Narrow Escape (4 page)

“Where did they come from?” I edged toward the warmth of the boat. The kids had given up on the wood moving at least an hour earlier. Back inside the boat, they had put the lights on and Charlie had stoked up the fire, it looked wonderfully cosy in there.

“They were the tops of old lab tables.” Geoff shrugged. “You know Neil; they could have come from anywhere.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “They could also be infused with e-coli or something else equally terrifying.”

Geoff glanced up as he began dragging out what appeared to be half a tree from his wood stash. “Is that a ‘no' then?”

I held my breath as the tall pile teetered and tottered backward and forward, pieces of wood slid and bounced as they fell from the apex. Eventually the whole thing settled into a sort of half slump. “Yes … That's a no.” I beat a hasty retreat.

Standing at the kitchen window I watched him trotting backward and forward with his ‘booty'. He was entirely happy. I grinned and waved a mug at him, laughing as I got an enthusiastic thumbs up. Filling the kettle I carried it over to the stove and leant on the work surface as I waited for it to boil. I know he didn't like to let a good thing escape but slate table tops, really? I looked around at my horrible kitchen work surfaces and then imagined them in black slate. Oooh, that looked good, and there would be no cracks for food to fall down, and they'd be so easy to clean.

No! God only knew what had been on those work surfaces. Cambridge is well known for its rather experimental sciences. Wherever Neil had got them from they could have been experimenting with Anthrax or something.

But … they'd look so great, but then how would we get them to fit? That forty-five-degree angle would be a complete pain. All this and more swept through my head and I stayed, leaning on the units and arguing with myself until the piercing whistle from the kettle caused me to jump.

I looked up to find the kids staring at me.

“What?” I said.

“You've been muttering to yourself for the past five minutes.” Sam was looking a little perturbed. “Are you all right?”

“Sam, I've told you before.” Charlie gave me her sweetest smile; it didn't fool me for a moment. “They're getting old and mad and we have to expect this sort of mental deterioration.”

“Thanks.” I concentrated on making the tea.

After dinner Geoff flopped down onto the sofa beside me.

Grabbing his arm I wound it around my shoulder, the man was like a living hot-water bottle. “Am I allowed to change my mind?” I said.

“I thought it was mandatory.” Geoff gave me a big grin. “So what exactly would you like to change your mind about?”

“Do you think there's enough slate to re-top the work surfaces?”

“Oh. I'm not sure we can make work surfaces out of it.” He put his mug on the floor, then, grabbing a pencil and his pad, wandered over to stare at the kitchen work tops.

He does a lot of ‘staring at things': walls, floors, the cat's cradle he calls the electrical system and, being used to this sort of behaviour, I settled down until he had finished ‘mulling'.

After about half an hour he scratched his head and then sighed. “Do you
really
think they'd look good?” he asked.

I wandered over to stand beside him. “Does that mean that you
could
get them to fit but you'd really rather not go through the anguish of doing it?”

Geoff nodded slowly and we stood in companionable silence, both studying the problem in our own way.

Oh great, two of us staring at inanimate objects! It's no wonder our children think we're ‘odd'.

The slabs of dull black stone turned up the following weekend. After bribing the neighbours with rum-laced coffee and cake we managed to drag the wretched things up the steep flood defences and get them positioned in the ‘garden'.

I waved goodbye to our small troop of ‘lift it' people as they happily staggered back to their respective boats, dumped the last drops of rum from my once-full bottle into my cold coffee and began to gather up the various mugs and plates that were strewn along the top of the boat.

Although we have found that the neighbours don't need an incentive to help, any nasty job we ask them to undertake always seems to be a far gigglier affair if I offer ‘pirate coffee' as it's been dubbed. I've sort of shot myself in the drinks cabinet because now it's expected. Anyone that turns up to help always has that sort of hopeful look about them. Luckily, Geoff doesn't drink, he never has, so at least there is one sober soul to organise the group of sniggering, staggering helpers. He occasionally gets a bit grumpy that every little job turns into a social affair and it takes us all twice as long to get anything done but we do have a lot of laughs.

“Right.” Geoff downed his tea and studied the slabs of stone. They were very, very thick. Each one was about five foot long, three foot wide, and a good two inches deep. “I don't remember them being this big in Neil's shed.” He nudged one with his foot, it moved not an inch. “Do you think they may have swollen in the damp?”

Two mugs of coffee had rendered me pretty much incapable of rational thought. It took me a good couple of minutes to realise that he was joking. “Are you actually going to be able to cut these?” I said.

“I think so,” he said. “I need to take some measurements.”

“You don't need me then?” I planned to wash up the plates and then probably go and lie down in a dark room for a little while until the world stopped spinning.

Geoff looked up at me. “Feeling a little wobbly, are we?” He poked me in the shoulder and laughed as I had to take a step backward to steady myself. “I think a bit of hard manual labour will get rid of that feeling. What do you think?”

“Erm …”

He pointed down at the slate. “I've got some great gritty stuff that you could use to give these a really good scrub, it will just take the top layer of the slate off and get rid of a lot of those marks and rings and things.” He grinned at me.

“I hate you.” I grinned back. Oh well he was probably right.

Three hours later I was well on the way to getting frostbite in my fingers. I had, in order of importance: a hangover, pink wrinkled hands, a sore back, wet knees, one soaked foot, and a beautifully matching set of matt black stone sheets.

Geoff had been puttering around making plans and taking measurements, he wandered up carrying a jigsaw and a notepad. He studied the outcome of my efforts. “Wow!” he said. “They look really good. Nice one.”

I squatted back on my heels with a groan and threw my rather shredded sponge into the three inches of tepid grey water that was lurking in the bottom of my bucket.

He ignored my obvious pain as he poked and prodded at the little nicks and dips in the stone face. “Well I suppose I'd better bite the bullet and start cutting,” he said.

I nodded and staggered to my feet.

“Tell you what,” he said looking up at me. “How about I make a start after lunch?”

I nodded again. Seemed like a fair plan.

Geoff looked at me hopefully. “So, what's for lunch?” he said.

It was only with the utmost restraint that I stopped myself from pouring the contents of my bucket over his head.

Over lunch he outlined his plan to cut the stone. “I'll need to use two angle grinders,” he said.

“Why?” I pushed the soup around my bowl and tried to tune out Sam's complaints about how much he hated vegetable soup, even the ‘homemade stuff that smells like Dad's feet'.

“Because I can only make short cuts; even using a stone cutting blade it's going to heat up really quickly so I'll have to keep swapping tools and giving one the chance to cool down.

“So, do you need me?” I looked around the boat. Sam, bless him, had done the washing up and the table was strewn with unfinished History homework. Not his favourite subject, he'd obviously felt that doing the washing up would be a good way to get out of doing it and get him some brownie points at the same time. “I really need to go shopping, otherwise we'll be eating veggie soup for the next week.”

“Oh great!” Sam leapt to his feet. “I'll come and help.”

He rushed off to find his coat and boots.

I groaned and, leaning over, gently banged my head on the table. It always seemed to work for my husband when he was feeling overwhelmed.

 Geoff sniggered. “It's your own fault, you know.”

“I know.” I muttered into the wood of the table.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, Sam had announced that he knew what he wanted to be when he left school. Geoff and I had looked interested, both waiting for the usual ‘IT developer' or ‘Games designer'.

“An accountant.” Sam looked around in confusion at the stunned silence.

“Erm … OK.” I'd tried desperately to get my brain around what appeared to be a fairly sensible idea. “Why an accountant, hun?”

“I like maths and I like money and I think I'd be good at it because you keep telling me I'm a pedantic little pain in the neck.” Sam had given us a big grin.

I'd looked around at our ‘interesting living situation' and thought ruefully about our sad and tiny bank balance. “This is some sort of teenage rebellion, isn't it?” I'd said.

Sam had just looked blank as his dad laughed.

“I think that's great,” I'd said. Then I'd had a
brilliant
idea. “Tell you what; just to give you a taste of the lifestyle, after Christmas you can take over the shopping budget. Any savings you make you can keep half.”

Geoff choked on his tea; he obviously could see the problems with this plan that I had failed to divine.

Sam lit up. “Deal,” he'd said.

I lifted my head from the table and glared at my grinning husband. “You knew what would happen, didn't you?”

“Yep.” He got up and began to put back the multiple layers needed to head back into the freezing outdoors.

I carried on glaring at him as he chuckled his way out of the boat and then starting getting myself together. This shopping trip was going to be one long ordeal. As good as his word, Sam had indeed taken over the task of cutting our shopping budget and consequently his pocket money had increased by an average of five pounds a week. To make that saving however, took at least a hour longer in the supermarket than I'd ever taken. Every product had to be scrutinised, weighed, and compared. There were big discussions about luxury items, unless of course they were what
he
wanted, and we'd had some fair arguments in the aisles. Just to save time, I'd taken to letting him sort out the basics. Anything on the luxury list, I snuck back and purchased while he was at school. He was going to make a great accountant … if he managed to live long enough to graduate.

By the time Sam and I returned, frazzled, fraught, and missing quite a few things I felt we'd need, Charlie had come home and was helping Geoff move the first of our new worktops into place.

Dumping the shopping bags I stood and stared at the new black work surface while the family stared at me, waiting for the verdict.

“Oh, it's just gorgeous!” And it was, the black of the slate was beautiful against the tiles of the splash-back and, even more wonderful, it had increased the height of the surface by at least two inches which for my height was just brilliant. “I love it.”

Geoff grinned as the boiling kettle began its panicked hooting. “Good, I'm glad you like it. You can make the tea.”

“Oh, OK.” I made the tea and handed him the steaming mug.

“Erm …” He grimaced at me. “Could you just put it down on the floor and grab me a tea towel?”

I shrugged and put the mug down. “What's the matter, have you cut yourself?”

Geoff shook his head. “Can you put the towel on my lap?”

Curiouser and curiouser. I laid the tea towel across his legs and stepped back wondering what on earth the problem was.

Geoff winced and looked up at me. “You're just going to stand there and watch me aren't you,” he said.

I nodded.

With a sigh he reached down and picked up the mug of tea. I was shocked to see how much his hand was shaking. Despite obvious attempts to keep it under control, he slopped the liquid onto the carpet, over the arm of the sofa and then proceeded to pour a fair amount into his lap. Gritting his teeth in concentration he attempted to get the vibrating, quivering mug to his lips.

“Whoa … WHOA!!” I grabbed the mug and held it away from him. “What the heck is all that about?”

Geoff reached for his mug his fingers palsied and quivering. “It's from the stone cutting.” He grasped one hand in the other and it looked as though he was trying to shake a dice. “I was at it for two hours straight and now I can't stop them shaking.” He bit his lip and stared at his hands as they twitched and fluttered in his lap. “I'm sure it will stop soon,” he said.

“O … K.” I took his tea away and poured it into a travel mug. Securing the top well, I handed it back to him. “Try that.”

“Thanks.” He managed to get the mug to his lips without burning himself although he did manage to bash himself in the nose and chin a couple of times before he got the cup lined up.

Trying not to giggle, I looked around at the kitchen. “Did you only get the one done?” I winced as I realised what I'd asked.

“Yes, Marie.” Geoff's voice had a grating, irritated quality. “I
just
got the
one
done.”

I leant over and gave him a kiss. “One is great,” I said. Then found myself something to do, very quickly.

With the terrible weather, the dark nights, and the general pile of other stuff that took up most of our time it was another two weeks before the second work surface was even attempted.

Geoff managed to find all sorts of reasons to put it off. Eventually I cornered him and threatened to make him drink coffee if he didn't tell me what the problem was.