A GNEIGHBOUR'S LOVING ATTENTION
She lived on a run-down council estate of non-descript modern houses set amongst a pair of three-storey apartment blocks, all of it close to the main road that led out of the village and up to the motorway. The road which narrowed for a short stretch as it went over a humped and redundant railway bridge, was a rabbit run for many speeding drivers, the noise that they made often reaching her bedroom if she left the window open on a warm summer's night.
The two-bedroomed terraced property was robust, if a little tired. The pallid sandy-cream brick façades were set under a moss-covered red pantile roof, the flaking paintwork of the windows and the front and back door needing some attention. She thought of it as her home, a refuge for a woman in her late forties still blessed with a slender figure, long russet brown hair that fell onto her shoulders and was beginning to show the first strands of grey, good looks, and breasts that were slowly headed south but still filled a blouse or summer top nicely. She didn't have the money to live to excess and made ends meet, worked as a caterer in the village secondary school whenever she was needed, and did cleaning jobs most weekday mornings. Otherwise, she drew on what remained of their savings and her late husband's money that had not been frittered away on drink and too many fags.
"Joanie, you're too damned house-proud," her dissolute man would mutter. "It's not as though the house is ours."
"No, but I have my standards to keep, Alan," she would often answer him and then get on with the tasks that she had set for herself.
Now, she said it to herself and did so again as she looked at the state of the front path that led from the gate and up to her front door. The council didn't have the money to fix things and, when they did, they would take their time to do it. So, she decided to take matters into her own hands, and she had ordered what was needed; bags of sand and paving slabs that would match what had been laid some time ago and were now uneven and cracked, the weeds growing through.
She had even found someone to relay them all and to add a few to the small patio she had at the back of the house, a suntrap. There, she would sit and sunbathe and enjoy the myriad flowers in the earthenware and glazed pots that she had assiduously planted so that there was some colour and variegated foliage to look at when she was out there or looked at from the kitchen window as she did the washing up.
As of this morning, she had a problem. The local tradesman who had said he would appear, and do the work, had let her down,
'something cropped up on another job'
and that was it. She was left in limbo and was now worried about the materials that lay both in her garden, by the front hedge, and out on the pavement and that she had paid for.
She was on nodding acquaintance with many of her neighbours with whom she got on better than others, the worst being guys parking their trades vans and blocking pavements and making it difficult for people to pass, women with kids in pushchairs.
Of all her neighbours she got on with, Tracey Jones was one of the best and she was relieved to see her walking along the pavement towards her, shopping bags in hand, and being trailed by her son Alfie, a tall gangly youth in his early twenties with a head of unruly hair that he was seen to sweep back quickly. He was engrossed and looked at the screen of his iPhone as it was held in one hand and the other a shopping bag.
She was taken by his lean physique, his strong arms, and a mane of unruly hair that the breeze kept blowing down onto his high-cheeked face. He stood a head taller than both she and Tracey, and whereas she had a ready smile and open personality, her son was more withdrawn, even subdued, although he had lively grey-blue eyes that seemed to be taking in her appearance. He held his iPhone as if to look more clearly at the screen but one finger moving over that contraption that he devoted so much attention to.
Was he taking a picture of her, dressed as she was in faded denim shorts and a white crop top that shaped her? It all left little for him to imagine, shaping her breasts as it did, the round neck revealing her breastbone and strings of gold necklaces, one with her initial letter hanging there and drawing the eye, perhaps to feature in whatever he was doing with that iPhone.
"Is something wrong?" Tracey asked as she looked at her and then down into the garden, the palisade gate left open. "I see that you've got in a load of sand and some slabs."
"The damned workmen I arranged to be here and relay the path have stood me up," Joan grumbled, sweeping back her hair in irritation. She was aware of Alfie holding that phone as she spoke and looked at him. "Now I'm left wondering what to do and how to get the work done. It's way too much for me to do on my own."
She looked hopefully at the young man before her. He was in and out of work, so Tracey had told her a while back, but his luck was on the up and he was going to start new work in construction, a college certificate in the subject getting him through and convincing his future employer to take a calculated risk with him. She understood why, unable to miss seeing that his chino shorts hung low and that the waistband of his pants, or boxers, showed a brand name that everyone had heard of. All that, along with a mane of rebellious hair and a tattoo on one bicep, suggested a young guy with a particular take on life.
Tracey glanced at her son and sighed in some annoyance at his behaviour. "You could help her out, couldn't you, son?"
'Help Joan out, you mean,' Alfie retorted, hating being called 'son' in front of a stranger as his gaze shifted to Joan.
'I'd be grateful if you could, Alfie,' Joan smiled yet feeling troubled by his attitude towards her. He gazed at the work to be done. His T-shirt hung loosely over those baggy cargo pants, all of it lending him a studiously shabby look, but he looked strong, and her unease that she might be asking too much of him melted away. "I'll help you as there were supposed to be two guys relaying the path for me. I hope that's okay with you, Alfie?"
"Yeah, sure it is, Joan. I'll come as I am, shall I?" he grinned and stepped past her. "I'll go and grab some gear, some protective gloves, and my toolbox, and then I'll be with you. Give me ten minutes or so."
"Thanks, I appreciate it!" she called after him.
"We'll just see how it goes!" he replied on a moment's look her way.
"Okay, fine," she said, but it was only in Tracey's hearing. "Is he always so cocky, so confident with people?"
"Some, only with some. He's way too forward and as you say, cocky. It's got him into no end of trouble at work and he's paid the price. He has some time to cool off while he waits for someone to say he's got the job." Tracey had seen her son's quick, yet unmistakable and appraising glance at the woman Joan was seen to be. "Just send him packing if he gets to be too much for you. I'll make sure he has his house keys with him as I'm going out to work. It's my late shift so he'll just have to fend for himself."
Joan didn't doubt that Alfie could do so. She did wonder how she would deal with the young man who'd come onto her and in Tracey's presence.
It hadn't happened before.
♥
She had one of those 'pay-as-you-go' phones and used it sparingly, not as Alfie was seen to do as he stood beside her and assessed what the scope of the work was that she needed his help with.
"It's not level anymore and I want the path to have a few more slabs by the front door. I've dug out some plants already to show you where they're to go."
