Page 11 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“Agh!” The spoon went flying, the tray tipped and hot porridge landed in Mr Rutherford’s lap. “Are you taking the piss or deliberately trying to scald me?” The words came out staccato-like as he waved one hand like a fan in front of his mouth and the other one tried to push the hot porridge mess off his lap. “Who on earth gives an old man porridge at boiling point? Get me water. Veronica’s sent a dumbo with no common sense.”

For a second Stuart froze, horrified at the damage he’d inflicted on an infirm pensioner, then he raced for water and a damp cloth.

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t realise exactly how hot it was.” Stuart didn’t stop trembling until he was sure there was no sign of scalding on the skin beneath the sticky trousers and William had calmed down. They both agreed on toast as a suitable porridge replacement.

Later, after two cups of tea and when Stuart had voluntarily extended his visit by an extra hour in order to clear everything up, Mr Rutherford began to thaw a little.

“I won’t phone the agency to complain this time because I think there’s a chance we might get along better than I do with the ladies,” he said. “What do you think?”

After the stress of the previous ninety minutes and the fear of possibly losing his job on his first day, the words were music to Stuart’s ears. “I think we’re made of the same stuff. Let’s drink to a long and mutually beneficial partnership.” Stuart crossed the fingers of his left hand behind his back and, with his other hand, clinked his own mug of tea against Mr Rutherford’s.

He felt good as he drove home. Perhaps he wasn’t completely out of the woods with Mr Rutherford yet, but he’d dealt with a difficult situation and succeeded. Looking after the old man was going to help fill the empty spaces in his life. Not in an exciting explosion of freedom but enough to be getting on with for the time being. Best to take things slowly. He’d already asked Veronica if she had any other clients for him but she’d said it was mostly women on her books and she needed to sound them out personally before sending a man to them.

In his kitchen, Jayne’s phone number stared at him from under the change jar again. The man with the bright shiny Audi grinned at him. Stuart dithered.

Chapter Seven

The more Stuart thought about calling Jayne, the less confidence he had to do it.

It’s obvious that you want this to be a date and not some platonic rubbish. Oh dear, you are going to have to up your game to stop Audi man getting in the way. I’m going to enjoy watching!There was glee in his sister’s voice.

Do you remember when you asked Jayne out the first time round? The number of ‘accidental’ meetings you engineered at her front gate. Then I pointed out that she wasn’t without other admirers and you were in there like a shot. A little bit of competition is good for sharpening reflexes.

Stuart ignored his sister’s amusement. He and Jayne had been good together. They’d made each other laugh over stuff no one else found funny, like how a tin of Carnation evaporated milk could be full when you opened it and not evaporated at all. Or the way their chemistry teacher gave a barely discernible hop every five steps he took down the corridor. It was years since Stuart had felt that invisible connection to somebody and the yearning to have it again was growing.

But the Jayne he remembered wouldn’t settle for second best and Audi man proved she still had ambition. Before Stuart made any move towards Jayne, he had to ground the Zeppelin completely. He still wouldn’t measure up to Audi man but would be doing his best under the circumstances. The next stage of his plan was to make use of the space in this house while he still could by getting a lodger to supplement his meagre income.

There was a local Facebook group, offering recommendations of tradesmen, stuff for sale and local news. It was to this group that Stuart now went to post his request for a lodger. He’d drafted the post the previous evening so he could re-read it with fresh eyes today before submitting. He wanted his words to be clear and honest so there was no hassle with a tenant who didn’t fit the bill. Now he looked again at the description of what he was offering/wanted:

Single, working person wanted for a double room in a three-bedroomed house close to town centre. House will be shared with one other resident. Shared bathroom, kitchen and living area. Must be clean, tidy and quiet. Room available for the next eleven months only, at a weekly rent of £150.

The advert seemed to cover all bases. Told them exactly what was on offer, for how long and at what cost. He closed his eyes and tried to think if he should add anything else.

Remove the word ‘quiet’. Take life as it comes. Hope for somebody noisy to kick you out of your comfort zone.

“And keep me up all night with loud music? I don’t think so.”

Like me, you’re going to be a long time dead and that old Mr Rutherford is hardly going to set your life on fire, is he?

Perhaps Sandra was right. He crossed his fingers, deleted the word ‘quiet’ and pressed ‘post’. For a few minutes he kept refreshing the page but there was no deluge of applicants.

He needed the passive income generated by a lodger. His wages from the agency wouldn’t stretch to all the bills. The house was tired. It lacked a posh shower and sleek built-in wardrobes. The carpets were worn. No one would find living here an attractive prospect. Better to get some regular money than nothing at all and have to go crawling to his brothers, who would likely say ‘no’. After two hours of social media silence, Stuart amended the advert to one hundred pounds per week to include all bills.

Five minutes later he had a direct message from a lady wanting to view the room. They arranged an appointment for the next day, after his morning call on Mr Rutherford.

This time Stuart ensured the porridge was hot but not burning by tasting it first. The old man was grumpily satisfied. But still he managed to squeeze an extra thirty minutes out of the visit by insisting that Stuart be a sounding board for his morning cryptic crossword.

That meant the lady interested in the room was standing on his doorstep when he arrived home. Fifteen minutes early. Curvy, with Platinum-blonde bobbed hair, a zebra-striped fake-fur bomber jacket, purple leggings and high heels. He recognised at once that her multicolours made her an unsuitable lodger for a grey man. As he got nearer, Stuart realised she was quite small because, even with the heels, she was still half a head below his five foot eight inches. She offered her hand to him in greeting.

“I’m Florence. I’ve come about the room.”

Stuart was slow to react and Florence’s hand hovered awkwardly in mid-air.

“I’ve got the wrong house, haven’t I?” Her hand went from mid-air to her scarlet lips. “I am so sorry. This is typical of me. My friends call me frantic Florence because I’m so disorganised and everything’s a frantic panic. But you don’t need to know all that. I’m talking too much. I always do that when I’m nervous and especially when I’ve made a mistake like this. I really am sorry.”

Florence hitched the strap of her bag further onto her shoulder and started to walk back down the drive, the gravel making a meal of her heels. The fake fur wasn’t long enough to cover her bottom. Stuart’s eyes followed it. After a few seconds he mentally slapped his cheeks and Sandra insisted on her two pennies’ worth.

Don’t ogle! It’s rude. Has it been so long since you got the hots for anyone? And why have you sent her away?

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