I don’t know how
I could have been so daft. Still, I’d
had a lot on my mind what with moving home to a new town, a new job, the
prospect of new friends and a new lifestyle.
Well, that’s my excuse for what happened that fateful Tuesday
morning.
I mean, how could
I possibly have known? You see, the
minute I rested my eyes on Mr. Fiddlyjobs, the handyman, I think I lost the
ability to think straight. He was just
so gorgeous. Not only that, there was a
very special quality about him. I don’t
know how to describe it, except it was a strange mixture of warmth and charisma
and it seemed to shine out from him even as he stood there, grinning, on my
doorstep.
I’d only moved in
to my new flat the previous day and it was fine, exactly what I wanted. That is, except for about one hundred niggly
little jobs. You know the sort of jobs
that are too small for a big, professional firm to take on, but a bit too heavy
or unsafe for an inexperienced person to tackle. I just wanted to get my flat shipshape and
smart.
I mentioned to the lady in the newsagent
how frustrating it was having all these little niggly things to sort out and
asked if she knew a good handyman.
‘There’s one in the window,’ she told me. I blinked and stared towards the front of the
shop expecting to see a bloke in green overalls with a hammer in his fist setting
about the display shelves.
‘I mean a
postcard advertisement, of course. On
the left of the window,’ the woman explained and I felt myself blush for being
so dense.
‘Lovely bloke,’ she continued. ‘Everyone recommends him. Calls himself Mr. Fiddlyjobs.’
Thanking her, I took down the number and
rushed straight home to telephone Mr. Fiddlyjobs.
‘I’ll be round soon as I can,’ said the
man. He sounded nice, friendly and
efficient. ‘Hang on in there, I should
have an hour or so free this morning.’
So, I waited. And I could hardly be blamed for making the
obvious assumption when there was a ring on my bell. Not that it wasn’t a surprise, I mean, I
really couldn’t believe my luck as I opened the door and there, as I thought,
stood Mr. Fiddlyjobs. Six-foot-three,
wide, happy grin, healthy outdoor tan, bright sparkling brown eyes.
‘Are you the lady
who just moved in?’
I nodded
dumbly. ‘Miss Tucker, isn’t it?’ he
asked. It took a moment before I could
stammer out a sensible response.
‘Yes, I’m Rachel Tucker. Do come in.
I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you as I have quite a few
problem jobs. This way please...’
‘Oh, erm, well, all right,’ he said and
ambled up the hallway behind me to the back room, where I kept my computer.
‘You can start in here please,’ I told
him. ‘The ceiling light fitting needs
cleaning badly and I can’t get it off as all the screws seem bedded in.’ Then I
stared at him. He seemed strangely
unprepared. ‘Don’t you need a stepladder
or have you got your own in the van?’
‘Erm, well, if you’ve got one handy,’ said
Mr. Fiddlyjobs. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll need a
screwdriver as well.’
‘Isn’t there one in your tool box?’ I
asked, staring at him in amazement.
Surely any self-respecting odd-job-man brought a tool box with him
absolutely bursting with screwdrivers, hammers and nails!
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Hang on a mo, I’ll get it.’ There seemed to be a faint twitch of
amusement in the corner of his mouth and I wondered what had tickled him. All the same, I breathed a sigh of
relief. Clearly, I decided, he wanted to
see what needed doing before he brought his stuff in. Probably thought he’d need to give me a
quotation first and maybe I should ask him for one. Still, the lady in the shop said he was a
genuine sort of bloke, so he’d be sure to charge a fair price.
I went out to the back of the house to
make a start on tidying the garden. Two
hanging baskets lay on the ground, waiting to be screwed into fence-posts. Perhaps I should make a list for Mr. Fiddlyjobs
while he was here, just in case anything was forgotten. I got my pen and notepad and sat down in the
conservatory.
‘Excuse me, could I have a word.’
It was Mr. Fiddlyjobs. ‘Have you done that light already?’ I asked.
‘Yes, all fixed. It’s nice and bright in your study now.’
‘Oh good,’ I said. ‘Can you come out here into the garden
please? There are a couple of hanging
baskets that need fixing on the fenceposts.
I’ll show you how high I want them and while you’re doing that, I’ll
make you out a list of all the other things that need doing.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr. Fiddlyjobs and he grinned
as though he was a bit embarrassed.
Perhaps he felt awkward coming through the kitchen into the garden. Perhaps he hadn’t been a handyman for very
long.
‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea before
you start,’ I offered, hoping that might help him feel more comfortable.
‘Well, I’ll do the hanging baskets for
you, but I think that’ll have to be it for today.’
‘Can you come back tomorrow and finish
off?’
Again there was a twinkle of merriment in
his eyes. ‘At first I’d been thinking
you were just a bossy sort of person,’ he commented. ‘But, as much as I’m enjoying helping you out,
I think I should explain...’
His words were interrupted by a ring of my
front door bell.
‘Excuse me,’ I muttered, and then a
terrible realisation began to sink through the top of my head into my
brain. And sure enough, as I threw open
the door, there was an elderly man standing there. Wide grin, friendly-looking.
With
a toolbox in one hand.
‘Mr. Fiddlyjobs at your service,’ he said.
Just as I’d begun to suspect. I sank my head into my hands, feeling really
daft.
‘Come this way,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could make a start in the dining
room, the carpet needs..... Excuse me, I
just have to see to something in the garden.’
As I walked out into the garden, Mr.
Fiddlyjobs No. 1 was standing there.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Those hanging baskets look terrific. But perhaps you can tell me who you are.’
‘I live next door,’ he said, ‘and my
name’s Paul. I just wanted to introduce
myself and ask you if you’d like to come round mine for a coffee.’
Well, that was a year ago and my new house
is looking a treat. Paul’s helped out a
lot although I still use the services of the real Mr. Fiddlyjobs, so that Paul
and I can have plenty of quality time together.
We get on so well and it always amuses us to look back on how we first
met.
Last week, Paul called round and he was
looking, for a change, rather serious.
‘What on earth is it?’ I asked, feeling
alarmed.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Paul. ‘I mean, nothing bad. It’s just that I thought it might be easier,
instead of having two houses to maintain, if we just settled for one.’
I stared at him and started to laugh. ‘You mean sell up and buy a new home
together.’
‘Yeah,’ said Paul slowly. ‘I want us to get married, Rachel. I want to have kids and if you agree, we’ll
need a family home. What do you
think?’ He paused and my heart ached to
see how anxious he was, how he was staring at me to see how I was responding to
his proposal.
‘Paul... I can’t believe it,’ I stammered.
The next moment, I was in Paul’s
arms. Of course, I’d been there before,
and I knew what it was like, I knew how warm, how comforted and how I felt I
truly belonged there. But this time
there was an extra little frisson of excitement. I could feel it in the way Paul held me, as
he waited for my reply.
‘I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever
had,’ I told him, ‘and the sooner the better.’
Then I added, teasingly, ‘There’ll be lots of jobs to do, I expect, to
get it just how we want it.’
‘Yes, bossy-boots, but I think we’ll start
with me showing you just how much I love you,’ said Paul firmly and next
moment, he’d pulled me even closer and his lips were on mine. There was nothing
in the least bit fiddly about the way he was kissing me.
I suppose it
would seem too dramatic to say I swooned, but I did feel sort of faint with the
wonderful feelings that ran through me so I did the only thing I could do. I just closed my eyes and surrendered myself
to the sweetest lover in the whole world, my new and utterly wonderful
husband-to-be.
