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Monday, 29th December
“You’re going to have to replace it, I’m afraid.”
Cam stared at the back of the plumber’s head, glad the man’s attention was still on the ancient boiler. Glad he wasn’t watching as Cam visibly swallowed against the hard lump that had materialised in his throat at this news.
“How much’ll that cost?” Cam asked.
He’d waited three days before he’d called Alan Glenn, a near neighbour and the only plumber for miles around, hoping beyond hope the heating might spontaneously come on again. It was only with this unexpected cold snap that he’d finally given in, worried by the prospect of burst pipes.
Alan looked at Cam over his shoulder. He was one of those men whose hair went white early, but his skin was smooth and unlined and his bushy eyebrows were black, making his age difficult to judge. Those startling eyebrows drew closer together as he totted up the cost in his head. “It’s an old system,” he said at last. “I reckon you’re looking at fourteen, fifteen hundred, all in.”
Cam pressed his lips together and gave a short nod. He’d been praying the problem would turn out to be something minor and cheap to fix. No such luck.
Luck wasn’t something he’d had much of lately.
“It looks like it’s had a good innings though,” Alan added as though that should somehow cheer Cam up. “How long have you had it?”
“All I know is, it’s been in the cottage since my folks bought the place,” Cam replied. “That was twenty-odd years ago.”
“Yeah, well they don’t make them like this anymore,” Alan said in a regretful tone, turning his head back to look into the depths of the understairs cupboard. “The new ones don’t last the same.”
For a moment, they both contemplated the clunked-out boiler. Its once-white exterior had a greyish tinge now, betraying its advanced years, and a rash of rust crept down the seam of the casing, spreading over the bottom corners of the unit like patches of eczema.
Why couldn’t it have kept going just a little bit longer? Cam couldn’t afford to replace it right now. He just couldn’t. He pressed his lips together, determined not to let Alan see how devastated he was by such ordinary news. The thought of Alan gossiping to the other villagers about him made his gut clench with sick resentment. He could just imagine what they’d say about him.
Apparently he can’t even scrape together a couple of grand for a new boiler. That business of his can’t be doing too well...
Cam cleared his throat. “So, there’s nothing you can do to fix it, is that what you’re telling me?” The words came out wrong. In his head, they were a plea. On his lips, they sounded sort of...disbelieving. That certainly seemed to be how Alan took them anyway, judging by the faintly affronted look he cast Cam’s way.
“Yes,” the plumber said tautly. “That’s what anyone’ll tell you.”
Great. Now he thought Cam had been questioning his honesty.
Cam considered admitting that he just couldn’t afford any repairs. But in the end, all he said was, “Okay. Well, thanks for coming round on such short notice.” He cringed inwardly at the coolness of this dismissal but Alan seemed to take it pretty well. His annoyed expression faded and he even gave Cam a friendly nod.
“No bother,” he replied, picking up his toolbox. But with his next words, it became plain he hadn’t picked up Cam’s intended meaning. “So, shall I get you a couple of trade catalogues out of the van? If you want the work done any time soon, you’ll need to get a new boiler ordered sharpish. New Year’s a bloody awful time for getting parts.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that!” Cam blurted. Alan frowned, puzzled, and Cam cast around for an excuse to give. “I—uh, I think I’ll get a second opinion on whether it can be fixed first.”
There was a long silence and Cam’s heart sank as he realised that this time he really had offended his neighbour. Coming on the heels of his earlier comment, this one probably made him sound as though he thought Alan was trying to rip him off, or perhaps just that he thought Alan was a rubbish plumber. Either way, the man looked to be tight-lipped with anger now.
Cam opened his mouth to try to repair the damage, to take the comment back or qualify it, apologise—something—but he couldn’t find the words to smooth this over, not without admitting the truth about how broke he was.
Before Cam could say anything else, Alan brushed past him, making for the front door. “Well, good luck finding someone to fix it,” he said tightly. “I hope you don’t get a burst pipe in the meantime. Snow’s forecast this week, you know.”
And then he was out the door and striding down the path to his van.
Cam watched him go, cursing inwardly, then he sighed and closed the door, turning back to face the interior of his too-small, run-down, depressing fucking cottage.
He needed a new boiler.
He needed fifteen hundred fucking quid. Fifteen hundred!
Jesus.
He could barely meet his bills at the moment. He actually had a decent number of bookings for trips and events next year but they didn’t start till late April. The next few months stretched ahead, long and cold and income-free.
Cam wandered into the living room and dropped down onto the sagging, ancient couch with a sigh. As usual, whenever he let himself think about his predicament, he felt his gut begin to churn and his heart to race a little. Classic signs of stress and anxiety, and he knew it. Knew to take deep breaths. Knew to try to turn his thoughts in a positive direction. He’d always been a bit of a worrier—his brain could take him to worst-case scenarios in a hop, skip and jump. The trouble was, though, he couldn’t see a positive way of looking at this. There was no getting away from the fact that he had no source of income for the next four months.
When he’d set up Glen Croe Adventures, he’d counted on at least some bookings for the various activities over the winter months—the canoeing, kayaking and cycling could be done at any time of year and he offered generous discounts out of high season. He’d reasoned that there were loads of regular holidaymakers who had weekend places in the area who always had their eyes open for new things to do. And then there were all those businesses across the central belt who might be interested in team building and charity events, maybe even some corporate hospitality for the adventure-inclined. Back in his days as a big-firm accountant, Cam had been on several such outings, though he’d personally always found them too easy for his fitness level.
That was why he’d decided Glen Croe Adventures would offer more challenging options. He’d spent ages researching and planning routes, putting details on his website, and getting flyers printed for the local Tourist Information offices. The site was getting plenty of hits too, and decent numbers for summer, just no winter bookings. It seemed he’d grossly underestimated just how seasonal the business was going to be.
Cam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He made himself take a few deep breaths then scrubbed his hands over his face, as though the physical sensation might somehow force him back into the here-and-now, even as his mind continued to race.
He was tempted to switch on his laptop and start going through the spreadsheets again, just to see if there was somewhere he could find the money. A ridiculous impulse—he already knew there was no money anywhere. He knew his figures so well, he could practically recite them. Knew very well how worrying his situation was. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to run through the cold, hard facts:
He was almost a year in, and still his business wasn’t profitable.
He had no source of income for the winter months.
He had a payment he needed to make on his bank loan every month.
His redundancy money was gone.
He was out of savings.
Next month, he’d have to make his loan payment on a credit card.
All of that was bad enough, but there was one more thing and it was the thing that made all of this unbearable: his parents had guaranteed his bank loan against their house—not this tiny, dilapidated holiday cottage he’d been coming to since he was six years old. No, they’d put up the family home, the home they planned to downsize from in a few years to release some capital and pad out their modest pension.
That was the thing that really made Cam’s stomach churn with sick dread.
Cam sat on the shabby sofa for a long time, staring at his knees, not so much thinking as letting his mind go round that same loop, over and over, like a car on a racetrack, endlessly returning to those same cold, hard facts, the same fears and regrets.
It was only, finally, when a phone rang that he looked up, frowning at the sound of the unfamiliar ringtone coming from the kitchen. It was a Christmassy tune he knew well and could fit words to:
“You bet-ter watch out; you bet-ter not cry...”
Eilidh.
He jumped up from the couch and went through to the kitchen where his phone was buzzing on the worktop. Grabbing it, he swiped at the screen with his thumb and lifted it to his ear.
“Eilidh,” he barked, “have you been fucking with my ringtone again?”
Eilidh laughed her gurgling laugh. “You got me,” she admitted, adding without so much as a pause, “So, guess what? I’m coming to see you today. Meet me for lunch.”
“Don’t you have a job to go to?”
“I’m on night shift tonight. I know—let’s meet at that nice café in the village. How does one o’clock sound?”
“Why don’t you just come here if you want to visit me?”
“For a crappy cup-a-soup? No thanks. Besides, I always try to have a proper lunch when I’m working nights.”
Eilidh was an Accident & Emergency nurse and at this time of year there were plenty of booze-fuelled injuries to keep her busy.
Cam paused before answering. “Fair enough, but, um, do you mind if we don’t go to the café?”
“O—kay.” Eilidh sounded puzzled. “Is there somewhere else decent we can go?”
Cam thought desperately. “The pub?” he offered weakly.
“The Stag, you mean? They don’t do food, do they?” Eilidh was beginning to sound suspicious now and the last thing he needed was her asking questions about why he was so keen to avoid the café.
And it wasn’t as if he’d actually been banned. Not officially.
Besides, Rob Armstrong wasn’t there every day. Not even most days. It was usually that Val woman who presided over the counter.
“Oh yeah, you’re right—The Stag doesn’t do food,” he said, forcing himself to speak brightly. “Okay, fine, um—I’ll see you at the café then. At one, yeah?”
“Great,” Eilidh replied, sounding pleased. “And I’ve got your Christmas pressie with me, by the way.”
“Oh, I’m getting a proper one now, am I?” he said, trying to inject a teasing note into his voice. Eilidh had turned up at their parents’ for Christmas with a bunch of presents bought from the 24-hour garage, all wrapped up in pages from the festive edition of the Radio Times. Cam had got a box of Maltesers and a copy of the latest edition of Attitude—both of which he’d enjoyed, to be fair.
“Course you are!” Eilidh replied indignantly. “Told you I had something in mind, didn’t I?”
“Hmmm. Is that why you’re coming to see me on the twenty-ninth of December?”
“Must be. So—one o’clock, at the café.”
“See you there,” Cam confirmed.
He cut the call and stared down at his phone.
He hoped Rob Armstrong wasn’t at the café today—he didn’t fancy being chucked out. Then he really would get grilled by Eilidh.