Chapter 18
And God help you if you dared to buzz the reception desk.
As Vick described everyone huddled up in the rain, Ben couldn’t help but picture Fred, ears pressed flat, hunkered low on the windowsill, waiting to be let in.
He knew he was being soppy – for goodness’ sake, Fred wasn’t even his cat – but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to create a little house for him, or any other waifs and strays – a hedgehog, maybe, or more likely a squirrel – to shelter in.
Today, he was out in the community, advising on fitting smoke alarms and checking homes were fire safe, a job he enjoyed, although it broke his heart to see the conditions some of the old folk were living in.
But in between appointments, he’d had time to think and so by the time he got back to the station, he’d decided he was going to build Fred a shelter where he could hang out while he waited for Ben to come home.
As he called into Barry’s on his way home, to pick up some sausages and potatoes for his dinner, Ben began to picture the shelter – maybe a seventy-by-fifty-centimetre frame, some marine ply for the sides so it didn’t warp in wet weather, and he could cut an arch into the front piece of board so Fred would feel cosy and could get in and out easily.
Maybe a pitched roof, and some felt to make the whole structure watertight.
Occupied with these thoughts, the journey home passed quickly and he was soon on his doorstep, searching for his keys. He said hello to Maisie, the woman who lived next door, who was in her front garden putting the rubbish out, then headed indoors.
Slinging the bag of shopping down on the counter, he turned on the oven, letting it heat up while he had a quick shower.
He glanced out of the window – no sign of Fred yet.
Later, comfy in his grey joggers and hooded top with a belly full of sausage and mash, he tidied up the kitchen – he’d never been particularly worried about washing up or keeping the place tidy before his breakdown, but one thing he’d learnt during counselling was that the little things helped.
Even if it was only pulling the sheets straight, you’d made the bed – you could say you’d achieved something for the day – and that was a start.
Pouring himself an alcohol-free lager, he sat in the living room with some paper and a not-too-blunt pencil and began to sketch out a design for Fred’s house.
He’d nearly finished, and was just writing down the list of materials he’d need – that DT GSCE had not been wasted – when his phone rang, interrupting his concentration.
He’d left it in the kitchen where it was vibrating itself across the worktop; one more ring and it would hurl itself to the floor. Catching it just in time, Ben picked it up and swiped to answer.
‘Hi, Mum, how are you?’
‘How did you know it was me?’ his mum answered, sounding suspicious.
‘I’ve told you before, your name comes up when you ring me.’
Ben rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Honestly. Every. Single. Time.
‘What if you get hacked? Then they’ll have my number and steal my identity.’
Ben took a deep breath. He loved his mum, of course he did, but he did find her distrust, and seemingly deliberate misunderstanding, of technology frustrating sometimes.
Although it would make life so much easier for her – and everyone else – Mary wouldn’t shop online because she didn’t trust it, and she downright refused to even contemplate online banking.
In fact, she much preferred to pay for things in cash.
Even though Ben kept telling her she was making herself more of a target by walking around with hundreds of pounds in her purse, he couldn’t change her mind.
Ben decided now was the time to interrupt before she moved on to her thoughts about doorbells with cameras.
‘So how are you, Mum? All okay?’
‘Yes, dear, absolutely fine. In fact, I was just ringing to see if you were free the weekend after next. Penelope and family are going to come and stay for the May bank holiday and it would be lovely to see you too.’
Ben pulled a face, but if he was going to have to spend the weekend at his parents, it would be better to do it when Penny was there and he had Evie to divert attention away from the inevitable awkwardness with his dad.
‘Hold on, I just need to check.’ Ben pulled his rota out of his backpack. ‘Yes, that’s fine. I can’t come until Sunday, though, as I’m on duty on Saturday. It’s the local fair and we’ve been asked to take the engine so the kids can see it.’
Ben always liked this part of the job, remembering the excitement he’d felt when the fire engine had come to his school and had parked in the playground. He still remembered clambering up into the driver’s seat and pretending to steer.
‘What time is Pen getting to you?’ Ben asked, so he could make sure he arrived after his sister.
‘Please don’t call her that.’ He could hear his mother shudder down the phone. ‘It’s bad enough that you’ve shortened your name to Ben without your sister’s name being reduced to a writing implement.’
Ben rolled his eyes again.
Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to Mary when naming her children Benjamin and Penelope, that people would shorten their names. Ben and Penny were bad enough, as far as she was concerned, but Ben and Pen – so common!
His mother sniffed, then said, ‘She’s coming for eleven on the Saturday. What time will you be here?’
The next few minutes were spent discussing the various transport options available to him, and Ben let his mother work her way through the logistics of travelling from London to Winchester.
Ben wasn’t sure what was finally concluded, but when his mum came to an end, a question mark sounding on her final sentence, Ben just replied, ‘Sounds great!’ and left it at that.
He was about to say goodbye when a thought occurred to him. ‘Hold on, Mum. Can I speak to Dad quickly?’
There was a silence. ‘Your dad?’ his mum said, surprise sounding in her voice. ‘Um, yes, of course. Hold on, I’ll get him.’
Ben, now regretting his impetuous decision, waited, hearing his mum in the background, his dad saying, ‘Why does he want to speak to me?’
There was a clank as the receiver – his parents were still on a landline, the beige handset connected with a long curl of wire – was picked up, and his dad’s voice came on the line.
‘Ben? Are you okay?’
‘Hi, Dad, yes, I’m fine. I wanted to ask you a favour.’
‘Hmmm,’ his dad replied cautiously.
‘There’s this cat that keeps visiting me and I thought I’d make it a shelter for when I’m not here.
So it doesn’t have to sit out in the cold.
I’ve drawn up a plan and was wondering if I could use some wood from your workshop maybe…
’ Ben trailed off, waiting for his dad to say something.
‘Anyway, could I have a look?’ he finished.
After a long pause, his father replied. ‘Yes. I’ll see you when you’re down.’
‘Um, great, thanks.’
More silence.
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye.’ And his dad hung up the phone.
Ben wondered why he’d just done that. He supposed he’d been caught up in planning Fred’s house, and the idea of using some of his dad’s leftover supplies had just come to him while he was talking to his mum.
Before his breakdown, his dad had been a keen woodworker and loved nothing more than spending a day in his garage, sawing and sanding, gluing and painting, which was one of the reasons why his parents had moved to the detached house outside Winchester, with its outbuildings and no close neighbours to disturb with the noise from a circular saw.
When he and Penny were little, his dad had made them all sorts of things – Penny’s favourite was her dolls’ house, while Ben had always loved the truck with the coloured bricks stacked on top. But that had all stopped when his dad became ill, not that they were allowed to mention it.
Ben’s memories afterwards were of his dad sitting in his chair, watching the snooker while Ben’s mum spoke too much, talking without listening, just to fill the silence that descended on the house like a cloud.
Oh well, he’d asked now, and there wasn’t room in his flat to swing a cat – not that he would; poor Fred! – let alone the workbench he’d need to do a DIY project.
With any luck, his dad would just leave him to it, and if he could spend a few hours locked away in the workshop, by the end of the weekend Fred would have a house.