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 sitting 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 rather 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 utter 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.
"Lewis? He's a good guy, just likes to be left alone to get on with the job. His mother lived up north, I think. He's not a great conversationalist." Simon points out the obvious, but doesn't offer any more information. It would be rude to question him further, but enough has been said to reassure me that Mr Hart's rudeness isn't personal. Knowing that helps a little; not much, but enough for me to be determined not to let it get to me.
"It's a great place," he adds. "Of course, Aggie's deteriorating health meant that over the last few years less and less maintenance work was carried out. Lewis managed to keep things just about ticking over for her, but she couldn't stand noise or mess. She was in a sorry state at the end. Funny, everyone always assumed that Lewis was going to buy the cottage after she passed on. I think Aggie thought so, too. Anyway, it should only take a few hours to chip off the old stuff and bond the walls ready to re-plaster them."
"That's great, thanks. How was the flooding when you drove through the village?"
He shakes his head.
"They have the pumps running and it is maintaining the level so cars can still get through at the moment. I don't suppose you've seen the news, but the flooding here is nothing compared to some parts of Gloucestershire. Entire communities are cut off, with food and water being distributed by boat. Who would have thought?"
We stare out at that awesome view. It's barely visible through the rain, which is falling vertically in sheets and hitting the ground so hard that it's bouncing back with force. The backdrop of Lewis hammering away in the kitchen shakes the ground beneath our feet as Simon heads back out into the rain.
I sit in the conservatory for a while to warm my toes on one of the heaters. Then I pull on my woolly hat and waterproof to dash up the hill and make a few phone calls. I ring the plumbers and they promise to call in on their way back home tonight, pretty confident it's a fuel blockage. We also agree that ordering a replacement motor seems like the best option. Despite the fan heaters blasting out on full, the dampness seems to infiltrate everything and my toes and fingers are constantly cold.
I'm assured that the bed will arrive today and it turns out that the van driver literally drove straight past the cottage yesterday and it was nothing whatsoever to do with the flood water on the lower road. He simply gave up looking and I suspect the fact that it was a late drop, dark and he was likely to get very wet, was no incentive. I make them write down the directions in full and tell them that the driver should look out for a large sign on a telegraph pole next to a white garage. On the way back to the cottage I remember a piece of board I spotted tucked away in one of the stone store rooms. Retrieving it, I dig out a pot of white gloss paint and in foot-high letters paint 'Ash Cottage'. I leave it propped up against the wall to dry and close the garage doors.
Back inside, Mr Hart is still hammering away and I can hear the sounds of splintering wood. He's a hard worker, that's indisputable. A slight movement to the side of me draws my eye towards the door and, to my utter dismay, I see Jeff standing there with a soggy bouquet of flowers in one hand. Reluctantly, I open the door wide enough for him to step inside. As I remove my own, soggy coat, it's clear I'm not inviting him to stay and I ignore the fact he's dripping all over the floor.
"What are you doing here?" It's probably not the reaction he was expecting and I sound almost as rude as The Man Who Can, who, by the sound of it, has just had an accident. The language emanating from the kitchen seems to fill the space between Jeff and I, as he stands there awkwardly, a shocked look on his face.
I spin around to look in the general direction of the kitchen and Mr Hart appears, blood pouring from his hand. He stops in his tracks when he catches sight of Jeff.
"Um…that looks bad. I'll get the first aid kit. Mr Hart, this is Jeff, my…um…ex-husband."
Jeff shuts the door behind him as I run off to ferret through boxes. I'm vaguely aware of an exchange of words, but I can't hear what they're saying – only the low grumble of two male voices. Returning, I see that Mr Hart has found some blue paper towel to catch the blood.
"I'll be back in a minute, Jeff. You're timing isn't the best, take a seat." As I walk off in the direction of the downstairs bathroom, I leave Jeff eyeing the two folding chairs rather dubiously.
"We need to clean that up," Mr Hart follows me into the bathroom without saying a word.
I turn on the tap and indicate for him to put his hand under the running water. The clear stream instantly turns bright red and I'm shocked at the amount of blood pouring from his index finger. When, finally, I can assess the damage, a slight sensation of queasiness passes over me.
"You'll be lucky not to lose that fingernail. It looks like you've hit it right at the base and it's split. Unfortunately there's nothing to stitch, so all we can do is clean it up and dress it to help stem the flow of blood."
It's rather unnerving standing so close to this man who is, after all, nothing more than a stranger to me. The thought of actually touching his finger feels slightly invasive, if I'm honest, but he can't clean the wound and apply the dressing all by himself.
"You're a nurse, as well, are you?" I look up at him, my arm brushing his makes me recoil slightly. I'm not sure if that's his attempt at humour, or if he's being sarcastic.
"Raising two sons you get used to dealing with minor accidents. If you'd rather pay a visit to the local accident and emergency centre, go ahead."
I immediately regret my tone when I see his expression, as I think he really was attempting to make a joke. For some peculiar reason I'm stressing about having contact with him. I grab a towel with both hands, indicating for him to lay his hand on top. It must be stinging like mad as I wrap the towel around it, patting it gently. His hands are large and I notice there are callouses on his palm. Turning his hand over, still within the towel, I incline my head and he perches on the corner of the bath. He seems to be content to do as I instruct without complaint, and that allows me to lift the towel, and his hand, onto the edge of the sink. Just letting go sends a little wave of relief over me. Honestly, blood doesn't usually upset me in this way and I feel really silly. I pull out an antiseptic wipe, some butterfly strips and a large, waterproof plaster. I tear open the wipe and grab some cotton wool to soak up the fresh blood that is now running down his finger.
"Mr Hart, this is going to sting a little I'm afraid." He doesn't flinch as I mop up the blood and apply the wipe.
"It's Lewis."
His voice sounds almost normal. There's no hint of sarcasm and the bark is missing.
Applying the butterfly strips is the right thing to do and might end up saving his nail, but now I'm touching him, skin on skin. His hands are those of a manual worker, strong and hardened, but his fingernails are nicely cut. They aren't ugly hands by any means, which surprises me. My eyes wander down to his wrist, which by comparison looks strangely vulnerable, although his forearm is solid muscle and looks as strong as steel. I've never really studied a man's arm before. An unnerving sense of something happening in the pit of my stomach shocks me back into the moment. What on earth is going on here? I avoid looking at him as I put the plaster in place, making sure the gauze covers the base of the fingernail and won't stick to the wound if it continues to bleed.
Pulling my hand away, it suddenly feels cold, as if the warmth of his skin had permeated my own. Now I feel embarrassed, so I busy myself with washing the streaks of blood out of the sink and disposing of the debris from the dressings.
I can see he's going to speak and assume it will be a curt 'thanks', but that's not the case.
"Your ex is waiting."
"He can wait, but you're done." I continue washing my hands, dry them and then apply a hand sanitiser.
Our eyes meet for one brief second and I avert my gaze, my eyes settling on his mouth – full lips, slightly parted, showing a row of extremely white teeth. This man might present as a rough, tough individual who doesn't care about anything, but he's particular. That's not a trait someone who doesn't give a damn about anything would have. My head starts to spin and I have to distance myself. As he so kindly pointed out, my ex is waiting.
"I'm Maddie," I say on my way out of the bathroom door.
"I know," he replies, "I'll call you Madeleine."
My hackles are raised without even having to check the look on his face. This man is determined to wind me up for no other reason than the fact that he's an expert at it. Well, Lewis, we'll have to see about that.
"So," I demand, as Jeff looks back at me rather sheepishly, "why the flowers?" I'm in no mood to be messed around by anyone today, least of all my cheating ex.
"Maddie, it's a gesture, that's all. The boys wanted me to check you were okay, it's only natural they're a little concerned. If there's anything I can do…this is quite a job to take on. I'd assumed you'd pick some cosy little place, not a…" He doesn't finish the sentence; probably realising he's treading on thin ice.
"To be frank, Jeff, it's none of your business any more. Thank you for the flowers, but I'll be having a word with the boys to make things very clear. My life is now my own and if our paths never cross again, I'll be one very happy woman."
He looks like he's been punched in the stomach as I open the door and all but eject him physically from the conservatory. I immediately turn the key in the lock, pick up the bouquet and march out to the kitchen, from where Lewis has been watching the whole sorry little scene. His eyes widen a little as I literally ram the flowers into the plastic waste bin in the corner.
"Now I'm happy," I mutter under my breath. "Do you have a hammer and a nail?"
A slight frown passes over his face as he duly hands me a hammer and a six-inch nail.
"Big enough?"
I swear there’s the merest hint of humour going on in those eyes as I march off to put up my sign.