Simon Says

*** For my new friend, Steve.

Deal.

The moment I saw Deal, I fell in love with it. Deal is a quaint seaside resort town about eight miles north of Dover on the South East English coast. It consists of a varied collection of houses and cottages, a pub and a series of antique shops, a couple of delicatessens; art galleries; a grocer, butcher and fishmonger, a few other shops and of course, Deal Castle. Designed with a rose floor plan and built by Henry VIII, Deal Castle was quite beautiful.

I found a small two bed-roomed cottage nestled against the grass covered white chalk hillside. It had a little garden, mainly rose bushes; bordered by a hawthorn hedge and a small wooden garden gate. The cottage itself was thatched and the walls were cream painted plaster. It would suit my purposes perfectly.
I am a writer and have successfully published two novels and an anthology of short stories.

However, for the last six or seven months, I had been suffering from writer’s block and my publisher was getting a little anxious. My friend Charlotte, suggested that I get out of London and find a nice peaceful place in the country, where I could concentrate on my writing; alone. I thought the country would be a bit extreme, so I settled for the small town of Deal, about eighty odd miles from London. It was very old world and peaceful but it wasn’t completely isolated. I hoped that the quiet would allow my mind to start filling up with ideas and the flow of words would begin again so I bought the cottage and Mrs. Wilson the realtor, was delighted.

“It’s been standing empty for several months since old Mrs. Miller passed on.” She said as she patted her silver hair into place. “It needs someone here.”

She had just shown me around. Where the fuse box was; how the water heater worked and so on.
“It’s perfect.” I said.
“You might want to get it painted.” She said. “And maybe you can get someone to sort out the garden for you.”
“Thank you. “ I said. “I’ll do that.”

“My nephew Simon is a painter. He’s a wee bit . . !” She paused and waggled her eyebrows at me. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant and I didn’t ask. “But, he’s a good man and a very good painter, so what does it matter.” She said. “I’ll give you his number. Or maybe I should just ask him to call around. How would that be?”
“That would be great.” I said. “Anytime would suit me, I’m not going anywhere.”

She also told me that she would arrange for a man to come once a week to tend the garden for me. She suggested a house-keeper but I declined. I didn’t want anyone bumbling around the cottage while I was trying to work. I told her that I would take care of my own house-keeping for the time being and if I needed a house-keeper at any time, I would call on her and we left it at that.

And so, one fine spring Monday morning in 1989, I moved into the small town of Deal, hoping that my creative juices would start to flow once more.

The first person after Mrs. Wilson to make himself known to me was Carl, the gardener. He was about sixty or seventy and as dark and wrinkled as a walnut. He arrived and knocked on my door politely later that morning and asked me what I wanted him to do. I liked him immediately so I told him to just go ahead and sort out the garden.

“I leave it up to you.” I said. “I’m not fussy, so you fix it how you want.”
“Yes, certainly Mr. Clark, sir.” He said softly.
“Carl, you can call me Graham.” I said. “Mr. Clark is my father.”

“Yes sir, Graham.” He replied with a bright grin, his dentures gleaming in the sunlight.
“Just Graham will be fine.” I said with a smile.

He immediately began to weed the lawn and I left him to it. Now, all I needed was for the painter to turn up and begin and then I could concentrate on my own work.

I organized the second bedroom into a study, with a large desk and a comfortable swivel chair as well as a huge horsehair sofa. Sometimes I like to lie back, my eyes closed and sort of drift. Often my best ideas come to me that way and the sofa was ideal for that. I set up my computer and printer and organized my notebooks, paper and pencils the way I liked them. I was ready. I sat in the chair, switched on the computer, called up the word processor and sat and stared at the blinking cursor. And stared.

Nothing! Absolutely nothing. That blinking little blip on the screen mocked me.
“Write.” It said with each flash. “Write; write; write . . . !”

I jumped up, got my coat and walked out of the cottage and down the lane. I made my way to the beach and slowly walked along it, the pebbles crunching underfoot.

It’s no big deal, I thought, it’s only the first day. It’ll come, the story will come and then you won’t be able to stop. You have loads of time, I lied to myself; and there’ll be no-one around to bother you.
At that moment, I felt very alone, more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

*** The Painter.

Simon the painter, turned up two days later. In that time, I managed to get three paragraphs onto the computer, but I wasn’t entirely happy with them. I knew that I would probably delete them and start over. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon.

Simon was rather surprising, to say the least. I suppose I expected a young, gangling youth in paint splattered overalls; maybe about twenty-two; twenty-three. Simon looked like a hippie musician out of the late sixties, early seventies. He gave me one or two years so I put him at about thirty-three; thirty-four. I found out later that he was actually thirty-five. Tall and lean with broad shoulders and narrow hips and long slim legs.

His hair was pitch black, and hung loose and wavy to his shoulder blades and his blue eyes were so dark that they looked violet. He sported a full moustache and long sideburns. He was wearing a pair of hip hugging bell-bottomed jeans and a mauve loose fitting, long sleeved, embroidered Indian cotton shirt. He had a purple crocheted skull cap over his black hair and his feet were comfortably clad in leather sandals. He knocked on my door at about two in the afternoon.

“Yes?” I asked when I opened the door. “Can I help you?”
He looked me up and down carefully and then pulled a toothpick from between his teeth and grinned.

“Mr. Clark?” He queried. “I’m Simon. My aunt tells me you want your house painted.”
“Oh!” I said, my surprise quite evident. “Sorry, but I was expecting . . you know . . a painter.”

He threw his arms open wide and then dropped them to his side..

“Well, here I am.” He said. “Don’t I look like I can paint?”
“No no!” I said quickly. “I’m really sorry, but you took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Yeah!” He said. “I get that all the time.” I couldn’t quite place his accent. It sort of sounded a little American but I wasn’t sure.
“Right.” I said. “Well . . um . . let me show you around so you can see what needs to be done.”

He followed me from room to room and I told him what I had in mind. He nodded at each suggestion and then threw in a few of his own. I realized that despite how he looked, he knew his job well. As it turned out, he was part owner of a small painting and contracting business in Deal and according to Carl, he was kept pretty busy.

He gave me a quote on materials and I gave him a check to cover it. He told me he’d be back to start work in a couple of days, wished me a quick ‘good afternoon’ and left.
As a result, he turned up the very next morning, bright and early. Again he surprised me.

The knock on my door came at about eight-thirty. I opened it and Simon was there. He was wearing a khaki, paint spotted overall and a peaked cap with his hair neatly tied back into a pony tail.
“Is this better?” He asked with his arms spread and a broad grin. I noticed that he had a deep dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. I laughed.
“Yeah.” I said. “Now you look the part.”

“Okay, Mr. Clark.” He began. “Now might be a good time to show me where you want me to begin.”
“Right.” I said. “I think in the study first. Then you can go on with the rest of the house.”

I led him through to my study. He looked around and then began moving the furniture to the middle of the room. He asked me to help him move the sofa away from the wall.
“Don’t you have any workmen?” I asked. “I mean, are you doing this alone.”
“Yeah.” He replied. “It’s a small house so workmen aren’t necessary. They’re on a big job anyway.”

We finished moving the furniture and then he went out to his van and brought in some canvas tarpaulins. He unfolded them and I watched nervously as he carefully covered my desk and computer. I was relieved to see that he took a great deal of care. He covered the rest of the furniture and stood back.
“Right.” He said. “I’ll get the stuff.”

He disappeared and I wandered through to the living room. I couldn’t work until he had finished my study and it was dry, so I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do with myself. He came through carrying a large tin of paint, several rollers and brushes and a paint tray. He stopped and looked at me.
“Mr. Clark.” He said. “Why don’t you, you know, go for a walk in the town or maybe go on down to the beach. I’m going to be a while.”

“Yes, of course.” I said. “I’ll do that.”

I grabbed my jacket and moved to the door.
“Oh, and Simon, you can call me Graham, okay?” I said
“Sure, Mr. Clark.” He replied with a smile.

Only later, as I was walking through the town did I realize that he had still used my surname even after I’d asked him not to.

In the end, I was glad that I’d come into town. I spent a leisurely hour shopping for supplies, which the shop assistant assured me would be delivered; and then I had tea at a quaint café. I spent the rest of the morning exploring some of the galleries and then I had lunch at a neat little steakhouse. The afternoon I spent roaming around Deal castle and before I knew it, it was four o’clock. I hurried home, anxious to catch Simon before he left but I was too late.

My front door had been carefully closed and he’d already gone. I went through to my study and found that the furniture had been moved back into place. The walls looked clean and fresh under their coat of dark mushroom. On my desk was a note from Simon, scrawled on a piece of my expensive bond.
Mr. Clark. (I noticed that he was still using my surname.)

Study done. Tomorrow the living room.
Groceries in kitchen.
Simon.

His writing was big and rounded and under his name, he’d drawn the age old ‘Kilroy’ logo. I smiled at the bold drawing of the little man peeping over the wall. Simon was certainly different, I thought. Quirky, laid-back and of course, devilishly handsome. I stopped myself. Hold on, I thought, we are not even thinking of going there. I was there to work without distraction. But, I realized, Simon might just prove to be a mild distraction, one that might turn out to be a little worrisome.

*** Simon.

The very next day, he began to irritate me.

First; there was his whistling. He’d arrived at about the same time as the day before; moved the furniture in the living room, covered it and started to paint. He’d chosen a warm biscuit for the living room and I liked it. I’d left the choice of colors to him, my only stipulation being that they not be too bright and gaudy. It was his whistling that got to me. As he painted, he whistled some forgotten seventies tune.

It was not really an irritating whistle or an annoying song, it’s just that it went on and on and on. I was lying on the sofa in my study, trying to pull some inspiration out of thin air and I could hear him. At first it had seemed sort of friendly, but the longer he kept it up, the more it grated on my nerves. Eventually, I jumped up and went through to the living room.

“Simon?” I called.

He stopped painting and whistling and faced me, paint roller in hand. He had shrugged out of the top part of his overalls and tied the sleeves around his hips, leaving his torso bare.
“Simon.” I said. “Could I ask you please not to whistle. I’m sorry, but I’m trying to concentrate and it’s very distracting.”
“Sure, Mr. Clark.” He said with a smile. “Sorry but I forget and it sort of comes out sub-consciously. Don’t even realize I’m doing it.”

I turned to leave but then faced him again.
“And Simon.” I said. “It’s Graham, okay?”
“Sure, Mr. Clark.” He said with another disarming smile.
I went back to my study and flopped onto the sofa.

Second; my name. I had asked him a couple of times to use my Christian name, but for some obscure reason only known to himself, he insisted on being formal.

And now his semi-nakedness perturbed me; yet another unwanted distraction. I lay on the sofa, my mind not on my work but on Simon’s body. I could still see his broad chest, generously covered with dark hair; his flat belly and the amazingly exciting path of body hair that ran down it and disappeared under the waist of his overalls. His shoulders were broad and strong looking, his arms sported solidly formed biceps and his forearms were covered with a fine coating of dark hair. He was quite a fine specimen of manly attractiveness; just the sort of distraction I did not need at this time. The sooner he finished the house and left, the better.

Ten minutes later, he started whistling again but this time the song was different to the one he’d been whistling earlier. I grabbed a cushion from the sofa and put it over my head but I could still hear him. I threw the cushion across the room and jumped up. I tore through to the living room.
“I’m going out!” I said loudly. “I’ll see you later.”
He turned and nodded, still whistling merrily.

I grabbed my jacket and left the cottage leaving him to it. As I walked down the lane, the last image I had of him hung in my mind. He was standing on a rung of a step-ladder, a paint brush in his hand. He’d turned towards me, whistling tunefully. His hairy chest was splattered with droplets of paint and my eyes had travelled down the dark path of fur over his belly.

His overalls had ridden down his hips somewhat and had settled across his upper thighs and the top part of his pubic hair peeked over the top of them. The sight of this had made my groin tingle alarmingly and my dick had twitched madly. There was a smear of biscuit colored paint on his cheek and I’d had to resist the urge to go to him and wipe it off.

I tried to distract myself by strolling through a couple of art galleries but the image of that dark patch of hair above the line of his overalls hung in front of my eyes. I couldn’t get him out of my mind and I realized that I would have to tread extremely carefully. The last thing I needed right now was to fall in love with the painter.

*** The Pub.

It was Friday evening and I had nothing to do. The thought of trying to write scared me a little so I gave that up as a bad idea. When I’d got home that afternoon, Simon had finished my living room and gone. Again he’d left a boldly written note for me.

Mr. Clark.
Living room done.
Monday the bedroom.
Might take two days.
Have to strip wallpaper.
Have a good w/end.
Simon.

This time there was a drawing of a cartoon dog under his name which made me smile.

The last week had been a bust. The paragraphs I had written at the beginning of the week stared at me from the computer screen and on impulse, I closed the document and then deleted it. I would have to begin again. On Monday, I thought. On Monday I will sit down and get at least a page or two down. I was determined to do it; I had to do it; my publisher was waiting. My problem was that I couldn’t get the characters in mind, let alone a story line. I would use the weekend to relax and let my thoughts ramble. Hopefully, by Monday, I’d have something.

I decided to go down to the local pub for something to eat and maybe a couple of drinks and get to know some of the local residents.

The pub was fairly crowded and there was a band playing on a bandstand at one end of the large bar-room. I found a table at the back occupied by a lone elderly gentleman. I asked him if I could join him and he nodded and smiled and pushed a chair out for me with his foot. I went to the bar, got myself a drink and ordered something to eat. I joined the elderly gent and introduced myself.

“You’re that writer chap.” He said. “In the old Miller cottage.”
I nodded.

“Welcome to Deal.” He said. “I’m George Cuthbert. I run the hardware shop so if you need anything . . !”
“Thanks.” I said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

The band finished the song they were playing and some of the crowd started calling for someone to sing. With all the raucous noise, I couldn’t quite hear what they were calling and just then my dinner arrived and I got distracted by the bar-maid as she laid out my meal. Then an amplified voice spoke up.
“Hi folks! Let’s see who’s here tonight.” The voice called. “There’s Doug Saunders and I see he’s with Susie Felton. Careful Doug, she’s tougher than she looks.”