New Lease of Life (11 page)

He definitely wouldn’t fall for a rough-and-ready, handsome Disney princess with his own vintage clothes shop. Not to mention a sunny smile, a slightly broken nose, his own personal rainbow, hopefully a hairy chest, and a stable full of unicorns.

DRAGGED UNCEREMONIOUSLY
from sleep, Pip rolled over and blinked. Sunlight streamed through the window, filtered by the stained-glass-style curtains to cast jeweled patches on his duvet. Daylight? What the hell? Normally he woke when it was still dark outside, nightmares and pain making a return to sleep hard to come by.

He frowned when he noticed his phone cradled in a divot in the spare pillow. The darkened screen revealed no clues as to the time or why Pip had chosen his iPhone for company. Unless he’d fallen asleep playing Candy Crush again.

Blearily Pip pushed himself up onto his elbow and then keyed in the code to wake his phone. The sleeping phone flared to life, revealing a photo of a bear wrapped up in a duvet. Colby’s teddy bear. Tucked up in Colby’s bed. On a whim he didn’t question or attempt to examine too closely, Pip saved the photo and set it as Colby’s alert.

A horrendous banging noise started up from downstairs. That’s what had ripped him from sleep. Surely it was far too early for someone to be hammering on his door. Although, distracted by the bear, Pip still hadn’t checked the time. There was something he’d intended to do today, first thing and as a matter of urgency. Damned if he could remember what it was, though, not with his head still groggy from sleep. He rolled over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he groped for the crutch on the floor and came up empty-handed. Blinking away the film over his eyes that turned everything into a children’s kaleidoscope, Pip noticed the intricately carved handle of the walking stick. Ah yes, Colby’s stick.

Pip pushed himself up and swung his legs out of bed, reaching for the stick before easing himself to his feet. That’s right. He intended to return the cane and had planned to phone Colby first thing to see if he could come by and pick it up.

Another hammering blow rattled the door in the frame. An impressive task considering the solid weight of the door.

Maybe there was a fire. Or perhaps Colby had preempted him. And while he wasn’t actually looking forward to getting the awkward metal crutch back, seeing Colby again, however fleeting, would more than make up for it.

Knowing he couldn’t possibly make it down the stairs quickly enough for the person beating the shit out of his door, Pip hobbled—his ankle always seemed worse first thing in the morning, despite having rested during the night—into the spare room where the window overlooked the front door.

Sparing a glance at the lush green of the park opposite, Pip pushed up the sash window and leaned out over the ledge.

A stranger, with a seriously receding hairline, battered at Pip’s door with his fist.

“Knock it off!” Pip snarled at the man that wasn’t Colby, the buoyant high he’d woken up on disappearing instantly. “What the hell do you want?”

“Phillip Long’ampton?”

“Yes.”

“
You
called me, mate. About quoting for an en suite. I’m the plumber.”

“Damn! Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

“We said half nine.” The plumber glanced at his watch. “It’s a quarter t’ ten. I ’ad trouble parking.”

Ten. He’d not slept for that long, or uninterrupted, since he’d come out of hospital.

“Oh. I overslept. Can you give me five minutes?”

Plumber pulled out his phone and tapped at the screen. “Tell you what, mate. I’ll give you fifteen and pop ’round the corner for a coffee.”

“Thanks.” Pip pulled his head back in, already working out how much he could accomplish in fifteen minutes. Wash. A coffee. Maybe call Colby. Pip sighed.

The plumber had already started up the steps to the street and was almost level with him when Pip popped his head back out the window. “Look, sorry about the shouting.”

“No problem, mate. I ’ate getting woke up like that. Yanked from sleep by some idiot smashing down your front door.” The man shrugged, the buttons of his shirt straining across his belly. “I’ll see you in quarter of an hour.”

Knowing he didn’t have the time to shower before the plumber returned, Pip carried out the most basic of ablutions and slipped into yesterday’s discarded jogging bottoms and a clean T-shirt. Then, while his coffee brewed, Pip spoke to Colby.

Well, he actually spoke to the answer phone at the shop, and then tried to avoid staring at his mobile, willing it to ring.

In an attempt to take his mind off of what he would actually say to Colby when he called back, Pip opened the fridge to check on the milk situation, because the plumber would probably want tea. An unopened two-liter plastic carton of milk adorned the shelf inside the fridge door together with a Tetra Pak of orange juice and a bottle of tomato ketchup. Who kept sauce in the fridge?

Presumably Colby did, because hadn’t he put Pip’s groceries away yesterday? The perishables, if Pip remembered the conversation correctly. He glanced around the edge of the fridge door, at the cans and packets piled neatly on the far end of the countertop out of the way.

Returning his attention to the contents of the fridge, Pip noticed two cans on the shelf at his eye level. Some sort of chocolate milkshake, certainly nothing he would consider buying. Bloody supermarket. If they were to replace his iced coffee drinks…. No, they were in another of the door compartments. He looked closer at the milkshakes, which appeared to be some sort of nutritional supplement.

A note in that now familiar fuchsia ink leaned against one of the cans. “
Drink me!
” Propped up against the other can was another, longer, missive. “
Don’t worry I didn’t buy these specially. They were supposed to be my lunch. Have one for breakfast! C
.”

Pip glanced at the cafetiere, which held the black elixir that he would class as his breakfast should anyone ask, then back at the shakes. He supposed a milk-based drink couldn’t hurt.

The drink was thicker than he’d expected, and Pip still hadn’t finished the filling shake when the plumber returned.

The plumber dropped every
h
, his tape measure, and, Pip suspected, his guts several times in the forty-five minutes he spent in the dressing room. He chattered on the entire time he invaded Pip’s home, about the weather, football, the state of parking in London, and the “ruby” he’d eaten the previous evening. That at least explained the invasive stench Pip hadn’t been able to put a name to. Chicken vindaloo.

When he finally ushered the plumber out of his front door and threw open several windows on the second floor, Pip discovered he had a message on his phone from Colby.

Stuck in shop all day. Can’t get out.

Another ploy to force Pip to live without his crutch, like turning off his phone, or the truth? There was only one way for Pip to find out.

A field trip.

But first he had an appointment with a carpenter. An en suite seemed extravagant when the bathroom was a couple of steps down the hall, and he lived all alone, but a library in the small room off of his bedroom sounded like a much better idea.

While he waited for the second tradesman’s visit of the day, Pip pulled up the address of Colby’s shop and checked out the easiest route on the underground. Seemed straightforward enough, but he’d need to change lines. There were escalators at all three stations, and a walk to finally get to the shop. Not to mention
the gap
. How would he cope with that awkward misstep getting on and off the train? And all of the people jostling against him. No, he’d call a cab.

Decision made and with perfect timing as the doorbell chimed. Pip flipped down the screen of his laptop and reached for the cane without a second thought. The smoothness of the handle warmed under his touch within moments of his skin making contact. The wooden shaft promised strength should he need it and the perfect height to shore up his dodgy balance. No more pinching plastic or brushing up against cold metal.

In fact, using the stick felt so natural that it wasn’t until he was ensconced in the old dressing room with the carpenter that he actually became aware of the walking stick again.

Mr. Graham, from Wooden Wonders, passed Pip a folder containing samples of his work, and Pip laid the walking stick carefully on the nearest built-in dresser.

“May I?” Mr. Graham asked, gesturing at the cane.

“Sure.” Pip shrugged, hoping to convey his indifference toward the item. However a spark of annoyance ignited in Pip’s belly as the carpenter wrapped his fingers around the shaft of the cane and caressed the wood.

“Glorious,” Mr. Graham whispered reverently, his eyes almost half closed. “Ebony. One piece, no joins or grafts.”

He opened his eyes and pressed his thumb to the bridge of his wire-rim spectacles, settling them in place. “Almost black. This piece is from a forest at high altitude and a very old tree.”

“Really?” Pip asked, impressed. “You can tell all that just from touching it?”

“And the density of the color. Wood is my life, not just my job. I’m rather partial to any objects made from wood, but canes are something special.”

“I thought it might have been a Chinese reproduction,” Pip admitted.

“Plastic!” Mr. Graham spluttered, as if offended on the wood’s behalf. “Plastic wouldn’t warm under your hands the way this cane does.”

The movement of the carpenter’s gnarled old hands over the cane fanned the spark in Pip’s belly until his annoyance unfurled into full-blown jealousy. Pip reached out, wrapping his own hand around the wood. The warmth seeped into his palm. Pip wanted to snatch the cane away, clasp it to his chest, and declare ownership, but he didn’t because he wanted to know more about this glorious gift Colby had bestowed upon him. And he was giving it back. Wasn’t he?

“You can feel it living beneath your palm, can’t you?”

He could feel something, but whether it was the life in the wood or affection for the kindness of a stranger, Pip couldn’t be sure.

“The handle is some type of scrimshaw,” Mr. Graham continued. “I can’t be sure of the material but most likely bone or tooth. Probably whale or walrus, since most scrimshaw was done by the whalers as a way of passing the time. Someone English, I would imagine, based on the scene they chose to depict.”

Mr. Graham pulled the cane closer, forcing Pip to let go, and peered at the band between handle and shaft, his nose almost pressing against the wood. “Hallmarked silver collar and ferrule. I wish I had my loupe, and I could give you an exact date. I can’t distinguish the maker’s mark with my eyesight.”

“It’s old, then?”

“What’s old to you youngsters? I’m fifty-seven. Am I old to you?”

Pip had to ask. “Would you class it as vintage?”

“Vintage? This is an antique. Easily over a hundred years old. Late Victorian, I think, although the scrimshaw the handle is made from is probably nearer to one hundred and fifty years old. Please don’t tell me you picked this beauty up at a charity shop or car boot sale for a tenner?”

A car boot sale! Pip had never been to one of those in his life. “It was a gift.”

“I won’t be so crass as to speculate on the price, then.”

The carpenter held out the cane, and Pip all but grabbed it. He rubbed his hand over the intricate carving on the handle.

“From someone special?”

Colby certainly was that, but special to Pip, which was what Mr. Graham was implying? How could that even be possible? They had met twice, and Pip had been surly and unapproachable for a fair proportion of their encounters.

The urge to see Colby gnawed a gaping chasm in Pip’s stomach. “I need to book a cab. Will you be all right to finish off up here on your own?”

Without Pip’s cane to waylay his attention, Mr. Graham had returned to his tape measure. “No problem. I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished.”

With the taxi booked, Pip used the time to do some research of his own on walking sticks. Not canes because typing “canes” into an Internet search engine already used to searching for porn brought about some interesting results.

Immersed in the website he’d found written by a walking stick collector, he failed to notice Mr. Graham until he coughed pointedly from the doorway.

“All done. I’ll get that quote to you in a couple of days. Oh, I just need to know what you plan to do with the items in the wardrobe. I’ll assume you’re moving everything out into the main bedroom. If not, let me know as soon as possible, and I can incorporate it into the design.”

Items? Well, there were a few more boxes of old photographs and stuff on the top shelf. Articles, mood boards, clippings…. Shit! Nondigital porn. That would be embarrassing.

“No immediate rush. Have a think on it over the weekend. No, don’t get up.” Mr. Graham waved Pip back into his seat before he’d done much more than reach for his stick. “I’ll see myself out.”

From the pocket of his jacket, Mr. Graham tugged a flat cap in green and cream tweed. He shook the hat out, then slipped it onto his head.

“Derby tweed in sage,” Pip said automatically. “I’ve got—” Had. He’d had a hat exactly like that, but he’d given it away not twenty-four hours ago. “Good quality headwear.”

“I’ve had this one for years. Wife’s always moaning she wants to buy me a new one, but what’s the point when this one is still damn near perfect.” Mr. Graham smiled, reminding Pip of his grandfather. “I should have realized you’d appreciate it. I’ll be in touch.”

With that last cryptic utterance, Mr. Graham of Wooden Wonders raised a finger to his tweedy brim, in a move caught between a truncated wave and an old-fashioned tug on the forelock, and then left before a bemused Pip roused himself enough to question what the carpenter had meant.

WHAT THE
hell am I doing?

He hadn’t been this far from home since the enforced Christmas vacation at his parent’s country estate, and yet here he was, voluntarily taking a cab south of the river to return a gift.