circle marked on it.”
She reached for her glasses, which dangled from a string around her neck, and placed them just low enough on her nose not to slip off. “Looks to be about thirty miles east, then south, towards the White Cliffs of Dover, sir.”
She stated this as though it should have been easy to figure out based on a first glance of the map, even by a foreigner. After a second glance, she said she didn’t recognize the turnoff shown on the map shortly after leaving the city. “Must be an old service road to the tunnels. There are lots of those out in that area, or for a private residence, a few of those too.”
He thanked her for the help and headed out toward his rusted chariot, hoping for enough luck to get it started and keep it running long enough for the trip there and back. Maybe tomorrow he would take the time to search the city for a more acceptable vehicle to use on his ventures.
Leaving the city limits, he noticed a little hardware store on the corner—the last business he saw, and surely the first to visit on his journey back, once he knew how much was needed to fix up the old place. Was the house a total relic? Or had it already been restored, much like the many buildings he had noticed as he passed through town?
His curiosity was piqued. He was glad it would finally be satisfied.
The unmarked turnoff gave way to a peaceful winding road. It was tightly packed with gravel, even though there had been only the one traveler on it for many decades. The road was wide enough for two lanes, carving through the countryside with spectacular views of hillsides and tall grasses blowing in the wind. After fifteen minutes of pilgrimage and fresh air blowing through the car window, he knew he must be close. The smell of moisture in the breeze grew stronger, and his recollection of the pictures showing a body of water close to the home materialized into view.
In the distance, he could see the marvelous house at the end of the dusty road. Daniel quickly reached into his pocket for the pictures to see if they matched his destination. Holding up one picture, he was certain that this was the right place and wondered how such a road could have been maintained so well, acting only as a five-mile driveway for a single residence. The unknown relative must have spent years packing and plowing it, only for himself.
Daniel pulled up near the front stairs, shut off the fatigued little engine, and sat in the car for a moment. He paused and imagined what it might once have been like to see someone emerge from the door, having heard a visitor arrive. It was clear that there hadn’t been anyone around for a long time. Growing vines had overtaken the exterior.
After getting out of the ramshackle car and staring at the front door for a few minutes, he shifted his attention to the top rear corner of the house. There appeared to be a large sitting room, surrounded by glass walls, overlooking the Channel. The house was built on the edge of a steep cliff. This room protruded out from the house but appeared to be part of the original construction.
He realized that he had no key to the front door. Bringing a locksmith, as recommended by Mr. Stines, was a detail lost in his eagerness to arrive here. He walked the perimeter to see if there was a way to gain entrance. At the back of the house was a glorious view of the water. The glass room faced toward it. There was a pathway, aided by natural corrosion in the cliff, that appeared to lead down to the water’s edge. Though not a swimmer, he thought that a private beach could help escalate the offers, once he put the house on the market.
To his surprise, the door at the back of the house was unlocked. He hoped this was simply an oversight on the part of the last one to leave and not the sign of a subsequent breakin. After shouting a few hellos with no response, Daniel walked inside and headed straight toward the stairs near the front door. He passed through a kitchen that appeared to have been cleaned spotless by someone, or some company, that the estate had surely hired. Only the counters were covered with a thick layer of dust. He made his first mental note for the hardware store: a broom, dustpan, and cleaning towels.
The stairwell began to the right of the front entrance and followed straight up the wall to the top floor. There was a thick wooden banister with sculptured spindles that Daniel tested a few times with a firm grip, just to see if any of them were in need of repair. After the last step, he found himself staring down a hallway darkened with well-aged wood. He failed to notice the need to repair some damage on the walls because he was drawn to the light at the end of the hallway. Two other rooms were closer, their doors shut.
Once inside the room at the end of the hall, he was overcome with its warmth and the view of the skyline and water below. Along with the beach, this view should be worth something in the sale of the house.
There stood a wall almost totally made of glass with a small balcony outside. Daniel walked outside through the glass door that led there. Facing the water, he immediately felt at peace and took in several deep breaths of the rich, moist air.
After a few moments, he began to inspect the windowsills and balcony railing. His ability to relax and enjoy a moment needed more repair than the sagging house but, as with his fear of flying, he was aware of this flaw and planned to work on it at the same time as the new project.
Daniel journeyed through the whole house, one room at a time, checking door handles and hinges and other minor items that he could fix himself. He kept a paper list of the growing requirements that he needed to shop for back in town.
Once he had carefully examined the place, it was time to head back. Other than its need for some cosmetic repairs to the inside, the house was entirely livable. Running water and electricity still flowed throughout the home. Once he had gathered enough supplies and food, there would be no need to commute back to the city every day. After returned in the morning, he could stay here.
He enjoyed the scenery alongside the road as he
found his way back to the city.
* * *
At the hardware store, resident stares meant Daniel was an obvious visitor. It was apparent in the face behind the counter as he spoke his first words.
“Hello there. I’m shopping for a few items for my house.”
The man replied, “You came all the way to England to get pieces for your home?”
They both laughed.
“No, I live in America, but I am selling a home here.”
“I see, well show me what you need.” He reached out and grabbed the list dangling from Daniel’s fingers.
He surveyed it and began circulating the store to find the items on the list.
The two made small talk, and Daniel tried to learn about the area, places to shop, where to eat, and recreational activities. It had been forever since Daniel had taken a holiday. He wanted to schedule relaxation days, as he knew that he could easily overlook this priority.
After paying for his goods, Daniel asked, “Can you recommend a good realtor in town?”
“A good one? No, but my wife is a realtor. What place are you selling?”
“It’s about twenty minutes down this road and sits on the hill next to the water.”
“The old Walker house? That nut died over a year ago. I was wondering when that place would be for sale, and you are going to fix it up with these?” he asked, holding the bag out toward Daniel.
“Well, just a few items to get started. I was hoping to have a realtor appraise it before I spend a lot of time on it.”
“Well, my wife is back in town the day after tomorrow. I can ask her to come out there and meet with you, if you like.”
“That would be great, Mr.—?”
“Lipton,” he replied. “Yes, like the tea.” His expression told Daniel to keep any jokes to himself.
“That would be great, Mr. Lipton. Just have her come out to the house. I’ll be there waiting.” He left, holding the bag up to announce that he’d be working until she arrived.
* * *
Back at the hotel, he sat in his room for an hour. It was still early in the day, and there was no rush to return to his new project. “But time wasted is still time wasted,” he told himself. He repacked his minimal suitcase and checked out permanently, assuring the elderly attendant that the hotel was very nice, but his circumstances had changed.
He spotted a grocery store at the end of the street where he could stock up on basic food supplies. He purchased enough bread, milk, snacks, and peanut butter to get by for a few days.
Although the same distance as before, the drive seemed shorter. Now knowing what to expect from the peaceful journey, he easily spotted the turnoff this time, and the long road to the house was more enjoyable.
Entering again through the unlocked backdoor, he placed the hardware bag and groceries on the kitchen counter then eyed the place over again with more attention. During his first visit, he had failed to notice the door and stairs leading down to a basement.
The stairs led to a dark cellar with a low ceiling. The person, or people, contracted to clean the residence after his uncle’s passing used it to store personal items. It was a small room, with the cement floor swept and a dozen or so boxes piled neatly in one corner.
In another corner sat a rusty old tool bench, which was indeed a treasure to find, since Mr. Lipton, while busy shopping his store aisles for Daniel, had forgotten to ask about the instruments needed to install and repair items. Fortunately, another trip to town could be avoided due to the discovery of bench drawers full of well-used wrenches, pliers, chisels, and various other tools to maintain the old residence.
Daniel grabbed a few basic tools that he was able to recognize and headed back upstairs to begin whatever patch-up work his ability would allow for. He started at the front entrance of the house and hammered in the odd nail protruding from the floor. He then twisted on faucets before quickly realizing that there was more work than he had anticipated. He was not the handyman he had hoped he would be.
By late afternoon, he was working half-clothed and, once again, used the hammer to fix stairs leading up to the top floor of the house. It was tiring and his attention swayed for just a moment.
With one hefty swing, he caught his other hand with the metal mallet. The pain was excruciating. He ran up to the room of light to do a better survey of the damage. He squirmed and wrapped his hand painfully with the shirt that was tucked into his waist. The amount of blood made it too unbearable to examine. It would be necessary to travel back to town for medical help.
The once pleasant winding road now became a nightmare as he tried to steer and change gears with one good hand. The convertible he had wanted to rent would have come with an automatic transmission and spared him the extra pain.
Nearing the city, he recognized a road sign pointing to the local hospital, which was just a short drive further. Parking, though limited, was available right in front. Once inside, he stood in a room filled with people calmly waiting for attention.
Holding his arm up to the checkin counter like an old torch, he exposed the now blood-red shirt that wrapped his hand. He expected that proper attention would surely be timely. But as he waited among the small crowd, there seemed to be no one available and, after an hour, Daniel was agitated. He walked back to the counter to complain and rudely question the woman behind it. It wasn’t in his character, but the pain was worsening. His patience was wearing thin.
Several minutes of heated discussions got him nowhere with the gatekeeper behind the counter. Just then, a nurse abruptly appeared from behind him and interrupted them.
“It will be another long night. Is there anyone for me?”
Daniel remarked quite rudely, “Well, take your pick, lady; there’s plenty to go around.”
Only then did he turn to find himself not only embarrassed by the comment, but also by his appearance and behavior in the presence of such a beautiful woman.
“Well, you see, Mr. America,” she said sarcastically, “I am what they call in your country a pediatric nurse. That means I am a nurse for children. However, since you seem capable of acting like a child, why don’t you come with me and we’ll examine it.”
Daniel would have dropped his head with shame if he could have taken his eyes off her. She was stunning, though not the runway-model type he was used to seeing his wealthy clients parade around back in New York. Most of them were blond haired and surgically enhanced to draw the necessary attention to their shallow figures.
The woman standing in front of him was a natural beauty. She was a few inches shorter than him, with a petite frame and dark hair tied up under her white nurse’s hat. She wore thin-lensed glasses to help her eyes over the long shifts and, with her soft-toned skin, required very little makeup.
He followed her behind the curtain. Unwrapping his injured hand, he tried to explain the hammering disaster, but she seemed uninterested, staring at his fingers as they appeared from under the shirt.
He had to turn away. She grabbed his wrist, moved the hand around and announced, “Right then, we’ll have to amputate.”
Missing the humor completely, Daniel jumped back, his mouth wide open, waiting for the words to come out.
“That’s what I thought. No sense of humor in you Americans. You need a stitch. Maybe two.”
“How do you know I’m American? I could be…Canadian, you know?”
“No,” she replied, “I’ve seen those Canadians on the telly. They knock each other’s teeth out and still finish the game.” She stared pointedly at the minor wound to Daniel’s hand.
This more than slightly embarrassed him. He tried to recuperate and assemble some kind of self-respect during the next few minutes while she tended to him. He played down the pain and talked a little about his work and life back home, and his reason for coming to England. He described how the whole hammering accident had come about, attempting to score some sympathy points for being the novice handyman who had tackled the project alone.
It was difficult to read Claire’s interest level in his stories. She only nodded politely and remained solely focused on the stitching. He hoped he was generating some curiosity from her.
She was a quiet person. She spent most of her time around children, only speaking with adults when it was required, mostly comforting parents as part of the job. Her life was simple outside of the hospital: living alone and sleeping or reading during the rare hours off from shift work.
“All done, Mr. America,” she announced after several minutes of mending and conversation had passed. “Well, good luck with your house. Might I suggest one of those rubber mallets next time?”
Daniel surveyed his hand with approval. “Well, Claire, is it?” he nervously asked, inspecting her name tag. “Thanks and, again, sorry about being rude before. Could I make it up to you sometime? Maybe coffee or dinner, you know, while I’m in town.”
He felt much less anxious than with the woman next to him in-flight. He enjoyed the bravery that she inspired with her gentle demeanor.
“Well, how long are you in town, Mr. America?”
“Please call me Daniel.”
“Well, how long are you in town, Mr. Daniel?”
“No, just Daniel and, well, it could be a while. There’s a lot more hammering to do, and I only have the one hand now.”
It was a cheap ploy for sympathy and failed miserably.
“Listen, Daniel, I’d love to go out and maybe show you around, but when I’m not working, I’m working. The children here are my life.”
“I can relate,” Daniel agreed.
“Oh, you have kids?”
This was the first sign of personal interest from Claire and it caught him by pleasant surprise.
“No, no, I just understand having a love for your work.”
A moment of silence finally broke when Claire suggested that he could maybe take her for coffee or possibly out to see the house one night during the week.