Free Lessons for a Sunday Father by Claire Calman Page A

say:
    “Sorry,
Madam—”
really polite like, laying it on thick. “Were you speaking to me? I assumed from your tone that a dog must have come in.”
    But she doesn’t miss a beat.
    “We’ll skip the pleasantries and the feeble attempts at wit, shall we, and cut to the chase? One of your—” she pauses, and gives a kind of sneery laugh, “—
boys
has made a complete cock-up of my doors and you are going to find me someone who actually knows what they’re doing to sort it out right
now.”
    I look at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly five. I open my mouth to speak.
    “—”
    “No
—Not
tomorrow.
Not
in three days’ time.
Right now.”
       *   *   *
    I’m thinking about saying I’ll get the owner and letting Harry deal with it, but he’s too soft and I reckon she’ll chew him up and spit out the leftovers and he could do without the agg.
    “What actually seems to be the—?”
    “Frankly, I’m too angry even to speak about it. I want you to see it with your own eyes.”
    I sigh but I can’t see any way of getting rid of her.
    “OK, where do you live?”
    High Firs. What a surprise. Poncy so-called exclusive so-called executive houses. Detached but a cat could barely slink through the gaps, you know? People who live there think they’re a cut above, but the houses are nothing special. I knew a builder who worked on them and he says the walls are so thin you could spit through them. Anyway, I tell her I’ll follow her if she wants to go outside and wait in her car a sec and I stick my head round the door of the workroom and shout at the lads:
    “Oi! Which of you tossers did some doors over on High Firs?”
    “Wasn’t me, mate,” says Lee over his shoulder, ducking down to look at himself in a bevelled mirror.
    “Not guilty, Your Honour,” says Martin.
    I look at Gary who’s apparently concentrating on cutting, frowning down at the glass on the workbench as if he hasn’t heard me.
    “Gary?”
    “What?” He’s still not looking at me.
    “High Firs. Fucked-up doors. Ring any bells?”
    His face goes red.
    “What? I did a good job. Took me ages.”
    I shake my head.
    “I’m going to sort it out now.”
    As I leave, I hear Lee taking the piss out of him, winding him up. Gary’s only been with us a few months. First came to do work experience, and he was less clueless than the others we’d had. Quiet, just got on with it. He’s slow but that’s the best way to be when you start ‘cause you make less mistakes. He’s not overburdened with brain cells, but then if he was he’d be off at university or being a lawyer or something rather than rotting away here, yeah?
    I grab my keys and jacket and tell Harry I’m off. No point worrying him with all this till I find out what the problem is. Ms Charming is standing outside, leaning against her car. It’s a gleaming black BMW. New reg. Dead slick.
    “Nice motor.” I nod.
    She doesn’t bother to respond.
    “You’ll follow right behind?”
    “Yes, Ma’am!” I say under my breath, thinking my car could do with a wash. And some new tyres. And a new engine. And a new chassis. That’ll be a new car then. Some chance.
    Course, it’s five o’clock by now, or just gone, so you can imagine what a laugh and a half the ring road is. I turn up the radio and they’re doing a run of oldies. I’m starting to get into it—"I Heard it through the Grapevine,” Marvin Gaye—while I’m stuck in the traffic, and I’m singing away and having a bit of a groove in my seat, shoulders going side to side, head bobbing away, then I look ahead into Madam’s car and I can see she’s watching me in the mirror. She adjusts her mirror then and puts on some lipstick.
    I feel like a teacher’s told me off in class. You know what it’s like singing in the car, same as when you’re in the shower—you’re loud, you can’t remember the words, you can’t carry a tune, but just for a few minutes you’re hot, you’re live, you’re