Fix Them Up, page 5
Mackenzie’s Construction was the third company I’d rung up, and it seemed the safest bet. Mac was an experienced builder, with generations of builders in her family. Unlike the first builder I’d called, she came with a load of recommendations; she’d quoted for the work without seeing the house and wanted the total paid upfront before she’d even started. Sure, I didn’t know what I was doing for the most part, but I could spot a cowboy builder when I saw one.
Renovation TV shows were always my go-to when I was home sick from school: Grand Designs, DIY SOS, Location, Location, Location. I used to revel at the moment the materials arrived late; they were over budget by a hundred grand, or the project got rained off. Who didn’t love some Schadenfreude on a rainy Wednesday afternoon when you couldn’t breathe out of your left nostril? I’d always loved the idea of managing a renovation project; obviously, I could do it so much better than the people on TV.
But I was stumbling at the first fucking hurdle – finding a builder.
‘Is there any chance of… speeding things up? I can pay a premium.’ I cringed at the desperation in my voice. And at the idea of spending more money than needed. Dad had left some money to renovate in his will, but it wasn’t unlimited. I needed all the cash I could get if I wanted to buy somewhere in London.
Mac’s reply was instant. ‘Nothin’ I can do, I’m afraid. A lot of the projects have contracts and have paid deposits. You’d struggle to find any builder ready to start as soon as possible. I certainly wouldn’t trust anyone who could, if I’m honest. Things have really picked up in the last year. Unless you can find someone whose arm you can twist, or you could try blackmail.’ Mac chuckled.
Broad shoulders and deep brown eyes came to mind. The only person I could have leveraged or strong-armed into helping me, I had now threatened with a light fitting, pissed off, and sent packing. I paced back and forth in the garden, creating a pathway through the overgrown grass. Panic tightened my throat. I needed to refurb the house and sell it in two months.
Two months.
As if sensing my self-doubt, my phone rang, and the caller ID read Mum.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I squeaked.
I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m an adult. I make my own choices.
‘What’s wrong?’ My mum’s voice was laced with concern. Fuck. How did she know already? It was my voice. Or maybe being a headteacher for the last fifteen years had engrained some ‘shit’s about to hit the fan’ sixth sense into my mother.
‘Nothing, nothing. I’m fine.’ I kept my voice as even as possible.
All fine, apart from the fact I’m lying to you. I’ve moved two hundred miles to renovate a house with no builder, and I’ve managed to royally piss off the only one who might do me a favour. Other than that, I’m fine.
Totally fine.
‘Hm.’ I hadn’t convinced her. ‘What are you up to at the weekend? Graham and I were thinking we might come into London –’
‘Oh,’ I said, shock in my voice. They never visited London, so of course, now was the weekend they wanted to visit. ‘I’m busy, I’m afraid, Mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, sorry.’
‘You can’t reschedule? What are you up to?’ The tone had panic rising in my chest. Had she caught me?
‘I’m – ah. I’m with Willa.’
‘Oh, that’s no problem. Just bring her along. On Saturday? Because we could come in on Sunday –’
‘Sunday, I’m helping her with some work. All weekend, we are working. Some client pitches that she’s panicking about. She’s having some problems, you know, with clients leaving.’
If I threw Mum a bone and gave her something to worry about in my life that wasn’t this house, she’d focus on that. Divert.
‘Okay.’
‘Actually, we’ll be doing that for quite a few weekends.’ I bit my lip. God, I hated lying. ‘See, Willa is doing a lot of away days. And the weekends work best for all of us.’
If I said I was busy on the weekends, Mum had no choice but to accept I was busy for the next few months. She was a teacher, so she couldn’t arrange to see me in the week.
‘Well, I do hope everything is okay, Katherine. If your job is at risk –’
‘It’s not. Really, it’s fine. You know Willa’s dad would never let anything happen.’
Mum gave a satisfied hum down the phone.
‘So, the house,’ my mum said, and I jumped like she’d appeared beside me. ‘Where are we up to with the estate agent? Do you need me to help look at some documents?’
I absentmindedly kicked over a ceramic hedgehog in the grass.
As much as I resented how my mum approached my disability, I did appreciate having her look over dense documents for me. My dyslexia meant I missed a lot of detail, and my ADHD meant I hated boring tasks. Thanks to my eReader’s large print, I could read a book in a whole evening, but if you asked me to read over a client contract, I’d rather throw myself out of the office window, thirteen floors up.
‘It’s all under control,’ I said firmly.
‘Are you sure? I can call them.’
‘Mum. Come on. It’s fine. I can sort it.’
‘Okay.’ She sounded unconvinced.
‘I know you’re there if I need you.’
That was a bit too emotional for Mum, so all I got was a stiff, ‘Good.’
‘Katerina!’ Graham’s voice boomed down the phone. He was usually soft-spoken, but he was being silly, probably to defuse the tension between me and my mum.
‘Hi, Graham.’ I smiled.
‘It’s lovely to hear your voice, but your mother and I are leaving. We’re going foraging in Greenmoor Wood. I’m wrestling the phone from her as we speak.’
I laughed. ‘That’s fine! Thanks for checking in.’
‘Okay, darling. We will speak to you soon. Your mum sends kisses.’
My mum never sends kisses. Not even on texts. But I respected Graham’s attempt to soften her phone call. When I first met Graham at fourteen, I was resistant. In my defence, fourteen-year-olds don’t like anyone. But he won me over eventually, with his warm eyes set behind round spectacles like a benevolent library teacher that might help you save the world.
Unlike my dad, he was academic. He worked as a curator of the Egyptian collection at the Ashmolean Museum at the University of Oxford, so he and Mum understood working in education and the bureaucracy that came with it. They shared the same passions and eccentric hobbies – foraging for Mum and bouldering for Graham. They planned to retire in a few years, downsize and use the money to travel for the year – Egypt, Peru and South America. It was the absolute opposite of my idea of a holiday, but I was so excited for them. Mum had never visited anywhere.
I said my goodbyes to Mum and Graham and stood in the garden, twisting my watch from side to side. I needed a new plan – one that might include persuading a pissed-off builder to help me. I bit my lip. I needed to persuade Liam to reconsider.
I would happily exchange my pride for the ability to say ‘I told you so’ to my mum.
Before I could begin hatching my new charm offensive, a chubby little fawn pug entered the garden through the open gate. Its buggy eyes looked at me as if it was surprised to see me there, gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Oh well’, and it brought its front and back paws together to take a dump on my lawn. My mouth was agape.
‘Noodle!’ A panicked voice came from the front drive. Around the corner came a woman who must have been in her early sixties. She had light grey hair styled in cornrows and stylish cat-eye frames adorning her face. She wore blue jeans, a bright orange jumper, and walking boots. A dog lead was hanging around her shoulders.
‘Noodle!’ She gasped as she took in her pug, now squatting around my garden, looking slightly constipated.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. He’s never done this before. He doesn’t usually run off, especially into a neighbour’s garden. This is so embarrassing. Wait until I tell our Steve. He’s going to be so mortified. He prides himself on Noodle’s good behaviour. When we took him to puppy training, he was the best in the class.’ She rushed over to Noodle, pulling green dog poo bags out of her back pocket. ‘I am sorry.’
She spoke all this at Gilmore Girls-level speed, and it took me a while to process what was happening.
I smiled – because what else could I do – and said, ‘Don’t worry about it. The garden’s a mess anyway. What’s a bit of dog poo?’
The woman laughed, glancing around at the overgrown garden. ‘Don’t you worry. You’ll get it sorted in no time. Rose struggled to keep on top of it towards the end.’ She smiled sadly. ‘And then we never heard from the new owner when it sold. Sometimes, we saw a gardener come in and do a cull – but that hasn’t been for months.’ She extended her hand. ‘My name is Pat. Patricia. I’m number twenty-four. I live with my husband, Steve.’ As Pat hadn’t picked up the dog poo yet, I didn’t hesitate to shake her hand. Her hands were warm and soft.
I smiled. ‘I’m Kat. And it was my dad who owned the house. He passed away last summer. I think he was probably the one who arranged the gardener now and then.’
Pat’s face almost caved in on itself in sadness and pity.
Panic rose in my chest.
She held onto my hand, pulling it closer to her. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. How awful. And me blabbering on about the garden. Please ignore me.’
I shifted my weight. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for. We weren’t that close.’
Pat’s piercing brown eyes seemed to be scanning me, peeking through closed curtains, so I changed the subject quickly.
‘Noodle is very cute.’ I leaned down and petted him on the head. He rubbed his flat face into my jeans.
‘Thank you.’ She beamed down at the rotund dog. ‘We adopted him – he has a lot of health problems, like most pugs. We would never buy, especially this breed. I disagree with it.’
I nodded, and Noodle got bored of me and trotted around the garden, snorting away.
‘Have you got a hus – partner moving in with you?’ Pat stuttered through the question. Those eyes were curious, if not a little nosy. In fact, she was definitely nosy.
‘Ah, no. No husband,’ I said, giving Pat the answer to her silent question – I was straight. ‘I’ve come up to renovate the property, sell it, then I’m moving back down south. Hopefully, I’ll buy somewhere in London. It was my dad’s house when he was growing up, so I feel like I should –’ I didn’t know how to finish that sentence, so I left it hanging.
‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ Pat threw a palm to her chest. ‘Well, if you need any help, you know where to find us. Our Steve has a shed load of tools, and we know quite a few tradesmen. Have you found a builder?’
I gave a tight smile. ‘Almost sorted.’ There was no chance I would mention Liam, in case Pat knew him. She had the air of someone who knew everyone.
Pat smiled brightly, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had become something in her mind. A project, maybe? It made me a bit uneasy, but she was warm and friendly, and I couldn’t afford to turn away friends who might help me.
So, I gave her a morsel more.
‘I think it’s going to be a bit stressful, the renovation. But I’m hopeful I’ll get it all sorted in time.’
‘Of course you will.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But the working day is over.’ She took on a motherly tone, which jarred against the memory of my own mother’s harsh words. ‘Why don’t you explore the high street? It’s small, but you should have a mooch. You must visit the social club. It’s the committee meeting today, so everyone will be there.’ Pat clapped her hands together. ‘Oh yes, we’ll get you sorted in no time. I’ll message our Sandy. She works behind the bar and can get you in as our guest.’
‘Guest?’
‘Yes, guest.’
‘Is it like a golf club? I’m not dressed—’
Pat burst out laughing. Then heaved a breath and kept laughing.
‘No, no,’ she said between laughs. ‘Golf club.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s a social club – like a working men’s club?’
‘Oh. Like Phoenix Nights?’
I’d never watched it, but I knew the premise vaguely – a working men’s club full of balding white blokes nursing their warm pints of ale.
Pat barked a laugh. ‘I supposed it used to be a bit like that. Until we had a’ – she pinched her thumb and forefinger together – ‘little coup and kicked out the old guard. Now, it’s more… representative of the area. It’s a pub but also a community centre, I suppose.’ Pat touched my shoulder. ‘Trust me, you’ll have a riot and find someone to help you with this.’ She gestured to the house with its broken roof tiles and thick, overgrown bushes that obscured the windows.
God, it looked like a mess.
I didn’t want to admit it, but Pat was right – I could do with all the help I could get.
‘Which way is the high street?’
Chapter Six
As I walked up Everly Heath High Street, I wrapped my trench coat closer around me. The pavement was icy beneath my feet, and I made a note to buy some better shoes if I headed into Manchester at the weekend. Another gust of wind whipped around me. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was freezing even in a coat, gloves, thick tights, and a woolly dress. This would have kept me warm in London. They clearly weren’t kidding about it being colder up here.
I approached a building resembling a miniature town hall with its columns and red bricks. A sign above the door read EVERLY HEATH SOCIAL CLUB. The soft light coming from the windows made the social club look cosy – a little port in the storm. Opposite the social club was an arcade of charming little shops with a Victorian lead canopy, housing an independent coffee shop, a delicatessen, a bakery, a wine shop, cheesemonger’s, and an old-school hardware shop. It was nothing like I remembered as a kid.
It was something out of a fucking Hallmark film.
All I remembered from my childhood visits were the rapid noise of windscreen wipers, relatives that pinched my cheeks, and cold sausage rolls. Suffice to say, I hadn’t been all that impressed.
But I had to admit that Everly Heath was kind of… cute.
Tentatively, I stepped into the social club’s arched porch and through the double doors. The room was split into two very different events. In the left-hand room, a man with a grey ponytail in a silver waistcoat was crooning a Dean Martin tune while a single disco ball spun, with an audience of about eight clapping women, all in their sixties.
On the right-hand side, a football match playing on a big projector garnered a much bigger crowd of men and women wearing red football shirts and silent disco headphones. The headphones flashed bright neon colours, a comical contrast to their grave expressions as their eyes tracked the ball.
The door banged closed behind me, and every head in the room swivelled towards me.
About forty people stared at me curiously. I gave a weak smile as I shuffled to the bar, desperate to find Sandy and justify my existence. I walked up to the bar, my foot tapping repeatedly. I was beginning to get desperate when a blonde head appeared from a room behind the bar.
My stomach dropped. Oh god.
‘Hiya, love.’ My auntie Sandra hadn’t looked up yet, busying herself putting away pint glasses. ‘Have you got your membership card?’
Her voice sparked a memory – the church – the musty smell, incense, and candle wax. Panic rose in my throat, and my cheeks were red with shame. Before I had a chance to flee, Sandra turned around and faced me. Her dark green eyes went wide, her mouth a perfect ‘O’. Sandra always had the perfectly quaffed blonde bob, and today was no exception.
‘Kat? What –’ She rushed around the bar.
‘Hi, Sandra,’ I said meekly. She pulled me into her chest, and the dark sludge of shame filled me.
Sandra pulled back, her hand coming up to my cheek as she inspected my face. ‘What are you doing here? Are you okay? Do you need money?’
I laughed despite myself. ‘No, no. I’m fine. I’m sorry. I thought Lydia would have mentioned it. Dad left me the house on Evanshore Road.’
‘Evanshore Road? Where our Brian grew up?’
‘Yeah. He bought it a year ago and didn’t tell anyone.’
Sandra frowned. ‘Why don’t I get you a drink, and you can tell me all about it?’
Ten minutes later, I had explained the whole plan to Sandra, but I hadn’t touched the pint of Guinness in front of me. I stared at it like it was my worst enemy. Sandra had been supportive, offering help if I needed it and promised to tell Brian, too.
‘We’ll get that house sorted out in no time, love.’ Sandra patted me on the arm. ‘I’ll add it to the agenda for tonight.’
‘The agenda?’ I frowned.
‘The quarterly members meeting is happening in –’ Her eyes widened as she checked her watch. ‘About fifteen minutes. Shit.’
‘Oh – don’t worry about putting it on the agenda. Please,’ I insisted, as Sandra’s attention moved away.
‘Ray!’ she shouted to the man crooning in the silver waistcoat. ‘Ray! Five minutes, then we need to set up.’
Ray halted mid-way through ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, his face turning chartreuse. He stomped his foot. ‘Sandra, I am mid-set.’
‘Ray, I told you –’
Ray threw down his cravat. ‘They would have never done this to Ol’ Blue Eyes. I’ll tell you that for free! Every week, Sandra. I never get my slot –’
He continued to argue with Sandra, who cocked her hip and argued back. Ray had moved on to complaining about football taking precedence over ‘culturally significant performances’ when the door swung open, and a burst of colour walked in in the shape of my cousin. Lydia scanned the room, finding me perched on a table between the two events, not wanting to side with either.
‘Mum texted me that you were here. Oh my god.’ Lydia gasped as she stared at my Guinness. ‘How on earth are you drinking that?’
‘Well, I usually like a Guinness, but after last night, when you led me astray…’ I cocked an eyebrow.
