On my way home after the footy was finished, I cut across the rocky scrub to the back of my shack. Just as I reached my back door, the generator behind the house sputtered and was silent. The lights in the house next door dimmed and went out. It must be time for bed, I thought.
I opened the door and went in. I shut it behind me and heard another door slam. Through the window, I could see a shape heading for the generator shed with a torch, swearing loudly.
I found my torch and headed back outside, toward the generator shed.
“Useless piece of shit. Now my ice cream’s going to melt. I’ll get a new one sent over from the mainland tomorrow.” Unmistakeably female and obviously pissed off.
I stepped into the shed doorway. “Can I help?” I offered.
Vanessa crouched over the generator, a rusted hammer in her hand. “No. I’m going to beat the crap out of this until I feel better and I’ll have a new one that works tomorrow.”
Wow. Sweet, friendly Vanessa has a volcanic temper.
“You might not need to. I can probably fix it,” I told her. It sounded like it had just run out of fuel.
“What, because blokes know more about generators, and having boobs makes girls useless at telling when equipment needs to be replaced?” She rose to her full height stiffly. She had the hammer raised and as she turned to glare at me, she looked as if she might consider using it on me. She was quivering with anger, the aforementioned boobs doubly so.
Those boobs may not affect your technical ability, but they’re distracting me from mine.
Unable to help it, I burst out laughing, my hands up in surrender. “No, because I’m a licensed electrician and I probably know more about generators than most of the people on this island. But I’m happy to let you break your hammer on it, if you like. It’s your generator.” I backed away from her.
Her lips quirked into a slight smile as she looked at me quizzically. “You think you can fix this piece of shit?”
“I’m willing to try,” I began, “if you hold up the torch so I can get a good look at it.”
She held up her torch, spotlighting the generator, and moved out of my way.
A quick examination of the generator told me that there didn’t look to be anything seriously wrong with it. I went around the back of it and kicked the fuel drum it was connected to. It echoed hollowly. Yep, out of fuel.
I kicked the next fuel drum and wished I hadn’t – it was full. Fuck, those broken toes hurt like hell. Quickly, I unhooked the empty drum and connected the fuel hose to the new drum. I tried to start the generator again. It took a few tries, until the diesel had a chance to run through it, before it settled into a healthy buzz. Behind me, the lights in her house flickered back on.
I backed out of the generator shed to stand next to her, wiping my oily hands on my shorts. “So, are you going to put the hammer down now?” I asked.
She looked in surprise at the hammer clutched in her hand, before going back into the shed and hanging it on the wall. She closed the shed door behind her as she stepped back outside.
She looked at me, her expression difficult to discern in the torchlight. “Thank you,” she said in wonder, holding out her hand to shake mine.
My fingers closed over hers. Rust and diesel, salt and lubricant. Instead of wanting to pull away and wash my hands, I held hers for longer than necessary.
“Any time,” I told her. “If you have more trouble with your generator, let me know. You know where I live.” Reluctantly, I let go.
She rubbed her hands together as if she was dying to wash them, but a smile lit her face. “Come in for a second and wash your hands. I’ll get you a beer – it’s the least I can do. After all, you saved my ice cream.”
I followed her back to her house, shaking my head. Well this has to be the strangest house call I’ve had yet. At least it’ll make a funny story to tell in between Dean’s interminable ones.
Silhouetted in the doorway against the light, Vanessa looked mouthwatering. Ah, he won’t believe me anyway.
I swallowed and followed her inside.