Sign of the Times

by Susan Buchanan

  His guests gone, Tom slipped off his tie, picked up a bottle of water and drank it in one go. He’d needed something to slake his thirst. Whether that was from the strain and pressure he felt, or if it was down to his hangover, he couldn’t be sure. Buzzing his secretary, he asked if she could get him a bacon sandwich from somewhere.

  By the afternoon Tom felt more human. He was due to visit two sites shortly and was glad he’d perked up, as the men would wind him up and say he couldn’t handle his drink. Although he was the boss, he didn’t rule with an iron rod. Starting off as a brickie’s apprentice not quite two decades ago, years of hard graft and sheer determination had got him where he was now. He craved the security that financial success could give him, something his family hadn’t had, when he was growing up.

  His business had started off small, just him, but his reputation had grown, as people were impressed with the job he did, so he had taken on a few labourers. Six months later he’d needed to employ four more men and the success story continued. Thinking back to those halcyon days, he wondered where it had all gone wrong. Was there less competition then? He quoted a fair price for a good job and liked to pay his labourers fairly, so they wouldn’t want to move on. Shaking his large, blond head in despair, he wondered how his fiercest competitor was able to quote such killer prices.

  Donning a hard hat as he arrived at the site, Tom flipped open his notepad to check what should have been done since his last visit. He liked to be involved, to still get his hands dirty, but he really must talk to Jamie about becoming Assistant Manager. They’d also have to look at doing some advertising, to try and drum up more business.

  Just then, he spotted Jamie striding out of the show home. Flipping his hard hat back on, Jamie noticed Tom waving at him and with his face set in a grim line, he made his way over.

  “Hi Tom. How’s it going?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. Everything on schedule?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean sort of?” asked Tom surprised.

  “Well, one of our timber deliveries has gone missing. The truck seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Derek and Nigel are off sick. Nigel fell out of his loft and broke his leg, so he’s going to be out the game for a while. Joe says his wages were short. He hasn’t been paid any overtime, so he’s like a bear with a sore head. He wants to talk to you about it. We’re a wee bit behind, but we should make it for the twenty ninth. What do you want to do about Nigel? Do you want to bring someone over from another site? I reckon he’ll be out of commission until this site’s complete.”

  Tom took all this in and said, “Ask Admin to put an ad out and I’ll take Ray off the Mollinsburn site. We’re less stretched there, although I’m not sure Mike will agree. It’ll only be temporary. I’ll drop into Nigel’s on the way home, see how he is.”

  “Right boss. Anything else?”

  “No, I just needed a status update. I’ll have a walk round the site and then check in with Cynthia about Joe’s wages. See you Wednesday.”

  “Yep” and Jamie walked back to plot number eight. Tom strolled around the site, making notes and praising the guys on the good job they’d done so far. Once he was satisfied, he headed back to the office.

  “Cynthia, can I see the time sheets for Joe Nash please?”

  With a few clicks, Cynthia quickly printed copies of Joe’s timesheets. “They’re on the printer.”

  Comfortably ensconced in his office, Tom checked Joe’s sheets. It was like reading doctors’ handwriting. It looked like Jamie had signed off his usual forty hours and another five for Saturday, but then it looked like the totals had been altered. He checked against the records. He had been paid for forty five hours, but here he was claiming an additional twelve. Tom frowned, trying to remember if he’d authorised more overtime. He didn’t recall doing so.

  Retrieving his messages, he heard Holly’s voice,

  “Hi. Just wanted a chat. Give me a call later.”

  Tom looked down at his watch. It was half three. He still had to go to Mollinsburn and nip in to see what that daft bugger Nigel had done to himself. He had just enough time to call Holly. The phone trilled three times before Holly answered, “Hi gorgeous. How are you?”

  Tom hoped she didn’t expect an honest answer to that. Bravely he told her everything was fine.

  “So, where are you today?” Tom asked.

  “I’m in Bibbiena. It’s a lovely little village, about twenty miles from Arezzo. Everyone’s so friendly. Already they call me la ragazzina scozzese, the wee Scottish girl. I have so much copy for my book. You’d love it. The hotel I’m staying in is fantastic too. It’s really just an old family home, a massive villa with a pool, in among the vineyards. It was definitely a good decision to come here.”

  “So, where else have you been?”

  “Well, I’ve visited the monastery at La Verna and I spent quite a bit of time in Arezzo seeing how they prepare for Le Giostra. You remember the medieval festival I told you they have all over Tuscany? But mainly I’m just scoping out the locals.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s my girl. Just keep writing and then we can retire on the proceeds,” joked Tom.

  “Ooh, listen to the big construction mogul. You’ll soon be able to keep me in the style I’ve grown accustomed to!”

  “All right,” conceded Tom, “No more quibbling.”

  “What are you up to tonight?”

  “I’ve some paperwork to do and one of the guys has broken his leg, so I’ll take him a bottle of whisky. What about you?”

  “The people in the villa next door are having a get together and they invited me. I thought it might be nice, and, I might get some material for my book.

  “You really are wicked, Holly Jameson.”

  “Isn’t that why you love me?”

  “You little minx! No, it is not. It is one of the reasons though,” Tom admitted with a grin. Aware of the time, Tom wound up the call, “Look Hols, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Enjoy the party.

  *

  “So, everything’s OK here then, Mike?”

  “’Cept me. I had the hangover from hell this morning. What did you give me last night?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Blame me! You just can’t handle your drink,” Tom ribbed his Site Manager and friend.

  “I need a favour.”

  “This should be good,” laughed Mike.

  “I want to borrow Ray for a week, two weeks tops, for Castlecary. Nigel’s broken his leg and Derek’s off sick. One man down they could cope with, but not two and we can’t afford to be behind schedule.”

  Although Mike was a good friend, Tom hadn’t discussed the financial strength of the company with him in depth. That was his business, plus he never liked to burden anyone else. So Mike didn’t know just how crucial it was they meet the deadline.

  “Well, if you can authorise me overtime, I’ll put it to the guys. Some of them are going on holiday soon, so they should be up for it. It’s the only way I could afford to give you Ray. You know he works at twice the speed of anyone else.

  “You’re not wrong there. I’ll authorise twenty five hours for now, so pick your best workers.

  “OK. That should work. I’m sure we’ll get the bodies to do the OT.”

  “Great. Listen, I need to go.”

  “No probs. Catch you next week,” said Mike as he walked away.

  Chapter Seven

  Finally home, Tom switched on his laptop. He loved this house. They’d poured a lot of time and energy into it. When he bought it, it was a wreck, but he’d managed to purchase the shell of a farmhouse for an absolute song. Tom thought if you were any good at DIY, it really was worth buying a house requiring a bit of TLC and making it your own. Houses were like people. They needed care and attention.

  They’d decided to knock down the walls separating two bedrooms and create one larger room and an ensuite. It was handy too, as when Holly was home, she spent ages in the bathroom. It was more
a necessity, than an extravagance.

  The kitchen, however, was Tom and Holly’s favourite room. Ironically for Tom really, as he hadn’t a culinary bone in his body and didn’t know one end of a fondue set from the other. An antique oil stove was already installed when they viewed the property. It was still in good condition and dominated the twenty feet room, but what Holly and Tom adored were the original wooden beams, which vaulted the ceiling in a graceful arc. The whole house sported similar beams and some rooms boasted slanting roofs. They had loved it at first sight and had immediately put in an offer. Making it habitable took a long nine months.

  Tom padded through to the kitchen, popped a beef casserole into the microwave and went to check his email. There was another from Simon, asking if Tom knew anyone else who wanted to do the ridge walk. So far there were eight of them. There was a brief note from his sister, Francesca, reminding him he had promised to come for dinner.

  His sister fussed over him so much. Their parents had been killed when they were young. Since then, Francesca became anxious over the slightest thing. Tom wished she would settle down, find someone who’d make her as happy as Holly made him, someone who could perhaps ease the pain Francesca so openly wore on her sleeve. It was as if she blamed the whole world for their parents’ death and not just the drunk driver who had collided with their parents’ Austin. Scrolling down, Tom saw an email from his bank manager, requesting a meeting. That sounded ominous.

  Disheartened, Tom closed his email and was on the verge of shutting down, when he saw it was still early. Clicking Internet Explorer again, he logged onto Chat. Surveying the possibilities, this time he elected Sportaholics. There were hundreds of people there. He watched the chat unfold between Chelsea and Man U fans re an upcoming game. Deciding he wasn’t interested in their point scoring, he moved on, coming across a conversation about the World Athletics Championships, before noticing there was a menu sub-dividing the various sports. Clicking on Walking, Tom entered the room which held eleven guests.

  Ed421: “I climbed Buchaille Etive Mhor last year. Conditions were appalling and afterwards I was told we’d gone up the wrong side. Even the goats would be lucky to get up that way.”

  Climbinggirl: “It makes all the difference if u get a good day. Never did see the point, if the weather isn’t in ur favour, as u put in all that effort and then u don’t even have a good view at the top to make it worthwhile.”

  Ed421: “I know what you mean and sometimes it can be dangerous. I did the Aonach Eagach ridge walk a few years back and the weather changed on us. We’d to call out the Mountain Rescue.”

  Climbinggirl: “I’ve been meaning to do the AE for years.”

  Farmboy35: “Hi. I noticed you’re talking about the Aonach Eagach. I’m doing it in a few weeks. Can you tell me any more about it?”

  Ed421: “Sorry, already late for work. See you.”

  Climbinggirl: “Bye Ed.”

  Tom waited to see what would happen next. Then Climbinggirl said,

  “I can tell u about the AE. My friends have done it.”

  Farmboy35: “That would be great.”

  Tom and Climbinggirl chatted for ages. Shutting down the machine he realised he was whacked. Stifling a yawn, he got up from his computer desk and went to bed. Passing the clock, he started. It was after one! He’d logged on about half nine, which meant he’d been chatting for more than three hours. They’d chatted about walking and climbing and then about the cinema and books. Now he came to think of it, what hadn’t they talked about? She was very easy to talk to, this Climbinggirl. Tom found himself wondering what her real name was.

  The next few days Tom got up at six, as usual, went to work, checked on the sites, did his paperwork, ate his TV dinner and logged on. He spent longer and longer online. By this time, Climbinggirl, or Shirley, had given him her email address and he found himself writing her ridiculously long emails late at night, after they’d finished chatting. She’d introduced him to the delights of Facebook and Bebo. He was a bit of an amateur in this respect and when Shirley first mentioned them, he had no idea what she was talking about. Since then he’d registered and even started a blog. It was good to have another friend to talk to. He wasn’t sure if she was single. It wasn’t important, as theirs was a platonic friendship. But Tom thought it significant it hadn’t been mentioned. Then again, neither had Holly.

  By this point, Tom had met with his bank manager and the news wasn’t good. So, he felt entirely justified in indulging in a little bit of light entertainment to help take his mind off his depressing state of affairs. The Chat thing was only a piece of harmless fun.

  As his computer booted up, Tom tidied up the excesses of the night before. He’d almost polished off the Glenmorangie. It was just so easy to knock back, whilst he tap-tap-tapped away at the computer. After their first couple of conversations, Shirley had suggested they use Messenger and had helped Tom install it.

  When he saw Shirley wasn’t online, Tom felt a twinge of regret. This chatting was becoming an obsession for him, reeling him in like a deadly opiate. Miffed, he decided he would check his Hotmail. An email from Simon, with definitive details of their trip. Just as he was about to reply, a beep alerted him he had new email. Eagerly he clicked Inbox and saw it was from Shirley. Like a child ripping open his Christmas presents, Tom greedily devoured the contents of the email. Dismayed when he came to the end, he then noticed the PS. “In case you feel like talking...”

  Her phone number!

  Suddenly, their chats and emails took on a different quality. Wouldn’t that be betraying Holly? Closing down, he saw Shirley was now logged on. Hastily he turned off his PC and picking up the remote, flicked over to Sky Movies.

  Tom half-heartedly watched Twister. By ten o’clock he’d had enough. He switched his computer on again. Shirley was offline. He checked his email. No new messages. Tom opened Shirley’s message, grabbed a pen and wrote her number on a Post-it. With a generous helping of Dutch courage, he dialled. A woman’s voice answered. “Shirley?”

  “Tom?” Shirley also checked to be sure. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, sorry for calling so late. I had a few things to do.”

  “No problem. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. It’s strange to hear your voice. Not bad strange,” Tom hastened to add, “nice strange, like putting a face to a name. I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?”

  Shirley laughed, “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. It is a bit strange hearing you too. You sound different to how I imagined.”

  “How did you think I’d sound?” Tom was curious.

  “Well, less… I don’t know…this might come out wrong. I suppose you have a more manly voice than I expected, deeper.”

  A little frisson of excitement shot through him. He didn’t think that could possibly be construed negatively. Bringing himself back down to Earth, Tom tried to concentrate on what Shirley was saying. She had a lovely, melodic voice, quiet but firm.

  How surreal was it to be on the phone to someone you’d met over the internet? You know so much about them, but at the same time, so little. How did he know everything she’d told him wasn’t a pack of lies? She could have been a seventy year old woman or worse a thirteen year old girl, or even a sixty year old man. OK, OK, let’s not get carried away. She had told him she was thirty four and his gut feeling told him she was telling the truth. Tom let Shirley chatter on, interjecting every so often, but taken aback by how lively and vivacious she was. He supposed her emails always had been quite lengthy. Eventually he overcame his nervousness and managed to speak to her with just as much ease as when they’d been online. When he finally replaced the receiver he noticed he’d been on the phone for over an hour.

  On Wednesday, Tom had dinner with Francesca. Shepherd’s pie, his favourite. Francesca only ever made him three dishes and all of them, she proclaimed to be his favourite.

  As he shovelled another forkful into his mouth, he could hear Francesca wittering on about how p
erilous walking the Aonach Eagach ridge was. Switching to autopilot, to block her out, a light bulb flashed on in Tom’s head. That’s where he should meet Shirley. She had mentioned last night that she’d like to meet and Tom, disconcerted had agreed. They were to think about when and where. Tom felt a little guilty about Holly, but justified Shirley’s presence by the fact they were simply friends. As Francesca prated on, Tom decided Shirley should definitely come. He was sure Simon wouldn’t have a problem fitting one more on the trip. It would save on petrol too. Convinced Shirley would be all for the idea, he let Francesca ramble on, safe in the knowledge he was going anyway. She couldn’t stop him and what’s more, Shirley might be going too.

  His reverie was disturbed by his mobile ringing. Holly. A pang of guilt coursed through him and holding the phone away from him as if it carried MRSA he answered,

  “Hi Holly.”

  “Hi honey. How are you?”

  “I’m fine thanks. At Francesca’s.”

  “Ah, old misery guts still making you eat shepherd’s pie then?” Holly guessed

  “Something like that,” Tom replied.

  “I miss you.”

  Tom’s heart lurched, partly with longing for Holly and partly with discomfort over his potential visit to Glencoe with Shirley. How would Holly react if she knew? She wouldn’t be too pleased, even if it was all perfectly innocent.

  He listened inattentively. Finally, even Holly noticed.

  “Tom, are you OK?”

  “I’ve just had a long day,” he fibbed. “Can I call you back? It’s just that I’m at Francesca’s and I should really be…” he chose his words carefully, his sister seated opposite him, “making the most of it.”

  “O-o-k,” stuttered a stunned Holly, who had never before had Tom ring off on her, in favour of his domineering sister. “Bye.”

  With a slightly awkward pause, Holly hung up.

  Shit, thought Tom, she’s not happy and she has very good reason to be put out. I’ll call her back later and …think of something.