Page 11 of The F*ck-It List

I roll my eyes and step into the hallway of her cottage. It’s a beautiful home she’s lived in since I’ve been alive, but unlike other old folk who seem to let their houses freeze in whatever decade they felt most comfortable, Ruth likes to refresh the place every few years. She even hires Joanie to help her, not that I think my sister charges Ruth, just as I won’t be charging for my visit today. No locals would charge Ruth; she’s basically the matriarch of the whole village.

“Coffee?” she offers, clicking away ahead of me toward the kitchen.

“Please.” I’ve already had three cups today, each of my customer’s keeping me well supplied with drinks and cookies, but I’ll hardly ever say no to a cup.

I follow her into the bright kitchen and I’m proud to see it still looks good after I fitted it for her last year, the house is immaculate, much like its owner. Mrs James was always old; she looked like a grandmother for as long as I could remember, but she’s also the most glamourous person I’ve ever met. Even today, when she probably won’t see another soul aside from me, she’s wearing makeup, the chain attached to her giant, comically magnifying glasses glints with what look like diamonds, although I doubt they’re real. It’s May and the weather is certainly warm, but she has on a thick, red jumperthat covers her neck and black trousers that, in my very humble and uneducated opinion, look elegant. Her nails are always painted red, and she smells of the same perfume she’s worn for sixty years. “If it’s good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it’s good enough for me,” she’d say anytime anyone commented on her signature scent.

In the kitchen, I let Ruth start filling the kettle knowing full well if I offered to help, she’d stare me down and tell me off for insinuating she can’t do it herself. I head straight over to the patio doors she’d called me about and open it up, the creak is loud and obnoxious. There’s a can of WD-40 already out on the dining table, so I go about oiling up the hinges until the door is silent. Then I go to the cupboard under the sink and collect three new lightbulbs from her stock, moving around the house to replace the ones she’d told me had gone out. By the time I’m back in the kitchen to change the final bulb, she’s sat at the breakfast bar with her own mug of coffee, a second one sat steaming, waiting for me.

“So,” she says, like that one word is a whole sentence.

I barely have to stretch to change the recessed light in the kitchen, the three-hundred-year-old cottage having mercilessly low ceilings for my-six-foot-eight frame. I concentrate harder than necessary on the task at hand as I know the tone means she’ll be bringing up subjects I don’t want to talk about. Just like the Gordans did, just like Mr & Mrs Pointer did. Port Doone runs on gossip and tourism, and the tourist season won’t be starting properly for another few weeks.

“So,” I mumble in response.

“How’s the new neighbour?” she asks casually.

I shrug like I don’t know the answer even though I already have some fairly strong opinions. “Hardly spoken to her.”Have thoroughly inspected her underwear, though.

“Mmhmm.” She sips her coffee and folds her arms, leaning back on the stool to narrow her glare at me. “And are you being nice?”

No. “Yes.”

“Have you welcomed her to the village?”

No. “Yes.”

Her face softens as I finish changing the bulb and she tilts her head, her purplish white hair not budging at all with the movement. “We were all routing for you, darling.”

I grunt in acknowledgement but don’t say anything more, an all too familiar tug of failure in my chest tightening painfully. It had been my one goal for years; buy the village shop, open my own furniture shop selling my pieces, and finally having a showroom rather than waiting for people in the village to want me to make them something. I could catch the visitors who come to the village from the neighbouring towns when the weather’s nice and they want to take in the idyllic British countryside and enjoy the local walking trails. Maybe they’d come to my shop and see what I can do, order their own custom pieces, and I’d be able to spend more time doing the work I enjoy rather than being the village handyman. Not that I mind helping out, I’ll probably be changing Ruth’s lightbulbs until the day I die. Because Ruth James will outlive all of us.

“So, what’s she doing with the old place?” Ruth says as I take my mug from the counter and lift it to my lips.

“Café,” I grumble, slurping my black coffee.

I barely resist narrowing my eyes at Ruth when her whole face lights up. “Really? Well, it’s about bloody time we got a decent coffee shop.”

My eyes do roll. “Don’t you start.”

“I bet Joanie is frothing at the mouth.” Ruth smirks.

I make a small noise of confirmation and Ruth laughs at me.

“Oh, August.” She sighs.

“What?”

“Try not to scare the poor girl off, won’t you?”

“Joanie?” My face screws up.

“No, our newest Port Doone resident.” When I don’t say anything, she laughs again. “You really are a darling, sweet boy. I’d hate for our new friend to get the wrong impression of you just because you’re holding a grudge she can’t control.” Ruth picks invisible lint off her jumper.

“I don’t hold grudges,” I mumble, knowing full well it isn’t true. So does Ruth if the unimpressed purse of her lips is anything to go by. “She’s from London,” I say.

The rational part of my brain knows Ruth won’t be disgusted, but I’m still a little put out when she doesn’t react at all.

“She smiles all the time.”