Before returning to Shipley Green, Ashleigh's innate curiosity led her to look up the word OASTHOUSE in the dictionary, thinking its derivation might make a useful topic of conversation.  But apart from reading that an oast was simply a hop-drying kiln, she learned nothing new about the word's true meaning until she put the question to her new friend on Saturday.

      "It comes," said the man, handing her a brush and a pot of brown paint, "from Germanic and Indo-European roots, meaning to burn."

      "Interesting!" Ashleigh mused.  "Especially when you realise that Roast and Toast have similar meanings."

      "Depending how well you cook," he retorted, evidently unimpressed.  "Are you a good cook?"

      "I get by," said Ashleigh.  "How about you, living here on your own?  Or do you go out for meals?"

      "Can't afford it," he replied dully.  "But I get by."

      "Good," she said.

      And there the conversation dried like a kiln full of hops.  The man went off to fetch something from his outhouse, while Ashleigh was left in the forecourt, applying gloss paint to an exterior door as instructed.  Her colleague appeared from time to time, carting successive loads of concrete across the yard and into the main living area, but on each trip he offered no word of encouragement.

      "I'm trying to decide," commented Ashleigh cheerfully as he trundled past, "whether that's porridge you're carrying, or today's lunch.  When are we eating?"

      "Didn't you bring anything?" he asked sternly, and she shook her head.

      He looked annoyed.  "In that case, one of us will have to clean our face and drive to the shop.  What do you fancy?"

      "Whatever's going," she said.  "And I could also use a drink soon.  This is thirsty work."

      "There's plenty of beer in the fridge," he replied.  "Help yourself."

      Ashleigh had expected a warmer welcome, in fact she was already questioning why she was there at all.  She'd made her original offer in the expectation of them working together, and this frosty isolation was not her idea of fun.  Still, she argued, there might be light at the end of the tunnel if she made a good job of her first task.  Painting was by no means her forte, but it didn't demand a great deal of skill - one merely had to cover the surface with an even coat, and then leave it to dry.

      But the door was of rough wood, and she doubted whether anyone could have made it look satisfactory.  By the time she'd finished, there was a good deal of paint on her overalls, and plenty more splattered over the ground around her.  When the man appeared again, she laid down her brush and stepped back proudly, expecting at least some words of gratitude.

      He stood regarding her efforts with evident disapproval.  "Shame about the spillage on the concrete.  I'll have to clean that up - it spoils the look of the place."

      Ashleigh walked briskly over to him.  "And no doubt my overalls spoil the look of me, but I'm sorry - it's the best I can do.  I'm a computer programmer, remember?  And since you bothered to ask, yes, my right arm does ache after all that hard work."

      "You need a rest?" he sighed.  "Okay.  Take a short break - but mind where you walk.  I don't want brown stains trodden through the entire house."

      Ashleigh removed her shoes and enquired sarcastically: "Should I strip off my overalls?  I'm fairly decent for several layers down."

      "Yes, I can imagine," he sniffed.  "Beer or coffee?"

      Coffee would have been welcome, but somehow the aura of the oast-house persuaded her otherwise.  "Beer's more appropriate, don't you think?"

      "Sure.  Can you manage a full can?  If not, we'll split one between us."

      "Right now," she sighed, "I could probably blot up three pints.  I'd no idea this would be such thirsty work."

      "Still glad you came?"

      "How could a girl fail to be thrilled?" she responded tartly.  "You can't beat oast-houses for fun and excitement - anything to avoid the boredom of spending a whole weekend doing domestic chores with no-one to talk to."

      She waited for his response, but he uttered not a word as he took two cans from the fridge and handed one to her.

      "Do you happen to have a glass?" she asked.  "Or perhaps a straw?  I'm afraid it's not very lady-like, drinking straight from the can."

      The man studied her with a curious grin, and then burst out laughing like an inane schoolboy.

      "What's the joke?" she asked, trying not to share his merriment.

      "I'm sorry," he giggled.  "It's your earnest comment about being lady-like.  I don't know if you're aware of this, Miss Ferguson, but you've got smears of brown paint right across your face, including a circular blob on the end of your nose.  Add the fact that you're sweating like a marathon runner, and wearing the most tatty overall.  You only need a flower-pot on your head to look like Bill or Ben - yet you fuss about being too refined to drink out of a can.  You're priceless!"

      He handed Ashleigh a scalloped glass mug with a thick handle.  "Here, tip everything into that, but watch out for the froth."

      "I'm glad you find me amusing," she said, slightly offended as she deftly transferred the contents.  "It's just that whenever I drink straight out of a can, I always dribble.  As for the outfit, I'm sorry I couldn't turn up in my best satin ball-gown, but I used it last night as a floor-cloth."

      "Good God, girl, don't be so damned touchy.  I'm not laughing because you look a mess - I was merely expressing delight that you look so adorably cute.  I should add that I'm very grateful for your support this weekend, for several reasons.  If you want the truth, I get terribly depressed on my own.  We all need a spot of light relief now and again, and you certainly brought some of that here today.  So thanks, and cheers!  How's the beer?"

      Quite why Ashleigh had accepted a full pint she wasn't sure, since she normally never touched the stuff.  It was certainly cool, and very suitable for drinking in an oast-house, but it tasted bitter and she wasn't sure if she'd be able to finish it.

      "Great!" she said, smacking her lips and trying not to grimace as she took another sip.  "That sure hits the spot.  Where is this brown paint-mark exactly?"

      He demonstrated on his own face.  "But don't worry - the vicar's busy writing his sermon this morning, so I don't expect he'll call."

      "He wouldn't recognise me anyway, not dressed like this.  He remembers me as a five-year-old moppet with pigtails.  Do you want anything else painted brown?"

      He started giggling again.  "No, what you've done is fine.  Really."

      Ashleigh looked about her.  "I don't suppose you've got a mirror?"

      His eyes lit up.  "You think not?  That's where you're wrong, Miss Ferguson.  You haven't seen the bathroom yet."

      Beckoning her to follow, he led her upstairs across the bare bedroom floor and into a luxury en-suite bathroom which would have looked as immaculate as in a five-star hotel, except for the empty cement-bags lying abandoned in the kidney-shaped bath-tub.

      "Voila!" he said, turning her to face the mirror.  Ashleigh was impressed by the progress he'd made, but horrified by her own image.  Yet she couldn't help laughing.  "Here!"

      The man took hold of a flannel and soaked  the corner with white spirit which happened to be handy, warning: "Keep your eyes tight shut."

      While he dabbed at her face, Ashleigh peered back at him through semi-closed lids, strangely thrilled by his attentiveness.

      "There," he concluded gently.  "That's much better.  I'll leave you to restore the damage to your make-up."

      Since Ashleigh wasn't wearing any make-up, she wondered whether his comment was intended as a joke or simply proof of his male naivety.

      "I guess I'll do," she said, "but you'd better contain your amusement.  I'm not used to being laughed at.  I suppose you want me to go now and paint something else peacock blue."

      "The only paint I have is brown or cream," he said, "but I guess you've had enough of painting.  So what's next?  I don't suppose I can ask you to lay a vinyl floor?"

      "Why not?  You mean, because I'm a woman and therefore wouldn't know how?"

      "Because it's a messy job," he informed her.  "I've seen the way you fling paint around, and there's no guarantee we'll ever remove you from the skirting boards if I offer you glue."

      "Isn't there some job we can do together?" she begged.  "I came this weekend hoping for a spot of companionship.  You said you don't like being on your own - well, it so happens, neither do I."

      "Good.  Why don't we start papering the living-room?  Normally I'd call it a one-man job, but with these twelve-foot ceilings we need someone at the top of the ladder and someone else at floor-level."

      "Then if you care to climb, I'll grovel," she agreed.  "And I know I ain't the boss around here, but it is high time we sorted out one minor detail."

      "What's that?"

      "My name's Ashleigh Ferguson," she said with a prompting nod.

      "I know," he said, "you gave me your card.  I also made some enquiries about you in the village."

      "Good.  Unfortunately you're not so well known where I come from."

      "Eh?"  He looked at her, apparently still puzzled.  Then he laughed and placed both hands over his face.  "God, I'm sorry - my name's Peter Bushnall.  Didn't I tell you that?"

      "No, and the estate agents weren't prepared to discuss it when I made my own enquiries - they said it was confidential.  Understand, I wasn't getting panicky - just curious, which is what brought me here in the first place."

      "And I'm very glad it did.  Come on, Ferguson, I'll lead the way."

      Returning to the ground floor, Peter led her into the living-area where he took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him as if about to discuss a serious issue.

      "Look," he said.  "Something has to be understood between us.  If you don't like what I'm about to show you - then I don't want to know, okay?  This happens to be my house, and I've a perfect right to decide how I want it.  I don't welcome uninvited criticism.  Now, as long as that's clear between us, I'll show you my wallpaper."

      Before Ashleigh could comment, he began unwrapping the first roll.  It was certainly unusual - alternating stripes of black and grey with a regular bold motif in a highly disturbing shade of red.

      "And where's this to go?" asked Ashleigh with earnest eyes.

      "In here.  There are nine rolls.  I've worked it all out and we can do it quite comfortably if we're careful."

      At Peter's bidding, Ashleigh went off to mix the paste while he set up the pasting table.  Together they worked in silent harmony for half an hour until Peter was about to open the fourth roll.  He turned to Ashleigh with an ominous frown.

      "You don't approve, do you!"

      "I didn't say a word," she protested, her eyebrows raised as high as they would go.

      "Exactly!  That's just it - if you had liked it you'd have said so by now."

      "Peter, you distinctly told me not to.  I was most careful to keep my opinions to myself.  Was this very expensive?"

      "Affordable.  Actually," he admitted, "it was in a sale."

      "Perhaps no-one else wanted it?" she dared to suggest.

      Peter threw down his brush into the paste with a splash.  "Well, I liked it, and this is my house."

      "Sure.  We both know that.  Press on.  I was only thinking it might make the room rather dark.  I mean, it's not as though this place has huge windows.  They don't let in much light."

      "I happen to like dark rooms."

      "Okay," she agreed, and snapped her fingers.  "Okay!  You can always take up photography.  Hand me the next roll."

      "No!" he decided, folding his arms like a truculent child.

      "Perhaps just one wall in this," she conceded, "and the rest in something contrasting - something a little milder, maybe?"

      Ashleigh now found herself giggling despite all efforts not to.

      "Do you reckon they have anything that contrasts?" Peter asked seriously.

      "I'd say they have a whole shop full.  As to whether it'll tone in with any of this - we'd need to go and see what there is."

      Peter placed his hands on his hips and studied carefully each of the three bare walls.  Then he turned back to the one they'd been papering, and at once started tearing down their work, screwing each piece into a tight ball and hurling it across the room.

      "Maybe they'll give you a refund on the rest," she suggested brightly.

      "Would you?" he asked with a wry stare.

      Ashleigh shook her head.  "Not if it was on special sale."

      "Well," he shouted, "that's one whole hour of completely wasted effort."

      "Not entirely," she said, "I rather enjoyed it."

      "Not to mention throwing thirty-odd pounds up the spout."

      "Is that what it cost?  Put it down to experience.  Peter, I've often bought wallpaper only to find it didn't look quite as good as I hoped.  But it always comes in handy for lining shelves."

      "Then I'd better spend the rest of the weekend putting up shelves," he said, "and I'm going to need a hell of a lot of shelves to use this much paper."

      "Would you like me to buy some of it off you?"

      "I don't want your charity."

      "Then stop complaining.  What shall we do instead?"

      "Eat," he decided.  "Do you realise it's nearly one o'clock?"

      "Yes.  May I cook for you?" she offered.  "Isn't that what we women are supposed to do best?  What do you reckon - something like cheese on toast?"

      "There isn't any cheese and I'm low on bread."

      "Okay.  How about I grill up a few vinyl floor tiles and garnish them with liberal helpings of wallpaper paste?  Show me what you've got in the larder, and I'll do my best to come up with something."

      Peter grabbed her by the shoulders.  Did she detect a trace of panic in his eyes?

      "Look," he cried.  "I know you mean well, but you're wasting your time.  I don't keep much food in the house, in fact there's hardly anything.  Normally when I feel peckish I just nip out to the shops for a pie and a packet of crisps."

      "And what do you intend doing for an evening meal?"

      "If you must know, I can't afford meals.  I've spent every blessed penny on materials for this house - including that damned wallpaper which didn't suit you.  I'll have a proper meal when I pop in to work on Monday."

      "I thought you were having two weeks off?"

      "What's the point, when I can't make progress here."

      Ashleigh shook her head reproachfully.  "Men!  Why is it they think they can run the world for us women to live in, yet can't even look after their own bodies properly?   Peter, you need to eat before Monday, okay?  So you're coming out for a meal with me this evening if I have to knock you senseless and take you there in a wheelbarrow."

      He grinned sheepishly.  "You're quite a character."

      "I've spent most of my life looking after a highly cantankerous old lady, so I'm damned sure I can handle you, even if you are a smug, self-opinionated salesman who couldn't organise a ...."

      "Organise a what?" he asked as she checked herself.

      "I was going to say something quite disgusting, but realised I was in mixed company.  And boy, are you mixed.  Look - I know I'm only a casual labourer hired for the weekend, but may I make a suggestion?  I suggest you sit down and write out three lists - one for jobs you prefer to tackle on your own, another for the jobs you'd like me to do on my own, and a third list for the food you'd like me to go and buy before the shops shut.  If you'd only get yourself organised, Peter, you'd make far more progress than standing around arguing."

      "I'm not arguing," he said.  "And you're forgetting a fourth list, the jobs we can do together."

      "No, we'd only argue.  I'm happy working in this house for one reason.  I like the surroundings.  I doubt if you and I could ever get on together for more than five minutes, so make me a list of jobs I can do in a different part of the house.  If there aren't any, I'll toss a coin to decide between going to buy food or spending the rest of my day in a cinema."

      "I can afford to hire a video," he said.  "They've got quite a reasonable selection up on the parade."

      "Okay!  You pay for the video and I'll fix dinner.  But we haven't resolved the question of lunch.  Show me what you have."

      "You know where the kitchen is.  Use anything you can find."

      Ashleigh found a tin of tuna, a packet of stale cheese biscuits and a collection of miscellaneous spices.  Twenty minutes later she returned to the living-room carrying two hot dishes of crispy curried tuna.

      "You don't object to eating in here?" she asked.  "I guarantee not to spill anything on the invisible carpet."

      "What's this?" he asked, taking a forkful and studying it warily before daring to taste.  "Hey, this is good!  Did you go shopping after all?"

      Ashleigh's mouth was full, so she merely shook her head.  "Just improvised," she said with difficulty.  "It's only a snack, but it'll plug the gap till dinner."

      "It also makes the house smell lived in.  I like that.  Very nice.  Helps to mask the stench of creosote.  I've started staining the floor in the far corner, and don't you dare disapprove because creosote is something you can't undo."

      At that moment all the lights went out.

      "Oh, God!" cried Peter.  "Not again!  Bloody place, it'll drive me up the wall.  That's six fuses blown in a week."

      "Then something is obviously wrong," said Ashleigh in a calming voice.  "It's all a matter of logic.  A fuse blows when something overloads the circuit, so the question is what?  There was no problem when I used the oven, and that must have soaked up several kilowatts.  Besides, the lights won't be on the same circuit.  If the power points are still working, it must be the lighting fuse - what have you got connected to the lighting circuit?"

      "Light bulbs, I imagine."

      "Don't imagine, Peter, be methodical.  Start by turning everything off, then check if the meter's still moving.  If not, wire in a new fuse for the lights, and watch to see if the meter starts again.  Where is the fuse box?"

      "Behind the door as you came in.  You'll need a chair."

      "Will I?  Why me?"

      "You just appointed yourself chief electrician.  Somehow I feel lured into trusting you."

      Peter placed a chair beneath the meter, and Ashleigh kicked off her shoes.  She climbed up, switched off the current and adroitly replaced the thin fuse wire while Peter went around checking to make sure every light was turned off.  When he returned she applied the power again, and the meter began to move.

      "Go around the whole house," she ordered.  "It looks like you've left a dozen lights burning somewhere."

      "There can't be," he insisted.  "I haven't bought any bulbs except for down here and the new bathroom."

      "Well, something's gobbling up the calories.  Listen!  I can hear something rumbling."

      "That'll be the fridge-freezer," he replied.

      "But why did it come on only after I fixed the lighting fuse?"

      Ashleigh removed the fuse again and the sound ceased.

      "There's your problem!" she declared triumphantly.  "Somehow or other you've got your fridge connected to the lighting circuit."

      "I know," he agreed, "but it's only temporary."

      "Dare I ask why?"

      "Because there's not enough power points in the kitchen, that's why.  So I connected it up to one of the new wall-lights."

      "Then I suggest you disconnect it now before we run out of fuse-wire.  Help me down."

      Peter placed two strong hands in a firm grip around Ashleigh's waist.  He lifted her bodily off the chair, and held her in the air for a moment before lowering her slowly to the ground and drawing her close to his chest.

      "What are doing?" she squealed, thumping at his shoulders.  "Let go of me."

      He grinned back.  "I thought you'd appreciate a small reward for helping me solve my mystery."

      "You call wrestling and assaulting me a reward?  Get your hands off!"

      She kicked him hard on the shin, and he complied at once.  Ashleigh backed away.

      "What the hell did you think you were playing at?  Why the hell do you pig-headed men think you have the right to molest any woman who comes within six feet of your groping arms?  Let me tell you something, oaf.  Women became civilised back in the dark ages, whereas the male of the species hasn't progressed one inch from being a dribbling idiot bent on the only pleasure his caveman brain can understand."

      "You gorgeous little beauty!" he grinned defensively.  "Oh, why hasn't that damned bed arrived?"

      "You creep!  Can't you hear what I'm saying, or are words beyond your rabbit-level of understanding?  You career around the district in your nasty little sports car trying to boost your pathetic ego?  Well, to hell with you and your damned oast-house.  Fix your own cock-eyed wiring, you great chauvinist - in fact, burn yourself to the ground for all I care."

      Ashleigh hobbled into her shoes and ran from the house, jumped into the Volvo, revved the engine hard, and scrunched out of the yard, away in a flurry of dust before coming to rest a mile down the road.  There she switched off the engine, reached for a handkerchief, and sat very still, sobbing out her anger and deep, deep resentment.

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