“Turn right out of here, take the first on the right—that’s Pearl Street—and just keep walking. If you walk about three hundred and fifty yards, you’ll get your feet wet, so stop at about three hundred.”
“Thanks,” David said, grinning at the young comic.
“No problem,” he said, and turned to the old man who had taken David’s place. “Okay gramps, what’s it to be today?”
David walked out of the deli into the sunlight with a smile on his face, his whole being lightened by the exchange. He decided not to indulge himself in the contents of his bag until he had reached the marina, so he took off at a brisk pace, following the young man’s directions.
Pearl Street was like any other that he had seen in Leesport, a wide thoroughfare with secluded houses tucked away in their own grounds, separated from the sidewalk by fences. The road was criss-crossed with smaller streets leading off to rows of similar dwellings, yet, as he walked, he realized that the village was not in any way overbuilt, every so often coming across a grassed area on which there might be room for at least three more houses, this lending a healthy and clean openness to the surroundings.
The street eventually came to an end, opening out into a broad expanse of tarmac that led into the marina. David approached the small gatehouse at the entrance, and the old man who occupied it threw a cursory glance in his direction before looking away again. As there was no one else about, and heartened by the open friendliness shown towards him by the people in the deli, David decided to break the ice and engage the old man in conversation.
“Good morning.” He stood purposefully beside the man’s window, holding his paper bag in one hand and shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with the other as he looked out over the marina. “Lovely day.”
The man looked up and cocked his head to the side. “Sure is.” With that, he leaned forward to turn up the volume of a television that was hidden below the wide ledge of the window.
David felt his face prickle with embarrassment at this blatant shun, but was immediately overcome with a devilish urge to persevere with the conversation, a reaction that was as much a surprise to himself as it was to be of a further nuisance to the old man.
“Is that the Atlantic over there?” he asked, a light-hearted innocence to his voice as he stared out across the marina. “Seems very calm.”
The old man rose begrudgingly from his seat, realizing that he would have to respond before being left in peace again and, leaning out of his little window, jabbed a finger in the direction of the water. “That ain’t the Atlantic—that’s the Great South Bay.” The action of his finger now changed to an up-and-over motion. “Atlantic’s further over, beyond Fire Island.”
David looked out to the long strip of land that lay about four miles across the bay. “Can you get over there?”
“Ferry goes from the marina every half-hour.”
The old man, feeling that he had said enough, turned away from the window and sat back down in front of his television, effectively terminating the conversation. David pulled a face at the nape of his bristly little neck to acknowledge his gracelessness and moved away from the gatehouse. He headed off parallel to the marina, alongside a small public garden secluded from the road by a hedge of wild dogrose which fell untamed over a heavy two-rail fence, as simply fashioned and as rustic as a nursery rhyme. Twenty yards farther on, the hedge formed an archway over an iron gate on which hung a small brass plaque bearing the inscription THE LEESPORT RESIDENTS MEMORIAL GARDEN. He pushed open the gate and walked in.
The lawns and flower-beds of the little garden were beautifully kept, laid out in circular sweeps around the centre-piece of a large concrete plinth on which an old grey naval howitzer perched, pointing its flaking barrel out towards the bay. Beside it, the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the sea breeze atop a tall white flagpole. David walked around the side of the gun to the far end of the garden and stood for a moment gazing into the brackish waters of the bay as they lapped lazily against the vertical wooden pilings that protected the garden from erosion. He stepped back and looked around for somewhere to sit and spied an old wooden bench tucked under the barrel of the gun. Taking the cup of coffee and roll out of the paper bag, he sat down to enjoy both his breakfast and the view across the marina. All was tranquillity that morning, save only for the plaintive scream of gulls overhead, and the sound of the steel hawser-lines clinking like cowbells against the masts of the swaying yachts drawn up tight against each other along the wooden walkways that divided off the moorings.
This is perfect, he thought to himself, this is bloody perfect.
He didn’t particularly want to move from the garden, but glancing at his watch, he was surprised to find that he had been sitting there for over an hour and a half, and realized that he should be heading back to the house to see Richard. He jumped to his feet, throwing his breakfast wrappings into the litter-bin beside the bench and, making his way across to the gate and out into the street, he waved heartily as he passed his grumpy friend in the gatehouse before starting back up Pearl Street.
The main street of Leesport was now filled with cars and bicycles, the sidewalks bustling with shoppers. As he weaved his way through them, David had the thought that he should buy Carrie a small token for her kindness in feeding “the invisible man” over the past few days. He caught sight of a flower shop on the opposite side of the street, and quickly crossing over the road, he entered in.
Half a minute later he reappeared, clutching a huge bunch of carnations in his arms while at the same time attempting to stuff the change from his purchase into his wallet. He took a couple of paces and half a dozen coins fell from his hand and clinked onto the sidewalk, rolling off in different directions. Swearing quietly to himself, he bent down to pick them up.
The last to be retrieved was a quarter which had rolled into the edge of the sidewalk, nestling under a flower-box attached to the wall of the next-door shop. Having recovered it, he straightened up to find himself facing a window display board covered with small white cards. He glanced up at the name. It was Helping Hands, the small employment agency that he had seen on arrival in Leesport.
As he turned to walk away, his eyes swept with casual interest across the job cards on the notice-board. He stopped in his tracks. Something had registered. He took a pace back and bent down to read the card in the bottom left-hand corner.
TEMPORARY HANDYMAN REQUIRED
for general garden work
experience preferred but not necessary
apply within
He stood up slowly, his eyes transfixed on the card, then stepped back from the window, his mind whirring with thoughts and ideas. Then suddenly, reason took over and he shook his head derisively at such an impractical thought. He walked away from the shop, but almost immediately came to a halt once more, and a young woman, who had been pushing a pram along the sidewalk behind him, bumped it heavily into the backs of his legs.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, holding up a hand in apology.
David jumped aside to clear her path. “No, it’s me who should apologize,” he said, smiling at her. “Just having a moment of indecision.”
The young mother laughed. “Yep, I just had one of those in the supermarket, but I put it down to postnatal syndrome.”
David raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, well, I’m afraid I don’t think that I could use that excuse.”
The young woman pulled down the corners of her mouth and looked at him out of the side of her eyes in mock contemplation of this suggestion. “No—maybe not. But hey, I just thought, well, it’s a beautiful day, why not go for it!—you should maybe do the same!”
Beaming a smile at him, she gave the pram a hefty push and continued on her way. For a moment David remained where he was, watching after her. She was right, he thought to himself, what the hell, and, turning briskly on his heel, he headed back to the shop and pushed open the door.
Although the office was only sparsely furnished with a sofa and
coffee-table, two desks and a filing cabinet, David was immediately struck by the way in which it had been decorated, the soft pink of the walls picked out in the patterned loose covers of the sofa and in part of the zig-zag design of the fitted-carpet. One of the desks was occupied by a young girl, a pair of huge round spectacles balanced precariously on the end of her snub nose, whose fingers moved like lightning across the keyboard of her computer. At the other sat a large smooth-faced man of about sixty dressed in a brightly coloured loose-fitting shirt, its collar turned up to protect his neck from the two heavy gold-link chains from which were suspended a pen and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. His thick grey hair was combed back across his head, held immaculately in place by glistening quantities of styling-gel. As David entered, they both looked round in his direction, and the man jumped lightly to his feet and came around his desk to greet him.
“Hi, I’m Clive Hanley,” he said, holding out his hand to David. “Can I be of assistance?”
David shook his hand. “Well, er, it was only an inquiry, really, about one of the cards in your window?”
Clive smiled at him. “Certainly, of course. Now what would you be particularly interested in?”
“The handyman.”
“Okay—so—you want a handyman, is that right?”
“No—I was wondering about getting a job myself.”
Clive paused, furrowing his brow, and looked David up and down. “I see…”
“Maybe I should explain a bit,” David said, realizing that the man seemed a little non-plussed by his request. “It’s just that I’m just over here from Scotland staying—”
“Scotland!” Clive interjected with a flourish. “I love Scotland! It’s just so … barren!”
David waited for him to continue with his eulogy, but that seemingly was all he had to say on the subject of Scotland.
“Yes, well,” David continued, “as I was saying, I’m over here staying with friends, and—well, I’m just hanging about the house at the minute, getting under everybody’s feet, so I came out for a walk and just happened to see your sign in the window. I do have some experience, and well, it does say temporary.”
“Right, okay,” Clive said slowly, nodding his head. “Let’s think about this for a minute. How long do you expect to be over here? You see, I would really need at least a month’s commitment before I can put you on my books, otherwise it’s just not fair to my clients.”
David bit at his lip for a moment before replying. “Yeah, that should be all right,” he said, taking instant decisions on his future as he went along.
Clive clapped his hands together conclusively. “Well, let’s take some details, shall we? Come and sit down on the sofa, and I’ll go get a form from my desk. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks,” David said, holding up a hand, “I’ve just had one.”
While Clive rummaged around in the drawers of his desk, David walked over to the sofa and sat down, casting a look around the office once more. Clive noticed this as he approached him, form in hand and, plumping himself down on the sofa next to him, he joined David in his appraisal of the décor.
“Not what one would expect of an employment agency, is it? I mean, I was quite happy with the yellow walls and green linoleum that were here already, but my friend insisted on doing the whole place up. He said that I couldn’t possibly work in a place that didn’t inspire me. Of course, I think he’s done a wonderful job, but I sometimes wonder if it’s not just a little bit like a beauty salon!”
With a laugh, he pushed himself forward to the front of the sofa and put the form on the coffee-table in front of him, then, placing his spectacles on the tip of his nose, he pulled his pen from its holder around his neck.
“Okay! Let’s get started. Your name is?”
“David Corstorphine. C-o-r-s-t-o-r-p-h-i-n-e.”
“And your address?”
David thought for a moment. “Uh, well, right at this very minute, it’s Fifty-two North Harlens—but I think that I might be looking around for somewhere else to stay.”
For a moment Clive held his pen above the paper while he contemplated this. “So, no problem.” He started to write again. “How would it be if I just used this as your contact address, and if you do happen to move, you can always let me know.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
“Okay—now, what’s the next question? Ah, yes—are you married?”
David took in a deep breath. “No—no, I’m not. I’m not married.” He exhaled with a sigh of relief. He had done it. The moment had passed.
“Now, what else?” Clive continued. “Ah yes—hobbies.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hobbies. Have you got any hobbies?”
Seeing that David was a little mystified by the question, Clive put down his pen on the table and leaned back in the sofa.
“I know that it might seem a little strange to ask a question like that, but it’s just one of my eccentric little rules to try to learn as much as I can about a prospective employee. I just think that finding out about an individual’s hobbies gives such a wonderful indication of his or her character.” He pulled a face and placed both hands theatrically across his chest. “I mean, can you imagine how dreadful it would be if I ended up employing a serial killer!”
David smiled at the man, warming to his cosy antics. “Okay. Right. Hobbies. Well—I play tennis and a bit of golf—and I shoot.”
Clive, who had resumed his writing, stopped, and looked slowly round to David, a startled expression on his face.
“No, sorry,” David said, shaking his head, realizing that Clive had thought that his worst nightmare might have been fulfilled. “Forget that. It was rather a stupid thing to say. What else do I do?—Oh yes, right, I play the guitar rather badly.”
“Classical, folk or pop?”
“What?”
“Sorry! My turn to be silly.” Clive let out a short laugh and squeezed his hands self-consciously between his clenched knees. “It’s just that I have been known to strum a little myself, though I’m far from contemporary. I’m really most partial to Peter, Paul and Mary, because they use such easy chord changes.”
There was a moment of silence while he waited for David to make some sort of comment, but none was forthcoming.
“Anyway,” he continued airily, bending forward once more over the questionnaire. “Let’s get on with this. I think that’s just about it.” He gave it a final check-through, put his pen back in its holder, and jumped to his feet.
“There! So much for the formalities. Now let’s go over and see what Dotti can come up with on her screen of wisdom.”
David got up from the sofa and followed Clive over to the girl with the computer.
“Okay, Dotti,” Clive said, leaning over the girl’s shoulder. “As you are now no doubt aware, this is David.”
The girl looked up at David, pushing her spectacles as far up onto her nose as possible with an index finger, and gave him a shy smile before returning to her screen. Clive put the completed questionnaire in front of her.
“These are his particulars, which you can enter later. Now we want to find David a job as a handyman, so let’s bring up that file and see what we’ve got.”
Dotti slid her mouse around the desk, clicking furiously. As the information came up, Clive scanned the screen while Dotti flicked down the list.
“We need to find something in this neck of the woods, don’t we … okay.… Stop there, Dotti! That’s it there! Newman.” He turned to David. “They’re new clients, David, I haven’t yet supplied them with anyone.” He turned back to the screen. “Where are they, Dotti?”
“Barker Lane,” Dotti said.
“Yeah, that would be just perfect. Judging from the address, I reckon that their house would be somewhere down on the waterfront, along the marina? Do you want to give it a go?”
“Of course!” David said.
“Okay, Dotti, let’s print out the address!”
; Dotti set the printer whirring, and the Newman data sheet appeared on the print-out tray. Clive picked it up and handed it to David.
“Here you are, then. I’ll phone Mrs. Newman and tell her that you’ll be there first thing Monday morning, okay?”
David nodded.
“Now you’ll need to know where the street is,” Clive said, turning back towards his desk. “I have a map of Leesport somewhere…”
“No, honestly!” David said, stopping him in his tracks. “I haven’t got much else to do over the next couple of days, so I’ll just go and look for it myself.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” He took hold of David’s arm and guided him to the door, and as they passed the sofa, David bent down to pick up his bunch of flowers.
“Clive?” Dotti’s sugary voice sounded out.
Clive turned to his assistant. “Yes, Dotti?”
“You haven’t mentioned pay to David,” she said quietly.
Clive brought both hands up to his cheeks and a look of horror lengthened his face. “Oh my God, what must you be thinking, David? I cannot imagine!” He began to walk back to his desk, but David put up his hand to stop him.
“Listen … erm … this may sound a bit strange … but I’m actually quite happy just to do the job … rather than get paid…”
Clive looked at him, not quite understanding what he was saying.
“You see,” David elaborated further, “I only have a visitor’s visa. I don’t actually have a work permit. But I would really rather do the job and not get paid. I mean, I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”
Clive stroked at the side of his cheek with his hand and nodded slowly.
“Ah, so I get paid and you don’t. Doesn’t sound very fair to me.” He turned to Dotti. “What do you think, Dotti? Any bright ideas?”
Dotti swung around in her chair, her nose wrinkled up to help secure her spectacles, her brow furrowed in thought. “Well,” she said slowly. “I suppose what we could do is that if David does manage to find a place of his own, we could cover his expenses for food and rent. Then he would just be earning his board and lodgings.”
An Ocean Apart Page 18