Dead-eyed Dick

My life changed the day I gave up DIY.

It was not a hobby that I would have gone in for, given the choice. To
be honest it was not even a hobby for me, more like forced labour
brought about by necessity.

We had just moved to an old cottage which was, in the estate agents'
parlance, in need of some attention although dilapidated would have
been a more accurate description. It was what we could afford at the
time and we had to accept the reality.

I made an inventory of the most urgent jobs to be tackled: dripping
taps in the kitchen and in the bathroom which had to have new washers
or be replaced; sash windows, caked in many layers of thick glossy
paint and stuck in their grooves, to be loosened so that fresh air
could be allowed into the rooms to ventilate the stuffy atmosphere
that pervaded the cottage; and a host of minor defects to be
rectified. It meant that the tool box had to come out of retirement.

Had it been my decision, that is where it would have stayed. What forced
my hand was that there was not a plumber, nor a joiner, to be had
this side of Christmas. They were solidly booked months in advance.

'And think of the exorbitant prices they charge', said my wife who,
knowing my reluctance to part with money unnecessarily, was, as ever,
ready to play the psychological card. So I knuckled down, albeit
reluctantly, to what I judged to be the duty of a considerate husband.

I must confess here and now that I am not a very skilled craftsman and
even when the little tasks I undertook turned out to be functional,
they did not have the polished professional look.

Even so they were, in my opinion adequate for the purpose. My wife,
normally very punctilious, did not seem to find any faults either.

That is until we got an invitation to a barbecue from Molly Purbright,
whom Deborah, my better half, had met in the local supermarket and
befriended.

It was a friendly get-together and informal with most of the guests
dressed in jeans and casual shirts. The gathering was well attended;
it looked as if all the inhabitants of the village had been asked to
the jamboree. The reason was to become clear later in the day.

It was the perfect weather for a barbecue; the sun shining and not a
cloud in sight. People, holding a glass of wine, wandered round the
lush garden and mingled in small groups engaged in inconsequential
conversation; nostrils twitched with anticipation as they detected
the aroma wafting from the steaks sizzling on the grill.

Molly introduced us to her husband Richard who, it transpired, was an
absolute genius at Do-it-yourself. In fact this mise en scène was
the prelude to a grand finale yet to be revealed.

He was in his mid-forties with hair beginning to grey at the temples. He
had a good physique, with bulging biceps showing through his tight
T-shirt. He was aware of the furtive, admiring glances cast in his
direction by a group of giggling girls. He pretended not to notice
but was secretly flattered by their attention. He clearly saw himself
as a ladies man. By contrast Molly was rather unassuming; dressed
soberly, hair tied in a bun and glasses which gave her an austere
look.

Towards the end of the afternoon the boisterous and jovial atmosphere
subsided and a sort of reverential hush descended on the assembled
crowd. The veterans in our midst knew all about the well rehearsed
routine but to newcomers like us it proved to be a journey of
discovery.

We were taken on a guided tour of the house and shown Richard's latest
masterpiece: a newly refurbished bathroom with a sunken bath. There
was no denying that it was a perfectly executed job, though a bit too
glitzy for my taste. A turquoise bath in the shape of an oyster shell
was surrounded by an array of ceramic tiles with a representation of
green and blue dolphins; gold taps; a shower curtain with a green
algae motif and coloured rugs to match the decor. A series of marbled
steps led gradually down to the lower level.

'Real marble, old boy,' said Richard turning towards me with undisguised
pride, 'all the way from Carrara. You won't find its equal anywhere
else in the world.'

After that spectacular display, everything else was bound to be an
anticlimax but that did not deter Richard from extolling the virtues
of his other achievements. The walnut refectory table; the Victorian
conservatory erected all on his own - actually he had to employ
glaziers to install the huge glass panes, he admitted with a pang of
regret - and line upon line of highly polished bookshelves affixed to
the wall with ornate brass fittings.

He nudged me in the ribs and confided: 'Look how straight those shelves
are. I didn't need any spirit level to put them up. They don't call
me dead-eyed Dick for nothing, you know.'

He was talking to me as if I was his lifetime friend but was obviously
trying to impress somebody and I had my suspicions as to who that
person might be.

I caught sight of Molly and could not help thinking what an unlikely
couple they were. She seemed happy to remain in the background as
much as Richard liked hogging the limelight.

The experience of that afternoon was indeed remarkable but the mere
thought of all that slog had left me drained of energy.
Deborah on the other hand had been fascinated by what she described
as the finest workmanship she ever witnessed.

Needless to say, from that moment all my poor efforts fell short of the ideal
standard she had mentally set. It was no use telling her that the
kitchen shelves were in fact level and that the wall not being
straight gave the optical illusion that they were crooked. Or that
the wrought- iron plant holder had crashed to the ground because the
plaster on the wall was weak and crumbly and could not support the
weight of the flowerpot.

I was continually lectured on the types of plugs I should use -
apparently there is a variety of them; some suitable for plaster
boards, others for cavity walls. I would have liked to think that she
had memorised a hardware catalogue but I knew that those words of
wisdom had originated from the house of the master builder.

She was spending an inordinate amount of time at the Purbright's
residence ostensibly to have tea with Molly but I was sure the
technical vocabulary she had acquired had not come from the lips of the
dear lady. She also got into the irritating habit of affixing adhesive yellow
stickers to whatever needed attention, with messages like:
"James, will you do something about the cooker's ignition. It won't spark."

No endearments, you'll notice, just a stark, plain, instruction. I was
getting cheesed off about her attitude and decided that the time had
arrived to clear the air. 

The final straw came when I entered the bedroom. Even my untrained eye
could see that the wardrobe was listing to one side and one of the
doors had come off its hinges. The inevitable 'post-it' sticker was
attached to the handle. I was ready to blow my top when the first
word on the message stopped me in my tracks. It said: "Dear..."

It was such an unusual opening that it took me a few moments to realise
that this was not an ordinary request for a repair but something more
serious.

"Dear James," it said, "I am at the end of my tether. It has taken
me a long time to realise that I am not cut out for a life of mediocrity
and cannot stay any longer with someone whose inadequacy I have
come to resent. I am looking forward to a more fulfilling future
with Richard with whom I feel a greater affinity. Together we have
decided to make a break with the past."

The note stopped abruptly as if she was unsure how to end it. I was still
dazed by the news when the doorbell rang.

I expected her to be distraught but she was calm and composed. 'Hello,
Molly,' was all I managed to say.

'You heard, then?' she asked, then waving a bottle of wine added: 'I
thought that we should drown our sorrows.'

I don't know whether it was the wine or her demeanour, but for the
first time I was seeing Molly in a new light. Here was a lady who was
sensitive, intelligent and witty. She had shed her plain-Jane appearance.
With blue eyes which glinted behind her spectacles, her blonde hair -
now loose - and a radiant smile, she was suddenly beautiful.
We talked interminably and by the time we finished it was too late
for her to return home.

That night she slept in my bed. 

I took the sofa.

                                                                          ***

We have just returned from a holiday in the south of France.

Oh, didn't I say? Molly and I are living together now. We are what they call 'an
item'. We were attracted to each other by our mutual dislike of DIY
and swore that we would not touch a screw or a screwdriver ever
again.

Now as we sit down to a candlelit dinner we gaze with satisfaction at our
cottage completely refurbished, with new fixtures, and tastefully
decorated. All done by professionals, of course.

© Luigi Pagano 2003