No. 8 Ask for help #2
I grunt in acknowledgement but don’t say anything more, an all too familiar tug of failure in my chest tightening painfully.
It had been my one goal for years; buy the village shop, open my own furniture shop selling my pieces, and finally having a showroom rather than waiting for people in the village to want me to make them something.
I could catch the visitors who come to the village from the neighbouring towns when the weather’s nice and they want to take in the idyllic British countryside and enjoy the local walking trails.
Maybe they’d come to my shop and see what I can do, order their own custom pieces, and I’d be able to spend more time doing the work I enjoy rather than being the village handyman.
Not that I mind helping out, I’ll probably be changing Ruth’s lightbulbs until the day I die.
Because Ruth James will outlive all of us.
“So, what’s she doing with the old place?” Ruth says as I take my mug from the counter and lift it to my lips.
“Café,” I grumble, slurping my black coffee.
I barely resist narrowing my eyes at Ruth when her whole face lights up. “Really? Well, it’s about bloody time we got a decent coffee shop.”
My eyes do roll. “Don’t you start.”
“I bet Joanie is frothing at the mouth.” Ruth smirks.
I make a small noise of confirmation and Ruth laughs at me.
“Oh, August.” She sighs.
“What?”
“Try not to scare the poor girl off, won’t you?”
“Joanie?” My face screws up.
“No, our newest Port Doone resident.” When I don’t say anything, she laughs again. “You really are a darling, sweet boy. I’d hate for our new friend to get the wrong impression of you just because you’re holding a grudge she can’t control.” Ruth picks invisible lint off her jumper.
“I don’t hold grudges,” I mumble, knowing full well it isn’t true. So does Ruth if the unimpressed purse of her lips is anything to go by. “She’s from London,” I say.
The rational part of my brain knows Ruth won’t be disgusted, but I’m still a little put out when she doesn’t react at all.
“She smiles all the time.”
Still nothing.
“She has weird, colourful friends.”
Ruth doesn’t even blink.
“She says ‘awesome.’”
I’m flagging.
“She bought my damn shop!” My voice rises and I feel all the frustration I’ve been feeling for months—fuck it, years—rise to the surface. I know I’m being unfair to Bea. I know this isn’t her fault. I’m just so fucking tired of losing. Of not being enough, not having enough to get what I want.
“August,” Ruth says, her voice firmer now whilst staying kind. It’s the voice I’d expect of my mother. “You must move on. We all knew what you wanted, and we all wanted it for you, but it didn’t work out. These things happen and you have to change the plan and adapt, August. Compromise.”
I grumble a little, but she clicks her fingers at me, and I instantly sag like a child being told off.
“The world isn’t against you August, and neither is this poor girl, please don’t dwell. You’ll find a way to get your shop, I know you will.”
I lean my forearms on the counter across from Ruth and pout a little. Her amusement twitches at her painted lips and I huff.
“How old is she?” Ruth asks out of nowhere.
I shrug because I certainly hadn’t asked. “My age I guess, maybe a little younger.”
“Hmm.” She sips her drink. “Is she pretty?”
For some reason my face heats and my thoughts turn to the little bead of sweat that disappeared between her tits, the scrap of pink fabric I became more intimately involved with than I should ever have had to, and the bright smile that lit up the whole goddam village.
I push myself off the counter to a stand and clear my throat.
Before I can actually answer her, Ruth makes a small sound of interest.
“I see,” she says.
I make a show of my displeasure. “Oh, don’t start with that.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“Ruth,” I warn.
“Ooh, while you’re here, could you bleed the radiators upstairs?” She blinks up at me innocently.
I huff out a breath. “I’ve got it.”
I had two other jobs after Ruth’s, neither of them quite as intrusive as she was, but both of them wanted to know about the newbie.
I gave them as little as I could but still people are all excited about the prospect of a new coffee shop.
I don’t know why, it’s all overpriced shit you can do at home.
Port Doone is an old village, meaning most of the houses were built before the automobile was a thing, great for aesthetics, piss poor for parking.
For the last job, I had to park up the hill past the church and walk to Greg and Melinda’s place to see if I could fix their leaky shower without them having to call a plumber out from the next big town. I could.
Walking back to my truck, I pass the church walls and hear a voice from the other side.
A familiar voice. A voice that should not be where it is at two o’clock in the afternoon.
I stop walking, toolbox in hand, and tip my head back to the sky, letting out a silent sigh as I request strength from the heavens because I could really do without this. But it’s got to be done.