"Lewis? He's a good guy, just likes to be left alone to get on with the job. His mother lived up north, I think. He's not a great conversationalist." Simon points out the obvious, but doesn't offer any more information. It would be rude to question him further, but enough has been said to reassure me that Mr Hart's rudeness isn't personal. Knowing that helps a little; not much, but enough for me to be determined not to let it get to me.
"It's a great place," he adds. "Of course, Aggie's deteriorating health meant that over the last few years less and less maintenance work was carried out. Lewis managed to keep things just about ticking over for her, but she couldn't stand noise or mess. She was in a sorry state at the end. Funny, everyone always assumed that Lewis was going to buy the cottage after she passed on. I think Aggie thought so, too. Anyway, it should only take a few hours to chip off the old stuff and bond the walls ready to re-plaster them."
"That's great, thanks. How was the flooding when you drove through the village?"
He shakes his head.
"They have the pumps running and it is maintaining the level so cars can still get through at the moment. I don't suppose you've seen the news, but the flooding here is nothing compared to some parts of Gloucestershire. Entire communities are cut off, with food and water being distributed by boat. Who would have thought?"
We stare out at that awesome view. It's barely visible through the rain, which is falling vertically in sheets and hitting the ground so hard that it's bouncing back with force. The backdrop of Lewis hammering away in the kitchen shakes the ground beneath our feet as Simon heads back out into the rain.
I sit in the conservatory for a while to warm my toes on one of the heaters. Then I pull on my woolly hat and waterproof to dash up the hill and make a few phone calls. I ring the plumbers and they promise to call in on their way back home tonight, pretty confident it's a fuel blockage. We also agree that ordering a replacement motor seems like the best option. Despite the fan heaters blasting out on full, the dampness seems to infiltrate everything and my toes and fingers are constantly cold.
I'm assured that the bed will arrive today and it turns out that the van driver literally drove straight past the cottage yesterday and it was nothing whatsoever to do with the flood water on the lower road. He simply gave up looking and I suspect the fact that it was a late drop, dark and he was likely to get very wet, was no incentive. I make them write down the directions in full and tell them that the driver should look out for a large sign on a telegraph pole next to a white garage. On the way back to the cottage I remember a piece of board I spotted tucked away in one of the stone store rooms. Retrieving it, I dig out a pot of white gloss paint and in foot-high letters paint 'Ash Cottage'. I leave it propped up against the wall to dry and close the garage doors.
Back inside, Mr Hart is still hammering away and I can hear the sounds of splintering wood. He's a hard worker, that's indisputable. A slight movement to the side of me draws my eye towards the door and, to my utter dismay, I see Jeff standing there with a soggy bouquet of flowers in one hand. Reluctantly, I open the door wide enough for him to step inside. As I remove my own, soggy coat, it's clear I'm not inviting him to stay and I ignore the fact he's dripping all over the floor.
"What are you doing here?" It's probably not the reaction he was expecting and I sound almost as rude as The Man Who Can, who, by the sound of it, has just had an accident. The language emanating from the kitchen seems to fill the space between Jeff and I, as he stands there awkwardly, a shocked look on his face.
I spin around to look in the general direction of the kitchen and Mr Hart appears, blood pouring from his hand. He stops in his tracks when he catches sight of Jeff.
"Um…that looks bad. I'll get the first aid kit. Mr Hart, this is Jeff, my…um…ex-husband."
Jeff shuts the door behind him as I run off to ferret through boxes. I'm vaguely aware of an exchange of words, but I can't hear what they're saying – only the low grumble of two male voices. Returning, I see that Mr Hart has found some blue paper towel to catch the blood.
"I'll be back in a minute, Jeff. You're timing isn't the best, take a seat." As I walk off in the direction of the downstairs bathroom, I leave Jeff eyeing the two folding chairs rather dubiously.
"We need to clean that up," Mr Hart follows me into the bathroom without saying a word.
I turn on the tap and indicate for him to put his hand under the running water. The clear stream instantly turns bright red and I'm shocked at the amount of blood pouring from his index finger. When, finally, I can assess the damage, a slight sensation of queasiness passes over me.
"You'll be lucky not to lose that fingernail. It looks like you've hit it right at the base and it's split. Unfortunately there's nothing to stitch, so all we can do is clean it up and dress it to help stem the flow of blood."
It's rather unnerving standing so close to this man who is, after all, nothing more than a stranger to me. The thought of actually touching his finger feels slightly invasive, if I'm honest, but he can't clean the wound and apply the dressing all by himself.
"You're a nurse, as well, are you?" I look up at him, my arm brushing his makes me recoil slightly. I'm not sure if that's his attempt at humour, or if he's being sarcastic.
"Raising two sons you get used to dealing with minor accidents. If you'd rather pay a visit to the local accident and emergency centre, go ahead."
I immediately regret my tone when I see his expression, as I think he really was attempting to make a joke. For some peculiar reason I'm stressing about having contact with him. I grab a towel with both hands, indicating for him to lay his hand on top. It must be stinging like mad as I wrap the towel around it, patting it gently. His hands are large and I notice there are callouses on his palm. Turning his hand over, still within the towel, I incline my head and he perches on the corner of the bath. He seems to be content to do as I instruct without complaint, and that allows me to lift the towel, and his hand, onto the edge of the sink. Just letting go sends a little wave of relief over me. Honestly, blood doesn't usually upset me in this way and I feel really silly. I pull out an antiseptic wipe, some butterfly strips and a large, waterproof plaster. I tear open the wipe and grab some cotton wool to soak up the fresh blood that is now running down his finger.
"Mr Hart, this is going to sting a little I'm afraid." He doesn't flinch as I mop up the blood and apply the wipe.
"It's Lewis."
His voice sounds almost normal. There's no hint of sarcasm and the bark is missing.
Applying the butterfly strips is the right thing to do and might end up saving his nail, but now I'm touching him, skin on skin. His hands are those of a manual worker, strong and hardened, but his fingernails are nicely cut. They aren't ugly hands by any means, which surprises me. My eyes wander down to his wrist, which by comparison looks strangely vulnerable, although his forearm is solid muscle and looks as strong as steel. I've never really studied a man's arm before. An unnerving sense of something happening in the pit of my stomach shocks me back into the moment. What on earth is going on here? I avoid looking at him as I put the plaster in place, making sure the gauze covers the base of the fingernail and won't stick to the wound if it continues to bleed.
Pulling my hand away, it suddenly feels cold, as if the warmth of his skin had permeated my own. Now I feel embarrassed, so I busy myself with washing the streaks of blood out of the sink and disposing of the debris from the dressings.
I can see he's going to speak and assume it will be a curt 'thanks', but that's not the case.
"Your ex is waiting."
"He can wait, but you're done." I continue washing my hands, dry them and then apply a hand sanitiser.
Our eyes meet for one brief second and I avert my gaze, my eyes settling on his mouth – full lips, slightly parted, showing a row of extremely white teeth. This man might present as a rough, tough individual who doesn't care about anything, but he's particular. That's not a trait someone who doesn't give a damn about
anything would have. My head starts to spin and I have to distance myself. As he so kindly pointed out, my ex is waiting.
"I'm Maddie," I say on my way out of the bathroom door.
"I know," he replies, "I'll call you Madeleine."
My hackles are raised without even having to check the look on his face. This man is determined to wind me up for no other reason than the fact that he's an expert at it. Well, Lewis, we'll have to see about that.
"So," I demand, as Jeff looks back at me rather sheepishly, "why the flowers?" I'm in no mood to be messed around by anyone today, least of all my cheating ex.
"Maddie, it's a gesture, that's all. The boys wanted me to check you were okay, it's only natural they're a little concerned. If there's anything I can do…this is quite a job to take on. I'd assumed you'd pick some cosy little place, not a…" He doesn't finish the sentence; probably realising he's treading on thin ice.
"To be frank, Jeff, it's none of your business any more. Thank you for the flowers, but I'll be having a word with the boys to make things very clear. My life is now my own and if our paths never cross again, I'll be one very happy woman."
He looks like he's been punched in the stomach as I open the door and all but eject him physically from the conservatory. I immediately turn the key in the lock, pick up the bouquet and march out to the kitchen, from where Lewis has been watching the whole sorry little scene. His eyes widen a little as I literally ram the flowers into the plastic waste bin in the corner.
"Now I'm happy," I mutter under my breath. "Do you have a hammer and a nail?"
A slight frown passes over his face as he duly hands me a hammer and a six-inch nail.
"Big enough?"
I swear there's the merest hint of humour going on in those eyes as I march off to put up my sign.
CHAPTER 14
By the end of day two Lewis has completely emptied the kitchen and chipped off the wall tiles. Only the hot and cold water supply pipes remain, standing to attention like copper soldiers. His disposition doesn't change and he leaves, as he came, with barely a word. I'm not even sure when I'll see him next, as it would be unreasonable to expect him to work on Sunday. As much as it's a relief to see his van pull away, a little part of me also feels a little unsettled as I turn the key in the lock. I have no idea why, precisely, other than he's beginning to grow on me in a rather annoying way. I reluctantly admit to myself that it is nice having a man around, especially one who is so capable. I can't imagine any emergency or situation Lewis couldn't handle.
The plumbers managed to get the central heating working, but tell me that if it cuts out again and it doesn't fire on the third attempt, then it's best to stick to the portable heaters. I might have to accept the inevitable and be patient until the new part arrives.
The house is still chilly, but just that waft of heat circulating around the entire cottage seems to give it a glow. So why do I feel so spooked?
I finger the small stone in the pocket of my fleece. Lewis found it in one of the drawers in the kitchen when he was pulling out the units. He didn't say anything; it just appeared next to the sink in the bathroom. It's something you'd find on the beach and pick up, marvelling at nature's ability to create something so unique. It's a flat, dark-grey pebble that has worn into the perfect shape of a heart. A fluke – a treasure. Knowing that it was something Aggie had chosen to keep made me feel a little sad. Not that I knew very much about her. She was a single career lady who loved to play the piano and who had come back to her family home to nurse her elderly mother. She decided to make Ash Cottage her final resting place and lived here quite happily until her death. The last few years had been increasingly difficult for her and it sounded like Lewis made it his business to ensure she was at least safe and the cottage didn't fall into total disrepair. It's nice to know he does have a heart, buried deep within that formidable, bear-like shell. Clearly Aggie must have thought so, too, as she obviously trusted him. For someone who, at times, can be so very antagonising, I have to admit that there's something about Lewis that fascinates me. I constantly have to fight the urge to watch him while he works, simply because when he isn't talking he's so darned attractive.
As I turn the little heart-shaped pebble over and over in my hand, I wonder if Aggie ever experienced a man's love. Why would an elderly woman have such a wonderful keepsake if there wasn't some distant memory attached to it? Maybe she was simply in love with the idea of being in love and my heart ached to think of anyone filled with unrequited longing.
Have I unwittingly made Aggie unhappy today? Is she here, watching and feeling that her own heart is being ripped out with every hammer blow? Or is she happy that Lewis is here and putting her trust in him, once more? Despite the fact that at the moment all we have are four ugly, blank walls with nails, screws, pits and scrapes like vicious scars. The kitchen feels strangely hollow and hostile, as if it's staring back at me reproachfully. Old-fashioned doesn't mean it's of no use, and it would have been Aggie's pride and joy twenty years ago: newly installed and sparkling. I feel guilty knowing that it's stacked in the garage, now merely a pile of rubbish fit for recycling. Surely she'll understand, though?
Turning Aggie's pebble over in my hand, I wince at the thought of the memories created in this room and hope they remain, even though it's now merely a shell.
"I'm sorry, Aggie. It will sparkle again, really it will. Lewis will make sure of that. You have to trust me when I say I love Ash Cottage, but you need to understand that I'm feeling something here that makes me feel a little scared. Can you help me to get past that? Being on my own is daunting enough, at the moment."
Tears start to roll down my cheeks, plopping onto my fleece. Whether I'm feeling sorry for Aggie, or myself, I don't know. The one merges into the other, as if she isn't a stranger, but someone I knew in life. I walk through into the downstairs bathroom and place the little heart on a shelf in the corner, out of sight, but safe. I have no idea how long Aggie had held onto it, but I would feel terrible if it was broken or discarded in error while the cottage is in such a mess.
Walking back into the conservatory I check my mobile and it's showing emergency calls only again. Then I pick up the telephone handset, but the line is still dead. I know I should take the walk and talk to Ryan, but I can't face it this evening. At least the dining room is now painted. I'll do the skirting boards and window sill tomorrow.
They finally delivered the bed at half past four this afternoon, after several frantic calls to confirm it was definitely on its way. I told them a woman of my age couldn't possibly be expected to spend a second night on the floor in a damp cottage. I threatened them with a chiropractor's bill if they let me down again. When the van driver and his mate arrived, they were distinctly grumpy. Manoeuvring the double mattress in through the door, they complained that they had left me a couple of messages updating me on their anticipated arrival time. Obviously the office had been hassling them after each of my phone calls, but no one bothered to explain to them that I can't get a signal. Feeling guilty, I gave them a twenty-pound note as a tip, which the driver took without comment. He looked miserable and wet through; they both did.
The bed frame took a while to assemble using some of Lewis' tools and all I have to do now is make up the bed. Glancing over at the window I remember the blind. If anyone comes to the door and they glance in through the window, they'll see me in bed. However, I'm past caring: all I want to do is make a sandwich in my new, makeshift kitchen in the corner of the sitting room and then snuggle up.
I thought sleep would come quickly, but my mind can't stop processing snippets of what's happened over the past two days. Thinking of Jeff makes me angry, but not because I have any love left for him. Now that I can see him for the weak and selfish man he is, I wonder why I'd chosen to ignore the signs for so long. I do have to make it very clear to both of my sons that my life has to move on. What I share with them is between us, and their father no longer has the right to be involved, as hard as that is for the
m to accept.
It's probably my own fault that they don't understand the impact of what happened, because I chose not to share the full extent of my hurt and humiliation with them. What point was there in making the situation any worse than it already was? I told them it was regrettable, but that "these things happen". What I should have said was that their father was a cheat, who didn't even have the decency to admit his indiscretion when I first challenged him about it. He slept with my best friend in our bed; all those years I'd loved and looked after him swept aside as if they counted for nothing. He didn't even respect me enough to be honest with me. Well, he made his bed and now he can enjoy lying in it – they both can.
I slip into a light sleep until a loud noise awakens me. I think it came from the kitchen. I hold my breath, listening to the eerie silence and fearful that I'll actually hear the sound again. Suddenly, the phone starts ringing and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. I grab the torch, throw back the covers and shiver as a waft of cold, damp air hits my bare legs. I can't hear the drone of the boiler and as I run towards the phone, goose bumps cover my arms and legs.
"Yes?" In the darkness of the conservatory my mind imagines heavy breathing and a chilling voice that will strike fear into my heart.
"This is a service announcement. We apologise for the disruption to your electricity supply, but localised flooding has caused major damage to one of the sub-stations. We hope to restore the supply within four working hours and we will keep you informed of any further changes to that status. For more information press one, to hear the message again, press two. To speak to one of our service agents, press three."
What? They wake people up in the middle of the night to tell them their electricity isn't working? Is this a joke? Then it dawns on me that the landline is working – Ryan is a star.
I glance out of the window; it's pitch black and there isn't a single light to be seen. It looks as if someone has blacked out the windows, there's not even any sense of depth to the darkness – it's like a blanket. Now my teeth are chattering and I run back, jumping into bed and burying myself deep beneath the covers. It isn't just the cold that hastened my legs, but something else.
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