HANDYMAN
by Jackie
The plumber's face was so beautiful that Lydia was afraid to look at it lest her expression betray her sudden, unfamiliar rush of emotion. As she fumbled in the top drawer of the dresser - her fingers missing then connecting again with the royal blue cheque book cover - she glanced up briefly at her reflection in the hall mirror. Nothing had changed, at least not outwardly. In the stern, narrow countenance and ramrod straight figure - the old, cotton lawn blouse well buttoned up to the throat - all inhibitions seemed securely in place.
The plumber looked down at the cheque book, and she ventured another glance at his face - at the long, gilt eyelashes which brushed his cheek, putting her in mind of a pale, bull calf she had once seen tethered to a stone on a Hebridean island; at the just discernable colour of the eyes, which were turquoise, like the sea which lapped the sands of the same island.
"No, you don't pay me now Miss Spenlow." the plumber said. "My boss will send you an invoice. That's pretty much all he does these days," he added with an easy laugh. "He's been off the tools a while."
Lydia was embarrassed. Of course she should have known she would be invoiced. But Father had always dealt with tradesmen. And Father was dead these past five weeks.
Then the startling thing happened. The plumber took a small notebook from his top pocket and leant on the dresser. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he stood so close that, for an instant, the visible fur of his forearm touched, and as it were hooked on to the fine down on hers, causing a shock like electricity to pass through her entire frame.
The plumber appeared not to notice. He was writing. He was writing down his telephone number. He ripped out the page from his pad.
"There you go Miss Spenlow," he said. "Any time. It would be my pleasure."
And he winked.
She re-ran it through her mind and was certain that he did. He did wink.
And then he was gone.
Lydia leant against the dresser. For a moment she closed her eyes. Then she undid her top button. She ran her fingers through her hair. The complexion of her mirror image was flushed, and, even in her agitation, she could not help but notice that the ruffled hair, open collar, and heightened skin colour improved her greatly, making what had apparently occurred seem just feasible.
Lydia's Father, a small town electrician, had worked out of the same shabby shop and office, up a shabby, yielding stair in the High Street, with his younger partner Bill Harkness - a trusty, time-served apprentice kept-on, for nigh on thirty six years. For thirty of these years Lydia had done the books, but from the house rather than the shop so that she would also be free to run the home and care for her invalid Mother.
Lydia had never liked to ask what exactly ailed her Mother, but it was clearly something of a chronic and debilitating nature. She had been a demanding patient until her death two years ago when a bus had mounted the pavement outside the Eldorado Bingo Club. It had been Lydia's one day off, the day she went to her Book Group, and Father and she could never understand what Mother had been doing in the Hamilton Road when she so rarely left her sofa let alone the house.
Then it was just Lydia and Father.
It is a sad commentary on the little dealings of people, that in small communities those who do not participate in gossip are inclined to become the subject of gossip. It was the opinion of Miss Avery who ran the Post Office Shop that Lydia Spenlow was a Lesbian. "You can always tell by the shoes," she confidently averred. Lily Munroe, who taught Primary Three, and who was a Lesbian, had looked down at her own patent chisel toes and thought how much easier life would be if only this were true.
"I'm not sure you're entirely right there," she'd replied, without liking to reveal any great conviction in the matter. But Miss Avery had simply smiled knowingly.
In truth, although in the Biblical sense Lydia 'knew not a man', she was not a Lesbian. Indeed there had once been a boy. No more than kisses had been exchanged, but love had played a part - even, in a way, passion. He, however, was quite unsuitable - a pattern-maker at a factory in the city; and Lydia, groomed to be a carer and book-keeper, had been made to choose - her home and parents, or this boy with few prospects from the wrong side of the city. And she had chosen correctly.
At this stage in her life - now so long ago - she would occasionally find herself crying unaccountably at some film or song or other. It seemed to ease the choking sensation of what felt like an obstructive callous growing in her throat, which the doctor told her was 'hysterical,' so that she did not like to trouble him again. Then there came a stage when she knew that if she started crying she would never stop. Finally came the last stage when all crying ceased. And, rather as one might lose one's natural thirst for water, Lydia Spenlow lost touch with her emotions.
Now she looked down at the telephone number boldly dashed on the torn-out sheet of note paper, and the words of a song came unbidden into her head. It was one of those old songs that used to move her to tears, though why on earth she could not think. It ended with the lines:-
'Here is the main thing I gotta say,
I'm busy twenty four hours a day.
I fix broken hearts, baby,
I'm your Handyman.'
She let the words run through her head and touched the telephone number gently with her finger tips. But she did not ring it.
Instead, she went shopping.
Father's estate had been dealt with by his sad-eyed younger partner, Bill Harkness, a widower himself these past six years. Bill Harkness had always been a dependable sort, solid and sociable, but time and events had un-picked him here and there at the seams, so that he now rather resembled an old bear with the stuffing coming out. But he was a nice enough man, Bill Harkness, and an efficient executor of Father's estate.
Father had always been at pains to insist that the profitability of the business was precarious, so that Lydia was somewhat surprised to find that she had inherited not only the house and an interest in the shop, but also a substantial sum in cash.
Now suddenly came this urge to spend.
Accustomed for years to living on a tight budget, she was ill adapted to serious shopping, and felt at first a little un-nerved by the prospect. Nevertheless, the encounter with the plumber had triggered something within her - given her focus and a now or never determination.
And so it came about that she took the train into the city centre and got her bearings from a large map on a board in the railway station. A famous department store, displaying in its wide windows vacuous models in flimsy objects of desire, was situated immediately opposite the station, and into its select ground floor - cosmetics and fragrances - Lydia now put her testing foot.
An acre of space gleaming with chrome and glass, and studded with bored geishas, at once undermined her with the sensation of being a specimen of some as yet unclassified gender. But Lydia thought resolutely of the plumber's disturbing beauty, and scanned the floor until she saw a face which struck her as more mature and sympathetic than the others. And having found her, she made straight for this lady and threw herself upon her wisdom regarding all aspects of facial care and presentation.
The name engraved on a small brooch on the ladies pink lapel was Mrs Allenby. Lydia liked the formality of this. Mrs Allenby assured Lydia that she had good bones and a combination skin. She sprayed perfumes - woody and subtle, flowery and complex - on to little white cards, and encouraged her to choose one with which she could identify. Lydia chose 'Earth Wisdom' which Mrs Allenby said indicated natural refinement of taste. Then there were night creams and day creams - all age-defying - and oh, the pretty boxes sprigged with lavender and mimosa! And then the fun of choosing the make-up. Mrs Allenby asked her to part with a great deal of money. But to Lydia's surprise she found the whole experience both cosseting and exhilarating. And once begun, there was no going back.
Emboldened by her purchases, but still innocent of the make-up which nestled in her old, capacious, black handbag, Lydia entered next the hallowed portals of Lucien Ventura - Hair'. She was accustomed to a half-yearly shampoo, set and blow-dry at 'Hair by Joyce', but this was clearly not the same order of establishment at all. The style was Art Deco, the decor pink and black. The emaciated child who washed her hair neither scalded her scalp nor troubled her with chatter about the night life of Rhodes, and Lydia was almost in an altered state of being when the great man, available to her only because of an unexpected cancellation, approached to cut. He handled her hair first with loathing, then with assurance, as, slickly snipping, he relieved her of much of it, until finally he stood back, seeming content with his efforts. Then he gave a kind of little flounce, and stalked off.
Lydia moved her head around experimentally. The hair moved too, in a slippery, silky sort of way, and then flicked back unbidden into its correct shape and position. It looked, well, expensive, which indeed it was, and later, studying herself dispassionately in a chrome and glass column in the mall, Lydia saw that it made all the difference between an unintentionally plain woman and an electively plain woman. It was a good beginning, one which took her confidently into a well known High Street fashion chain where almost at once the new tender bud which was her self assurance wilted.Lydia gazed around at the blur of clothing. She did not know what any of it meant. It looked to her like a collection of airy little approximations, - as light and flimsy as gaudy shreds and tatters blown randomly on to security fencing by an industrial fan.
A blank faced assistant approached and Lydia felt her heart sink some more, but found herself asking for the safest item that came to mind - a slightly flared, longish skirt. Impassively the young girl selected several, and directed Lydia to a chintz curtained changing room. They were well chosen though, the skirts. Each one would have served, and Lydia decided to take both the indigo and the bitter chocolate and escape as rapidly as possible. But instead she emerged still wearing the latter and found herself saying, "I was thinking more of an - er - a whole new outfit."
The girl looked her up and down. "The shoes" - she waved her small, nearly new, hands contemptuously in the direction of Lydia's catalogue walking brogues - "what size?"
"Er - six," admitted Lydia, fumbling with the cautious double bows on her old shoes.
The girl lounged into another department, presently reappearing balancing on one finger the cord which attached each of a pair of fine, soft, burgundy calf-length boots to its neighbour.
Lydia took and stroked them, observing how the previous owner had left on the hide now so soft and supple, its own geography of creases and even a small, healed wound. It made her feel slightly uneasy, but she tried them on anyway, slipping into them narrow feet undistorted since childhood by anything more challenging than lace-ups. They looked and felt perfect. They made the quite ordinary skirt look perfect.
The young girl's unwritten, china-doll features were smug. She crossed the floor to a distant rack and returned bearing a short jacket in powdery, distressed denim with a rich, brown, fur trim - all the thing at that time - and a thin scarf the colour of a peony and as light as air.
"It's much too young. . . I couldn't possibly. . . " began Lydia.
But the girl kept standing there, now with a pleased expression on her face. "You've got the height," she said.
Lydia tried it on, and saw years drop away to a time she had never had, or at any rate had sleep-walked through. "I'll take it, I'll take all of them," she said, "and thank you. You've been very . . "
"'s all right," said the girl, by now almost animated.
Lydia felt like an explorer in a new land. Her eyes and her purse were opened. There was no going back.
So on she went.
She was cautious with her purchases, hoarding them up and introducing them one by one, not to draw attention. But she was, could not fail to be, noticed by everyone, although it did puzzle her how Miss Avery in the Post Office Shop was so particularly interested in her feet.
And Lydia just happened to be there one morning when she saw the plumber's van draw up outside. Covered with sudden confusion, she concentrated her attention on the small rack of magazines at the back of the shop, and was half relieved, half disappointed, when he did not come in, merely put some letters in the post box outside. His jaunty stride did not, however, pass unremarked by the other shoppers, who dropped their voices in deference to Lydia as if she were a strange, old child in dressing-up clothes. There was a soft wolf whistle and, "he can service my boiler any time," said Pat Wells, the home-help.
"And mine! Neat bum," said Michelle from the Chemist over the road.
"Now, now - form an orderly queue girls!" - this from Samantha Devine. "He's got plenty of time for you all! My Emma knows his wife Tracey; he's desperate to get them out of that pokey flat, 'specially now the second baby's on the way. So he's open for homers ladies."
"How d'you mean?" asked Pat, reaching up for the cereal on the top shelf so that her dewlap arms flapped slightly.
"Oh, you know," said Samantha. "He makes contacts through his boss, old Mercer, then tips the wink to the punter, leaves his telephone number, and Bingo - the next job's cash in hand! Cuts out old Mercer and the tax man! Cheaper for the customer too! There's plenty of work for him, my Emma says. He could be busy twenty four hours a day!"
Just for a moment Lydia felt giddy. She forgot about the semi-skimmed milk. She forgot about the newspaper and the first class stamps. She turned and ran out of the shop.
The other women looked up, only mildly curious about her changed appearance and sudden departure. Lydia Spenlow was known to be weird and stand-offish. It wasn't that odd. They shrugged, and resumed their conversation.
Head down and smiling her old, grim smile, Lydia walked home, cursing herself for every sort of fool. Of course she knew what homers were - sort of. It was just that no tradesman would have dreamt of suggesting the possibility to her when her Father's attitude to the practice was so locally famous. The plumber, coming from the city, had not known.
As she turned the key in the lock she was ashamed at the relief she felt that Father was no longer there to question or comment. She welcomed the hollowness of the empty house. She felt such a fool - such an utter fool.
Struggling out of the denim jacket, she threw it to the back of the cloaks cupboard, where it slumped on the floor and lay there, looking up at her like a slut. The new boots were about to follow, when, just at that moment, the door bell rang. Two short rings. Bill Harkness with the books. Damn it!
"Oh, hello Mr Harkness," she said in a manner which wavered between her new, bright, and old, flat tones of voice. "Give me the books: I'll have them done by Monday."
Bill Harkness stepped into the hall. He handed over the paper work and continued to stand there, then to move uncomfortably from foot to foot.
"Is there something else Mr Harkness?" Accustomed since girlhood to addressing him formally, she had never seen fit, or been encouraged, to change her mode of address.
Still he stood there, looking first at her, then at the wall, then at his feet. There was a dark flower in his button hole.
Finally he said, "I've been noticing you recently. How could I not have seen. . . ? And I wondered. . .! know it's short notice, but would you do me the honour of having dinner with me tonight?"
She couldn't find anything to say. Her hands moved, and then stopped, and the hall mirror saw in the yellow light and the grainy shadows how the two of them stood, awkward and irresolute, in the youth of their age. "I'm sorry. . . you probably think it's too late. . . " "Yes, it is," said Lydia. She had never really looked at him before. Not as a man. She could not have said what colour his eyes were. He looked embarrassed. He opened the door and turned to go. A breeze was stirring up the blue September dusk, like all the Septembers in the past. And there was something about his tired half smile, the resigned set of his shoulders something to do with decency and compromise and unrewarded resilience, and just the mundane, mixed-up sadness of it all, which caused the final melting of Lydia, so that she found herself calling after him, "Don't go, Bill. I think we've still got time." ____________________________________________________________
