Chapter 1

A single, four letter expletive escaped my lips as I started work on the fourth screw and couldn’t get a purchase on the rusty fixing. What (another expletive deleted) idiot would use steel screws to secure a toilet pan? It was a hot day, I was working in – literally as well as metaphorically – the smallest room, doubled over trying to get a purchase on the rusty screw; sweat pouring off me. I’d discarded my t-shirt half an hour previously, and I’d just slipped the top of my boiler-suit down and tied the arms round my waist. Let me tell you, I’m no woman’s idea of ‘hunk’, more like the weedy guy who traditionally gets sand kicked in his face on the beach.

It wouldn’t matter in cosmic terms if I cracked the old porcelain pan – that was what I was doing, replacing it – but I wanted it out intact ... let’s just say, for hygiene reasons. The door behind me opened and hit my foot.

“Just a minute,” I called, clambered to my feet for a welcome stretch, and opened the door, to reveal my customer. Mrs. Jones, ‘call me Wendy’, was fairly typical of my clientèle; single, divorced or widowed women for the most part. Wendy was the latter – her husband killed in Iraq. Some customers had husbands who were just incapable of skilled manual work, others, husbands who were commuting or who worked such long hours they might almost not be married at all. Ah! You’re thinking ... opportunities! Well, you might think so. I can’t deny that here have been what you might call ‘offers’, or that I have on occasion (since my divorce) taken the offers up, but in my fifties I don’t have the same drives I had a few years ago, and I really didn’t want the complications.

“Harry, I never thought to hear anything like that from you,”

“Ah, well, I can turn the air blue on occasion,” I smiled, wryly.

“I suspect you could use this,” she said, holding out a pint glass full of water with ice floating in it.

“Thanks! You’re dead right there,” I said fervently, taking the glass and taking a sip. It was lightly flavoured with ginger. The ginger would reduce the chance of nausea if I drank it quickly; I was truly grateful.

“if you’d like to come downstairs when you’re ready, I’ll make some coffee. I know it’s a bit hot for that, but you do like your coffee, don’t you?”

“Yep, certainly do. Thanks. I’ll just deal with this screw, and I’ll be down.”

The idea of a cup of coffee, and Wendy made a really good cup of coffee, was a definite incentive. I gave up on the screwdriver and reached for my cordless drill to drill the head off the screw. Once that was out, I ran a utility knife through the sealant around the base, lifted and tilted it back, gently pulled it out and carried it downstairs, out into the garden.

The kettle was boiling as I walked into the kitchen, having at least washed my hands – I was getting a bit desperate for a shower – and Wendy filled the cafetière.

“You make great coffee,” I approved.

“I love the way you appreciate it,” she said, smiling.

“Actually, it’s about my lunchtime. Would you mind if I fetched my sandwiches and ate them with your excellent coffee?”

“Not at all – I’d be offended if you’d wanted to sit outside in your car!”

“Not really?”

“No, not really – I know you might need a break. But ... well, I do enjoy your company, you know.”

Over lunch, we chatted about several things; our likes and dislikes, how I came to be doing odd jobs, and after a while, the subject of her late husband.

“I was quite angry at first, you know... with him for getting himself killed. Now, I’ve got mixed feelings. Partly sorrow, partly pride, partly dismay at the disorder and hatred ... I don’t know...” she trailed off. “Can I ask you something really personal?”

“You’re welcome to ask, as long as I’m free to not answer!”

“You’re ... not gay, are you?”

I had to smile. “No, I’m not, though one or two of my friends are. It’s not something that’s ever appealed to me.”

“You ... must ... how can I put this ... have opportunities? I mean, you find some of your customers attractive?”

“Certainly I do ... but I like to keep my customers, and I like to keep my friends, and the problem with sex is it changes relationships. I ... find it difficult to ... be intimate with someone without forming an attachment, so it’s better not to, on the whole.”

She chewed that over in her mind for a while as we sat there in silence.

“I ... see,” she said eventually. “I was wondering ... Okay. This doesn’t follow on from what we’ve just been talking about. I promise I’m not coming on to you, though I’ll confess I had been thinking of it. Would you come to supper tonight? There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Actually, it’s someone who wants to meet you.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I could,” I began slowly, “but if so, I’d better get on and fix your toilet!” I finished my sentence at my normal conversational speed, and she smiled at me.

The rest of the job was reasonably straightforward – the worst part being necessary cleaning up where the old unit had been; the wall behind the cistern and the floor were quite ... disgusting. It didn’t take long, though, and with the exception of some necessary touching-up of paintwork I was finished by five. Wendy was pleased with the work and gave me a cheque straight away. I promised that I’d take the old stuff to the dump in the morning.

When I got home, I unloaded the car – I never leave my tools in the car overnight, even in Felixstowe that’d be asking for trouble – stripped and dumped all my clothes in the washer, trimmed my beard and hair (running the clippers over is so much more convenient than going to a barber) and showered ... very thoroughly.

How to dress? I could do ‘formal’, well, okay, fairly formal, but it wouldn’t really be ‘me’. I settled on dark green cargo trousers and a matching short-sleeved shirt, before sitting down to check my emails and catch up on the accounts.

I really only use the car when I have to – which mainly means, for work. I carry a lot of different tools and basic supplies which are both heavy and bulky. As I wasn’t going to need any of that, I walked the mile-and-a-half to Wendy’s and rapped on the door with my knuckles. She opened it after a short wait and beckoned me in with an expansive gesture.

“You really need for me to install you a door bell,” I said, smiling.

“Well, maybe,” she smiled back, “but I never noticed you having any problem getting my attention.”

Oh, yes? I suppressed a frown as she waved me into the sitting room. It was a pleasant room, with large doors, which were open, dividing it from a dining room. There was a handsome, dark wood dining table, set with silverware and crystal glass. My attention, however, was not on that, or the furnishings of the sitting room, but on Wendy’s other guest. I supposed she was in her thirties; stocky, but with spectacular, dark red hair, green eyes and freckles. I’ve always liked redheads; that hair... tumbled thickly in a cascade of waves, to below her shoulders. She was holding a sherry glass with a pale liquid in it.

“Harry, meet Katryn Jones, no relation. Kate, meet Henry Hopkins, my indispensable handyman. Harry, there’s a few minutes to wait; would you like a sherry? Kate’s got Tio Pepe, but I’ve got...” she paused,

“That sounds fine to me,” I said. Usually a scotch drinker, I quite enjoy a glass of sherry from time to time. She brought it and I sipped - it was rather good.

“This is good,” I commented. Wendy smiled and left the room; there was an awkward silence. I didn’t know what to say. “Um, how do you know Wendy?” I asked.

“Oh, our husbands served together,” she said. “Well Bill died, Wendy moved up here, but I kept in touch. Then...” she stopped, turned and looked out of the window. There was a long silence, but this time not awkward, “then, my Pete was killed by an IED last year and I came and stayed here for a while.” She turned back and looked at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Wendy helped me through the worst. But, what about you ... what do you do?”