The Reckoning

Patrick picked up his tool case before walking out to his work van, leaving behind a silent, brooding house that seemed to emanate the dour mood of its occupants.

There was no farewell, probably because of the early morning start. At least, that’s what he told himself. If he were honest, he would prefer not to work today, but, being self-employed his boss knew he couldn’t afford to turn down this job. It would probably pay well, the old lady who had hired him seemed to have more money than sense so he knew there was a good profit to be made; she would have no idea about the quality of the material or even workmanship. No, he could quickly knock up something cheap at an exorbitant price, but good enough to make her happy before moving on to other customers who may be more discerning and less gullible.

The address was some way out of town, the distance only adding more frustration to his mood as he drove out the city into the surrounding farmland.

His mood lifted when he finally arrived, his hopes for a large profit being reinforced as he found himself on a long gravel drive leading to a huge mansion. Yet the place appeared to be deserted. After knocking fruitlessly on the huge entrance doors, he suddenly became aware of a distant voice. Standing at the gatehouse stood an old woman, frantically waving a striped tea towel.

The dark mood returned. Muttering a string of profanities, Patrick returned to his vehicle to go back down the drive. The old lady was effusive, smiling apologetically. “So sorry, young man, everyone makes that mistake, think I live in the big house.”

“Well why don’t you……..” he trailed off, reclaiming some sense of calm within himself. He gave a wan smile.

“Yeah, no problem luv. What exactly is the job, couldn’t quite understand from our chat on the phone.”

“Oh, yes, this way.” The tea towel frantically waved again as she pottered into the gatehouse. Inside, a bright fire warmed the room, security against the mid-autumnal climate. “Now I would like to know if you can repair this?”

At first sight he wanted to get back into his van, drive away from here. His long-forgotten sense of pride made a surprising re-appearance, he was a carpenter, not a cleaner. Looming over him stood a Welsh dresser, its once luxuriant surface now dark and engrained with the dirt and grime accumulated over decades, centuries perhaps. It was fitted into the wall and looked immovable.

“I used to keep my photographs and favourite mementoes on it but some of the wood has split and come away. I do hope you can save it.” Her words were so plaintive that he softened, just a little. It obviously meant a lot to her. He would make more money by reconstructing just the visible parts, leaving the remainder solidly ensconced in the wall to simply rot away over time. It would be enough to make the old woman think it had been fully restored.

He took a closer look, managing to identify a variety of timbers. Solid oak beams had been inserted into the wall which appeared remain sound. The superstructure needed work though. Shelves and small drawers of beech, mahogany, spruce, elm; even a couple of more exotic woods from Africa and South America that he could recognise. Professionally renovated, this would be expensive. The more he studied this piece of mediaeval furniture the more it intrigued him. As though reading his mind she added “Whatever it costs, my memories are all I have and I want them on display, a reminder of my youth if you wish.”

 Patrick gave a shrug and clapped his hands in a submissive gesture. His latent professionalism awakened. He could work with woods he could never afford himself. Profitable and professionally challenging. Just what he needed.

Over the next four weeks Patrick arrived at the gatehouse promptly, at eight every morning. He was welcomed with tea, toast and homemade jam together with other delicious snacks supplied throughout the day. He had expected to be bored by the reminiscences of an old lady, but she had many interesting tales going back to her youth; her meeting with her handsome and dashing husband, a colonel who had died in battle, leaving no one to inherit the grand home at the end of the drive. She had no family herself; her husband’s elderly parents and two brothers passed away over the years, until, one day, she found herself physically, and financially, incapable of maintaining the mansion. She had donated the grand old edifice to the National Trust.

“I only have this humble dwelling now, but once I lived in a splendour to be found only in fairy tales. That’s why I gave the home away, I so want people to have a glimpse of what the world can be if we strive for beauty instead of wealth.”

He could think of many counter arguments, but she was genuine, he could sense that. She really wanted to give some happiness to others.

Although he was unaware of it, Patrick found himself spending far longer on the work than he had planned. Profit was no longer at the forefront of his thoughts. He was enjoying the work. His mood had changed, a fact that did not go unnoticed by his wife. Gradually, the couple had improved their once crumbling marriage, this being evidenced by the news that he would, unlike his employer’s late husband, have an heir to his home.

Finally, it was finished. The old lady was like a school child as she gleefully placed treasured photos, ornaments, souvenirs from overseas trips, in short, her life, onto the brand new, resplendent, polished shelves. When she finished, she turned to him, tears welling in her eyes.

“I have my memories on show again. My own memory seems to be fading so quickly as I age, but these remind me of happier times. Thank you, thank you so much.” She dabbed her face with a faded, monogrammed handkerchief.

“Now, young man, what is the cost of all your splendid efforts.”

Patrick was now a happily married man, a father to be, he had changed; he felt like a different person. The old lady had somehow made a profound difference to his life. She had almost certainly saved his marriage. He paused for a while until she coughed expectantly.

“Look luv, I’ve enjoyed working here. I really have. How can I put a price on your memories eh? Nah, it’s my gift I reckon. I hope you get to enjoy your memories for many years to come. They hugged, and the last Patrick saw of her was a frantically waving tea towel as he drove out the main gates.

The old lady returned to her warm fire and stared at the now amazing piece of furniture that had become the centre piece of the room. She brushed away the tears but only more rolled down her cheeks as she tried to stifle the laughter.

They always fell for the mansion story. She could barely afford this old dump which had been bought at a pittance off the farmer who had owned the near ruined former gatehouse. Over time a string of workmen had come through the door, carpet layers, plasterers, stonemasons, tilers, and now a carpenter. She would soon be able to sell it off for a small fortune, and it had cost her no more than a few phone calls and homemade cakes.

She had once been an actress, of sorts, bit parts here and there, but never received the adulation of audiences that she had once dreamed of. Still, she told herself, this was by far her best role, an old, frail lady living with her memories. Lavish make up enabled her to appear at least thirty years older than her real age. Maybe she had failed to make it on stage, but this latest ruse would allow her to retire in some considerable comfort.

Now for the bathroom, it needed a shower fitted. She picked up the receiver and dialled the first of many plumbers she would vet to select just the type needed to both complete the work and fall for her heart rending stories.