Out Late with Friends and Regrets (26 page)

She walked round to the side.

Oh
no
...
 
The rear nearside tyre resembled a letter O on a Mucha poster.
 
There had been no incident on the way back from Cantlesham, so it must have been a slow puncture.

Fin swore long, loudly and creatively, having studied under the best, and ended the rant with a scream of frustration.
 
The thickest part of the hedge exploded with finches, and she stood for a moment, eyes closed, trying to refuel her enthusiasm for the move. Staying put would have been so much easier.

She tried reinflating the tyre with her undersized and inefficient compressor, and gave up after most of an hour of standing over it, checking its wavering needle, almost deafened by its busy clatter.
 
Then she unloaded, ferrying her possessions back into the house. She located the spare wheel, but it was held in place by a metal bracket and also a security cable, and she couldn’t see where to undo it. Manual… no, there wasn’t an owner’s manual. Strong, self-sufficient woman, eh? Pathetic.
 
But sod it, why should she have to change the wheel anyway? It was years since she’d done a wheel-change under Paul’s tutelage, when he was in one of his best-buddy moods.
 
She wondered if there was a mobile number on her receipt, and checked it.
 
No.
 
And nobody would be in on a Sunday, but she tried the office number anyway.
 
No, as anticipated.
 
She would just have to catch the staff the moment they arrived for work in the morning, get someone out to tow or fix the bloody thing, or preferably bring a new van.
 
Her car was in the Council car park in Cantlesham, so she couldn’t go over tomorrow and get things sorted on the spot; there wasn’t a bus.
 
Well, theoretically she could; it was only three miles, a distance people used to travel on foot all the time.
 
But it wasn’t the trek, it was the
time
.
 
It was always the time.
 
There was now no way she could be off with the dawn and unloaded by ten, no way at all.

“Cantlesham Car and Van Hire?
 
Yes, hello, Fiona Hay, I’ve been trying since 8 o’clock, it says on your receipt that you open at 8...
 
Oh, did you.
 
Yes, very unlucky.
 
Well, regardless of that...
 
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a problem, I’m afraid.
 
The Transit has a puncture – it’s as flat as the proverbial.
 
I got it loaded, and had to take the whole lot out again, I was planning to be away by six, to beat the traffic...
 
No of course not, I’d have noticed if I’d hit anything, and there was no blowout, so it must have happened before I picked it up...
 
Well, perhaps the guy didn’t check the pressures
this
time, I’m sure it can happen...
 
No, I had a look but there’s a bracket
and
a cable... no, there isn’t, I live alone...
 
But the point is, how soon can you get another Transit out to me?... No, that would be much too small, the Transit was just big enough, ideal actually…Oh. So when do you expect the client to bring it back in?...
 
Oh
damn
, that’s really
not
helpful... Yes, if you could get someone out to do it – I hope that includes checking the tyre pressures, this time- Yeah, yeah, OK.
 
So when can I expect him?
 
Hhhhhh, well I guess it really doesn’t make much of a difference, I’m going to have to change my plans radically, I shan’t be able to leave till tomorrow now, anyway...
 
Now, I won’t be charged any extra, I hope?... Yes, a
very
severe inconvenience... Yes, I appreciate it isn’t your fault personally... OK, late afternoon then... yes, thanks, goodbye.”

She spent the morning making phone calls, and adjusting her mind to the new plan that had been forced upon her.
 
It continued to rain, so she decided against going for a run. No point bringing mud across the threshold, which would have to be cleaned up again.
 
She rang Ellie, just to have a therapeutic moan, but there was no reply, and Rosemary would be at work. Still, soon, soon. Maybe soon Ellie wouldn’t be the only friend she could ring, simply to have a good old bitch about life’s little troubles.

It began to rain harder, beating on the freshly-cleaned windows, greying the mature green of the countryside beyond the hedge.
 
A pretty spot to live, certainly, and she wished the new people every happiness of it, but even the twenty-four hours extra forced on her by circumstances felt unbearable.

“One more day with you, and I’m going to go off my chump,” she told the cottage.
 
Without the things she was used to seeing around her it looked comfortable enough, but estranged and detached, like an old acquaintance who doesn’t recognise you in the street.
 
She scanned the pile of boxes in the hall.
 
The perishables food box, being last into the Transit so it would be first out, was now at the bottom of the stack.
 
Methodically, she dismantled the pile, and carefully slit the tape holding the top of the box together.
 
Lunch was an unexciting two slices of bread and Marmite – she didn’t want to mess up the grill – with a cup of tea.
 
She had left a few staples in the fridge and cupboard for the Martins moving in on Wednesday, but didn’t want to make inroads on these.
 
This evening she could treat herself to a cheese and pickle sandwich.

She found herself wandering from room to room, watching the rain from each window.
 
Afternoon television was as usual deeply uninspiring, so she dug her MP3 out of the box marked “Small Personals” and started to do a few exercises.
 
It had been too long.
 
Odd, that she couldn’t remember many of the things she used to do in Lynn’s conditioning class at all; it seemed a lifetime ago.
 
She would have to join a gym as soon as she was settled into her new flat.
 
God, she had gone downhill; she could barely do ten press-ups.
 
Then the metallic door-slam of a van outside interrupted her, and she got to her feet with a feeling of relief at the prospect of seeing another human being, if only the man from the hire firm.
 
It had been different, when the cottage was still her home.

He changed the wheel, and Fin felt an unworthy sense of satisfaction to see the struggle he experienced in freeing the spare, and also loosening the rusted nuts on the wheel with the flat.
 
He tested the pressures all round when he had finished, and took away the dud. She reloaded the Transit, ferrying and stacking, and hoping to God it wouldn’t let her down again. The rain had stopped, and late sunshine gave the wet trees and hedges a sparkle.
 
She gathered a few of the better garden flowers and arranged them in a jam jar from the shed, placing them on the table where they would provide a welcome to the probably frazzled and tired Martin family on Wednesday.
 
Then she wolfed down the cheese sandwich, which tasted as good as a packed lunch on a school outing, watched a sobering TV documentary about the homeless which made her feel deeply grateful, and went to bed on the sofa.

Tuesday, not quite dawn.
 
Fin was up and checking her notebook for last-minute stuff to get done before leaving. She had listed telephone numbers of reliable local tradesmen, helpful tips concerning the cottage’s little peculiarities, bin collection days and so on, two days ago.
 
Just the electricity reading and LPG level to record.

All done.
 
She went outside.
 
It was chilly in the luminous blue light before sun-up, and the dawn chorus had started.
 
She breathed in the fresh scent of the earth waking, and stood shivering a little despite the fleece she wore.
 
She closed her eyes and muttered a prayer; partly for Paul, victim of whatever awful thing had made him the way he was, and partly for herself, leaving him and all his works behind for good. Then indoors, where she checked everything twice before finally locking the door and starting up the Transit.

She enjoyed the journey into town.
 
The Transit, with its tinny interior and high seat, was fun to drive, and she had quickly acclimatised to continual use of the wing mirrors on her way from Cantlesham on Saturday.
 
She sang lustily to the radio, her voice and the growl and clunk of engine and gear-box blending in cheerfully.
 
When she reached the outskirts of Harford the day’s bright start gave way to cloud cover and drizzle, and the quiet city centre at half past six in the morning looked hungover and drab.
 
Her sense of being on an adventure abated somewhat, and she was annoyed at herself for having to stop and check the map to find the flat again.
 
The building was in Clutton Street, which was narrow and one-way, and she was glad it was still early as the van could undoubtedly cause problems at the start of the commercial day.

She ran the two nearside wheels up on the pavement, checked the number six on the door, and dug out the set of keys she had been given.
 
The first try of the front door key failed to unlock it, and also the second.
 
Determined not to panic, she pushed the key in again with delicacy, and tried to feel the innards of the lock.
 
Her parents’ house had had a lock like that, needing sensitive fiddling rather than a strong twist to open it.
 
This time the brown-painted door swung open with a groan from the hinges. Behind it was a passageway leading to the stairs, and the widest part was occupied by two elderly bicycles.
 
It was going to be hellish difficult to lift all her packing cases past them.
 
Her flat, 2B, was on the second floor, and right then she wished she had left the move until half-day Wednesday – she could have closed the shop all day without much financial penalty, and asked Dek to help her.
 
He had actually offered, and she had refused with nonchalant thanks.
 
Serve her right.
 
Still, there would obviously be a best way of doing this, and she considered the options for a minute.
 
Supposing the bikes weren’t there? She could lean them against the outside wall while she brought the boxes in.
 
Then she could stack the boxes along the side of the passage, lock the van, and take them up one by one.
 
She would have to trust to luck that there wouldn’t be any wardens about yet to catch her on the double yellow.
 
There wouldn’t be room to bring the bikes inside during the time it took to carry the boxes up, so they would have to stay out in the street.
 
One had a padlock and chain, but of course that wouldn’t stop anyone from spiriting it away.
 
Bicycle theft was a big deal in university cities, as she well knew.
 
A further moment’s thought offered up the solution: she would lock them in the van.

First of all she needed to take the container holding the laptop and her most precious possessions up to the flat and lock it in, then she could really get cracking.
 
Strong she might be, but the load was heavy, and her legs ached by the time she stood outside 2B.
 
Entering it for only the second time ever was a dispiriting experience, the furniture and fittings being even cheaper and shabbier than she remembered.
 
When she had viewed it she had pretty well dismissed it, but the only other possibility she had seen that day had been revoltingly filthy, with a smell of decay and drains that made her stomach heave.
 
Not even her most fanatical efforts could ever clean that one to an acceptable standard.
 
Never mind, 2B was a short let of six weeks, which would give her a chance to look around for something better, hopefully a place of her own.
 
There was the usual pile of junk mail on the mat, and to her surprise, three envelopes addressed to her.
 
All were cards welcoming her to her new home, one from Rosemary and the others from Ellie, and Rachel and Dave.
 
The kind thought made her smile as she put the pile on the stained kitchen table, and she decended the stairs with new vigour.

The third carton of her worldly goods was causing her to break into a sweat (“BOOKS, NON-FICT.”), and she had paused for a breather on the landing, when a roar came up the stairwell.