right, Barney.’ She’s talking out of her Christmas tree-clad bottom here; she’s barely touched a piece of wallpaper yet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re here?’
I don’t believe what I’m hearing. As if things weren’t bad enough, Barney’s at my elbow and, without even picking up the spare cake slice, he’s already ripped off three huge lengths.
‘There we go.’ He isn’t even giving me the satisfaction of throwing his paper on the floor, he’s bundling it straight into the bin bag, dammit. ‘I’ll pass on the tea though, Josie. I can’t stay long.’
That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning.
He rips off two more strips whole, then he stoops to do the next one and ends up holding up a piece the size of a postage stamp. ‘Oops, my beginner’s luck ran out.’
I put my hands on my hips. ‘Too bad – looks like you’ve hit a superglued bit there, Barney. They’re way less fun.’
‘In that case I’d better leave it to you professionals.’ He gives a shrug and dips into the back pocket of his jeans ‘Before I forget, I came to give you your scarf. You left it in my sailing jacket.’
He’s pressed it into my hand and he’s reached the door before it sinks in. First, it’s been washed and beautifully ironed and folded. Second, and way more disturbing, the warmth currently seeping into my palm originated from his tush. As heat transfers go, that one’s too much.
‘Happy stripping, then.’ He pauses in the doorway. ‘And have a wonderful Christmas, Josie.’ Then he breaks into a run and, as he crosses the courtyard, for some inexplicable reason he’s punching the air.
I can’t decide whether to be annoyed he gave up so easily or ecstatic he’s left us to strip in peace. If I’m honest, I’m also struggling slightly with what happened when he whisked me away from Loella’s class. It’s not like I’m a pushover, I wouldn’t last two minutes in my job if I was. And I take a pride in taking responsibility for my own actions, and owning my decisions. More importantly, I’m definitely not a ‘Jane gets dragged through the jungle by Tarzan’ type of woman. Not even in my fantasies. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined Marcus making me do something I didn’t want to, although I did occasionally fantasise about him helping around the house more. Or him not wanting clockwork sex every single morning. But, coming back to Barney – and even I have to concede the ‘but’ is a huge one – somehow, however it happened, whatever went wrong, I ended up bobbing around in the bay, even though it was not something I’d ever have signed up for, or willingly done.
However many circles I go around in, I haven’t quite resolved this satisfactorily in my head yet. At best, this was Barney asking for help he didn’t actually need at all, and taking advantage of my better nature, which I was completely aware of by the time I got down to the harbour. In which case, that still leaves me puzzling – why the hell did I get into that boat? I mean, at my age, I assumed I’d be past surprising myself, that’s all.
Except by the time I’ve peeled the next strip of paper, I’ve remembered. I never actually expected my new job, because I’ve always been a chancer not an achiever, so that was a surprise. Then I shocked myself when I stood my ground and broke up with Marcus. And shocked myself all over again when I walked away from that perfect life we had.
One thing’s for sure – when you’re picking bits of sticky paper off the wall there’s plenty of time to ponder. As we work our way around the walls we get claggier and claggier, but I’m still no nearer an answer. We’re onto the last wall when Aunty Jo pipes up from nowhere, ‘That’s the other good thing about the classes, you can get a lot of information from them.’
‘Really?’ I’m bracing myself for another very long monologue about quilting. After Fun with Fabric she talked about wadding for two hours straight, but that was a relief because it meant I could skip the details about my afternoon.
The breath she takes is worryingly deep. ‘Yesterday I found out Barney’s not a window cleaner at all – he actually makes shepherd’s huts along the road. That’s impressive, isn’t it?’
That’s definitely not what I was expecting. I look up at the ceiling, count to ten and get to seven. ‘Maybe it’s significant if you keep sheep, otherwise not so much.’ Given a choice, I’d have preferred sewing tips.
‘According to Loella, people your age buy the huts and do Airbnb in their back gardens.’
‘Good for them.’ Not even having a teensy terrace to my name, I wouldn’t know. I was a week away from signing for a lease on my own tiny flat when my stroke happened and I pulled out. At least this way I might be homeless on paper but I’m not worrying about covering rental payments when my salary’s all but disappeared.
‘Unlikely as it seems, if I ever did have a lawn, a shepherd’s hut would be the last thing I’d buy.’ I might as well get it out there. ‘As garden ornaments go, I suspect they’re a bit like designer tree houses – mega hyped, overpriced and underused.’ Even when I lived with Marcus I never had that much cash to spare because we mostly spent it on his place, on eating out at weekends and on far-flung holidays in obscure places. If I struggled to run to a Hush pineapple sweatshirt – which was reversible, so you actually got two for the price of one – I’m damn sure a caravan you can’t actually tow would never have made it to the top of my shopping list.
She’s still going. ‘Every hut is unique, handmade by Barney to individual measurements.’
‘Good luck to his customers.’ I’m scraping so hard I’m making dents in the plaster. We’re going to have to agree to differ on the sun shining out of that particular bottom, because I couldn’t give a flying fuck. He could be making caravans for that ‘rags to riches’ woman’s fairy godmother, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has no idea about social norms. I mean, who hangs around for a conversation up a ladder when they’re crushed against you to stop you falling off, then takes you off for a boat trip you don’t want, or invites themselves in and starts pulling your wallpaper off? I can only hope he’s more appropriate with his boundaries with his clients than he is with us.
Aunty Jo has stopped again. ‘Oh dear, visitor alert. With all this rubbish on the floor too.’ Even though the patch of wall she’s stripped is tiny, Aunty Jo and the dust sheet where she’s standing are both plastered in pieces of gluey paper.
‘Bloody Barney.’ Not again. As I brush the claggiest lump off her cheek I’m suddenly baking in my sweatshirt. I’m picking the biggest pieces of rainforest out of my hair, but not because I give any kind of a damn. Tugging up my jeans because, whoever’s here, I don’t want to be caught out with a muffin top twice in one day.
‘Who said anything about Barney?’ There are wrinkles in Aunty Jo’s forehead.
‘What?’ As I follow her gaze and see Loella hurrying across the courtyard I’m ignoring the fact my insides just deflated faster than one of those things that go ‘pop’. She’s got so many kids with her she looks like a school outing.
As I pull open the door Loella’s smiling over the crowd of tousled heads. ‘Wowsers, are you culling the zebras? Tigers by the sea were never going to work, were they?’ At least she’s overlooked the festive pyjamas. ‘We were dropping Cam off, so I thought I’d pop in. We forgot to say – there’s a book group you might like to join. And the Wild and Blooming Cottage Garden group are having a talk tonight. I could give you a lift down if you’d like to come?’
There’s
