The Unfinished Tale Of Sophie Anderson (3 page)

Still, a flat is a flat and ours was quite nice. It had two spacious bedrooms which the living room had paid for given that we could only just fit a cracked white leather settee, an ancient arm chair and the coffee table into it. There was a small kitchen that still had the old fashioned overhead gas grill in it. I mentioned to my cousin that it wasn't particularly safe but he dismissed my monoxide-based concerns with a wave of his hand. He did put one of those detectors in (reluctantly because he got a letter telling him it was the law to have them) but I suspect he got that free from somewhere. Still, there was my Mum's old microwave in the corner, a coffee machine - the type that uses grounds - and an assortment of odd bits of crockery pieced together from my own stuff and Mel's former dining set.

The bathroom was a little poky and the tub was long enough to fit most of me in. If I wanted to soak my shoulders then my feet had to scale the tiled wall at the foot end until they were up in the air. If I wanted to warm my toes, then the shoulders had to suffer the draft that came from the vent. More often than not I'd opt for a shower but you had to be quick when you wanted to get out. If you weren't the bloody thing would gather the last of its heat and attempt to spray you with scalding hot water like some fire-breathing serpent.

Character. That's what the flat had. Lumps of it. Like those big thick globules you sometimes got in dissolved gravy granules. It'd been my home since leaving my parent's house. They didn't like it. In fact, they went as far as refusing to visit me there. I guess you can't please them all. It was mine though and I loved it even with its faults and its flaws and the fact that when Mel had a 'friend' round I could hear every bloody sound and moan.

I parked up around the back - the hairdressers hated us parking where their customers could see our old bangers, and went up the back steps. As I opened the door a stack of mail was pushed along the carpet and jammed it from opening any further. It took some manoeuvring but eventually I was able to get inside and tear most of the offending correspondence out of my way. It was a letter from the bank for Mel - another overdue credit card bill. Mel paid debts in the same way people visit their relatives. She sees it as something you can put off with a phone call like 'yeah, I'll pop round next week - promise' knowing full well that she has NO intention of doing so. For some reason the credit card companies are okay with this. Sure, they'll send a few angry letters to jam up my front door, but a phone call from her seems to satisfy them enough to call off the debt collectors for another six months. Boring old me, I just spend my wages. I don't borrow and never have done and if I did I'd just pay it back. It makes sense to me that way. It requires far less effort.

I threw the mail into the empty fish bowl we had on a stool near the door. I turned on all the lights, gave the heater dial a turn until it roared into life and dropped my bag just inside my room. The milk went in the fridge and the bread went in the bin (the bread bin of course). Then I cracked open the cheeky bottle of red wine I'd bought and left it breathing whilst I went for a shower.

At some point my phone chimed but I ignored it. I didn't have a vast network of friends and so it was probably either Mel or Mum texting me. It could wait until I was in my SpongeBob pyjamas. It felt like a SpongeBob day. I towel dried my hair and went back to the kitchen to put the oven on for tea. I was feeling adventurous and so I opted for an Iceland ready meal - a nice healthy, tasteless, low-fat lasagne (if there is such a thing). Mel wouldn't be home until gone eight o'clock and I wasn't going to wait for her. One glass of red wine later and I was laid out on the settee with my duvet and my meal-for-one on a flowery tray. The high life.

When my phone chimed again I forced myself out from under the warmth to go get it. I'd left the blasted thing in my bag, committing the cardinal sin in Mel's eyes. According to her I must always keep my phone on my person in case there was some kind of global disaster. By disaster I think she means the times when she needs me urgently. On this occasion a thumb swipe revealed two text messages from my Mum. One to warn me that Emmerdale was a weepy one tonight and the other to tell me I was on TV.

I tapped her face icon (a rare photo from Christmas-past) and waited for it to call her.

"What?" I asked when she picked up the phone.

"I saw you on the news!" she said. "In Liverpool!"

"I never saw any cameras."

"Well, you did have your back to them, talking to Melanie. I hope your boss doesn't see it." So did I. "What were you up to?"

"Not a lot. I was supposed to be welding there but we didn't have permission. Bit of a wasted day really."

"And what are you doing now?"

"I've just had my tea and now I'm going to lie down on the settee with my book. You?"

"Oh, nothing. Your Dad's just gone out with the dogs and then we're going to put a film on." I felt the ebb and flow of the conversation starting to die off. I guessed it might have helped if I had more to say, but I didn't. I'd never been the chatty type. There's only so much metal work you can explain to someone who isn't really interested and seeing as though my 'friends' amounted to Mel and the hairdresser downstairs we didn't really have anywhere to go with it.

"Well then, I'll let you get back to it," said Mum.

"Okay, take care and thanks for letting me know," I said.

"No problem. Bye."

"Bye."

I retreated under my quilt and picked up my novel from where I'd tucked a folded piece of notepad paper. Emmerdale would have to cry without me tonight. I wasn't in the mood for more triviality.

At some point I was woken up by the door being slammed shut. I must have dozed off because the book was sat face down on my chest, still open and my arm felt numb. Mel stormed into the room and flopped onto the rickety wooden chair in the corner, throwing her handbag to one side.

"I hate traffic!" she cried. "Three hours! Three bloody hours because some moron didn't know how to drive and smashed his car into a truck, blocking three lanes of the motorway. Three hours!"

"Are you ready to admit that you need a more local job yet?" I asked. My eyes felt sticky and my mouth was dry.

"I'm not having that conversation," she said. "I love my job."

"But you can't be making enough to cover the travelling costs, surely?"

"I manage. Where's tea?"

"I'm on it," I said, standing up. "Why don't you grab a bath while I make it?"

"How's that going to help?"

"You might just relax."

"Fat chance. Do you know how many paedophiles came into the office today looking for representation?"

"How do you know they're paedophiles?" I asked.

"They just are. They have that look about them. We had at least six today. They creep me out." I went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of rose from the box in the fridge, flicking the oven back on as I went past. "You're a star, girl."

"I hope you kept your thoughts to yourself." Another benefit to our little flat was that any conversation could be maintained no matter which room you were in. As I went to run the bath, Mel was still talking.

"Of course I did. What do you take me for?"

"I take you for someone who almost destroyed her IPhone posting her life online. Please tell me you didn't take any pictures this time!"

"You really do have very little respect for me, don't you?"

"It's not that," I said, laughing. "I just know you better than you know yourself."

"Well I know you, Miss Anderson. SpongeBob PJs can only mean one thing -
man issues
." I sat across from her and refilled my glass.

"What on earth gives you that idea?"

"Don't play coy - you only wear those when you're either thinking about a man or talking to a man or both. Is it Tom?"

"What? NO! Of course not."

"Then who is it?"

"Nobody! I felt like putting them on. What are you? Oprah?" Mel had the grin of the Cheshire cat.

"I'm on to you, Soph. Be warned."

When I carried her lasagne into the bathroom, Mel was snoring softly as the water went cold around her. I felt a pang of guilt thinking about how she'd come to be there, in my bath, instead of in her Houghton detached house overlooking the woods. It felt like a lifetime ago when I'd stood in her kitchen, looking out at her massive garden as she told me how Phil had been beating her for years. She'd cried and cried until her eyes were dry and sore. Then he'd come home and I remember how afraid I'd felt, wishing I could get her out of there, away from him and somewhere safe. But I'd been too late. The next time I saw her was in a hospital ward with tubes running in and out of her bruised mouth. She hadn't been snoring then.

"Here," I said, touching her shoulder. "You need to get out before you catch your death." She clambered out of the bath and into a robe before accepting the food.

"I'm going to bed," she muttered. "Thanks."

"No problem."

3.

The problem with Mondays is they are always followed by their younger, more annoying brothers - namely Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Tuesday was waiting for me just before six with a wild grin on his face and a bad taste in my mouth. I must have finished the night on my back because it took two pulls of the mouthwash bottle to free up my tongue. Mel had just left. The toothpaste lid was MIA and there was a streak of soap running down the side of the sink. There was also a mass of bottles, potions and lotions in various states of disarray under the mirror - a clear sign of hurricane Melanie's passing through.

I tidied up before seeing to the tangled mess of hair on my head. One of the great benefits of being a welder was that I didn't need to bother with make-up but I always went as far as doing something with the Medusa-esque mop. It took all of three minutes to brush out the knots and tie it back with a blue bobble. It would match my overalls. When I looked at myself in the mirror I considered the eye liner. Such an innocent little thing. It stood there, winking at me. It was still there when I brushed my teeth and I left it there, untouched, to go and make my lunch.

I liked to get to work early. When I mean early I mean a full hour early. The building was always opened by Mick who insisted on being the first there, turning the heaters on in winter or opening the windows in summer. I suspected he went back to sleep when no one was looking. There were some comfy chairs on the top floor.

My main reason for getting there early was to sit in silence with my book without being interrupted. Could I do this in the flat? Of course. It's just that there was something nice about being there before everyone else, about getting a chance to acclimatise to another working day. Don't ask me to explain - some days I'm not sure myself.

So I went in and made a cup of coffee (white, no sugar) and turned the heater on. Tom was due in just before seven so I had a bit of 'me' time before I had to stir from my chair. I managed to get a few chapters knocked off before the doors began rattling open.

"You ready?" he called from the other side of my curtain wall. I replaced my bookmark and stuffed the Jack Reacher novel into my bag.

"Yeah," I said. "Permit?"

"Still got it. The van's open if you want to load up."

I went through the motions, noticing that Tom had his usual unruly hair style. He didn't seem to be enjoying the early mornings. He always came in just before the bell when we weren't on site so getting to work a full two hours early must have been a challenge. His eyes were puffy and he looked like he'd only just gotten out of bed. But the biggest issue I had with him was why on earth did it suddenly matter to me? Why was I even noticing? Had I chosen my SpongeBob pyjamas or had they chosen me last night?

"Right - let's go," he said as I slammed the back shut.

"Yeah. Might as well try again. If nothing else it'll kill another working day."

"That's the spirit. Have you had breakfast?"

"I had some toast at the flat. You?" I said.

"No, I was going to grab a Macs. Can I tempt you? Even with company money?"

I patted my stomach. "Diet."

"What the hell for? You aren't even fat!" My face betrayed me the moment the words left his lips. I felt a flush of heat rise up from my neck and I was sure my face had changed colour. I did the only thing a sensible woman should do in that kind of situation - flee. Avoid. Duck, dodge, dip, dive... something to get out of the spotlight of shame. So I went to the cab and got in. Tom followed, jumping into the driving seat.

"It's always good to stay in shape," I lied, thankful for the distracting view out of the window.

"Okay," he replied. "Whatever. Me, I couldn't do it. I need my calories. If I don't keep the fuel coming then the engine packs up."

"Really?" I asked. He laughed.

"Yeah. That's why I'm treating myself to a double sausage and egg McMuffin and an extra three hash browns."

"You fat bastard," I said. "I think your engine might blow a gasket if you carry on eating like that."

"It's a treat!"

"Yeah, I used to tell myself that. Then I realised I was eating 'treats' every day."

"How bad did it get?"

"Well,' I said. "Let me say that I wasn't far from shopping in special stores for people my size, if you catch my drift." He laughed and I found myself smiling with him. He had nice teeth and I wasn't sure why that mattered to me.
Damn you, SpongeBob.

Thankfully the trip involved a lot less personal conversational topics from then on. We spent the two hour drive bitching about work in general, about the coming works-do and about the fact that the vending machine still hadn't been filled.

"It's all about the double deckers," he said as we drove through the make-shift gate the construction crews had put in place at the street entrance. "On a Friday I like a double decker, a can of diet coke and maybe a packet of Thai sweet chilli crisps to go with my bacon butty."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realise the bacon sandwich wasn't enough to fill you," I said.

"Well, in fairness, it isn't really. They only ever put three rashers on the bread and only one egg. I mean, would it break the bank to stick a few more on there?"

"Why don't you ask them to?"

"Because they'd charge me for it. Why should I have to pay for something that should be included in the original price?" He wound down the window and flashed his permit to the guy in the hi-viz jacket and the blue hard hat. Behind us an enormous crane had slowed to a halt, waving out his anger whilst the traffic backed up behind him. I didn't know which was the harder job - the crane driver or the foreman trying to manage all these subcontractors coming and going.

"Park up and wait for the white van," said the guy in the hard hat. "We've had to change the layout so he'll lead you to the lift.'

"Is it up and running now?" asked Tom.

"Yeah - for now."

We pulled into a temporary bay and Tom decided to finish off the spare hash brown he'd left on the dash. It'd stared at me all the way to Liverpool and I was glad he was going to eat the bloody thing. The cab had stunk from the moment he'd bought the devil's food and my stomach grumbled like the filthy sinner it was. Why was this such hard work? If I wanted to get fat my body would have been happy to oblige at a moment’s notice. Now, when I needed it to get its 'A' game on, it sat on the bench feeling sorry for itself.

"They taste better cold," he said.

"Do they?"

"Yeah, here." He offered me the other half minus the bit he tore off. "Try it."

"Get thee behind me, Satan," I said. "My body is a temple."

The van showed up and flashed its headlights our way. "Looks like our guide is finally here."

"Just in time," I said.

We followed it across the construction site and I could see why we needed him. If it hadn't been for the flashing lights I'm sure we'd have been crushed by three JCBs, four tipper-trucks filled with gravel and we'd have killed two builders who had their ear defenders on and didn't hear us coming. Thankfully we reached the columns where we were supposed to be working on without incident.

"Whoop!" said Tom. "They're dry at last."

"Gee. I'm so excited."

"They've even supplied the cherry picker for us. How kind of them. I might even start believing this project is being run efficiently."

"Don't jump the gun," I said, opening the door. "We haven't seen the Hammer Head yet."

The 'Hammer Head', as we nick-named him, was the site foreman for this part of the shopping centre and he'd made an impression on us the moment we'd arrived to do our survey last week. Now that most of the construction was done the regulations for hard hats wasn't as strict here - hence how I was able to come in and do the welding. This guy had come strolling across the freshly gravelled walkway sporting a haircut you could balance your drinks on in a nightclub. It was wiry and stiff and probably held together with some kind of industrial glue that could withstand a nuclear attack. Tom had given me the look, the one that said 'I know what you're thinking and yes - you're not hallucinating'.

"Look out," he said. "Here he comes."

He didn't look happy. Not in the slightest. He had three suits trailing behind him and they were struggling to keep up in their pointy shoes with his long stride. They were gripping their clipboards and their Starbucks cups like the world was close to ending and I stifled my laugh as the Hammer Head came right at us.

"You were supposed to be on site yesterday," he spat.

"We had no permit and we were escorted off site," said Tom. I could tell he was bristling. It hadn't been our fault but for the sake of our company's reputation we had to take the flak for it. When I say 'we' I guess I meant Tom.

"It's not good enough. Not good enough at all," said the Hammer Head. The suits were looking elsewhere, ticking things off on their clipboards with practised ease.

"Well, we're here now and we're ready to get on with the job."

"How soon can you finish?"

"The Gaffer had allowed two days for the columns and another day for the hand rails on this side."

"You're going to have to pull your finger out. I want to get the bullshitters in tomorrow to polish the rails."

"We'll see how we get on," said Tom, wise enough to avoid committing to a time and a date that might land us in trouble later.

"Okay, get to it."

It wasn't my normal style but for the sake of our new deadline I didn't hang about. We had the generator in place and rumbling away in ten minutes and while Tom brought up the parts from the van I got the welding set ready, laying out all my kit as quickly as I could. I hated working like that because it allowed too many chances to cock up. It was better to take your time, plan each step and work out the problems before they arose. Working on site was always tricky and it looked like we were going to get our fill today.

"You ready to go?" asked Tom from below the walkway where the cherry picker was set up.

"Yeah. Bring me the first cover," I called down. The bucket he was stood in came slowly towards me as he nervously guided the thing between the two concrete and steel columns. When he was at my level he stopped, checked his harness, then knelt down to pick up the heavy steel cover like he was turning ninety years old tomorrow.

"Today would be nice," I said.

"Jesus, I can't stand it up here."

"Try being me," I laughed. I was laid on my side looking out over the edge of the walkway that would run across the entire shopping centre; my harness was fastened to the column because we hadn't fitted the railings yet. The air was cool and blowing gently through the open design from east to west. From where I was I could see the rest of the workers scurrying around below, putting the finishing touches to the AstroTurf roof garden.

Tom slid the cover onto the walkway and went straight for the controls to take him back down.

"Adios!" he said. "I'll get us a brew. Coffee?"

"Yeah, white with none."

"Sweet enough?"

"Something like that."

By mid-afternoon we'd blitzed the covers and were looking at the railings where we'd laid them out in sequence. Each one had a band of masking tape around both ends telling us what order they went in.

"Nice one, Dave," said Tom to our distant colleague. "That made life a whole lot easier."

"Do we have time to make a start?" I asked. Tom shook his dishevelled head.

"We need to get going. We're in front though so I can't see Hammer Head complaining tomorrow. The polisher can work around us. It should take him longer to clean one weld than it does for you to finish. We've given our pound of flesh today."

We dragged the gear back to the van and loaded up. The stench of petrol from the generator hung in the air, spoiling the effect the waning light had on the shopping centre rooftop.

"It'll look quite nice once it's finished," I said.

"It should do. I might come once it's opened."

"You could take the wife and kids," I said. It occurred to me that I didn't even know if he was married. I saw him around the shop but until now we hadn't really worked together and I'd never asked. I knew about the gym because of the other guys but for some strange reason I didn't know if he was married or not. The heat began to rise up again, warming my neck and cheeks.

"Chance would be a fine thing," he replied, shutting the back door. "The ex doesn't speak to me unless it's to do with Dan and he's getting older now so he isn't really interested in spending time with his uncool Dad."

"Divorced?" I asked. Yep - the heat was getting hotter. I was sure the van paint was about to melt off.

"Yeah. Been that way for eight years now."

"How old is your son?"

"Fourteen. I married young and I've regretted it ever since. Dan got used to me not being there and that was that. I've been living alone ever since."

We got in the van and Tom started it up, seeing that our escort was waiting again. He flashed his headlights and we followed, heading a completely different way off site.