5. Ollie
Chapter 5
Ollie
Shame washes over me when I park up outside Mr Porter’s house. My parents would probably call this place common, but the house at the end of a quiet street is perfect by my standards. Not big and flashy, but not cramped or run down either.
Their driveway has space for two nice cars, and his gleaming work van too. He takes it for a valet service every Friday on his way home from work. Mine is a pile of junk in comparison, but she won’t always be that way.
I’ve only been here once before, after dropping him off when his van blew a tire, and I admire the landscaped winter flower beds on either side of the path. In comparison, I look like shit and probably smell like it, too. I’m awkward and out of place here, and I’m about to sack it off and drive back to the craphouse when he opens the door.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you?” he says, confirming my suspicions about my appearance.
“I’ve been sleeping in the van.”
“It's freezing out. Why?”
“Housemates threw a massive party. Wasn’t really my scene.”
“You should have called me. Here, come inside.”
I step into the warm entryway and crouch to unlace my shoes by the door. His wife comes down the stairs a few moments later.
“Hi, Mrs Porter.”
“Please, Ollie, it’s Val,” she says, pulling me in for a hug. “Did I hear you say you slept in the van? Do you want a shower?”
An awkward laugh sneaks out of me. “Do I smell that bad?”
“I’ve seen you in better states, and it’ll warm you up. Come with me.”
Following her up the stairs, their plush carpet is heaven underneath my feet compared to the bare wooden floors in my house.
“Here you go.” She hands me a towel, warm from the cupboard on the landing. “I’ll bring you some of Danny’s spare stuff and we can get yours washed and dried while you’re here.”
Jesus, this is mortifying.
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Well, you’re not asking, I’m telling,” she says with a warmth in her voice I’ve never heard from my own mother. “And I’m telling you, you’ll stay for dinner, too.”
“Thank you.”
Inside, I undress quickly, breathing a sigh of relief when the lock actually works. Someone kicked through the one at home months ago, and nobody has bothered to repair it. I could do it myself, but I don’t want to spend more money on that place than necessary.
Their bathroom is beautiful, with a deep tub on one side, and a separate walk-in shower behind a floor to ceiling glass panel. A house we finished just before Christmas had a similar one.
Underneath the spray, I hang my head, letting the water pressure pound away the stiffness in my shoulders. I could stand here all day, but I don’t want to take advantage of their generosity, so I finish up quickly and grab the clothes she’s left outside the door for me, fresh underwear and all.
It’s bad enough having a shower in your boss’ house, wearing his boxer shorts and having his wife wash yours is a step too far. Mine are a day old, so I keep them on, but grab the sweatpants, t-shirt, and jumper before heading downstairs. I find Mrs Porter in the utility room just off their kitchen.
“Feel better?” she asks, taking my laundry from my hands and shoving it into the machine.
“I do, thank you so much. Where’s the boss?”
“He’s shifting cars outside so you can pull the van up onto the driveway.” She adds detergent and presses a few buttons, then gently cups my shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ollie. He’s been banging on about taking a break for the holidays, but then he complains he’s bored all the time. My friend’s got her baby grandson visiting, so if you can keep Danny entertained, I’ll get to pop round for some snuggles. Deal?”
She offers me her palm, and I laugh and shake it. “Sounds like a fair swap.”
“I’ll be back to make dinner, but help yourself to anything you like. We’ve still got loads left from Christmas.”
As expected, I find Mr Porter inspecting the exterior of the van with his hands on his hips.
“Right lad, what needs doing?”
“I’ve already stripped the interior and fixed a bunch of rust spots. I got a cheap second hand roof vent so I need to figure out where that’s going.”
“You got tools for the job?”
“I was going to hire some.”
“No need, lad. Come and have a look in the garage. I’m sure we’ll have the right thing.”
He’s sure of himself, because Mr Porter’s collection of tools is vast, with equipment and crate shelving lining the walls. He’s got the same again at his headquarters on the industrial estate, but it’s impressive to see where it all began for him. To me, he’s a prime example of what you can do for yourself with hard work and determination, rather than being handed every opportunity.
He finds the right tools quickly while I unbox the vent.
“Where do you want it to go?”
“At the back over where the bed will be. Be cool to look up and see the stars, I reckon.”
“What a sap,” he laughs, hooking a ladder under his arm. “Up you hop and start marking it out.”
When he hands me a square tool, I don’t need to ask what it’s for. Mr Porter demands attention to detail, and has drilled that into me and the other guys on his crew from day one. I make sure the corners are right, and the edges are straight before drilling a hole in each, then joining them with the saw until the panel drops into the empty van space below.
“Fuck, it’s really happening,” I laugh.
Every task makes me feel one step closer to getting on the road, and you can’t beat that feeling. I climb down and open up the rear doors so we can check it from the inside.
“What are you planning on doing with this van then, eh? Once it’s all finished.”
His question lands right in my chest. It’s not exactly good form to tell your boss you’re planning on leaving in the summer. “Just always fancied doing a van build.”
“I heard something the other day about you wanting to travel.”
I turn away and pretend to check the rust spots I repaired last week. I knew I shouldn’t have told anyone on site about it. “Just talking shit, dreaming a little. You know how it is.”
“Listen, Ollie, I'm no fool. You're a good lad, a hard worker, but I know what this kind of work does to people when they think it's all they've got in life. You want to go travelling and see the world for a bit, you should absolutely do that. Hell, I should have done that before family and business took over. Tell me about this dream of yours.”
My shoulders drop several inches. I should have known he’d see right through any attempts to be vague.
“I’d just love to drive around the country, maybe do a bit of Europe, too. When I was a kid, we always went on holiday to these posh houses in the South of France.”
“ Ooh la la ,” he teases. “Sounds like a tough life. Hand me that file.”
He gets to work smoothing out the rough edges of the hole I’ve just cut. They’ll be hidden once the vent is sealed in place, but Mr Porter doesn’t cut corners. I grab some rags and cleaning spray to remove any dirt from the outer casing, so I know I’ve done a thorough job.
“They were beautiful houses, but we just sat around the pool for two weeks. That’s not really my scene. I wanted to explore, meet people.”
“What, like the losers you’re living in that dump with?”
“No,” I laugh. “Definitely not like them.”
I’m grateful for the interruption when his phone rings loudly from where he’s left it on the front seat.
“Answer that and stick it on loudspeaker, will you?” he asks, and I reach through the seats to grab it. “Hello?”
“Hello, I’m calling for Daniel Porter,” a firm voice says.
“That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“Mr Porter, I’m calling from Branchmore hospital. We have your daughter Megan here.”
He snatches his phone out of my hand. “What’s happened?”
I’ve never actually seen the colour drain from a man’s face until now. He listens, nodding away and motioning for me to start the engine. He dashes to lock the garage door, then climbs back in looking pale and nervous.
“Hospital. Fast as you can.”