Pulled by a Dream

by Kathryn Greenway

Jake leaned forward, his voice low. “The trouble is, people like Duncan see Eastern Europe as a source of cheap labor. To my mind, people are the same wherever you go—they can be damn good or dreadful. I’ve seen awful plumbing by Brits, whereas some of the best work I’ve seen was by Spanish guys. The point I’m trying to make is, Duncan has picked up the cheapest workmen he can find. There’s an old saying you may be familiar with—you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.”

  Emily sat back and folded her arms. “Duncan doesn’t have to look for cheap labor. He has a damn good budget. He has to—I’ve told him to get the best.”

  Jake didn’t seem fazed by this response. He nodded slowly. “Let me guess. You’re probably paying him for the best. But I bet you anything you like, I know where he’s got these guys from. Your Mr. Barton is probably making trips to Motorway services on the M4 on a daily basis. He can pick up these guys for a song, once they’ve agreed on an hourly rate.”

  Emily frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Jake nodded again. “This is how it works. You get lots of European tradesmen—and I use the term loosely—coming over here in a van, with all their tools. They don’t go any further than the motorway services. They don’t need to. They just congregate near the exit and wait. Along comes a foreman, who says ‘I need brickies, plumbers, whatever, for X amount of days. This is what I’m paying.’ Done. If after one day it’s clear their work is rubbish, he can kick ’em out, and just find someone else.”

  “And yet Duncan hired you.” Emily’s mind was reeling. Jake couldn’t be right—could he?

  “I think the only reason he hired me, was because someone let him down, he couldn’t find a carpenter by his usual methods, and I was local.”

  Emily put down her cup and gazed frankly at him. “Give me specific examples of what these guys are doing that’s so bad.” She needed more than Jake’s suspicions if she was to act on this. Emily needed evidence.

  Jake poured himself another cup. “Okay, let’s start with the electrics. The house is being rewired, right?” She nodded. “Since when does anyone doing a rewire, graft onto existing cables with junction boxes? Don’t get me wrong, it’ll work—but it will probably end up burning the house down.”

  Emily was horrified. Once the wiring was complete, a building inspector wouldn’t see what had been done. All he’d do would be to check that it worked.

  “Then there’s the plumbing. They haven’t put in one inch of copper pipe. It’s all plastic pipework.”

  She frowned. “But… there’s nothing wrong with plastic pipes. Everyone uses it nowadays.”

  Jake nodded. “I agree, and that’s fine—if you’re talking anywhere else but out in the countryside. Before this house was built, before any of us lived in Fairdown, guess what was here? Rodents. And what do rodents do? They chew on things. They like the odd drink of water, so they tend to chew on plastic pipes. Copper tubing? Not so much.”

  Emily had a sinking feeling Jake was right. “Is there more?”

  Jake’s eyes held sympathy. “I know. You didn’t know any of this was going on. And yes, there’s more. The refurbishment of the building concerns me. This is an old house, there are regulations that need to be adhered to, but that’s not happening. The pointing needs removing and replacing, and the stonework needs attention. The only thing is, the new parts look nothing like the original. When the house was built, they used lime mortar, but these guys are using modern cement. One, it won’t look right, and two, lime mortar allowed for movement. Old stone buildings move over time. That calls for a little flexibility.”

  Emily had heard enough. She got out her phone and called Duncan. “Are you at the house right now?”

  “I can be,” he replied, after a few seconds’ hesitation. “Why, is something wrong?”

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said briskly. After disconnecting the call, she peered at the bill, counted out money and left it under a saucer, then got to her feet. “Come on. I want you there too. Unless you feel awkward about saying all this to Duncan’s face?” She regarded him closely.

  “Not in the slightest.” Jake got up. “I’d be interested to hear what he has to say for himself.” His voice rang with confidence. “My truck is outside. I’ll follow you.”

  They left the tea shop, Emily going over in her head what she wanted to say to Duncan when she saw him.

  What a mess. Then she reconsidered. Better to know now, while something can still be done about it. Because if Jake was right….

  By the time Emily had finished going through all Jake’s points, Duncan had lost all pretense of being patient. Jake stood to one side, listening, adding points now and again, but otherwise remaining silent.

  “I don’t expect you to know how this works,” Duncan told her. “You sat in an office in London, leaving others to get the job done—which, by the way, was perfectly right. But speaking as someone who was frequently on the receiving end of such instructions, from similar companies…. This is the way things are done now. Since the eighties, when all trades were run down, it’s next to impossible to get good tradesmen in the UK.”

  “Rubbish.” Jake’s deep voice rumbled. “I could find you much better craftsmen in this very village, than the ones you’ve got working here.”

  Duncan arched his eyebrows. “Oh really?”

  Jake’s eyes blazed. “Yes, really. Lawrence Foote, for one. He’s a master mason who’s worked on listed buildings. Then there’s Tom Martin, an electrician who always does first-rate work. And there’s—”

  “If you think you can do better, then maybe you should be the one doing the hiring and firing around here,” Duncan flung back at him, his tone laced with sarcasm. He gave Emily a nod. “If you’ve quite finished, I have work to do.” He walked off toward the rear of the garden, where Emily could hear the rumble of the cement mixer.

  Before Emily could find words, Jake beckoned to her. “Come with me.” He led her into the house, and pointed to the windows. “See those? Sash windows. No one makes sash windows anymore. They need ripping out.”

  Emily peered at them. They looked in need of a good lick of paint, as far as she could tell. “Why?”

  “All the timbers are rotten.” Jake picked up a nearby tool with a pointed metal end, and pushed it into the frame. It slid in easily. “These have to go. I’ve already seen the plans. Duncan wants to replace them with nasty PVC shit that looks like wood. What needs to be done here, is to make a template for the molding, then make replicas from solid timbers.” He pointed to the floor. “He wants me to put down new floorboards, but there’s dry rot in the joists. Those parts need to be cut out and burned, then we treat what’s left. Then airbricks need to be fitted into the walls below floor level. That’s what caused the dry rot in the first place—there’s no air movement under the floors.”

  Emily gazed at the windows and floors. Jake obviously knew his stuff. “Wait here,” she told him. Emily left him in the kitchen, and went for a little walk through the house. She watched a man working on the wiring, and it took seconds for her to realize he was doing exactly what Jake had described. After ten minutes of picking her way carefully through the house, looking into every room and watching the men work, Emily had seen enough.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Jake was standing by the window, gazing out at the garden. “What galls me is I remember what this house looked like,” he said quietly. “I love what you’re trying to do here, keeping faithful to the original look of the place. I don’t want to see your dream shatter because of shoddy workmanship and cheap building practices.”

  “Neither do I,” she said, her tone grim. “Where’s Duncan?”

  “He’s near the barn, talking to the builders.” Jake snorted. “Builders. Yeah, right.”

  Emily strode out of the house, through the gardens and over to where a group of two or three men congregated. Duncan was talking to them in a low voice.

  As she approached, they fell silent.

  “Duncan, pay these men for t
he work they’ve done so far. Then let them go.”

  Duncan stared at her. “What—all of them? Who’s going to work on the house?”

  “That needn’t concern you. Once they’re off the premises, you can follow them. You’re fired.”

  His jaw dropped. “But…”

  “I’ll pay you for the time you’ve spent on the project so far. And before you tell me I can’t do this, I suggest you take a close look at your contract. It stipulates that if I am not happy with the work, I can terminate the contract. Strictly speaking, I have to give you two weeks’ notice, but I’ll pay you for those two weeks.” She gave him a hard stare. “I wouldn’t think of going to a tribunal to complain of unfair dismissal, if I were you. I have a sneaking suspicion that what I’ve paid for labor so far, and what you’ve actually paid out, are two very different sums. So unless you want me to prove that in court, I’d pack up my bags and leave, if I were you. Don’t bother asking for a reference.” And with that she turned on her heel and marched back to the house.

  Once she was out of sight of Duncan, however, she stopped by the low garden wall, leaning against it. The whole business had left a sour taste in her mouth, and she was shaking.

  When she’d regained her composure, Emily entered the house to find Jake crouched by the new floorboards, peering at the joists. He straightened as she drew closer. “Emily, I—”

  “What would you do here, if you were the project manager?” she interjected.

  “Hire good people, whose work I trusted,” Jake replied immediately.

  She nodded. “Fine. You’re now the project manager. Seeing as today is Friday, you can start Monday. I’ll have a contract drawn up, and we can go over it then. Is that acceptable?”

  Jake blinked. Blinked again. “Er, yes. That’s fine.”

  “Good. I suggest you spend some time this weekend, drawing up a list of tradesmen. You can hire whoever you want. I trust your judgment.”

  Jake smiled, his eyes shining. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  She returned his smile. “You’d better not, because if you did, I think Jane would come back to haunt you. Clare too.”

  Jake snickered, and the tension dissipated. “Then I’d better make sure I do an exceptional job.”

  Emily grinned. “That was the right thing to say.” For the first time since they’d spoken in the tea shop, she felt hopeful. It’s going to be all right. “And now I’m going back to my barn.” She headed for the door, but paused at the threshold. “There is one thing I’d like to know, however.”

  Jake gave her a mild stare. “Yes?”

  “What did you say to me in Polish?”

  He gave a sheepish grin. “Ah. That.” He cleared his throat. “I said, ‘God, you’re even more beautiful when you’re angry.’” Jake coughed. “See you Monday, Boss.”

  Emily was too stunned to come up with a suitable response.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emily closed the lid of her laptop with a smile. Jake’s succinct email contained a list of the tradesmen he’d contacted thus far, and she had to admit, it was impressive. Two days since she’d given him the job, and Jake was already making great strides. She couldn’t wait to see the results of his efforts.

  When the phone rang, she thought it might be him. Her heart sank when she saw the caller. She was in no mood to talk to Phillip. Then she reconsidered. Emily could afford to be pleasant and magnanimous: Jane hadn’t left her an ornate mirror, after all. She imagined that still stung him.

  “Phillip. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I was wondering whether you would be able to meet me at the house later today. I was speaking with your mother yesterday, and she said you were living in Fairdown now.”

  It crossed Emily’s mind to wonder what on earth Phillip was discussing with her mother, but she pushed the thought aside. “Aren’t you in London?”

  “I’m only an hour away from the village. Would you be able to meet me at four o’clock? I won’t be staying long—I have to drive back to London.”

  Her interest was definitely piqued. “I can do that. I’ll see you there.” She finished the call, already going over a list of possible reasons Phillip could have for requesting a meeting. He hadn’t changed his mind about the will—she’d have heard about that before now from Oliver Tremmond. So what did that leave?

  Emily had no idea.

  At four o’clock, she was standing in the remains of the entrance hall when Phillip’s black Mercedes pulled up outside the house. She watched him squeeze out from behind the steering wheel, looking larger than ever in a heavy coat, a scarf bundled up under his chin, making his neck appear even thicker than usual. He stood for a moment at the front gate, gazing at the house, his expression neutral.

  Emily opened the front door and stepped outside. “To be honest, we’d be better off going around the back to the barn. This place can be lethal if you don’t watch your step.” She closed the door behind her and walked along the path to join him at the gate.

  Phillip shook his head. “I bet this is a real money pit. Rather you than me.”

  She led him around the house, through the rear gardens, and past the cement mixer and supplies to the barn. “We’ll be warmer in here,” she said, pushing open the door.

  Phillip stepped inside and chuckled. “You’ve made a few improvements, I see.” When she gave him a puzzled glance, he smiled thinly. “I saw the barn when I came here with that solicitor.” His lips twisted. “Blunt sort of chap.”

  Emily stilled. “Really? I’ve always found him to be perfectly charming.” She gestured toward the couch, but instead, Phillip removed his coat and tossed it over the arm, then walked over to where the paintings were stacked in rows.

  “This is a good place to store them. Nice and dry. Now I see why you’ve done up the place. Can’t have your inheritance growing a covering of mold, right?” He inclined his head toward the couch. “Is that for sitting so you can look at them all in comfort?”

  Phillip never failed to put her back up. It had to be a gift.

  “Actually, this is just so I have someplace to go during the day. I’m not in anyone’s way in here.” She smiled politely. “And I might as well be comfortable while I do it.” She saw no reason to tell him she lived in the barn. He didn’t need to know that, especially when she still had no clue why he wanted to see her.

  Then why don’t you just ask him?

  Sometimes the direct approach was the best.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  Phillip cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother these last few months.”

  Emily did her best to school her features, fighting the impulse to reply with a sarcastic or sharp remark. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Jane’s death shook him. Then she gave an internal snort. As Jake had said only a few days ago, ‘Yeah, right.’ She waited in silence for him to continue.

  Phillip waited too, and when it became obvious Emily was not going to speak, he coughed. “Yes, well, I had an idea.” Another pause.

  Emily waited.

  Phillip flung out his arm to encompass the artwork around him. “I’m here to ask you if you’d consider giving me something of Jane’s, as a memento of her. Nothing too big.”

  Emily bit back the words she was dying to say. ‘Isn’t an ornate Rococo mirror enough of a memento?’ There was that prod of conscience again. She’d inherited everything. What was one little trinket when she had so much? “Did you have something in mind?” She hated herself for the thought, but couldn’t deny the lurking suspicion that Phillip knew exactly what he wanted.

  Phillip went over to the first stack of paintings, and began pulling them toward him, giving each one a cursory glance. When he’d gone through one pile and had begun on another, Emily’s suspicion deepened. Phillip was looking for something in particular.

  Suddenly he smiled, bent over to reach between two landscapes, and lifted up a small, rectangular framed picture. “This. I
t’s perfect.”

  Emily joined him, peering at the object. She recognized it instantly. “Why that one?” It was really two different sketches on the same piece of paper. On the left was a beautifully rendered pencil drawing of a little girl, maybe six or seven. On the right was obviously a child’s sketch of a couple, a man and a woman. There was a name scrawled at the bottom of it—Rachel.

  Phillip gazed intently at the drawings. “It’s a picture of Jane as a little girl.”

  Emily shook her head. “No, it isn’t. That’s our grandmother, Rachel, when she was little. And that’s her first drawing on the right.”

  Phillip shrugged. “Whatever. That’s what I want.”

  Emily wasn’t by nature a suspicious person, but something about the situation was ringing alarm bells. Phillip hadn’t hidden his intentions that well, which made her all the more determined to get to the bottom of it.

  “No,” she said simply.

  Phillip’s eyes bulged. “What do you mean, no? It’s a perfectly reasonable request.”

  Emily shook her head. “It stays with the house.”

  Phillip carefully placed the picture on top of the stack of paintings, then reached into his jacket pocket, removing his fat wallet. “Fine. I’ll buy it from you.”

  Emily was beginning to feel like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole. This is just… surreal. “Why would you want it? It’s a sketch, a child’s drawing.” Then inspiration struck. “Ah. You want the sketch of Rachel. That’s no problem. We can separate it from the other sketch, then have it put in a new frame.” Not that she had any intention of doing any such thing. All Emily wanted was to see how Phillip reacted.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  Phillip’s face darkened. “What the hell is wrong with just giving me the picture as is? Christ, Emily, you’ve got the house and everything in it, the land…. This sketch means nothing to you.”

  Emily regarded him coolly, pushing down her anger. “You couldn’t be more wrong. Our grandmother’s first sketch ended up in the hands of someone who meant everything to me, and nothing to you. So no, I shan’t be giving it to you, or selling it either. If you’re so keen to have a memento of Jane, choose something else. There are boxes and boxes of ornaments that she bought over the years, things that were precious to her. Surely one of those would be better than a simple sketch?”