"Shipley Green - one mile."

      Ashleigh pulled up alongside the old wooden signpost and grinned to herself as she eased the car gingerly down the narrow Kentish lane towards the village she'd tried so hard to forget.   She kept a wary eye on the thick thorny hedges that grew tall on either side, watching for any protruding branch that might have scratched the immaculate paintwork of her late aunt's stately blue Volvo.

      Not that it mattered so much now.   Two months ago the old girl would have put Alison on bread and water if she'd returned home with so much as a smear of mud on the tyres.   But thankfully those depressing times were over, locked safely away into the past.

      The road broadened a little, just as she remembered, bearing slightly to the left as she came to the first recognisable feature.   She brought the car gently to a standstill, and gave a long sigh, reflecting an abundance of conflicting emotions - awesome apprehension combined with relief, knowing she was at last coping with reality.   And there before her stood a familiar sight indeed, the grim establishment where she'd spent the worst five years of her childhood as a nervous, often tearful pupil in the village primary school.

      Two decades later, the names on the faded board outside were all changed.   The elderly Miss Wall had surrendered her post as principal, and even the friendly caretaker had made way for a successor before the school finally closed its doors in the mid-nineties.

      It looked so different now - tatty, rainswept, and grossly uncared for - yet a few haunting features remained - the big brown double doors, now padlocked to ward off intruders, and the six arched windows, each boarded up against the modern trend towards vandalism.   Still in need of repair were those same crumbling pot-holes in the playground where little Ashleigh had often tripped or been pushed, grazing her knees on the tarmac, and shedding yet more tears.

      Conscious of blocking the road, she eased the Volvo cautiously round the next bend.   And there in a hollow dip to the left stood the object of her current quest - the elegant towering oast-house, once the source of a lingering, hoppy smell that used to pervade the school cloakrooms and always reminded Ashleigh of stale bread.   Now just an empty building, it might with luck assume a major new role in her life as a trendy rural dwelling, cosy and comfortable, yet tainted with many poignant memories.

      Enbalmed in her twenty-year time-warp, Ashleigh coasted gently on past the former village stores, now a private home.   She felt disillusioned.   Was there no longer a post office?  Had local gossips no venue for their daily exchange of village tittle-tattle?  How far did today's youngsters have to walk for sweets or the Radio Times?

      Ashleigh gave another heartfelt sigh.   It was all so depressing, and the weather wasn't helping her mood - a grey, featureless Saturday afternoon in which time stood poised, holding its breath for a better tomorrow.   Fallen leaves lay choking the gullies on both sides of the narrow lane, while all around her a heavy dampness hung in the air like yesterday's washing.

      "Never go house-hunting in fine weather," an office colleague had advised.   "See your place at its worst before getting suckered into a transaction you might well regret."

      But Ashleigh knew the village of old, in all its moods.   Later perhaps when the autumn sunshine returned, she might glimpse some of the infant happiness that was destined to elude her in Shipley Green.

      She drove as far as the next bend, then paused again to confront the old house where she and her aunt had once lived.   It looked so forlorn now, shedding long-overdue tears which dripped freely from the rusting, leaf-clogged gutters.   Who lived there today, she wondered - another maiden aunt perhaps, with her sad little orphaned niece?

      It was uncanny, almost spooky, the way Ashleigh had been drawn into revisiting a place she'd always loathed.   She probably wouldn't have given it a second thought if she hadn't spotted a photo of the familiar oast-house, staring at her from an estate agent's window in Maidstone.   It was as if the Fates were beckoning, daring her to return and face some of those tiresome ghosts - and not before time too.   After twenty-five years of oppression, what Ashleigh needed most was a fresh start, a revitalising sling-shot into a better future now that her tiresome aunt had finally been laid to rest.

      At the far end of the village she drove up a steep hill, then turned sharply to the right, taking the back road round past the church where she saw a familiar figure, the Rev. James J.  Allison, now white-haired but evidently still active as he leaned his bike against the lych-gate.  Ashleigh drew alongside and pressed a switch, silently lowering her window.

      "Good morning," she called, but the minister didn't hear.   For a moment Ashleigh felt as if she too had become a ghost like her aunt, unable to establish contact with the world she'd left behind.

      "Mr. Allison," she called again, a hint of urgency in her voice.

      He turned.   "That's me," he responded with familiar warmth.

      "You're still here," she exclaimed stupidly, glancing up to read his name on the church notice-board in fresh gold lettering.

      He came forward.   "Until the good Lord sees fit to move me on," he nodded with a genial smile.   "Yes.  Can I help?"

      "It's been twenty years," said Ashleigh.   "I don't suppose you remember me?"

      The minister put a hand to his mouth and studied his young visitor's hopeful face.

      "Oh dear," he sighed, "I hate it when someone puts me on the spot like that - how about a small clue for an old man?"

      "Ashleigh Ferguson," she grinned in happy anticipation.   "I used to live along the lower road with my aunt, Elsie Challon."

      "Miss Challon!  Why, of course.   Yes, and little Ashleigh?  Ah, yes, I recognise that smile now - and it was so rare to see you smile in those days, my dear.   Oh, it's wonderful when the little ones grow up and return to the fold with families of their own.   Are you married?"

      Ashleigh shook her head.   It was another sore subject - three steady boy-friends and an eight-month engagement had led to nothing, thanks to Aunt Elsie's persistent interference.

      "I'm still waiting for the right man to come and blow in my ear," she laughed.   "And you're one of the few people I can't fool about my age - I'm twenty-nine now."

      The minister looked sympathetic.   "My dear, I suppose you must be.  Never mind - so was I, some forty years ago!  Are you staying in the village?  Shall we be seeing you here tomorrow morning?"

      "I don't know," she declined graciously.   "I'm here this afternoon to look over a house I might buy - the old oast-house actually.   I saw it was up for sale, and I was keen to see if it had changed from the way I remember it."

      "Oh, my dear," sighed the minister.   "I think you may have left it too late.   I'm pretty sure it's already taken."

      Even though she knew the oast-house might have been a risky investment, hardly within her means, Ashleigh felt a pang of disappointment.

      "Oh well," she smiled bravely.   "We'll see.   Anyway, it's nice to meet someone in the village who actually remembers me.   Most other aspects of Shipley Green give me the shivers, like I've returned to a ghost-town."

      "Places changes," the minister affirmed, "we all do.   I heard about your aunt's recent passing - I'm so sorry.   But we must look to the future, mustn't we, and I hope that yours comes filled with sunshine.   You deserve it, my dear - to make up for all those early troubles, eh?  Do pop back and see us whenever you can.   You're always sure of a welcome at St. Andrews."

      Ashleigh gave the old man a silent wave as another surge of misery engulfed her.   It was worse than a ghost-town, she reflected.   Coming back to Shipley Green was like attending her own funeral, filling her with a sense of loss and emptiness.   And to crown it all, some other house-hunter had beaten her to the keys of the oast-house.

      She could hardly bear to drive past it again, yet something led her back as though there were unanswered questions still to be resolved.   She parked the car in the grounds of the deserted school, flung an old raincoat around her shoulders, and strolled aimlessly down the road towards the former post office, hoping it might miraculously reappear out of the mist like a part of Brigadoon.

      She was just level with the oast-house when a noisy red sports car came hurtling down the lane towards her.   She jumped quickly onto the bank and glared as the driver jammed on his brakes and swung his machine onto the loose gravel forecourt, scrunching to a halt with careless disregard for his tyres.   A young man leapt out, slammed the door, and picked up a stone which he flung savagely into a large puddle that lay between him and the oast-house.   Muttering oaths of annoyance and self-reproach, he then took a key from his pocket and let himself inside.

      Ashleigh felt choked, angry and cheated.   Was this the man who'd beaten her to the prize?  What could her beloved oast-house possibly mean to him?  Surely it couldn't offer any of the bitter-sweet nostalgia it held for Ashleigh Ferguson?

      Trying to dismiss envy and disappointment from her mind, she wandered on and happened to be passing the old pillar-box just as a familiar red van drew up.

      "It seems another village has lost its post office," she remarked to the man as he came striding round to collect the mail.

      "Everything's up on the estate now," he informed her.   "Moved there five years back as part of the new development.   It's not far - though I wouldn't chance walking on a day like this."  He surveyed the heavens.   "I reckon it'll come bucketing down any minute."

      His words were echoed by an obliging rumble of thunder.

      "Yes, the new post office is up that way," he called as he drove off again.   "A good half-mile, then turn right - though of course it'll be closed now - Saturday afternoon."

      Ashleigh thanked him and retraced her steps towards the car.   As she passed the oast-house again she saw her unkempt rival struggling with a wheelbarrow full of quarry tiles, steering it erratically towards an outhouse, and striving to avoid the many pools of water.   At the sound of her feminine footsteps he glanced up.

      Having caught his eye, Ashleigh felt obliged to say something.

      "I suppose you're the guy who's just snatched this rug from under my feet," she accused him.

      He set the barrow down and strolled enquiringly towards her.

      "I gather someone's just bought this place," she continued.   "I know I should have acted sooner, but I couldn't get over here till today."

      The man eyed her curiously.   "You weren't hoping to buy this pile?" he grinned with smug satisfaction.   "Sorry, but I clinched the deal a fortnight ago.  Contracts exchanged, and money about to follow suit.   You've had a wasted journey."

      "Not entirely," she defended herself.   "Twenty years ago I used to live just along here, so it was a good excuse to pop back and dig up a few old roots."

      "Are you sure you could have afforded this?" the man asked, perhaps making a rash assessment of Ashleigh's wealth from the state of her raincoat.   "It's practically ruined me, I can tell you, yet I've still got to scrape up another ten thousand to make it habitable.   For a start, the drive needs immediate attention.   Look at it!  More like a map of the Lake District."

      "You're right!" she exclaimed.   "I recognise Coniston right where you're standing, so I guess that makes you the Old Man.   But I'm not sure about Windermere - it seems to have spread south a bit.   Unless you get better drainage here, the local council may adopt this place as a reservoir.   I can see you've got your work cut out.   Pity I can't stay to share the fun."

      "Fun?" he challenged her.   "Tell me about it!  Did you see inside?"

      Ashleigh shook her head.   "I was tempted only by pretty pictures and the agent's usual synonyms for rustic charm.   I guess plain honest truth is rarely uppermost in the mind of an estate agent."

      "Oh, it's in their minds all right," he sneered.   "Believe me, they know damned well what they're trying to sell.   Caveat emptor!  That's Latin for Let the Sucker be Sucked.   Care for a brief tour, or would that be tactless when it's no longer on the open market?"

      "I'd still be interested," Ashleigh said at once.   "I mean, even if it isn't coming my way, I can pretend I'm a foreign tourist being shown an historic Kentish monument.   You don't charge admission, I hope?"

      "No, but thanks for the idea.   I need to think up some pretty devious schemes for fund-raising.   Mind the puddles!  It's best you go round via Kendal."

      Feeling strangely mesmerised, Ashleigh was ushered over the threshold into the dark and musty interior.

      "Another minor hazard," the man explained quietly.   "Apparently the wiring isn't all that hot."

      "You mean it stays cool?" she laughed.   "Sorry, I shouldn't keep making fun.   Is that something you can fix yourself, or will it need professional attention?"

      "Either way, it's going to soak up cash I haven't got.  I'll just have to be careful not to use too many appliances at once.   I've blown four fuses already, and today's only my third visit."

      "That happens a lot in old buildings," Ashleigh replied knowledgeably.  "Remember, this was built in the days before we owned fridge-freezers and electric dishwashers."

      "Not all of us can afford such luxuries," he retorted.   "But I do like a home to be well lit.   I'm itching to install dozens of spot-lights in strategic places, but at present that's out of the question.   I must learn to act humble and take things one step at a time.   This is to be my kitchen."

      They reached an area which had been tiled throughout, a half-finished dream kitchen, straight out of a glossy magazine, apparently unconstrained by cost.

      "This extravagance was the work of the previous owner," he explained with a sour grin.   "His wife must have been another of those blood-sucking bitches with aspirations far beyond her husband's means.   That's doubtless why the poor sod had to sell at a loss.   It's a common symptom of the times we live in.   Still, I'll try to capitalise on the work he's started.   The rest of the place, I warn you, is a complete mess."

      He led her through a succession of rooms, bare of all furnishings.  The plain wooden floors certainly held a rustic charm, but were none too practical for a modern home.   Every wall remained undecorated, covered only in untreated plaster-board which had been crudely nailed into place.

      "It certainly has potential," Ashleigh said, resorting to a phrase she'd seen on the agent's handout.

      "Personally," the man went on, "I'd like to tear everything out and start from scratch IF I could afford it.   The big question is whether to pursue the original theme of spartan simplicity, or paper over every crack and create a veneer of comfortable living.   What would YOU have done?"

      With the ball suddenly tossed in her court, Ashleigh replied quite spontaneously.

      "Why not go for variety?"

      Then, seeing his genuine interest in her views, she added:

      "Use the idea of rustic simplicity for a utility room - say a workroom or study - but feather yourself a cosier nest for entertaining and private relaxation.   You've got plenty of room here.   Yes, I think if it were left to me I'd spread myself around a bit."

      She was about to enquire about the size of his family when warning bells intervened.   The man hadn't mentioned a wife or partner, in fact he'd voiced all his intentions in the first person singular.

      "You're planning to live here alone?" she asked.

      "Until other prospects dawn," he smiled.   "I'm what my father would term a gay bachelor - gay meaning carefree, you understand - though how carefree I can afford to be, only time will tell.   Are you brave enough to climb the stairs?"

      "Why brave?  Are they as precarious as your wiring?"

      "I was being flippant.   It's not often I invite a young lady up to my bedroom.   But don't worry - there's no bed yet - that doesn't arrive till Monday.  That's when everything should start happening in real earnest.  I'm taking two weeks off work to get the place properly organised."

      He led her upstairs and opened a door to reveal a vast circular arena, bare from floor to ceiling.   He grinned smugly.   "Voila!  You think there's enough room here for a king-size water-bed?"

      "Yes," she said, "as long as the floor doesn't sag under the weight.  Where do you plan to erect the diving board?"

      He turned to her with a curious smirk.   "You're very free with your quips, miss, but in return for the free tour, how about some practical advice?  I'm hoping to install an en-suite shower and bathroom here too.   If the decision were left to you, where would you put it?"

      It seemed a pointless question, since the room formed a perfect circle some eighteen feet in diameter.

      "I'd tuck it in an odd corner somewhere," she said, "not too far from the bed.   Where's the bed going to go?"

      "I thought dead centre - with all round access.   Much easier to make," he added with a cheeky grin and waggled eyebrows.   "Seen enough?"

      "I think so, though I wouldn't mind seeing it again when it's all complete."

      "My dear girl, you'd need to belong to a very select club to secure that privilege, but I promise I'll put your name forward.   What is your name, by the way?"

      "Ferguson," she replied with careful discretion.   "Actually, I think I've seen enough to convince myself I wouldn't want this place after all.  You're welcome to enjoy its many amenities all by yourself."

      "Is that sour grapes, or prudish disapproval of my life-style?" he asked.   "Seriously, I am looking for fresh ideas on how to make a go of this.   I really need someone with an artistic flair to come and take control."

      "And you'd probably disagree with everything she suggested."

      "You know that much about me already?" he smirked.

      "Mere intuition, though I'm essentially a very logical person."

      "Then you're wise to back off.   I'm a thoroughly illogical person.  I'm forever milking other people's ideas, but still end up insisting that my own way's better, and having everything just the way I want it."

      "Then it's better if the place reflects your personality rather than mine.   And to answer your question about the en-suite bathroom, had you thought of installing it near to existing drainage and the water supply?  By the way, how do you fill a water-bed?  Do the fire brigade offer to do it as part of their service?"

      "Come back in a week's time and I should have the answer to that one, plus a bed."

      Ashleigh thanked him and made her way downstairs.   She stepped out into the courtyard and turned to gaze up at the old tower with its white conical vane, her mind in a turmoil of desires and regrets.   The oast-house would have made a delightful home, but not in the way this man was setting about it.   To Ashleigh, he seemed intent on destroying every aspect of its charm, using the building merely as a shell with no thought for the potential atmosphere it afforded.   He was evidently lacking in sensitivity and vision, which is probably why he chose to race along narrow country lanes in a nasty red sports car.

      Yet as she drove slowly back to her own depressing house, Ashleigh felt unaccountably sad, as if she'd just said goodbye to an old friend.   Much as she tried to put it out of her thoughts, the quaint oast-house with its historic stone and musty interior continued to haunt her, invading her quiet moments like a growing virus.

      Throughout the weekend, the oast-house featured in Ashleigh's dreams, wooing her with its evocative aura while gnawing at her peace of mind as she reflected how it was being raped of its charm by a witless, aggravating man who hadn't a clue how to capitalize on the priceless asset he'd so recklessly acquired.

      Ashleigh held out until the following Wednesday when, on the spur of the moment, she decided to take an extended lunch-hour and drive over again to Shipley Green.   She'd made no appointment - nothing was pre-arranged.   She merely felt an overwhelming urge to satisfy her curiosity, to see how the man was getting on, and if possible stop him from ruining an important part of Kentish heritage.

      When she arrived at the oast-house, the red sports car was nowhere to be seen and the front door was firmly locked.   Ashleigh felt a complete idiot.   Not only had she wasted her lunch-hour but used a good gallon of petrol on a wild-goose chase.   The Volvo was all very luxurious - a joy to drive and far more reliable than her old brown Mini - but it was by no means as economical on fuel.

      So why had she used it?  She scarcely dared admit the truth even to herself, but the Volvo gave her an unaccustomed sense of status.   It represented a new image which she was finding more and more agreeable.   Now at last Ashleigh Ferguson could hold her head proudly and be regarded with respect - so refreshingly different from the way her aunt had always treated her.

      In truth, Elsie Challon had never been a real aunt - merely a distant cousin who had grudgingly agreed to take Ashleigh under her wing after the sudden death of the child's parents twenty-five years earlier.   Life had been tough for Ashleigh ever since - never feeling truly loved, acting for the most part as an unpaid servant to her fastidious, ultra-critical aunt.  More recently she'd assumed the role of bedside companion after the old woman suffered a heart-attack, a role she'd fulfilled nobly until a massive stroke finally sent the ailing Miss Challon to her eternal rest.

      Ashleigh was now alone in the world, but this didn't bother her.   She was independent at last and, if the old girl's solicitor was to be believed, she also had money.   Come what may, she intended to continue using the Volvo till advised otherwise, and today it would serve her purpose well, enhancing her image in the eyes of that self-opinionated man at the oast-house.

      Except that he wasn't there.   Her mission to impress him had led to nothing.

      She stood for a moment, gazing in awe at conical white-capped tower, knowing in her heart that she still longed for it to be hers.   Finally she stopped day-dreaming, reversed her car out onto the road, and was intending to head straight back to Maidstone, until she spotted a road junction that was new to her - a side road leading to the recently-built housing estate.

      Intrigued by the prospect of exploring new ground, she took the turning and found herself surrounded by clusters of modern homes, each with a tiny front garden, each an exact clone of its neighbour.

      Feeling as if she were driving down a hall of mirrors, Ashleigh followed the winding route through the estate and came to a small shopping parade where she spotted the new post office, its concrete façade bland and functional, devoid of any personality or charm, so different from its quaint predecessor down in the old village.

      Clutching at any straw in pursuit of nostalgia, Ashleigh parked the car and went to buy herself some sweets in the wild hope that she might be served by the same dear lady she had known twenty years earlier.   She pushed eagerly at the door but found it locked.   The shop, predictably, was closed for lunch.

      Lingering in frustration and disbelief like a disappointed child, she peered through the window and happened to notice the reflection of a red sports car parked further along, just like the one that nearly ran her down on Saturday.   Needing to salvage something from her wasted journey, Ashleigh walked towards it just as its owner emerged from the dry cleaners, looking extremely peeved.

      "Hallo again," she called brightly.

      "What?  Oh, it's you," he responded, showing not the slightest grace or courtesy.

      "You seem troubled," she persisted.   "Have you changed your mind about my oast-house?"

      "Yours?  Surely I made it clear?  Contracts have been exchanged.  It isn't anybody's oast-house now but mine, so I've only got myself to blame."

      "That sounds ominous.   What happened?  You seemed quite content with your coup last Saturday."

      "That's before everything started going wrong.   First the damned shops were closed all day Sunday when I ran out of bread and milk.   The bedroom suite didn't show up as promised on Monday morning, so I drove up here at four o'clock to phone, only to be told there was a minor hiccup and I could expect delivery at any moment.   I raced back to the house to find a note stuck in the damned door saying they'd just called and found no-one home.  Now the morons claim they can't deliver again till next Monday at the earliest, completely cocking up all my plans to move in by the weekend.   If only I had that damned phone - but no, British Telecom say it's going to take another week!  And today when I'm running low on food supplies, not only is it early-bloody-closing day but I'm completely out of cash till I can get to the damned bank.   In short, Miss Whoever-you-are, you're seeing the worst possible side to my character and I hate everyone's guts because I'm having a mid-life crisis in the middle of a bloody infuriating week."

      "No-one ever claimed moving house was fun," she said kindly.

      "And to crown it all," he went on angrily, "I've just managed to tip a gallon of creosote all over one of my best suits, and I'm told it's a total write-off."

      "You could always use the material for floor cloths," Ashleigh retorted flippantly, and immediately wished she hadn't.

      "At two-hundred pounds a piece?  You think it's funny?  What do you mop your floors with - a lamé ball-gown or a satin negligé?  Look, I'm sorry, it may be the local idea of fun to stand around exchanging trivial village banter, but I need to get back before the damned gas men turn up.   I'll see you around, maybe."

      "Don't count on it," Ashleigh called after him.   "On second thoughts, definitely not - you can keep your damned oast-house!"

      She watched the red sports car drive off like an angry wasp, its impetuous owner venting his frustration by thumping both fists hard against the steering wheel.   How childish, thought Ashleigh, as she climbed gracefully into her Volvo.

      Damn the man!  He hadn't even noticed what she was driving.   Still, it no longer mattered what he thought.   He'd shown himself in his true colours, an ill-tempered bumptious prig, too erratic and unstable to form any kind of normal relationship.   The red sports car said it all: "Look at me, I'm pompous, rude and arrogant, and I don't give a toss for anyone else's feelings or personal safety."

      All the same, Ashleigh had driven all this way ...  dammit, she'd make him see her in the Volvo just once before she finally put Shipley Green and the oast-house behind her for good.

      She drove down to the village again, glided majestically onto the man's gravel forecourt and parked beside his red car.   Even before she could climb out she noticed him, leaning casually in the open doorway, eyeing her with wary amusement.

      "Have you come to ask whether I'm sorry?" he drawled.   "Because I am."  He strolled lazily towards her.   "I shouldn't have behaved like that, despite the intense provocation, so please accept my sincere apology.   As a gesture of peace, I have milk and instant coffee if you'd care to step inside for a drink?  It's about all I can offer till I get to the shops tomorrow."

      "Actually," she said stiffly, "I don't have time.   Thanks, but I have to get back to work."

      "Ah!  What kind of work?" he asked, his eyes squinting against the midday sunlight.

      "Oh, nothing really - we just sit around all day in our offices exchanging trivial banter till someone decides it's time to go home."

      "Ouch!" he grinned.   "Seriously, can't you stay?  I can have two cups of coffee ready in under a minute - come and see."

      It actually took him three minutes, but Ashleigh wasn't inclined to quibble - he was probably too touchy anyway.   She perched herself on a kitchen stool and watched, somewhat unnerved by his silence.

      "This could become a very nice kitchen," she commented.

      "Could?"  He wheeled round and studied her like some curious laboratory specimen.   "Yes, though personally I'd have gone for the farmhouse look - you know - the big black range, with hanging pots and pans, and a rough oak table in the centre.   I don't know what the previous owner was after, but this strikes me as all wrong - doesn't it you?  Totally out of character!  Fine for a detached house in far-off suburbia - but here?  Nah!"

      He paused to fill two cups to the brim, leaving no room for the milk.

      "Of course," he went on, "I may get used to it in time, or it could drive me so crazy I'll rip it all out in a fit of pique and start again from scratch.   I'm like that, you know - I'm the big ugly one in Beauty and the Beast, given to frequent irrational outbursts when life doesn't run according to plan.   As to why that should be," he sighed, "I honestly haven't a clue - probably some deep emotional hang-up from my formative years.   Maybe I was denied a dummy in my pram, who knows?  At all events, I don't seem to have mastered the art of gentlemanly manners, and for that I can only apologise.  I could excuse myself by saying it's the way I am, but that's not an excuse I'd be proud to use.   When I came storming out of the cleaners just now, I was on the brink of uttering a torrent of expletives so vile they would have melted the hairs on a porcupine.   Instead I bumped into you and felt obliged to contain myself.   That's an elegant car you have outside - in good condition too - it is yours?"

      "You think I'd risk using a stolen Volvo in broad daylight?" Ashleigh responded instinctively, then checked herself.   "You see?  I too have a bad personality trait.   People ask me polite, sensible questions and I respond with my strange brand of spontaneous flippancy.   Of course I don't mean to be rude - it's just my pathetic way of trying to amuse people, I suppose, though it doesn't always work, as I discovered outside the cleaners.   But in my case, we know precisely what caused it.   I was orphaned at the age of four and left in the clutches of a spinster who wasn't fit to look after chickens, let alone act as anybody's nanny or step-mother.   No doubt she did her best, and it wasn't a role she chose for herself, but I had a pretty yukky childhood actually - though I don't suppose it did me much harm in the long run.   You're a good listener.   You don't keep interrupting."

      "Neither did you," he grinned.   "Milk?"

      "If there's room.   No, I was interested in what you were saying."

      The man added a few drops of milk, taking the level to the very brim.

      "I thought you were more interested in the time.   You said you had an office waiting for you."

      "Yes, in Maidstone.   Jobs are such a nuisance, aren't they."

      "They can be the very devil, but it's still a popular way of earning wages, so it's best we respect the powers of those who control our lives.  Cheers!"

      Responding to his toast, Ashleigh raised her cup carefully to her lips, but quickly changed her mind.   Like most men, he'd made the coffee far too hot.

      "I know I deserve a flippant answer," she said, "but I'll risk the question."

      "You'd like a straw?"

      "No," she giggled.   "I was going to ask what sort of a job you do."

      He gave a derisive sniff.   "You've hit on another reason for today's grumpiness.   It seems I'm about to be made redundant - isn't that always the way?  You think everything's rosy and secure, so you take the biggest plunge of your life - lashing out on a flashy sports car and an up-market house - then, wham!  They get you right in the nasties, just when you're at your most vulnerable.   There's one tiny consolation though.   I will be getting six months' redundancy pay, so maybe I can afford to fix a few of the defects before I sell up and move on."

      "There's a buyer right here," Ashleigh claimed, trying to match his former smugness.   "You could sell this place to me right now if you like, preferably before you start ripping out any of the features I might want to keep."

      "You still want it, after what you've seen?  I could show you a whole load of new defects - further proof I'm a rotten salesman."

      "I always respect a salesman who'll give me his honest opinion."

      "Then respect me, Miss Ferguson, when I tell you I found at least a dozen oak beams in the tower which will all need replacing.   And do you know the cost of seasoned oak these days?  It puts the price of your Volvo 740 well in the shade."

      "Actually," she confessed, "the Volvo isn't mine - well, not yet.   The registered owner was my aunt - but when she had a stroke, I became the sole driver.   Now, everything's in the hands of the executors.   The car and the house may become mine to keep, or I may end up as worthless as a creosoted suit.   Only time will tell."

      "Time again!"  The man looked at his watch.   "That job of yours?"

      "I'm a computer programmer," Ashleigh revealed, producing one of her business cards and laying it on the table.   He picked it up and studied it with keen interest.

      "Ashleigh Ferguson, eh?  Enjoy your work?"

      "Yes, when I'm left to do things my way.   The down side is that in my normal life I tend to become very logical and far too pedantic.   I keep giving literal answers to badly phrased questions and people often take offence."

      He stared at her, fascinated.   "For instance?"

      "All right - ask me the time."

      He kept his gaze on her face.   "We both know the time - it's five to two."

      Ashleigh could feel herself blushing.   "I was hoping you'd ask if I KNEW what the time was.   Then I'd have answered YES and left it at that.  People see that as being rude.   I can't help taking everything literally, though I know I shouldn't.   I mean, you said earlier you'd have coffee ready in under a minute.   It actually took three, and I was tempted to make some comment."

      "What stopped you?"

      "Oh, my upbringing.   Fear of reprisals."

      "Ah.   The Beast again!  And he's now got you deep inside his castle."

      "He has, but he's overlooked one vital difference.   I'm no beauty."

      "Are you trying to start an argument?  Seriously, I see before me a rare form of beauty - based on pure wholesome goodness.   I could spend a very relaxing afternoon, Miss Ferguson, just studying your face.   It fascinates me."

      "Really?  Then perhaps it's lucky your bed hasn't arrived."

      "You brazen monkey!" he laughed.   "For that you can come crawling back on Monday evening to help me set it up."

      "Oh, that wouldn't do at all.   My aunt taught me never to play in boys' bedrooms.   So you really have ordered a king-size water-bed?"

      "As wide as Lake Windermere.   And yes, I know all the jokes about couples drifting apart.   But when a couple actually do drift apart as my wife and I did, it isn't quite so funny."

      "And did this happen recently?  As I recall, four days ago you described yourself as a not-so-gay bachelor."

      "I lied."

      "You mean you ARE gay?  That's a relief."

      "I mean I'm as free as a bachelor, Miss Clever.   I got married at a ridiculously early age, but that's all over and done with.  We separated two years ago, and now I'm well and truly divorced.   Quite why I opted for a king-size water-bed, I can't imagine.   Wishful thinking, I suppose."

      "You felt like splashing out.   Sorry!  But there's more to marriage than just bed, you know - not that I speak from experience, but I'm just regurgitating maxims that were once gurgitated at me.   You're free to pass them on."

      "I'm sure.   Let me fix you a decent cup of coffee - I generally make a better job of things second time around."

      Ashleigh knew she should have said no, but she hesitated long enough to betray her thoughts, and the man spoke them for her.

      "And what happens to computer programmers who play truant after lunch?"

      "We're generally expected to make up the hours," she replied, "but I don't mind.   I enjoy my job.   Actually I often work from home - I did that a lot when my aunt was ill.   I have a portable modem that links me by phone to the main-frame."

      "Sounds very technical.   But clearly you're an enthusiast, which is good.   We all need to find jobs we can enjoy."  He followed this statement with a benign smile.   "Who, me?  I thought you'd given up asking.   I'm a car salesman, or I was.   In a good year I could make forty or fifty grand.  Only this has not - in any way, shape or form - been a good year."

      "Yet you went ahead and bought an oast-house.   Well, as the vicar would say, I hope your future comes filled with sunshine."  Ashleigh rose to her feet.   "Look, I'd better go or we could both be applying for the same job in a month's time.   It's been bad enough jostling for the same house.   But I'm glad we bumped into one another."

      "Did we?  I'm still trying to work out why you called."

      "Ah!  Would you believe someone told me you were an expert on cars?  Enough to give me a reliable trade-in estimate on the Volvo?"

      He shook his head and grinned.   "No, I wouldn't believe that."

      "I was afraid not.   Still, it's been fun, hasn't it?"

      "Most certainly.   And I meant what I said."

      "Good.   So did I."

      It was becoming a contest of wits, an exchange of trivia that could have taken the whole afternoon as far as Ashleigh was concerned.   But she sensed the least of her dangers would be that of outstaying her welcome.

      "Just a thought," she said as she opened her car door.   "Since I have an incurable fondness for oast-houses, if I did happen to find myself free one weekend, would there be any small job I could do, such as painting or papering?  I'm quite handy if I'm given the right tools."

      "Then as one oast-enthusiast to another," he conceded, "welcome!  Report for duty any day you like.   Lousy wages here, but the coffee's good.  How about nine-o'clock sharp next Saturday morning?"

Back to my Stories Page       Back to my Front Page       Next Chapter >>>

Chapters:    2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11

Except where specifically noted, all music and stories on this web site are my own creations.   You may not use any of them for any purpose without written permission from me.     Copyright © 2003 Colin Johnson     All Rights Reserved.