Fallen Angel

‘There’s Mr Reynolds.’ Eddie thought of Jenny Wren. ‘He lives in the council flats behind. The one with the geraniums.’

Angel wrinkled her nose. ‘So his wife’s the bird-watcher?’

‘He’s nicer than she is. But he may be retired by now.’

‘I’d prefer an older man. Someone who would take a pride in the job.’

Angel decided that they should leave a decent interval – in this case a fortnight – between Thelma’s death and contacting Mr Reynolds. She spent the time making detailed plans of what she wanted done. Eddie was surprised both by the depth of her knowledge and the extent of her plans.

‘We’ll put a freezer in the scullery. One of those big chest ones. It will pay for itself within a year or so. We can take advantage of all the bargains.’

She examined the little coal cellar next to the scullery with particular care, taking measurements and examining the floor, walls and ceiling. There was a hatch to the little forecourt in front of the house, but Stanley had sealed this by screwing two batons across the opening.

‘This would make a lovely shower room. If we tile the floor and walls we needn’t have a shower stall. We can have the shower fixed to the wall. I wonder if there’s room for a lavatory, too.’

‘Do we really need it?’

‘It would be so much more convenient.’

At length Eddie phoned Mr Reynolds and asked if he would be interested in renovating the basement.

‘I don’t do much now,’ Mr Reynolds said.

‘Never mind. Is there anyone you’d recommend?’

‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I like to keep my hand in, particularly when it’s a question of obliging neighbours. Why don’t I come round and have a shufti?’

Ten minutes later Mr Reynolds was on the doorstep. He seemed to have changed very little in all the years Eddie had known him. He found it hard to keep his eyes off Angel, whom he had not previously met. They took him down to the basement.

‘We were thinking that we might let it as a self-contained flat,’ Angel told him.

‘Oh aye.’

‘There’s more that needs doing than meets the eye. That’s the trouble with these older houses, isn’t it?’

Mr Reynolds agreed. As time went by, Eddie realized that Mr Reynolds would have agreed to almost anything Angel said. Soon they were discussing insulation, dry-lining and replastering. Angel said that the tenants might be noisy so they decided to insulate the ceiling as well. They touched lightly on plumbing, wiring and decorating. Neither of them mentioned money. Within minutes of Mr Reynolds’s arrival they both seemed to take it for granted that he would be doing the work.

‘Don’t you worry, Miss Wharton. This will be a Rolls-Royce job by the time we’re done.’

‘Please call me Angela.’

Mr Reynolds stared at his hands and changed the subject by suggesting that they start by hiring a skip. Neither then nor later would he call Angel anything but Miss Wharton. His was a form of love which took refuge in formality.

Mr Reynolds did most of the work himself, subcontracting only the electrical and plumbing jobs. It took him over two months. During this time a friendship developed between the three of them, limited to the job which had brought them together but surprisingly intimate; narrow but deep. Mr Reynolds worked long hours and, when reminded, invoiced Eddie for small sums. Angel paid the balance with praise.

‘I’m not sure I can bear to let this room, Mr Reynolds. You’ve made it such a little palace that I think I might use it as my study.’

Mr Reynolds grunted and turned away to search for something in his tool bag.

The weeks passed, and gradually the jobs were completed. First the new floor, then the ceiling, then the walls. A hardwood door was made to measure, as was the long, double-glazed window overlooking the back garden.

‘Beginning to come together now, isn’t it?’ Mr Reynolds said, not once but many times, hungry for Angel’s praise.

If Mr Reynolds was curious about the relationship between Angel and Eddie, he never allowed his curiosity to become obtrusive. Almost certainly he guessed that Eddie and Angel were not living together as man and wife. Nor did Angel behave like a lodger: she behaved like the mistress of the house. Eddie came to suspect that Mr Reynolds did not ask questions because he did not want to hear the answers. Mr Reynolds was never disloyal to his wife, but from hints dropped here and there it became clear that he did not enjoy being at home; he liked this job which kept him out of the wet, earned him money and allowed him to see Angel almost every day.

When he had finished, the basement was dry and as airless as a sealed tomb. The acoustics were strange: sounds had a deadened quality. It seemed to Eddie that the insulation absorbed and neutralized all the emotion in people’s voices.

‘It’s perfect,’ Angel told Mr Reynolds.

‘Tell me if you need any more help.’ The tips of his ears glowed. The three of them were sitting round the kitchen table with mugs of tea while Eddie wrote another cheque. ‘By the way, what did happen to all those old dolls’ houses?’

Eddie glanced up at him. ‘My father used to raffle them at work for charity.’

‘Which reminds me,’ Angel said. ‘Some of his tools are still in the cupboard downstairs. Would you have a use for any of them, Mr Reynolds?’

The flush spread to his face. ‘Well – I’m not sure.’

‘Do have a look. I know Eddie would like them to go to a good home.’

‘I remember your dad making those dolls’ houses,’ Mr Reynolds said to Eddie. ‘Your mum and dad used to ask our Jenny round to look at them. She loved it.’ He chuckled, cracks appearing in the weathered skin around his eyes and mouth. ‘Do you remember?’

‘I remember. She used to bring her dolls to see the houses, too.’

‘So she did. I’d forgotten that. And look at her now: three children and a place of her own to look after. It’s a shame about Kevin. But there – it’s the modern way, I’m afraid.’

‘Kevin?’ Angel said.

Mr Reynolds took a deep breath. Angel smiled at him.

‘Kevin – Jen’s husband. Well, sort of husband.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s not general knowledge, but he’s a bad lot, I’m afraid. Still, he’s gone now. Least said, soonest mended.’

‘I’m so sorry. Children are such a worry, aren’t they?’

‘He ran off with another woman when she was expecting her third. What can you do? My wife doesn’t like it known, by the way. You’ll understand, I’m sure.’

‘Of course.’ Angel glanced at Eddie. ‘You and Jenny were friends when you were children, weren’t you?’

Eddie nodded. He’d given Angel an edited version of his relationship with Jenny, such as it had been.

‘Your mum and dad were very kind to her,’ Mr Reynolds went on, apparently without irony. ‘And she wasn’t the only one, they say. Maybe they’d have liked a little sister for you, eh?’

‘Very likely,’ Eddie agreed.

‘And he took some lovely photographs, too,’ said the little builder, still rambling down Memory Lane. ‘He gave us one of Jenny: curled up in a big armchair, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. We had it framed. We’ve still got it in the display cabinet.’

‘Photographs?’ Angel said, turning to Eddie. ‘I didn’t know your father took photographs.’

Eddie pushed the cheque across the table to Mr Reynolds. ‘Here you are.’