The need to rebuild
2.
Where to start. Coffee, breakfast and find somewhere to live. At least I had my bank account, and some savings. That would be next the priority — a job. I needed an income, I could be very sure mother dear was already putting out the word on me. Well, I’d burned my boats, blown up the bridge … now I better find a solution. The coffee and a cheese and egg sandwich helped. A quick search online on my phone turned up three motels nearby, so it was back to the car and a scout of the three addresses. The first two were not worth even stopping, they were clearly the kind of place one took a street walker. The third was not much to look at, but well maintained and definitely more ‘upmarket’.
The receptionist was a cheerful guy in clean jeans and a tie. A metal badge proclaimed him to be ‘Greg’.
“Can I help you, sir.” His smile was welcoming.
“If you’ve got a room for a few days I can hire … you certainly can.”
“I think we can do that, sir.” He raised an eyebrow as he woke up his computer. “I’ll need your details and your credit card to swipe. A chalet is fifty a day without meals. One of the old rooms is thirty. There’s a hot water jug and instant coffee fixings in the rooms, and there’s a breakfast bar through here, behind reception. We have breakfast available from six until eleven in the morning.”
“A chalet sounds good. I’ll need it for at least a week.”
He was quick and efficient, had all my details logged in and a key available by the time he’d finished talking.
“There’s a parking spot right outside your chalet, sir, just drive round the side of this building, and you’re in number twelve.”
“A chalet?”
“Yes,” he smiled. “The old rooms are just for the one nighters we get. The chalets are new — we keep them for anyone staying longer if they want a bit more comfort.”
“Thanks.” This was one to remember. “Book me for at least a week. I’m between jobs, and looking for a new position, and a place to stay.”
“Sure. Got something lined up? What is it you do?”
“I’m an accountant, but my old firm and I have had a disagreement.” I shrugged. “I may take a different line from here.” I laughed, seeing his caution. “Family firm — and we’ve fallen out — big time. I want out of the family as well.”
“Ouch.” Looking at my ID, he added, “Buchanan? There’s a a firm of accountants …” He saw my expression. “Ah. Okay. I hope it works out for you. Definitely a bummer though. If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.”
The chalet was a surprise. It was newly refurbished, nicely appointed and had a carport next to the entrance. I unloaded the car, hung up the stuff I’d ripped out of the closet and found my toiletries, then showered. With another coffee I sat down and took stock. Obviously I needed a job, but what? And where? A reference from my ex-employer was out of the question … That was going to be very tricky.
I wanted to phone or message Dave, but ruled that out. He’d want to help, and would demand I move immediately to his home, but I wanted to do that once I was in full control of my emotions, had a job and wasn’t running away from anything or anyone. I wanted to be me, in control of myself and my life. I didn’t want to force Dave’s hand, or run to the first person I knew until I could be certain I was doing so for the right reason, and not out of necessity. In the end I sent him a message thanking him for a fabulous evening and experience and promising I would be at his planned party …
Then I cried myself to sleep. It was midafternoon when I woke to multiple messages from my mother, all of them angry and seriously unpleasant, and one from Dave suggesting we meet for lunch on Wednesday. I replied to that with a ‘love to, but will have to confirm …’ and ignored the rest. Then I went in search of something to eat.
By Tuesday I knew I had a major problem on the job hunting. There was no chance of getting a reference from the firm. My mother was adamant. No way, nyet, nada, non, nein, never as long as you refuse to apologise, undergo treatment for your ‘aberrant behaviour’ and don’t even ask about returning to your job if you aren’t prepared to.’ That certainly narrowed my options. The receptionist, Greg, who managed the motel for his retired parents with his wife assisting on reception, a couple of local women as cleaners, and sometimes his mother helping at the desk or the breakfast room I’d learned, offered a lifeline …
“You said you were an accountant? Still looking for a new position?” He asked as I was leaving breakfast on Wednesday. “Can you help me with a problem I have in my accounts? I can’t afford to make it a full-time position, but I can offer you a sort of retainer …”
“Depends on what the problem is,” I replied. “What sort of help do you need?”
“I’m useless at keeping the books and it’s not helped by the fact we’re busy — as you’ve probably noticed.” Shrugging, he added, “We get a lot of ‘passing trade’ but the margins are tight. I don’t know how the the Palm Rooms and the Last Inn survive.” He laughed. “My father set up the accounts system, but it’s all paper based and I need it on the computer in the accounting software I bought. I can’t do it and all the other work managing this place needs. I was wondering …”
“Let me have a look.” I felt a flood of relief. This was something I could do with my eyes shut — figuratively at least. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to transfer the data from books to the software.” I grinned. “Just very time consuming.” Hesitating, I added, “We can discuss a fee …”
“No problem. Give me a half hour and meet me in Reception. I’ll show you the books and the system.”
It looked worse than it was. The accounts were pretty straightforward, and mostly up to date, but the filing was in serious trouble. The software he’d bought to use was a top product, probably way more than he actually needed, and would be easy to sort out.
“Yes, I can sort this out for you.” Indicating the pile of invoices and other documents awaiting filing, I explained, “I’ll need to sort out the filing first, then I can cross check what isn’t in the accounts. Once I’ve done that, I’ll transfer everything into this accounting program for you — though I’ll probably start from ‘new’ and build a new set of accounts for you.” I grinned. “It’ll be easier and take less time. I reckon about two to three weeks work to make sure everything is kosher and easy to keep up to date for you.”
“Okay,” his expression was thoughtful. “Can we agree on a fee I can afford?”
“I don’t see why not.” I had a brainwave. “How about this; the chalet runs at about three fifty a week to me. My services — as charged by my previous employer — would run to about five hundred. Can you run to two hundred a week for my work? I’ll have to register as ‘self-employed’ and invoice you for five hundred, you charge me for the chalet but take it out of my invoiced amount and pay me the difference.”
“Deal,” he replied, relief in his smile. “When can you start?”
“This afternoon if you like,” I replied, relief flooding through me. “I need to go and see the tax office to register as self-employed, and I’m having lunch with a friend at twelve. I can start as soon as I get back this afternoon.”
I met Dave at the meeting point he’d suggested a few minutes before twelve feeling much more alive and hopeful now I’d some income to look forward to for a couple of weeks anyway, and my own place for at least as long.
“What have you been up to?” He asked as I followed him to a beautifully restored half-timbered building now the premises of a rather smart bijou restaurant. “I hear your uncle was making ‘discreet enquiries’ yesterday about motor accidents and suicides.”
“Had a massive fall out with my mother and told her to stuff my job with the firm. I’ve no intention of apologising or going back to working for them.” So it had shaken the family. Good. “I’ve got a place to live, and I’ve made a start at setting up my own operation. Fuck them.”
“If you say so, but I think I’d prefer someone else for that pleasure,” he quipped gripping my arm. “Table for two, Claude? Where my companion and I can talk?”
“For you, Dave? Of course …” Claude grinned and winked at me. “Follow me. I’ve the perfect spot in the old priest’s hole. Difficult to get into, but completely private …”
Perfect.” Dave laughed, turning heads.
Claude led us instead to a table right at the back of the restaurant in an alcove. “Shall I bring you a wine list?” He asked handing us menus.
“I better not,” I responded. “I have to start work this afternoon. I’ll take an alcohol free beer.”
“There goes my excuse,” Dave laughed. “I’ll have the same.” Picking up the menu as the waiter left, he said, “Okay, now come clean. Why did you have such a fall out with the family? And why did that mean leaving your job?”
“Easy. She gave me the third degree for being home so late and smelling of rubber.” I shrugged. “Something in me just snapped and I told her it was none of her business …” Meeting his eye, I added, “She started on the ‘Pastor Budgen says …’ and I told her to tell him the stuff it up his arse.”
Our beers arrived, and the waiter grinned as we indicated we’d not made up our minds. I quickly ran my eye down the menu. Two days of packet sandwiches and I was hungry. I ordered a mixed grill. Dave’s eyebrows rose briefly, and he ordered a pasta dish.
“How’d that go down?” He asked as the waiter left.
“Badly. So I told her I was resigning from the firm and leaving immediately.” I shrugged again. “Told her to stick my salary as well. I’m not going back, and I’m damned well not going to beg.” Taking a sip of the beer I added, “As It happens I’ve got accommodation that will do, and start on a job this afternoon that will boost my funds enough to keep me going until I find something …”
His hand found mine on the table.
“You can move in with me immediately, Jim. Why didn’t you come straight to me?”
“Because I don’t want to start our relationship like that.” I dropped my eyes. “I don’t want you to have to ‘keep’ me, Dave. I want to be your partner, your lover — but I don’t want to be a burden on you because of my problems.” Meeting his eye, I continued, “I want to be able to contribute to our future, to making our home together, if that’s what you want. I don’t want you to feel you have to take me in because I’m homeless and out of work …”
“Even if I want to?” His hand tightened on mine.
“Especially then …” Pausing I took a deep breath. “Dave, my love, I know you want to help, and I want to live with you, but I don’t want to feel you’re doing it because … or that I’m forcing you to …” Smiling, I said, “Give me a month or so, then let’s see. If I’ve managed to sort myself out, got myself earning, got over being so bloody angry, and so damned hurt … Trust me? It’ll be better for both of us.”
Our food arrived before he could answer, and he waited until the waiter had placed everything and checked we were satisfied.
“Okay, if you’re sure, but promise me that you’ll talk to me and at least let me offer support and,” he grinned, “maybe some comfort if you want it?”
“You have it,” I replied, laughing. “And thanks … for everything.” The mixed grill looked superb, and I began cutting the meat. “And I’ll expect VIP treatment when I come to your party next week.”
“Count on it,” he retorted.
Greg was waiting when I got back. The office was quite small, made worse by the fact he obviously used it more as a store for junk and lost possessions than as an office.
“I’ve set everything up for you, and will move the junk out so you can work,” he said as I arrived. “Anything you want or need, I’ll be at the front desk or not far away. I’ll try to answer any questions that come up when you need an explanation.”
“That’s great. For now I plan to attack all this filing. Once I have that sorted, I can tackle the accounting.” Studying the pile of binders all bulging with paper, but not labelled, I realised there was a need to sort these out so I knew what to file where. “Who did the filing before?”
“I’m afraid my father had the same approach as me — just shove it into the latest binder. It’s all there, each binder is a year on its own.” He shrugged. “Some years are in more than one binder.”
“Okay,” this was obviously going to be a bigger job than I thought, or at least this bit was. “I better start with this years accounts — you’ll need those in perfect order for the tax peeps. Then I can work back from there year by year.”
“I knew I needed professional help.” He grinned. “Last year I had a shit of a job sorting out the stuff for the tax people — and that was with my father having done the books for most of it.” Pulling down two bulging binders and a tray piled with invoices, receipts and bank statements, he said, “This is this years stuff. And those are the account books.”
“Okay …” Accepting the binders, I put them on the chair. “Got any coffee? I’ll need to clear a space to work. Is there a table I can spread things out on? Some spare binders so I can separate things and file them under relevant headings?”
“Sure. You want a table in here?” He grinned. “I’ll shift this stuff and there’s a table buried under all that stuff.”
It took half the afternoon to move the ‘junk’ and get the table cleared.
“I should have done this ages ago,” Greg remarked wryly, “but you know how it is — you plan to do it, but something comes up and …” He watched as I set up the table with my initial labels. “Wish I could be as organised.”
“As an accountant, you have to be,” I retorted. “Especially as any mistake you make can cost you, and worse, your client!”
He laughed and left me to attend the front desk and I set to work. I was right, it was going to be a long job …
