A Cottage in the Country

by Linn B. Halton

  It's time to make some big decisions about what I can, and can't, afford. I drool over some fabulous kitchens and bathrooms, dreaming of how it could look and then seek out more modest alternatives. The thing I've learnt over the years is that a high price tag doesn't always guarantee you the best, or most practical, design. By the end of day three I have 3D visuals of the new kitchen, bathroom and the shower room. The bottom-line figure is just within my budget, albeit I had to reduce the contingency line to virtually zero. I have lists of the items that can now be ordered, so that's the next task.

  The one teeny little problem is that I still can't find anyone to do the work, unless I'm prepared to wait until the spring! Terence's list was comprehensive and what I have found is that people in the Forest are not only friendly, but helpful. My list of tradesmen has now doubled with recommendations, but each call has had the same response. A sharp intake of breath is the first reaction when I say that work must begin in four weeks' time. There were two numbers I called where I had to leave a message, so I'm living on nerves and hope at the moment. Perhaps blind faith will get me through, or do I mean a stubborn refusal to give up until all avenues have been exhausted?

  What doesn't help is that I'm working from Ryan's suite of offices while I'm in the rented house. The daily commute into central Bristol from my rental in Bath is a grind. It's stop/start all the way and the traffic congestion seems to have extended well beyond any sort of recognisable rush hour. Whether I leave earlier or later it's bumper to bumper, sharing the road with a lot of angry and stressed commuters. I find myself day-dreaming about my desk in the corner of the media room at Ash Cottage. Traipsing into my sparkling new country kitchen in off-white shaker style and flicking the switch on my new espresso maker…toot, toot. What is it with horns these days? Aren't they supposed to be used for emergencies only? Like warning people they are about to get run over?

  "What do you think?"

  Ryan continues to flick through the screens, scrutinising each page with a professional eye.

  "Hmm…it seems pretty comprehensive." He sits back in his leather swivel chair and chews on the end of his pen. "Only two issues, as far as I can tell."

  "Fire away." That sounded a little more confident than I feel. Two issues? Really?

  "The first is in relation to the labour costs. I assume you will be doing some of the basic redecoration yourself, but even so, that figure is highly optimistic. The other thing is the contingency line. You really are leaving yourself wide open there, Maddie. With a cottage, you never know what problems you will encounter until you begin pulling it apart. With the conservative figure you've put in for labour costs, reducing the contingency to a mere thousand pounds is a huge risk."

  I shrug, indicating that I don't really have a choice. I can't pluck money out of thin air. He sits forward, resting his elbows on the desk and flicks through the small pile of papers I put in front of him.

  "I've used worst-case figures for the larger items of expenditure. I'm pretty sure I can come in at least two thousand under budget when I place the order for the kitchen. I figure I can add that into the labour costs. As I get a handle on the actual costs I'll be clawing whatever savings I manage to make on purchases into that contingency pot. This is something I do all the time." I feel uncomfortable under his gaze. He isn't smiling and I'm not sure if that's because it's been a hard day or my figures really are concerning him.

  "There's a big difference, Maddie. This is your money, not some wealthy client who can afford to over-spend or cut costs at a stroke because of the size of the budgets. You're going to have to make sure you don't order with your heart instead of your head. No falling in love with the perfect bathroom suite that will blow your budget or the solid-wood flooring that costs the earth. You might be lucky and find there are no hidden problems, although I'll be amazed if that's the case. Plus you might manage to employ a guy who spends more time working than he does texting on his phone. But might is one of those words that make me very, very nervous. If this was a client's proposal I'd continue to poke holes in it until they agreed to up the budget."

  I can't decide whether I'm grateful Ryan is being so honest, or I'm disappointed that he doesn't have more faith in my abilities. I'm not sulking: I simply don't feel like justifying myself. He's looking a little exasperated now.

  "You're being creative with the budget because you need it to work. That hampers you in terms of being objective. Can I make a suggestion?" He holds my gaze and then suddenly winks at me. I burst out laughing.

  "I think you're going to say what's on your mind, even if I say no."

  "The main bathroom is a big chunk of the budget because of all of the re-plastering and plumbing work that will be required before the refit can be carried out. Don't place an order for any of the materials, or the bathroom suite, until after the kitchen is finished. By then you'll have a much better idea of how the costs are stacking up and if you have to find emergency funds, that's the budget to raid."

  "So I'll have to wait for my leisurely soak in that fabulous slipper bath? No glass of wine and staring up at that inky, star-lit sky after a hard day's work…"

  Now it's Ryan's turn to laugh, although it comes out as more of a snort.

  "I'm trying to keep you grounded; it's the smart decision."

  I nod, grudgingly, having to admit it does make sense. But order times vary and a ten, or twelve, week delivery time is quite typical. If I wait until the kitchen is finished, it could be four months before I have a bathroom I can relax in. The shower room is going to be convenient, but even something as simple as storage is going to be an issue in there.

  "Okay, common sense will prevail. Aside from that, is there anything else there that bothers you?"

  "One thing…"

  Now I'm beginning to feel a little concerned; I think I did an amazing job considering the restrictions of time and cost.

  "How long will you be taking off work, exactly? I'm not sure we'll be able to cope if you disappear for more than a few weeks."

  He's serious and I feel myself blushing. I don't want him to think I'm being unreasonable and ignoring the fact that he has a business to run.

  "I'll be there on call if anything goes wrong. The Anderson's project will be completed at least a week before moving-in day. That's plenty of time for me to tie up any loose ends. I was thinking of taking at least a month. After that I'll have to juggle work and the renovation for a while. It won't be forever, things will eventually get back to normal. I've already talked to the internet people and that will be connected the day I move in. The modem is due to arrive in about ten days' time."

  It's the first item on the utilities checklist. Ryan nods.

  “Well, now all you have to do is find yourself a man who will actually turn up on time and is capable of keeping up with your programme. Good luck with that,” he adds. My stomach does a backflip as it occurs to me that time is fast running out.

  CHAPTER 7

  When the voicemail icon pops up on my phone I silently pray it's either Mr Chappell, the small building company who are based a stone's throw away from the cottage, or Aggie's 'man who can', a Mr Hart. I'm delighted to find two voicemails and immediately I perk up.

  "Ms Brooks, this is Lewis Hart. Thanks for your call, but I'm not sure I can help. I'll be in the area on Saturday and will swing by to take a look if I have time."

  In the area? I thought he was a local guy? The next voicemail is Mr Chappell.

  "Hello Miss Brooks, this is Frank Chappell. We close for two weeks over the holiday period and in the New Year all of my men will be tied up on the new community hall project. It's unlikely I will have anyone free until the middle of April at the earliest. However, you mentioned some plastering work and there's a chance I could free up one of our guys for the odd half day here and there to help out, if that's convenient. Call me back and we can discuss it. Thank you for ringing Chappell and Hicks."

  A sense of relief begins to roll over me like a wave. It's on
ly a pinprick of hope, but it's better than two outright rejections. Mr Hart sounded rather lukewarm, but he wasn't totally dismissive. On the other hand, Frank Chappell sounds like a man with many years' experience; a consummate professional. Although he's only offering a plasterer, maybe I can convince him to divert a little more labour to Ash Cottage. I immediately re-dial, crossing my fingers as I wait for him to pick up.

  "Mr Chappell, its Madeleine Brooks. Thank you so much for returning my call."

  "Oh yes, Ash Cottage wasn't it? Lovely location, Miss Brooks. I hope you are going to enjoy living in the Forest."

  He sounds sweet. His voice is deep and very friendly.

  "Look, I'll be very honest with you, Mr Chappell. I'm desperate here. The cottage has been empty for over a year. It's cold and a little damp because the bank handling the probate case won't allow any of the services to be turned on. It's in case of a leak, or fire, apparently. I'm moving in on the nineteenth of December and I need a working kitchen installed before the twenty-fifth. Is there any way at all you can help?"

  Again, that distinctly sharp intake of breath.

  "I would love to be able to say yes, but the truth is that all our guys will be working flat out right up to the shutdown. I'll ask around to see if any of them are interested in doing a few days' work during the holiday, but please don't get your hopes up. However, I'm confident I can get a plasterer for you, if you are prepared to be flexible. I'll send him across as and when I can. Simon Griggs is a quick worker and he'll do an excellent job."

  Darn, I was hoping for a bit of a miracle here. I can hear the sympathy in his voice, I only wish there was more he could do.

  "Mr Chappell, if you have any delays whatsoever and can spare anyone, will you think of Ash Cottage first? I'm a prompt payer and you would be doing me a huge favour."

  "I'll pin your telephone number up on the board, Miss Brooks. You'll be my first thought if I catch anyone standing around without something to do," his voice reflects the smile I know he has on his face.

  "Thank you so much! And, please, call me Maddie."

  "I'm Frank. I might not be able to part the waters, but I'll do the best I can."

  The wave of relief doesn't exactly dissolve the knot in my stomach, but this is a life-line. Now to see what Mr Hart has to say.

  "Hi, it's Madeleine Brooks from Ash Cottage. Thanks for returning my call."

  "I wasn't expecting you to get back to me. Didn't I say I'd call in on Saturday, or something?"

  Or something? I'm rather taken aback by his tone, which is distinctly dismissive.

  "I…um…thought it might be polite to let you know that I don't yet have my own key. I don't move in until the nineteenth. However, I'm sure I can talk the estate agent into letting me have access for a couple of hours."

  Heavy breathing down the line seems to indicate the phone is nestled between his chin and his shoulder. The short blast of a drill confirms as much.

  "Sorry, are you on a job?"

  "I'm always on a job. It's what I do."

  Well, that was downright rude, if not sarcastic. I'm not sure how to answer that, but Mr Hart quickly jumps in to fill the silence.

  "I'll drop by at eleven. I won't be able to hang around for long."

  Right.

  "Oh, thank you. Um, am I assuming you have some time in your schedule to begin work quite quickly?"

  "I said I'd take a look, lady, not that I'd bring my toolkit and make a start. See you at eleven."

  The phone clicks and the line is dead.

  Guess it's going to be a case of working with Frank Chappell, then. I can only hope that he can talk one of his men into installing my kitchen instead of kicking back for the holidays. It's a tall order, but what choice do I have? What I'd really like to know is why there don't seem to be any women out there in the building trade. I refuse to believe it's a one hundred per cent male-dominated workforce. Maybe I need a woman who can…

  My phone kicks into life and I wonder if it's Mr Hart calling back to apologise for his rudeness.

  "Mum, how're you doing?" The sound of Matt's voice makes my eyes tear up. In the midst of all this madness, it's a reminder of the life I had and how much I miss it.

  "Good – really good. How is Dublin?"

  "It's pouring with rain here. I wanted to check up on you; sorry it's been a while. I also have some news. Do you want the good news first, or the bad?"

  My knees quiver, I'm not sure I can survive any more negativity at the moment. My voice wavers as I try to sound as if I can cope with anything.

  "What's the bad news? Do you need me to fly over?"

  He clears his throat. "We won't be able to get over for Christmas after all, I'm afraid. There's a lot going on as Sadie is working flat out at the moment and I'm only able to take a couple of days' holiday. I'm really sorry. I know you'll be disappointed."

  The motherly bit of me instantly goes into guilt-mode, as I acknowledge that I'd assumed everyone would give me a wide berth this Christmas. I keep forgetting that the boys haven't seen Ash Cottage and have no idea what I'm taking on. They probably imagine a cosy, warm little place in the country.

  "Oh, darling, don't worry. To be honest, the facilities on offer here aren't going to make for the most relaxing Christmas. I suspect the cottage will be little more than a building site. What's the good news?"

  "We're having a baby."

  My hand goes straight to my heart, my head repeating his words over and over again. He's twenty-two years old and he's only been living with Sadie for eighteen months – a baby?

  "Congratulations, I'm…well, I'm…thrilled. It's great news, Matt. Have you told Dad?"

  He doesn't sound excited, he sounds…accepting. I guess this is a surprise he wasn't expecting; maybe neither of them was expecting it.

  "I'll ring him next. I wanted to tell you first. Sadie has just phoned her mum; she says 'hi', by the way. It's a bit sooner than we'd planned, you know, we thought the wedding would come first and all that. You're not, um…you don't feel awkward about a baby coming before we tie the knot, do you, Mum?"

  "No, darling; it's only a piece of paper. It's what's in your heart that counts."

  "I told Sadie you'd be fine with it. We just feel awful that we're going to miss your birthday, especially as it's a big one and the first since…"

  My heart constricts.

  "Matt, darling, I'll be spending it covered in paint and looking like a builder's apprentice. Next year will be very different and maybe you will be able to come over with the baby. A summer birth, how lovely! Oh, I wish you were both here so I could hug you. Wonderful, wonderful, news."

  Matt explains that Sadie is suffering from morning sickness and he's trying to make sure she doesn't over-tire herself. She works in marketing and it's a busy environment, especially when the first part of each day is spent feeling so awful. I'm so proud of my son being empathetic: caring enough to help out as best he can. Maybe Ryan was right, and I did do a good enough job. It seems that selfish streak running through Jeff hasn't been passed on, after all. If it were, maybe my example was enough to show the boys that love is about putting the other person first. Whatever – my heart is singing. Then it hits me. I'm going to be fifty very soon and I'm going to be a grandmother. I'm getting old, how did that happen? Inside I still feel like a thirty-year-old.

  CHAPTER 8

  Saturday arrives and I find myself sitting in the car outside Ash Cottage for two hours on a very chilly winter's day. It's freezing and I have to keep kicking the engine into life to put a blast of heat on my poor, frozen toes. I'm afraid to leave it running for too long in case I run out of fuel. Fortunately, the estate agents let me have a front-door key on condition that I return it as soon as I've shown Mr Hart around. Of course, Sarah knows him and I think that connection had more to do with being entrusted with a key than the fact that I'm the soon-to-be owner. As the end of the first hour of waiting comes and goes, I feel I ought to at least explain why the keys aren't going to a
rrive back at their offices imminently.

  "Sarah, this is Maddie Brooks. I'm really sorry, but Mr Hart hasn't turned up yet. I'm not sure what to do…whether to wait or head back to you. The trouble is that he might be my only option. Is he known as a reliable tradesman?" I don't know whether to cross my fingers and hope she says yes, or face up to the reality that he is the 'man who can't' on this particular occasion.

  "I suspect he's been held up. He's a hard worker, but he does tend to…well, I suppose I want to say 'get pulled into helping people out'. He always dropped everything whenever Aggie had a problem and he tends to be the first choice for many of the elderly people in the community. He probably won't tell you that, though. He's a bit of a mystery to most people, very private. Maybe his van has broken down; he doesn't have any family locally and that's a real disadvantage in the Forest. I'd say hang on for a bit. If he's not going to turn up I'm sure he'd call to let you know."

  She sounds positive, which is reassuring.

  When he eventually turns up, he's driving a beaten-up old van. And a white van, at that. On the side there's a huge decal, 'The Man Who Can', and written underneath in smaller letters it says, 'renovations and maintenance'. The moment I spot him, I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I don't know quite what I was expecting after our rather abrupt conversation, but he looks a darned sight more cheerful in the flesh than he sounded on the other end of a phone.

  His clothes, though, are even more surprising. He's wearing an old tee-shirt advertising a 1987 Metallica tour. It's been washed to within an inch of its life and would be perfect for cleaning windows. You know, when the cotton is so limp it flies over the glass like a dream. His jeans have the knees hanging out and he probably considers them to be a walking advertisement. I can see virtually every colour of paint, what looks like traces of white filler and a splattering of something the colour of concrete. Maybe he doesn't fold the jeans up at night; they just stand to attention at the foot of his bed. I realise I'm staring at him and he's walking past my car without acknowledgement, already heading down the path leading to Ash Cottage.