Blind Spot – Chapter 12
Arse-Kicking Boots
At the September jam, it must be clear to anyone who cares, which probably isn’t many, that Mercy and I are ‘an item’. Keith gives me an enormous stage wink he probably thinks is subtle; Anna looks from me to her, her to me and smiles sweetly.
Mercy is at her flamboyant best. The tight, black, lacy number has been replaced by a hot-red trouser suit. Her lipstick is a perfect match.
The lips of the Ukulele Ladies are pursed in disapproval. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’ mouths one to another.
Mercy looks across at me and slowly raises her eyebrows. I have a fit of the giggles and nearly choke on my pint.
She rubs it in by playing like Paganini on meth. I swear, I see smoke rising from that bow.
I leave it at the one beer.
I’m feeling pleased with myself.
See, I’ve managed to organise a plasterer, a sparky and a plumber to finish off the Guest Wing, as I’m now calling it.
Having grown up in a council house on a run-down post-War estate in Basildon, I’m charmed by the idea of owning a country residence with wings – even if the reality is far less swanky than the image it evokes.
Yeah, I’m a parvenu and I’m proud. You can take the boy out of Essex, but …
In our weekly online catch-up, Jeannie asks what the hell a hermit needs a guest wing for. It’s a fair question, I guess.
Maybe I’m coming out of my hermit phase, though? Maybe I’m starting to see the Retreat, the buzzing ‘creative community’ Em and I dreamed of, as more than just a concept?
Maybe, maybe. One step at a time, old son. The three ensuite guest bedrooms should all be done, bar the decorating, by Christmas. Possibly even Christmas this year.
I need to make some decisions about the Retreat fairly soon, actually.
Neighbour Tony wants to know whether he can count on five hundred hectares of my land as outpasture again next year. He wants to expand his herd.
The trouble is, the pasturage he needs includes the site of the future arts-and-media hub with its glamping pods, on a gentle rise overlooking the Wetlands. He can’t count on that if we’re going to break ground next year.
And we need to break ground, or our planning permit will elapse. It’s already been extended once, due to extenuating circumstances; no further extensions are likely to be forthcoming.
So if nothing happens next year, we’ll need to submit a whole new application, and if the shire council becomes less arts-friendly in the meantime, more hostile to non-farming developments on rural-zoned land, there’s no guarantee we’ll get approval.
It’s kinda looking like a ‘now or never’ proposition.
I keep on thinking ‘we’, don’t I? Yet the first person plural belongs strictly to the past tense; not to the present and certainly not to the future.
And therein lies my dilemma.
I’ve tried talking it over with the women in my life. Sometimes it just helps to articulate these things to another person.
Jeannie isn’t much help, though. She thinks I should sell up. End of.
Mercy’s strangely silent on the matter, or if pressed, gives vague, unsatisfactory responses. It’s not like she holds back with her opinions in general. What’s going on?
I find out soon enough.
One blustery day in October, she arrives at the farm in the customary cloud of pink dust.
This time, the Saab is stuffed full of clothes and other belongings. The top is down and bags, cases, boxes are jammed in. The boot is too full to shut and is bound up with occy straps.
I’m surprised she didn’t get pulled over. There can’t have been any cops on the road.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Em and I have decided that you need someone to motivate you. As you would say, you need “a swift boot up the arse”. So, I’ve got my arse-kicking boots on and I’m moving in for a while.’
‘You are not.’
‘Please don’t be difficult, Benjamin. It’s for the best.’
‘No, just – no.’
‘Yes.’
I’m such a pushover. When I want to be.
Judging by the amount of stuff, I assume that Mercy must have emptied her house. Instead, it emerges that this is her idea of travelling light.
‘Just a few things.’
The second bedroom in the main house becomes her dressing room. It used to be Em’s.
‘Not much hanging space, but it will have to do.’
That first night, we drink the bottle of champagne she brought ‘to celebrate my moving in’.
The woman has more front than Clacton-on-Sea, as my old Dad would have said, bless him.
If I’m expecting a romantic tête-à-tête, though, I’m disappointed. Instead we talk business: the Retreat. So she was listening, after all.
For someone who oversteps my boundaries with such glee, Mercy is quick to draw her own.
‘You have to do this yourself. I’m not going to let you get dependent on me. I’ll be your cheerleader, your shoulder to cry on when you need one, but I won’t be your skivvy and I’m not your mother.
‘What you can’t do yourself, delegate. Find good people and get them involved. You’re an experienced project manager, you know what your goals are, and you have the funds to achieve most of them. What you can’t fund yourself, find a way to finance. Crowdfund it, get sponsors.’
‘Finding good people is one thing, Mercy. Finding them around here is another, and I really need someone on the ground.’
‘Offer on-site accommodation and working space. You don’t need a guest wing, Benjamin! You need a self-contained studio apartment with an adjacent office. You don’t even need to change the floorplan. Just convert one of the ensuites into a small kitchen. The accommodation doesn’t have to be palatial, just clean and private.’
She has a point. Reluctantly, I wave my Guest Wing goodbye.
It was a bit of a wank anyway.
Next week in Blind Spot:
Chapter 13: Revelations
Mercy has plenty more surprises up her sleeve.
Acknowledgement of Country: This story is set on the lands of the Djargurd Wurrung, while the author lives on Wadawurrung country. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned herein are the product of the author’s imagination. The locations are based on real places.
This is getting interesting. And more surprises in the next chapter 👏. Loving it Steve 😊
You keep getting better, Steve.