What the blazes was Jim doing at his funeral? Henry sat up and rubbed his tired eyes. There was a nagging dull ache in his stomach. He wondered where Rita kept those indigestion pills she’d mentioned. The truth was, Henry hadn’t really taken to Jim, that much. Broadly speaking, Henry didn’t take to workmen, full stop. They were all out to rip you off, was Henry’s opinion, but Imogen had seemed to like him.
‘Jim Hanson, nice to meet ya,’ he’d said when Henry had opened the front door.
Henry had looked down at the man’s grubby and torn jeans and then back to his weathered lined face. Bright blue eyes under hooded lids had appraised Henry. Henry had taken the man’s rough hand in his and said,
‘Won’t you come in?’
Imogen had just made soup. They always had homemade soup at the weekends. Henry wasn’t a great lover of soups, not really, but Imogen always brought home vegetables.
‘Alice said to take them,’ she’d say. ‘They’ll only be thrown.’
Henry always thought it rather a cheek of Alice to offer her rotting vegetation to him and Imogen, but Imogen argued they made good soup. Henry did rather enjoy the homemade bread that went with the soup, though.
‘That smells good,’ Jim had said, his nostrils widening in appreciation.
‘It’s vegetable soup,’ Imogen had said proudly.
‘Homemade is it?’ Jim had asked.
Henry had fought down a sigh. They were all the same, these workmen, he’d thought, always trying to delay the work. If Henry had been that lazy at the office, heaven knows what would have happened to people’s insurance claims.
‘Let me show you the roof,’ Henry had said butting into the soup conversation, which Henry dreaded would end with Imogen inviting Jim to share a bowl with them. No way was Henry sharing homemade bread and soup with a builder. Imogen was far too generous for her own good.
‘Oh, I looked at that,’ Jim had said arrogantly. ‘You need some new slates and the guttering done. The lead flashing around the chimneystack needs some work. Not surprised you’re getting water coming in.’
Henry had stared at him. When had the man looked at the roof, Henry had wondered. Jim accepted a cup of tea from Imogen and Henry’s blood had boiled.
‘I’ll need a quote,’ Henry had said sharply.
‘A hundred and fifty quid; cash in hand mind. Otherwise it’s two hundred.’
Henry had looked up at the damp patch on the ceiling.
‘That will need fixing too,’ he’d said.
‘Absolutely,’ Jim had smiled in that disarming way he had.
He was a rough diamond, Henry had thought. Not that Henry had ever met a rough diamond. He just presumed that someone with Jim’s accent, coarse hands, and appetite for tea, was by definition a rough diamond.
‘Love one,’ Jim had said, pushing his grubby little hand into Henry’s digestives.
To make matters worse, Jim was drinking his tea out of Henry’s favourite mug. It had his name printed all around it. You’d have thought Imogen would have known better, especially as, so far, Jim hadn’t done a bit of work. He’d talked about it alright and Henry wondered how long it would be before he actually did some.
‘When can you start?’ Henry had asked, watching as Jim sipped from the mug. He’d bleach it later. Who knew what the man had?
‘Right away if you like,’ Jim had said airily. ‘I’m between jobs.’
‘Between jobs?’ Henry had repeated. He didn’t want to be squeezed in between jobs, thank you very much.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jim had smiled, tapping Henry condescendingly on the shoulder. ‘It’s not a big job.’
‘Jim comes highly recommended,’ Imogen had said, stirring the soup, which Henry was hankering after even more. It was way past his lunchtime.
Jim had looked at her appraisingly and had said in a smarmy way, ‘thank you kind lady.’
Henry had snorted but no one had seemed to notice. Jim was complimenting Imogen on her delicious smelling soup while Imogen flapped about saying it was only bits of veg. It was when Henry said, ‘My wife is no expert on builders,’ that a dark atmosphere had fallen over the kitchen. Jim had stared directly into Henry’s eyes. Henry had suddenly felt very uncomfortable in his own kitchen. He hadn’t been pleased about that.
‘You don’t have to use me,’ Jim had said with an undercurrent of hostility in his voice.
