Writing for Fun
February 2019
Mr Fix It - Anne Wilson
She opened the door to reveal a young man with spiky red hair who was clad in overalls. He brandished a tool box in front of her.
‘Hello, love,’ he said with a toothy grin. ‘I’m Mr. Fix-It. Danny to you.’
He announced himself with a flourish as if anticipating a reaction. What exactly what was he expecting? A spotlight to beam in through the hall? A welcoming round of applause? She was not surprised that he seemed so sure of himself and bristled at the term of endearment, being of a generation where instant familiarity grated. She was not anyone’s ‘love’ – and particularly not his. Still, at least he was on time.
‘Come in,’ she invited, trying to be as cordial as possible.
He wiped his boots ceremoniously on her doormat and followed her through into the kitchen, nodding appreciatively at his surroundings. Did he really think his approbation was of interest to her, she thought scornfully?
She had smiled at his website. ‘No job too big or too small’ it had read. Hardly an original pronouncement amongst odd job men and the latter was much more likely to be within his grasp than the former. Would he really have been able to fix a leaky boiler or install a new shower? She very much doubted it. If he had, then he would have been a qualified heating engineer or plumber, rather than willing to undertake small, menial tasks for a basic charge.
She made him a cup of tea whilst he busied himself, singing tunelessly as he did so, with the mundane (largely invented) jobs she had set him. Observing him at close quarters he was more or less what she had expected. Not conventionally good-looking or even all that attractive; his crooked smile revealed uneven teeth as spiky as his hair but she had to admit to herself that some might find it oddly appealing. Above all, he exuded confidence. There is no greater magnet for someone lacking in that commodity than someone possessing it in an abundance, she thought, tears pricking her eyes.
She made the tea and when it was ready she gestured towards the teapot, indicating that he might like a short break from his activities. Leaning back on her worktop and supping the liquid loudly, he was only too pleased to talk about himself and she encouraged him, with a friendly warmth that required all of her best acting skills. By the time he had drained the last drop of tea from his mug and smacked his lips in ostentatious appreciation, it seemed to her that she knew virtually all there was to know about him. His upbringing, his education (such as it was), his skills (such as they were), his likes, his dislikes and, most significantly, a hectic social life that principally involved an excess of alcohol and resulted in him sometimes oversleeping in the morning.
He set the mug down on the draining board with a finality indicating that he was ready to resume his work, not realising she hadn’t finished with him yet.
‘And I suppose you meet plenty of girls whilst you’re out drinking?’ she asked him – hoping he didn’t hear her gulp as she asked the question.
‘Well, you know how it is,’ he winked conspiratorially.
‘Where do you meet them? Clubs? Pubs?’
He shrugged. ‘Mostly local pubs. Can’t afford the drinks in clubs,’ he added ruefully.
‘My granddaughter’s always liked going to pubs around here,’ she said, feeling her heart beat faster. ‘I’ve got a photo of my family. Would you like to see it?’
She left him with little choice but to agree and darted out of his eyeline into another room, from where she returned clutching a large frame, which she handed over to him. He glanced at it cursorily. The photo revealed a middle-aged couple – a man with greying hair, sporting a grizzly beard – and a woman of a similar age who bore a strong resemblance to the ageing lady who stood before him now. Between them stood a young man with handsome, regular features, his arms draped round the woman’s shoulder and standing slightly behind all three of them as if trying not to be captured on camera, stood an overweight girl with short, dark hair. She was smiling but not with the same easy, relaxed smile of the other three. She looked bewildered – like a child who had been told she had to be on her best behaviour but who couldn’t quite comprehend why.
He handed the photo back.
‘Do you recognise anyone in the photo, Danny?’
‘No, love,’ he said. ‘Should I?’ She thought she saw him flinch slightly.
‘Somerville,’ she said sharply, anger boiling over at his term of endearment. ‘My name’s Mrs. Somerville.’
He was unfazed and stared back at her uncomprehendingly, probably not understanding her anger at his informality she suspected.
‘My daughter and son-in-law,’ she explained proudly. ‘And that’s my grandson standing with them. Bright boy. The girl standing behind them is my granddaughter, Shelley. Lovely girl but with lifelong learning difficulties and a tendency not to live in the real world. Always very trusting.’ Her voice took on an edge. ‘But then you know that already, don’t you?’
His neck started to redden and beads of sweat formed on his face. She was pleased about that. She had caught him off-guard and unnerved him.
‘Kind friends, though,’ she continued. ‘People who’ve known her since schooldays and who’ve always looked out for her. Always included her. I shall always be very grateful for that.’ Her voice broke. He started to edge towards the door.
‘Well . . . if you haven’t anything else for me to do.’
‘Do you know a pub called The Dog and Duck?’ she asked. ‘Not a very original name, is it? I expect there are dozens with the same name all over the country but this one’s near the High Street.’
He shrugged in a halfway reaction that was neither confirmation nor denial.
‘Shelley and her friends used to go there every week,’ she said. ‘Always on the same night. That’s where she met you, isn’t it?’
‘Might have.’ His cheery matiness had evaporated. He was on the defensive now.
‘You were in there a few weeks ago, weren’t you Danny?’ she said. ‘You and your mates. All drinking yourselves into oblivion. Having a good time.’
He didn’t respond.
His toolbox was within her reach. Would she be brave enough?
‘How much did you win?’ she asked him suddenly.
‘Don’t know what you mean’, he replied defiantly.
‘I think you do,’ she continued. ‘I think you know exactly what I mean. You took Shelley to one side that night and made an arrangement to meet up with her during the week for a drink. And you did. It’s all my daughter and son-in-law heard her talk about for days – before and after the event. Danny this. Danny that. Danny the man who comes to people’s houses and fixes their problems. Danny her boyfriend. Only you had no intention of ever being so, did you? A few days after your so-called date and exactly a week after your initial meeting in the pub you turned up there with the same mates and you found her there with her friends, as you had anticipated. And then you ridiculed her. You asked her to confirm she had been out with you and when she replied she had, you laughed. You told your mates you’d gone through with the bet and they had to pay up.
He was trembling now and she wasn’t sure whether it was from fear or shame.
‘I didn’t lay a finger on her,’ he whined.
‘Oh Danny, I’m sure you didn’t,’ she said sadly. ‘That much I do believe.’
‘I’ll make it up to her,’ he blustered. ‘Honest I will.’
‘Will you?’ she responded. ‘Will you really?’ And how will you do that? Reach into that magic bag of tricks you call a toolbox and pull out something to fix her self-esteem? Restore her misery and humiliation? Can you do that, Mr. Fix-It?
He saw a straw and clutched it wildly.
‘Look, I’ll take her out again,’ he ventured. ‘Let her down gently.’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said witheringly. ‘A really nice gesture. But you see it won’t be possible now. Shelley died, you see. She killed herself.’
He looked stupefied and it was some moments before he spoke. They stared at each other.
‘You can’t pin it on me,’ he whimpered. ‘She was simple, your girl. No-one would kill themselves over something like that.’
‘She was not simple, Danny,’ she said angrily, advancing towards the toolbox, her voice shaking. ‘She had difficulties and she couldn’t always cope with everyday life. Then you came into it and brightened it for a few days. Gave her hope. The loss of that hope tipped her over the edge.’
The hammer lay there at the top. It had the potential to be the most lethal of any of the tools she could see at a quick glance and she lifted it out, raising it above her and and tightening her grip on the handle as she did so. Feeling sick with fear, she brought it down on his head and almost laughed at the startled look that crossed his face. When he didn’t fall, she struck again. This time he crumpled slowly to the ground – his limp body writhing on the floor until it finally lay inert on her kitchen floor.
‘Well, Mr. Fix-It’ she laughed bitterly. ‘That was one job too big for you to fix.’