After
tea, Marian decided to have one last try. This time, three rings
and a voice said ‘Hello?’ Marian’s heart gave
an extra beat. She really hadn’t been expecting an answer.
‘Hello, it’s Mrs Smithers. I’ve been waiting all
day.’
‘Waiting? What for?’
That was silly. She felt suddenly cross. ‘For you to start
painting my bungalow, of course.’ What else would she have
been waiting for? Christmas?
‘Me? Joe Thomson?’
‘Yes. I paid you fifty pounds for the paint.’
There was an awkward silence on the end of the line, only it wasn’t
a line, was it? However much was she paying for the call? ‘Look,
can you tell me when you will come?’
‘I’ll be round in a minute,’ he said. ‘What’s
the address?’
‘You know it. You came to give me an estimate.’
‘Just remind me,’ he said, so she did.
This time he came. It was more like ten minutes, but then the doorbell
chimed. She turned on the porch light and peered through the peep
hole. That was odd. He wasn’t a lad in jeans, but a man with
grey hair and navy overalls just like Bill’s, the ones she
had just thrown away. Her eyes filled with tears, and he had to
wait in the porch whilst she blew her nose.
|
‘Mrs
Smithers? Joe Thomson. Can I come in?’
She wasn’t sure what to do. She knew it was foolish to let
strange men into her home. He seemed nice enough, but then murderers
often did, so people said. Oh well, did she mind being murdered?
Just so long as he didn’t burgle her funeral money. She stepped
aside, and in he came, pausing to wipe his boots on the mat. Couldn’t
be a burglar, she decided.
He sat down on the settee, and waited until she was settled.
‘The chap who came before, what did he look like?’
‘A young lad in jeans, nice looking, scruffy brown hair. Said
he would start on Monday - today - and three hundred pounds for
the lot, in magnolia and white.’
‘And you gave him fifty quid?’
‘Yes, to buy the paint.’
He ran a hand over his face, looking as if he too was going to cry.
‘I’m really sorry, truly I am. Can’t do anything
with the lad, not since his Gran died.’
Light slowly dawned on Marian. ‘It was your grandson who answered
your phone? He had paint on his boots. Does he work for you?’
Joe nodded. ‘Well, he’s supposed to, and lives with
us too - with me, I mean. I can’t seem to rely on him nowadays.
But I’ve never known him do anything like this before, asking
people for money. I never do, not until the job’s finished.’
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