A Cottage in the Country

by Linn B. Halton

  "I'll be there to help out as soon as I've spoken to someone."

  I feel really bad; I bet this isn't how Ryan envisaged spending his usual Friday-night happy hour.

  Walking up the path in the gloom, I realise there's only one outside light and it's not very effective. At least the rain has eased off and it's merely a cold, dank drizzle now. Throwing open the garage door I fumble around for the light switch and then look at the pile of boxes, doing a double-take. The pile looked bigger when I peered in through the window earlier on. A mattress takes up a lot of space and the bed ends will be in quite a sizeable box. All of the parcels in the pile are either small, or medium-sized. As it sinks in that the bed isn't here, I let out a loud moan. Groceries, microwave, blinds, what looks like a vacuum and painting supplies…things that I can manage without tonight, but a bed? Why didn't I engage my brain and take a moment to check it was there earlier in the day?

  Pulling the mobile from my pocket I see that it has no signal at all and is showing the red emergency status. Walking up the hill I'm surprised that Ryan is nowhere in sight, then I spot him quite a distance away. Already the climb is beginning to bite at my calf muscles, tiredness suddenly kicking in as the effort of the climb brings on a cold sweat.

  As the bars begin to register I continue walking, scrolling through the contacts as I go. International Bed Land. Click. I'm in luck – a friendly voice answers almost instantly. A glance at my watch shows I've probably caught them just in time.

  "Hi, I'm waiting for a bed frame and mattress to be delivered. I'm afraid I don't have the reference number with me, will the postcode suffice?"

  "What's the name?"

  She seems to call up the details with no problem at all and I await confirmation that it's on the way, delayed probably due to the flooding.

  "Your delivery has been returned to the warehouse. They were unable to find you, I'm afraid. Two voice mails were left around four o'clock this afternoon. I assume you're calling to rearrange delivery?"

  I'm speechless. Don't they have a satnav? I pull the phone away from my ear and see that the voicemail icon is flashing. Obviously now the signal is stronger they've just come through.

  "I didn't get the messages; my mobile doesn't appear to work inside the property. Ash Cottage has been here for well over a hundred and fifty years, and you're telling me they couldn't find it?"

  There's a couple of seconds silence on the other end of the phone.

  "It wasn't a local carrier and they might not have been familiar with the area, or have a satnav in the cab. Let me check the notes." There's some keyboard tapping and then silence. "It seems the road into Bybrooke was flooded and they couldn't find an alternate route. However, this has now been resolved. Shall I re-book it for tomorrow morning?"

  Resolved? You mean someone actually looked at a map? I'm so annoyed that I decide it's best just to make grunting noises, accept her apology because it really isn't her fault, and the reassurances that it will be here tomorrow. I end the call as quickly as I can, the depressing reality sinking in. Ryan walks back to me, the grim look on his face mirroring my own.

  "Don't tell me, I can guess. There's a fault on the line and they don't know when they can fix it. No phone line, no internet and a dodgy mobile signal. Add to that, no bed, but the upside is that I can vacuum through, so the floor will be spotless."

  Clearly, he doesn't know whether or not my words were meant to raise a laugh, but he can't control his reaction. He links arms with me and we walk back down to Ash Cottage, at least content that the rain has finally stopped.

  "How about coming back to mine for tonight?" Ryan offers, as we walk past the boiler, which is emitting a wonderful plume of white clouds.

  "I can't, as much as I'd like to. I need to keep an eye on the heating and, besides, Mr Hart is arriving early tomorrow morning."

  "Then I'll stay."

  "Really? It means sleeping on the floor…"

  "That's what friends are for," he shoots me a wicked grin. "If this continues, though, I might have to re-think our friendship. I'm a guy who enjoys his creature comforts and am someone who always assumed a little cottage in the country was the epitome of peace and relaxation."

  We burst out laughing in unison as I go in search of wine glasses and a bottle of something that will help take the edge off a day that seems to have gone on forever.

  The heating died at eleven-fifteen. One moment the comforting drone was there and then next thing there was this awful silence. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even the rain seemed to fall noiselessly, belying the fact that it was heavy and relentless. Ryan gallantly braved the wet to go outside and take off the boiler cover. At one point he managed to get it to kick into life, but over the next hour it kept tripping out and eventually he admitted defeat. I think that was as much down to the rain as pure frustration.

  We unpack the electric fan heaters, placing two in the largest bedroom and one in the conservatory to try to warm that up a little. It feels rather awkward laying our bedding on the floor and knowing we're going be sleeping in the same room. Even with the heaters blasting, there is still a distinct chill in the air and a general feeling of dampness. Ryan lies with his head up against one wall and I lie with my head up against the other wall, facing him. There is a gap of about eighteen inches between our feet. Even lying on folded duvets and blankets, the floor is hard and there are only just enough covers to ensure we have a good layer over the top as well.

  "Are you warming up a little?" Ryan's voice is soft in the darkness.

  "My toes haven't thawed out yet, but I'm getting there. How about you? I could unpack some of the cushions if one pillow is too low for you."

  "I'll be honest. I can't be bothered to move. You must be shattered, though, considering I only came in at the tail end of this day. Was the flooding a surprise?"

  I wriggle around a bit, unused to going to bed fully clothed. While I appreciate the warmth, it's so alien a feeling that it's hard to relax.

  "It was a shock. I had no idea the village was flooded last winter. And, yes, before you say anything, I didn't have a survey, but I did have all of the searches done. I can't understand why that didn't show up, though."

  "Clearly flooding isn't an annual problem or it would have been on the flood risk report, so I doubt you need to worry about it. If it's all down to a collapsed culvert, though, obviously that's going to take a while to fix. The main worry is that I'm not sure all of your deliveries will get through. If the flood water rises and the main road is closed, it's only the smaller delivery vans that can use the top road because some of those lanes are more like tracks. I can't believe the timing of this, Maddie, talk about bad luck!"

  It's a surreal night, neither of us is able to sleep for more than the odd half an hour here and there. At one point my back is so stiff, my groan awakens Ryan. As I roll over onto my side to ease the pain, my hand plops down onto the outside of the duvet.

  "Goodness, this bedding feels damp to the touch."

  "Well, I didn't like to say, but I think that back wall is soaking up the rain. I know this floor is above ground level at the rear, but most of the plaster is hollow if you tap it. I think that's why it smells so musty in here. In the spring, a coat of external damp-proofer should sort that problem out."

  "Hey," I reply, brightening up. "That's one of the problems on the list. Fingers crossed the plasterer will be popping in to hack off the plaster, seal the wall inside for the time being and make it good again. Fingers crossed that will be within the next day or two. A local company are going to look at the water-proofing solution when they re-point the chimney, but that has to wait until the weather clears up."

  As I begin to drift off again, I find that thought comforting. At least ending the day on a problem that is on the spread sheet and does have a budget is a plus. Isn't it?

  CHAPTER 13

  We're both awake before five o'clock and there's little point in lying there in the gloom. Ryan and I spend an hour s
itting in the conservatory and drinking coffee, watching the sun rise behind the clouds. At last the heavens seem to have run out of water. I wonder what sort of night it was for the poor people down in the village, as there seems to be no movement at all on the road. I know it's Saturday, but lots of people still have to get up and go to work.

  I have to coax Ryan to leave, knowing that what he needs is a full cooked breakfast and not the toast or cereals my scant larder can offer. We hug and this time it's a bit different; I feel myself blushing as it runs through my mind that I actually spent the night with my boss. Innuendo aside, I'm extremely grateful to him, as I have no idea how I would have felt being here all alone under such difficult circumstances.

  His parting words are to leave the phone company to him, he'll chase them today. He suggests that I take the walk to check my mobile every couple of hours for messages. It's something that hadn't occurred to me and my stiff back is a constant reminder that I can't spend another night on the floor.

  I busy myself assembling the portable hanging rails, which I decide might as well stay in the sitting room. I begin foraging around in the boxes for some comfortable old clothes and hang them up. I also hang up all the garment bags that are laid out on the floor. Well, it might not be a wardrobe, but at least I feel just a teeny little bit more in control of the situation. I decide it's unfair to ring the plumbers until eight o'clock at least. They probably work Saturdays anyway, but having been through the various options I'm not sure there's anything they can do. If I had the internet I could re-work the figures and see if I could pare anything back enough to afford a replacement heating system. I then spend an hour doing a few calculations in my notebook. I don't want to take all of the budget for the bathroom, but maybe I can find a reasonably priced slipper bath rather than the funky, modern one I'd set my heart on. Most of the larger areas of expenditure I can recall off the top of my head, so I write down the original budget figure and then a revised one. I can only claw back eighteen hundred pounds before I run out of options. The plumbers' costs for yesterday are already double the estimate and racking up an overspend on day one doesn't bode well. Frustration sets in and I close up my notebook, accepting that until I'm online I can't commit to purchasing a new system. I'm going to have to plump for a replacement motor. Once the decision is made, I stare out of the window at the view, watching the low cloud rolling across the valley like little puffs of smoke. A hammering on the glass door breaks my chain of thought and I look up to see Mr Hart standing there. It's six forty-five.

  "Good morning," I offer, cheerfully, as I open the door to him. In truth I don't know how pleased I feel to see him here, except that obviously it means the work will begin.

  "Yep." He utters that rather odd word begrudgingly. It's a form of dismissal, I think. Does he think a simple greeting is wasting his time?

  "Can I make you a cup of tea, or coffee?"

  "Nope. It's cold in here."

  He deposits two large tool boxes in the middle of the floor and walks back out to his van.

  I have a dilemma. Do I just leave him to his own devices, given that obviously he prefers not to engage in conversation? But that assumes he knows what to do. We've not discussed any detail, although I did give him a copy of the plans and the list of items being delivered by the kitchen company.

  He enters, carrying a large cardboard box that seems to contain everything from filler to plumbing bits and pieces. Without uttering a word, he walks past me, deposits it next to the toolboxes and heads out once more.

  I'm not in the mood to stand here being ignored, so I think, 'What the heck,' and after his next trip I sidle out to bring in my painting supplies from the garage. He walks fast and the last thing I want to do is have to pass him on the ramp leading up to the parking area. Fortunately, it seems he's finished unloading. I manage to walk back through, carrying my decorating materials, with no sign of him at all. Only the sounds coming from the kitchen confirm he's started work.

  After last night I've had a change of plan. It's just too cold to sleep upstairs until the heating is working properly. There's little point in trying to heat the whole cottage with just three small fan heaters, so I'm going to paint through the old dining room and when the bed arrives that will be my temporary bedroom. If I keep two of the fan heaters on in the conservatory and one in the sitting room, the warm air should circulate into the dining room, which seems to be one of the warmest parts of the cottage.

  Within an hour the dust sheet is down, the walls have been washed with sugar soap and I begin painting. The ceiling is hard work as I have to stand on a small, if sturdy, side table I purchased to use as a coffee table. The first coat goes on like a dream with the large roller and I turn my attention to the walls. Suddenly a sharp voice booms out from behind me.

  "You're not doing that right." I turn around to see Mr Hart watching me from the doorway, arms crossed over in front of his chest in confrontational mode.

  A strand of hair escapes from the scrunchy holding my ponytail and as I whip it back behind my ear I can feel a streak of wet paint on the side of my hand transferring onto my face. I ignore it and give him a less-than-friendly look.

  "I know. I think my method achieves a better result, though."

  "What? Doing the ceiling and walls first and leaving the skirting boards to last? Some crazy system you have going on there." His voice has now toned down, but his words are full of mockery.

  "Is there something in particular you wanted?" My clean hand surreptitiously checks out the side of my face, hoping I can wipe away any vestiges of white emulsion. I'm trying to keep calm and look as dignified as one can with a roller in one hand and, no doubt, paint-splattered hair.

  "Fridge."

  He turns and I follow him through to the kitchen.

  He's already taken down most of the wall units and the tiny kitchen looks twice the size. He notes the look of surprise on my face. It's only half-past eight – this guy might be the rudest person I've ever met, but he works fast.

  "I've taken the units apart and stacked them in the garage. They're only good for firewood. I need to move the fridge out, where do you want it? Did you know there's food in it?"

  I stare at him. He can see that I'm managing with the bare essentials. He has the delivery list and it clearly shows all the new white goods are not being delivered until the twenty-second of December.

  "Yes, I knew. I'm happy to empty it, if that makes it easier to move. It can go into the sitting room for the time being. Do you need a hand?"

  He has his back to me the whole time I'm talking, but suddenly he spins around and the look on his face makes me feel I've offended him somehow.

  "From whom?"

  With that he places his vast arms around the body of the fridge and lifts it off the floor with ease. I have to back away quickly to get out of his way and within seconds he's placing it in the corner of the sitting room.

  He stalks back into the kitchen without uttering another word and I slope back into the dining room, wondering why that ridiculous display of macho overkill made my stomach do a somersault. Anyway, how dare he criticise the way I work! I don't care if the professionals do it a different way, I was instrumental in renovating a sprawling Victorian house and every single inch of wall, ceiling and woodwork was painted with these hands. Admittedly, if I'm wallpapering I do the skirting boards first, but you get a much better finish when it comes to painting bare walls if you do them first and the woodwork second. Maybe it's a left-handed thing. Um…what am I doing? Who gives a damn what Mr Hart thinks? As for me looking over his shoulder, I can't believe he has the audacity to be looking over mine as if he's in charge.

  Before I can pull myself together enough to pick up the roller again, there's a sharp tap on the door. Walking back into the conservatory I don't recognise the guy standing there, a polite grin on his face. Maybe it's the bed…

  "Hi, I'm from Chappell and Hicks. The boss said you had a couple of plastering jobs?"

  I utte
r a silent prayer of thanks and quickly whisk him around the cottage, apologising for the lack of heat. We end up in the kitchen, where Mr Hart is lying on the floor, his top half obscured by the sink unit. He immediately pops his head to the side to look at us and mutters, "Griggs," in some sort of Neanderthal grunt.

  "Nice to see you, Lewis. Sorry to hear about your mother," my visitor offers, with real sympathy in his voice. His mother?

  Mr Hart's face doesn't register any visible response; he simply swings his head back and continues to disconnect the pipes under the sink unit.

  "In the kitchen it's just making good the wall after Mr Hart has chipped off the ceramic tiles. The real problems are through here."

  After an inspection, Simon Griggs follows me back into the sitting room, where it's easier to chat. Clearly, he, too, feels a sense of unease around the surly Man Who Can.

  "Do you foresee any problems?" I ask, rather hesitantly. The heavens open up again and we have to speak up in order to hear ourselves above the sound of rain pounding onto the conservatory roof.

  "No, it's all straightforward. That bedroom wall will be messy as I'm going to have to knock off all of the plaster. There are too many blown areas to patch it. The boss said he's happy for me to do this job in my own time for cash, if that's okay with you? I could make a start this afternoon. Our office shuts at lunchtime tomorrow for the holiday, so I'll be free again in the afternoon. I expect Lewis won't be chipping the wall tiles off until tomorrow anyway, so I'll do the knocking back today, then I can plaster tomorrow."

  "Whatever works best for you is fine by me. Do you know Mr Hart…um…well?" I have no idea why I'm asking that question. I'm not usually a curious person when it comes to other people's business, but the comment from Simon about Mr Hart's mother was concerning.