Quarter Square Read Online Free PDF Page B

slipped back round the corner rather than disturb him.
    I was enjoying getting to know Plymouth, especially because I knew Min would be at home when I got back there. Home: that was how I’d come to think of the theatre and the square.
     
    The tools and timber arrived the next morning while a gang of insiders were filling the second skip, and I got to work. I estimated it would take three months to complete the structural work, mostly on my own but with some labouring help from Jimmy and as many insiders as could be released from fundraising work.
    They’d agreed to keep me supplied in food too so I could concentrate on getting the work done as quickly as possible. This haste was for my benefit. Payment in kind was all very well, but sooner or later I would need to start earning real money from outside jobs.
    For now, though, my total focus was on the job in hand. I cleared a workspace on the stage, set up two sawhorses and selected lengths of oak, maple and ash to build a monster eight-foot-by-three-foot workbench. I’d bought a manufactured clamp for one end and planned to make a heavy-duty one by hand for the front, complete with dogholes and a quick-release lever. A big job needs a big bench.
    I tacked my sketch to a nearby wall, stripped off my shirt, licked my new pencil and started measuring and sawing, measuring and sawing. I welcomed the exhilarating smell of fresh sawdust and the customary rush of happiness, so completely in my element that I’d sung right through to the end of my the Parlor Mob repertoire before I surfaced from the rapture.
    When the final length of maple sat on a plastic sheet alongside its brothers and a dozen bar clamps, ready to be glued together like a huge butcher block for the working top, I used my balled-up shirt to wipe the sweat from my face and chest, stretched my back with a long groan and heard a giggle from somewhere behind me.
    Min, Cindy and Debs stood in the wings, watching me. The poi girls’ amusement was obvious and appeared to be directed at Min rather than at me. Her shining eyes said more than the smile she was trying not to show, and she arched an eyebrow at the girls. They each jostled a shoulder against her before giggling off into the darkness backstage.
    Min and I stared at each other across the stage, until, eventually, one of us had to say something.
    “Care to lend a hand with this? I need someone to help clamp these pieces together so I can glue them.” I didn’t need any help. Not right then anyhow.
    “Sure.”
    And that was how Min became my carpenter’s assistant.
    I subcontracted the electrical and plumbing work to two local tradesmen Jimmy recommended, and put them to work immediately on installing a shower in my room. They got the unit fitted and working by the end of the first day, impressing me with their cheerful efficiency and making this tired, dusty carpenter very happy.
    Ten minutes into my inaugural shower after work I found myself singing Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You.” I paused, thinking of Carole, and realised I wasn’t at all sad without her. But I didn’t think of her for long. My mental image of Carole was replaced by one of Min, who’d invited me to hear her sing at a jazz club that evening.
    I grinned and burst into the Parlor Mob’s “Can’t Keep No Good Boy Down,” stamping a driving drumbeat in the shower well and playing a wicked wet-air guitar.
     
    The gig was brilliant, and Min’s voice was incredible. She brought the house down.
    We left the club arm in arm and walked towards the city centre, where she said we would probably find some of the insiders performing for evening strollers.
    It felt so natural for us to walk this way, in perfect rhythm. So right. I loved the intimacy of our bare inner forearms rubbing together and our gentle shoulder-to-shoulder bumps on every second step. Her scent filled my head, and I resisted the strong temptation to fold her into my embrace and kiss her.
    I wondered how she would