The Lover's Children

Chapter 36 – The Idylls of March #8

KLEMPNER

“I worked as a hotel cleaner for a while…” Jenny sets the bottle to one side and tucks the now

unconscious Vicky into her cot. “… About one in three of the rooms would have all those little

shampoos and soaps and stuff stripped out when I went to clean.”

“Ah…” Beth nods, crosses out a figure at the head of a page, replaces it, tots down the column, tapping

with her pencil tip, muttering under her breath as she goes, replaces the figure at the bottom and draws

a double line under the result. “If we assume that’s typical, we definitely have a discrepancy. Michael,

want a look at what I have?”

“Sure.” Michael pulls up a chair.

Jenny watches the pair and shudders. “Sounds boring as hell,” she mutters.

“Maybe that’s why your cousin is a competent businesswoman…” I say… “… and you’re not.”

She scowls. “You think I’m not competent?”

“I think you’re not a businesswoman.”

Michael’s head pops up. “Nearly forgot what I came over for. Charlotte, can you take over the self-

defence classes this morning? The ten and eleven o’clock sessions in the gym. Chad’s away for a few

days.”

“Sure.” She glances at the clock. “I’ll get changed and head across now. Beth, you’ll be okay with

Cara?”

“No problem.” Beth regards the mayhem in wax crayon being committed on her discarded paperwork.

“So long as I can keep them off the wallpaper.”

Haswell appears at the door, suited, booted and briefcased. “Elizabeth, I’m going now… No…” He sets

a hand on Michael’s shoulder as he starts to rise… “… don’t disturb yourself. I can see you’re busy.” He

stoops, kisses Beth on the mouth. “I’ll see you this evening, my Love.”

“Is James going with you?”

“No, he’s working here today. If you’re looking for him, you’ll find him in the kitchen.”

He turns, makes for the door but Jenny touches him on the arm. “Richard, your tie’s crooked. Here…”

She reaches up, nudges it to one side, then tuts, unravelling it, adjusting his collar. Haswell looks down

at her, mouth twitching at the corners as she reties the knot. She stands back, examines the result.

“That’s better.”

He kisses her on the cheek. “Thank you, Charlotte.” He exits and is gone.

“I’d better go too.” Jenny follows him out.

Mitch is lost in her sketching. Beth and Michael, heads close, don’t even seem to realise I’m there.

Something’s coming from the kitchen area. I amble through.

James is there, along with…

What’s her name…?

Sally…

… Michael’s chef. She’s tasting something from a tureen. “More garlic maybe?”

“Don’t you think that might be too much for the non-Spanish palate?”

“Maybe.”

They don’t notice me.

I suppose I could walk the dog…

*****

MICHAEL

“Damn!”

The breeze rises again, threatening to squall, classic Spring weather. One moment the sunshine is

blistering. The next, clouds pile up, to sling down the kind of rain that only falls sideways.

The timber-panelled frame balanced against my left shoulder remains upright, but as the air gusts

again, the one to my right, precariously propped against me and its partner, flexes, teeters, then in

graceful slow-motion, falls…

“Ah, fucking hell!”

…Still gripping the left-hand panel, I snatch out, but too late. The breeze makes another playful flick,

tugs the remaining panel from my grip, and it too collapses, the two lying flat as a pair of Friday night

drunks on the grass.

The gust dies and the air falls still. Suddenly, it’s clammy. Swirls of gnats rise. Hands clasped behind

my head, staring up, I vent.

Fuck... Fuck…

“Fuck!”

Then I realise I’m not alone. Silently, Klempner watches from the side-line.

"Um, sorry. Didn't see you there."

He sucks away a smile. “I didn't mean to disturb you. Just wanted to see what the racket was.”

“The racket is that I'm fucking busy.”

He mutters to his boots. “And vice versa...”

“What was that?”

Klempner’s face pops up. “Nothing. Would an extra pair of hands help?”

“Absolutely. If you can lift that section…” I aim a finger at one collapsed sidewall… “Keep it upright long

enough for me to position the other and get a couple of clamps fixed…”

“No problem. Where do you want them?”

*****

Two walls upright, clamped, then bolted together, my ire fades. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. The other walls next?”

From the stables, an excited yipping… I laugh. "Sounds like Scruffy's rat hunting in the stables."

“I suppose he has his uses.” Klempner looks underwhelmed but glances around. “You’ve not seen

Bear, I suppose?"

"Down the field last I saw of him, his nose pushed down a rabbit hole…" The yipping is partnered by a

deeper baying, suggestive of Beethoven’s ‘Overture for T-Rex On The Hunt’. “… although it sounds as

though he might have found better sport with Scruffy.”

Klempner Aaahhhs, still looking unimpressed. He surveys our handiwork. “What's it going to be?”

“Chicken shed.”

“Chickens?” His brows arch. “Dogs, horses, and now chickens? I always had you down as a city boy.”

“Yeah, born and bred. But Charlotte enjoys it. And she knows how to look after them from those years

she spent on the farm. She says it’s pretty straightforward. Besides…” I toe into the dirt… “… I

promised her a real home and she's going to get it.”

"And a real home includes chickens?"

"Yeah…” I want something to do with my hands, and for lack of anything else, shove them into my

pockets. “I've got this kind of image in my head. Me, strolling round the pen with Cara and Adam. Vicky

too and..." A silly grin steals my face. "… the next one... with a basket. Collecting eggs. It seemed the

sort of thing you should do with kids." Abruptly, I'm hot. "That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it.”

Klempner shuffles his feet. "In fact, no. Now you put it that way, I’d like that for Vicky." He gazes

outward, looking… lost…

Where is he…?

Lost in time?

"Do you ever think about your own boyhood? "He stiffens, the gaze sharpening again, fixing on me.

"No." Barriers slam up behind his eyes.

I pretend not to notice. "Of course, I tell everyone it'll keep the restaurant in eggs. You too, since you've

developed a fetish for the things…” Klempner relaxes, eyes softening. “… Ah, speaking of which, thank

you, Sally."

My hotel chef beams. "I heard you working, Michael. I thought you'd have built up an appetite by now.”

She proffers a tray. “I brought a flask of soup too, with the weather being unreliable." Her face falls and

she nods an apology at Klempner. "I'm afraid I only brought enough for one."

Relieving her of the tray, "One? Sally, if they’d served one of your sandwiches, there’d have been no

need for loaves and fishes. We’ll share it." She dimples, bobs and heads back toward the hotel.

Sally's creation is her usual cartwheel-sized roll, spilling bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and

eggs. Yolk trickles over the plate. Fortunately, she's cut the monster in two. I’d have needed a chainsaw

otherwise.

Klempner eyes it. "Are you planning to eat that, or incorporate it into the foundations?"

"Help yourself. Neither of us will starve."

He Hmmphs appreciation takes one half in both hands and bites in.

Magically, we have company. Bear appears, a small molehill perched on his snout. Scruffy shoves in

front of him, dropping a limp rat at my feet.

I scratch an ear… "Good boy." … then toss him a rasher of bacon. It vanishes in mid-air with a Snap!

Bear rumbles until Klempner donates half a sausage. Chewing on the other half, he regards the dead

rodent. Lip curled, "Does that mongrel of yours think the bacon’s a reward for catching the thing? Or

does he believe you buy bacon using rats as currency?"

“Couldn’t say.” I swipe away a smear of escaping yolk and ketchup from my chin. “When he’s cadged

what he can off my brunch, he’ll be off with it. Dunno if he buries them or eats what’s left. I suppose

from his point of view, rats make good eating.”

Klempner shudders, his eyes briefly closing. “No.”

Scruffy groans, eyes and nose triangulated on my sandwich.

“You’ve had yours. This is mine.”

Whining despair at my heartlessness, he shuffle-bottoms across, raising beady eyes to Klempner.

“Forget it.”

Scruffy whines, his stub of a tail disturbing a little dust, then with a detritus-scattering shake, he trots off

in the direction of the stables. Bear heaves a sigh that would be envied by any Romantic poet, then

follows.

Klempner polishes off a sausage. “That was half a sandwich? I don’t think I’ll eat again today.”

“There’s soup left.”

“I prefer to live ‘til suppertime.”

I swipe the yolk off the plate with the last of my bread. “Food for body and soul.” Then, nodding toward

my remaining wall and roof panels. “If you’re at a loose end, I could use some help for an hour or so.”

His voice is dry. “I have nothing but loose ends.”