The Three Rs

by Ashe Barker

  That makes sense to me, and I continue to bombard him with questions about just how they might be able to fireproof the building. If my interest amuses or surprises him, Cain doesn’t show it. He answers my queries patiently, and in no time it seems to me we’re pulling into the parking pace alongside the warehouse. The building itself is surrounded by scaffolding, and is a hive of activity as construction workers scurry up and down ladders and along the external platforms.

  Cain heads for the site entrance, a double decker portakabin erected alongside the main warehouse, and I trot after him. There’s a poster-sized notice at the side of the entrance, covered in tightly packed small print and diagrams. Cain points to it.

  “As you’re not a regular on construction sites you’re supposed to read that. You need to be familiar with health and safety regulations.” He pauses by the door, allowing me time to read the notice. Or so he thinks.

  I make a pretense of staring at it, paying particular attention to the symbols as those might make some sense, and wondering how long this should take. My heart is sinking. Even when I think I might have found something I can do, something that really interests me, my bloody reading trips me up, and I find myself lying again. Covering my tracks. Again. Cain helps me out after a few minutes.

  “Have you nearly done?”

  I nod hastily. “Yes, yes I’m fine.”

  “Okay then.” He opens the door of the portakabin and gestures me inside. I step through, into a sort of makeshift canteen. There are long tables, lined with plastic chairs, a few of them occupied. At the far end is a water boiler, and on the table next to it a huge tin of coffee, a pile of teabags, a half-used up bag of sugar and a stack of polystyrene cups. Workmen are gathered around the tables, in two groups mainly. They all have cups of something steaming in front of them, and there’s a scattering of newspapers being passed around. Cain nods to one or two of the men, and I wonder if they’re part of our team here. I don’t have time to ask though before he’s heading for another door, this time leading into the busy site office.

  “Morning, Rachel. Is Steve here yet?” Cain’s question is addressed to the woman behind the closest desk.

  Of the other four or five desks arranged around the room only two are occupied, both by middle aged men who ignore us as we enter. Rachel is aged around thirty, I’d say, and is dressed rather like I am, jeans, a sweatshirt and a high-vis jacket. There the similarity ends though, as she looks up at Cain, and answers him without her fingers ever faltering in their lightning dash across her keyboard.

  “Yes. In the meeting room. They’re just starting. Do you want a coffee bringing in?” Her final remark is aimed at both of us, her smile friendly and welcoming.

  “Yes, if you would please.” Cain is stepping around her desk, now headed for the meeting room I imagine.

  I trail behind him.

  “Yours is black, I know that. What about you…?”

  Cain stops, turns back to face Rachel. “Sorry. I should have introduced you. This is Abigail Fischer, co-owner of Parrish Construction. She’s accompanying me today.”

  This news doesn’t seem to be at all out of place. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Fischer. I’m Rachel, Site Administrator and general dogsbody.” She gets up from her desk, and offers me her hand.

  I take it, and shake briefly. This is a far cry from cleaning schools. No one ever shakes your hand there.

  I smile back. “Abigail, please. And I’d like mine white if that’s okay. With three sugars.”

  “Coming right up. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  I follow Cain across the main office and through the only other door. Four men are already in there seated casually around a table on yet more plastic chairs. Cain gestures me to take the one remaining spare chair then turns to go back into the main office. The men all smile politely at me, and one of them, a burly middle aged chap, stands and leans across the table to offer me his hand.

  “Morning. I’m Steve Williams, Project Manager.”

  I shake his hand, and remember Cain’s introduction when I met Rachel. Taking inspiration from that, I announce myself as the co-owner of Parrish Construction, just as Cain returns with two more chairs, possibly borrowed from the canteen. He places one next to me and the other opposite us. As he takes his seat, Rachel arrives, carrying a tray full of cups. One of the men stands and takes it from her, and she turns on her heel to dash out again, only to return moments later. This time she’s carrying a pile of files, drawings and other important looking documents which she dumps in the middle of the table. She extricates a large notepad from among the pile and takes the one remaining vacant seat.

  “Right. Now we’re all here, do we need introductions?” Steve starts the proceedings.

  Soon I learn that as well as Steve, Rachel and Cain, I’m in the company of David Mitchell and Sam Berrisford, both architects, and Jack Naylor, A.R.T.’s regional head of finance. No one questions my presence, so I settle in to listen.

  The discussion is mainly about complying with planning regulations, and Cain’s endeavors yesterday were apparently all to do with ensuring that the foundations for the building are strong enough to support the additional weight once new floors and extra internal walls go in. This is not normally Parrish Construction’s responsibility, but A.R.T. hired Cain as a consultant to accompany the clerk of works on his inspection and report back today. Cain does most of the talking for the first half hour or so, and everyone listens. He’s clearly someone who knows his stuff. He’s confident, self-assured, and I desperately wish I could be more like that. Perhaps, one day…

  Even though there’s a fair amount of incomprehensible jargon being bandied about, I find I can follow most of what’s being explained. The conversation moves on, and we discuss the finances of the scheme. Mr Naylor appears content that everything is on budget, and I understand that concept well enough too. The only tricky issue remaining is one of timing as it seems the electricians and the decorators both want to be on site at the same time. The clash has arisen because the decorating sub-contractor is now insisting on coming a week earlier than previously agreed. For her part, Rachel insists that can’t happen as the electricians will be burying cabling in the walls, and the plasterers would then have to do their thing before the painters could start. She proposes phasing the works so that the electricians start at one end, closely followed by the plasterers then by the decorators. She makes a note to insure the cabling supplies are delivered in time for the electrical crew to get set up and under way.

  As I listen to the conversation, I realize that this is primarily what Rachel’s job consists of—making sure everything and everyone is in the right place at the right time. She tells the men how it’s going to be, and they do as she says. That’s what happens, I suppose, when you’re good at your job and everyone knows better than to argue.

  The morning flies past and before I know it, it’s half-past ten and a pile of bacon sandwiches arrive, delivered, I gather, from the mobile vending trailer which has set up next door to the site to sell greasy burgers and such like to the hungry construction workers. The men insist that Rachel and I help ourselves first, but the conversation hardly flags as we munch and plan. Well, they do. I munch and listen.

  Soon, it’s lunch time, and by then we’ve covered revisions to the internal layout of the individual apartments to create a slightly larger kitchen. The planners like big kitchens apparently. I know how they feel. A.R.T. also need to upgrade the heating system, but Mr Naylor is happy with that as the extra cost will be covered from savings they can make on internal decorations and generally speeding up the work. As well as appeasing the decorators, Rachel’s queuing system is actually quicker, and therefore costs less to do. They all like the sound of that.

  By the time Cain and I wander out to the burger van to see what else might be on offer by way of suitable lunch-time refreshment, my head is buzzing with questions. I’m finding all this absolutely enthralling, and I want to learn all I can about how a scheme like
this goes together. Cain answers as best he can, but eventually has to concede defeat to Rachel who’s joined us after we returned to the canteen. We chew on our hot beef sandwiches while she picks at her plastic tub of mixed salad. Rachel seems happy enough to satisfy my rampant curiosity, and even offers to take me with her when she does her round of the site later. She has to do a progress review each week, and today’s the day. I accept gratefully, especially as I know Cain will be caught up in the interviews and I’d otherwise be at a loose end.

  * * * *

  While Cain is closeted with the rest of the panel meeting with potential electrical contractors, I get to spend a very enjoyable couple of hours scrambling up ladders and over scaffolding with Rachel. She moves from one floor to the next, chatting to foremen and supervisors, checking that there are enough materials on hand or on order to enable work to progress without any hold-ups. She makes notes of any issues she needs to deal with later. As we make our way back to the site office, I ask her how she got into this job.

  “I just sort of drifted here, I suppose. My dad is a plumber, and I sometimes went to jobs with him. I’ve been hanging around building sites since I was a kid, and I like the atmosphere. My first job was in a bank, but I hated that. So when A.R.T. advertised for clerical staff, I applied. I’ve worked for them about ten years now, and my job has grown to this. I like the variety, moving around as developments are completed.”

  “Don’t you have to have some sort of special qualification? A degree in building or something?”

  She shrugs. “There are qualifications. Most of our engineers are graduates. Not me though. I’ve done courses along the way, in project management, health and safety, equal opportunities, that sort of thing. But mostly I’ve just picked things up as I’ve gone along.” She pauses to count the rows in a stack of breeze blocks before turning back to me. “So, what about you? What do you do at Parrish Construction? Apart from fucking Cain, obviously.”

  I stare at her. Did I hear that right? Apparently I did, because she’s standing there, grinning at me. There’s nothing malicious in her expression, but she does seem interested, And amused by my reaction.

  “Come on, don’t be coy. He’s an attractive man, who wouldn’t?”

  Who indeed? Rachel?

  “If I was into men, I’d probably shag him myself. As it is, you’re more my type. But I’m fixed up already so don’t look so horrified. I won’t be jumping your bones any time soon. Unless you’d like me to, of course…?”

  I shake my head, not sure how to respond to that offer. “Er, no, no thank you. I mean, I’m sure that would be nice, but…”

  “God, Abbie, you’re so easy to wind up. I can tell why Cain adores you. Come on, let’s find out if they’re done yet. And you still haven’t told me what your job there is.”

  I trail behind her as we make our way along the last section of scaffolding and down the final ladder to the ground, wondering what to say. I settle on something which is not too far from the truth—or at least the truth as I’d like it to be.

  “I’ve not been there long. This is my first week, actually. I think I’ll be helping out with publicity though, advertising.”

  “Right. You do look like one of those creative types, come to think of it.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not but decide to take it as one. “Thanks. I suppose I am, a bit. I’m a painter.”

  “I see. But not an emulsion merchant, I assume.”

  “No. I do mainly watercolors, sometimes oils. And I draw. In fact, I was wondering if anyone would object to me making a few sketches while I’m here?”

  She waves her arm expansively around her. “Feel free. I’m going in for a brew now though, so I’ll see you back inside.” She tucks her clipboard decisively under her arm and leaves me to it.

  I spend the next hour or so busily sketching various scenes and angles. No one takes any notice of me, or if they do they’re either too busy themselves, or too polite, to comment. I capture the sense of ordered chaos as assorted troops of workers scurry around, each engrossed in their own part of this big jigsaw, each seemingly confident that if they do their own little bit, all the rest will fall into place around them. I’m sure they’re right, but that happy outcome is largely down to Rachel, I suspect.

  Eventually Cain finds me perched on a stack of paving slabs, engrossed in sketching a JCB as it trundles up and down its roughly pressed track, delivering stone to a team who I suppose must be Parrish Construction. I recall Cain telling me we’re doing the dressed stone work, and yesterday morning he mentioned wanting to supervise a delivery. This must be it. I don’t see him approaching until he hitches his hip onto the slab alongside me.

  “Rachel said you were drawing. Can I look?”

  He’s peering over my shoulder, so I angle the sketchpad so he can see better as I continue to put the final strokes of my pencil in place.

  “Hey, now that’s good. Really good. In fact…” He looks carefully at my drawing, his head cocked to one side. “I know you draw what you see, but I wonder, could you put a sign in the foreground, just here”—he points with his finger to show where he means—“and write ‘Parrish Construction’ on it? Then we could use that in our advertising. Or better still, write it on the side of the JCB. That’d be smaller, more subtle…”

  He breaks off as I snatch my sketchpad back and slam it shut. I can no more write ‘Parrish Construction’ on a sign than I can fly up to the top of the scaffolding on the building in front of us.

  “Hey, what’s wrong? It was just an idea…”

  And it was a good idea. How many more good ideas will I not be able to take up because of this, this problem of mine?

  I mumble my excuse. “You’re right, I only sketch what I see. If you like though, I’ll draw the sign that’s outside the yard onto the picture. When we get back. Will that do?” I can copy the lettering from the sign easily enough, if it’s in front of me.

  He shrugs. “Sure. However you want to do it’s fine with me.” He stands, his smile now ever so slightly puzzled, as though he knows something’s not quite right here, but he can’t figure it out. Yet.

  I hold my breath, tensing for whatever his next question might be, but it doesn’t come. I’m off the hook again. For the moment at least. Instead, he stands and tilts his head in the direction of our van. “I’m ready to be getting off now, if you are?”

  I nod, gathering my stuff together and putting it in my bag with my pad. “I’ll just say goodbye to Rachel though.”

  “Ah, yes, your new best friend. Did she proposition you?”

  My blush gives it away, and he chuckles. “Christ, she’s rampant. I should have given you the head’s up. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine, really. She’s very nice.”

  “Nice?” His eyebrows lower and he eyes me suspiciously

  I punch his arm. “Yes. Nice. But not my type.”

  His eyebrows relax again. “Ah. I’m so relieved. Right, you go do your farewells then. I’ll see you in the van.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The first half hour or so of the journey back is spent in silence. I’m contemplating how to smooth over the awkwardness created by my irrational response to his suggestion, and Cain is no doubt reflecting on what a moody cow I am. I’m the one to crack first. I never could bear an unpleasant atmosphere.

  “Thanks for bringing me along today. I enjoyed it.”

  He shoots me a quick glance before returning his attention to the traffic. “I’m glad. So, would you come with me again?”

  “Yes! I’d love it. Where are we going tomorrow? Same place?”

  He smiles, no doubt amused by my enthusiasm. “Sadly not. Tomorrow I’m doing real work—installing your new boiler. Phyllis emailed to say it’s been delivered so we can get it fitted and working.”

  “Ah. Right.” I’m not sure what I think of that prospect. My new boiler. My new flat. No reason to stay at Cain’s any longer then, once the heating’s fixed.

&n
bsp; A few minutes pass, more silence, only slightly less awkward now.

  Cain is first to speak. “I’ve enjoyed having you around. At my house, I mean. And not just because of the mind-blowing sex.”

  Now it’s my turn to slant him a glance. “I’ve enjoyed being there. You’ve made me feel very welcome. And not just because of the sex…”

  He smiles. “No. But it definitely helps.”

  “We could still, you know… Even if I’m living in the flat I mean.”

  “Are you saying you’d still let me spank you? And fuck you? Even if you’re living in the flat?”

  I’m not convinced he needs to be quite so blunt about it, but that is basically my point and I see no benefit in confusing the issue. “Yes. I would. If that’s what you want too, obviously.”

  “Obviously. Not as convenient though. Maybe you should stay with me a bit longer, see how it goes for a while…?”

  His eyes never leave the traffic as I stare at his profile and ponder what it is he’s actually saying to me. Convenient? I might have hoped for a little more enthusiasm, especially as he seems to be inviting me to stay with him indefinitely. Is he asking me to move in? I only met him a month ago, we’ve been sleeping together for just a matter of days. Surely it’s too soon…?

  As if my doubts and confusion were spoken out loud, he interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t overthink it, Abbie. The flat’ll still be there whatever. And once I’ve put the new boiler in, it’ll be warm. I like you, you like me. Or you seem to. I’m just saying we could leave matters as they are, see what develops.”

  He makes it sound so reasonable, not a big deal at all. Why not?

  Because he’ll hurt me, that’s why not. And not just physically. If—when—he finds out what I’ve been hiding, he’ll dump me. He’s sure to—I’d be a liability as a business partner, and not terribly interesting as a companion. And the sex might be good, better than good, but that’ll soon fade. What man wants a stupid girlfriend, lover, submissive or whatever I might be? He’d be embarrassed by me, ashamed of me. Nearly as ashamed as I am of myself.