Читать книгу A Cottage in the Country: Escape to the cosiest little cottage in the country - Linn Halton B. - Страница 15

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 arrive 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.

"Mr Hart?" I call after him, quickening my pace to catch up with him.

He barely takes the time to glance around, shrugging his shoulders and continuing to stride out. Each movement is purposeful and powerful; the man is all muscle. His head is shaven; from this vantage point I can see that's because he's lost most of the hair on the top. That tell-tale clean stripe down the centre is bordered by a fuzz of new growth. His face isn't clean-shaven either, but it also couldn't be described as a beard, more designer stubble. I don't think that's intentional, I just think he probably spends more time in the gym than he does looking in the mirror. His age is hard to determine. He has the physique of a man used to lifting heavy things – huge, muscular arms; lean, and a neck I probably couldn't get my hands around at full stretch. The question in my mind is will I feel comfortable having this man in my home? He looks more like a bouncer than a kitchen-fitter, but there's a magnetism about him that just made something inside me turn to jelly. What on earth? I take a very deep breath and assume it's merely hunger. Clearly, I'm in need of a quick sugar-fix. He isn't my type – too rough around the edges and very little in the way of manners, it would appear.

"I'm late," he throws the words over his shoulder with no hint of an apology whatsoever.

"Well, erm…thank you for coming. Let me just open the door…"

He doesn't move aside, but stands directly in my way, so I have to scoot around him. He's about my height, five foot eight, and as I swing open the door and spin back around, we're standing eye to eye. He raises his eyebrows at me and my knees start to cave. How ridiculous! I'm a grown woman, not some love-sick teenager!

"You're older than I expected." His voice is casual, but I'm rendered speechless and now I'm fuming. Suddenly those wobbly legs stand firm. How rude! Keep calm, keep calm – you need this guy more than he needs you. Ooh, that didn't help … the thought of needing a man like him inspires a totally different chain of thought.

"I was thinking the same thing." I throw the words back with a casual air, to indicate that he's going to have to do better than that to offend me.

"I can see why you were sounding so stressed out. On your own, are you?"

If this is his normal mode of conversation, I'm not sure I can put up with it. He's here to look at the kitchen, not make small talk.

"I'm in need of someone to rip out the old kitchen and put in the new one. All the goods and materials are on order, but the kitchen units won't be arriving until the twenty-third of December. If work starts on the day after I move in, that would give you three days to strip it out and lay the new floor, first. I have a plasterer coming in to make good the walls. I'm assuming you could at least get the basics in by Christmas Eve? Can you handle that?"

It strikes me that I'm being unnecessarily abrupt, but he's beginning to unnerve me. Mr Hart follows me into the kitchen and stands with his arms folded, muscles rather ridiculously popping out of the arms of his seen-better-days tee-shirt.

"I've already put you in my little book." His face doesn't give me a clue what that means and I wait, assuming he will explain. As the seconds stretch out I realise that's it.

"Which means?"

He looks directly at me and his forehead wrinkles up into a puzzled frown.

"I'll be here on the twentieth, early."

Another silence begins to stretch out rather awkwardly and I find myself being out-stared.

"Don't you want to write anything down or look at the kitchen plan? Can you cope with re-plumbing the sink, or do I need to get someone in to do that? I'm not sure what your skills are exactly, Mr Hart."

Another frown and I get the distinct impression that I'm bothering him.

"I can re-fit a kitchen, Miss Brooks. In fact, I can do just about everything. And I don't need to write anything down. I know this place inside and out. I was Aggie's maintenance man."

I'm not sure that gives me a lot of confidence, considering the state of the cottage. I have to make a quick decision here. I'm in his book, which means I have a contractor, but can I put up with his rather bizarre and surly attitude?

"Right…um, good. Um…so what is the purpose of today's visit?"

"I thought I'd check you out first. I like to be left alone to get on with a job and not have someone peering over my shoulder every two minutes, changing their mind about what they want. It happens."

That makes my eyebrows shoot up into my fringe. Is he purposely trying to wind me up?

"I know exactly what I want, Mr Hart. Here is the new layout and on the second page you will find a breakdown of all of the items that are on order. I'm assuming you will provide things like plumbing fittings, filler, caulk and any additional timber you might need. If there's anything not on that list that you want me to purchase, just let me know. If I can have a price for the entire job, including connecting the cooker and the plumbing work, that would be very helpful. I have rather a tight budget."

We both know price isn't really relevant. There's no one else available at such short notice, as Mr Chappell didn't have any luck finding me someone. It does worry me slightly as to why Mr Hart is free when everyone else is rushed off their feet. I figure that that's information I'm probably better off not knowing. If Aggie used him and Terence is prepared to recommend him, too, then I have to trust that he will do a good job. Even Sarah, at the estate agents, seemed to think highly of him.

"Your budget is your business, Miss Brooks. The price is the price. I'll text it to you later today. See you on the twentieth. I'll be here by seven. I'm also Gas Safe registered, which means I can fit cookers. This one is dual fuel; Calor gas hob and electric oven. If you're replacing it, make sure you order a conversion kit. But I expect you knew that." There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice and I feel myself reddening. Of course I realised it was dual fuel, but no one mentioned a conversion kit when I placed the order.

We've been inside for less than five minutes and he's out of the door before I have a chance to ask any more questions. I spin around, taking in the tired kitchen and the ancient cooker.

"Aggie," I mutter in desperation, "I hope I can trust your judgement. He sounds like he knows what he's doing, but he's so damned arrogant. He'd better not let me down."

I zip up my padded jacket as the damp chill in the air sends a shiver through me. I hope the plumber turns up to fix that vandalised pipe and the oil delivery arrives before my first sleep here.

"I'm sure it will all be fine, Aggie, and the cottage is going to look lovely. It's in safe hands; promise." Sharing my problems with her might gain me some good karma, but it's sad to think there's no one else to listen to me.

As I place the key in the lock I almost have to pinch myself. Very soon this will all be mine and even if I have to put up with people like Mr Hart, it will be worth it in the end. I stop for a minute to take in the view and revel in a sense of something akin to renewal. The stresses of modern-day living seem far removed from this scene of peaceful tranquility. As I watch, grey squirrels leap from tree to tree in search of any last remnants of bounty. Even in winter the scene is magnificent.

On the drive back the rain begins to fall once more.

My phone pings and it's a text.

Ryan: You’ve been on my mind. How’s it going?

Me: Good. I have a kitchen-fitter.

Ryan: Go you! We should celebrate.

Me: Rain check on that one. Too much to sort out. Sorry. How r u?

Ryan: Disappointed. I’m here if u need me.

Now I feel bad.

Me: Thanks, really. It means a lot. See you soon, promise!

Besides, I'm not sure I'd be good company at the moment, but it's too difficult to explain. It strikes me that Ryan has always been there for me no matter what else is happening in his life. I suppose he filled the void that Jeff created as we drifted apart. I don't know why that comes as such a surprise, really.

The subject of the vandalised oil tank seems to dominate my thoughts. I decided it's madness not to address the problem, as the rain continues to pour relentlessly. There seems to be no let-up whatsoever and it isn't just drizzling rain, but the stuff that soaks you in seconds and makes you feel distinctly miserable. Time for an update.

"It's not good news," Sharon Greene's very professional tone conveys no emotion, despite her words, and I wonder if that's something a solicitor has to learn. "The bank is insisting that the cottage is sold as seen. They are not prepared to have the vandalised oil tank fixed, and they've rejected my request for you to be allowed access prior to completion to sort out the problem."

"Can they do that?" I'm rather shocked at what feels like a callous reaction.

"Their policy with probate cases is that everything in the property is switched off at the mains. The estate agents do not have the authority to switch anything back on in case of a potential leak or the risk of fire. An empty property is at risk, simply because if something happens it could be a while before it's discovered. If the plumber did any damage while carrying out the repair, the bank would be held liable in the first instance. I know it seems harsh, but it's pretty standard practice, it just doesn't come up very often."

"Well, thank you for trying. It seems I'll have to get a plumber lined up to start work the moment I have the keys and book the oil delivery for later in the day. At least the heating should be on by the evening, so that's some comfort."

There's absolutely no reaction from Sharon.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" It's not a question aimed at evoking a response and I have the distinct feeling she's signing off on this case.

"No, I think that's it, Sharon. Thank you for your help and I'm only sorry I bothered you with this matter." I feel slightly embarrassed, as if I should have known that dealing with an institution isn't like dealing with a normal person. They don't care if I freeze, or whether the oil tank ever gets filled.

By some miracle, in less than twenty-four hours I have a plumber who specialises in emergency call-outs. He says he can make himself available from eleven o'clock on moving day.

The universe must have been sending out good karma and taking pity on me as things begin to fall into place. So the order of play will be keys, plumber, oil delivery – what can go wrong? As if by magic I seem to have everything covered.

Tick-tock, tick-tock – moving-in day can’t come fast enough! Now if I could just do something about that incessant rain…