Mum had finally retired. Been a couple of years now. Im worn out, shed say. Healths shot. The job was all nerves, the staff toxic, and Im not as young as I was. I want to live for myself at last, none of that other nonsense.
No one thought to argue with her. Mums the sort of person you simply dont argue with the thought doesnt even cross your mind.
So, she moved out to her cottage in Oxfordshire and began living her best life: tending to roses and cucumbers, smoking on the porch, sipping coffee sometimes with a splash of brandy, sometimes with a book. Shed putter about, put things in order, enjoy the break from work, shiver a little at the memories, and be quite pleased that the grandchildren were old enough not to be dumped on her for the entire summer.
Shed regularly bestow her strategic advice upon us, her offspring:
Dont even think about retiring until the grandkids are finished at university. Vital, that is. They need to stand on their own two feet, so none of them end up draped around your neck once youre on a pension. Great-grandchildren can be your kids problem youll be far too old by then, off the tally, so to speak.
All in all, things fell nicely into place in her corner of the countryside: parcel collection points, the village shop, Wi-Fi, a rose garden just outside her window, fresh air, quiet neighbours, a life entirely without strain. After some time, though, a gentle boredom began to seep in. So, Mum decided to amuse herself: she was going to pave a fair chunk of her garden with concrete.
The parking spot, you see, was “not terribly distinguished,” as she put it. And really, one shouldnt depend on natures whims nature already gave us the internet. With it, she easily found a team called Top Notch, willing to do any job for some quid, as youd expect.
The day of reckoning rolled around. The lads arrived: five blokes, with the foreman, Charlie, leading them. Mum just called him Charlie-boy, never mind he was a hulking chap well past six foot. They started in earnest, but soon, things went sideways. Two cement lorries idled in the drive, waiting for the green light. Mum observed.
This, apparently, was Charlies moment. Who could resist such luck? Here was this little old lady, alone, with manly concrete work to supervise clearly, in Charlies mind, she hadnt a clue. The boys decided theyd make a few extra bob from her; after all, she was just a minor grandmother and therefore fair game for a bit of creative accounting.
Charlie began his performance at full volume:
It cant be done like this, its all off, crooked, you see… Well have to charge you double, or were packing up and leaving. Find yourselves someone else.
Mum listened, even nodded in sympathy. Fifty thousand pounds, you say? Would twenty-five do? Ah well, boys… I trust you. Who could doubt such fine gentlemen?
Then, suddenly, she said:
Lets have a wager, shall we?
A wager? Charlie perked up.
For that very fifty. I bet you, Charlie, that your own crew, under my guidance, will get this whole lot spotless in three hours, not the day you claimed. If you manage it, Ill give you fifty. If you dont, you owe me fifty. Deal?
Honestly, anyone in Charlies shoes would have thought twice even thrice. Why get mixed up in this? But Charlie hadnt been to university, though hed graduated with firsts in confidence and greed. They shook on it.
Charlie sat on the steps with a mug of instant coffee, watching. Mum or, as she styled herself in moments like this, Miss Margaret Davies slipped on her wellies and got cracking.
In five minutes flat, she marshalled the men around the job so deftly they barely realised when theyd started acting like a dream team. She explained who did what, where to bring what, how to level, how not to dawdle, and where you could speed up but never blunder. She gave the cement lorry drivers a lesson too: when to pour, how to pour, not just dump it, but do the job right. Most importantly, she ran the show so briskly there wasnt a wasted movement or idle pause.
A goddess of concrete, if ever there was one.
What the boys figured would stretch all day, shed sorted in just over two hours. Not a single flaw. Just right. Perfect. Properly done.
At first, Charlie smiled any minute now shed tire herself out. Then he lost the smile. Went a bit pale. Remembered the wager. And his word. And those fifty pounds.
Charlie seemed to lose his voice for a moment. His face looked like he’d only just realised real life didn’t always match his expectations.
Hang on he managed, Just tell me this How?! Hows it even possible? This sort of thingits just not done!
Its done, Miss Margaret replied calmly, brushing dust from her gloves. You know that big roundabout by Reading, the one with three levels?
Yeah, Charlie muttered.
And youve driven on it?
Sure
Well done. I built that.
They say that was the moment Charlie received enlightenment: that sometimes, a dear little old lady is simply someone who spent a lifetime in places where the faint-hearted never last. That arguing with the likes of her is a fools errand.
