Short story

A leaking roof puts an end to Sylvia’s dream of a trip Canada

ylvia had been awake most of the night, tossing and turning and listening to the persistent clatter of heavy rain against the window. Before going to bed she’d placed an old pot under the damp patch that had appeared on the ceiling of the extension. She worried that with all this rain it’d fill to overflowing by morning. Luckily, it hadn’t quite filled up to the brim, so she poured the contents over her houseplants. “Waste not, want not,” she murmured to herself. That had been a favourite saying of her husband, Harry. If only he were here now, she thought. He had built the extension and they had enjoyed many summers sitting in there, admiring the view of their garden. Alas, Harry was no longer here and as their daughter, Sally, was living in Canada, Sylvia would have to sort it out herself. If she accepted the hefty quote given by the TipTop roofing company that advertised in the local paper it would use up all the savings she had made to pay for a trip to Toronto. The Tip-Top rep had blithely informed her that 12 years was about as long as that sort of flat roof was likely to last. “No use patching it – the chipboard underneath is breaking up.” After adding that the insurance wouldn’t cover it after so many years of wear and tear, he’d driven off, whistling cheerfully. Harry had always advised it was best to get three quotes for a job, so she decided to get another two. In the meantime, she would have to rely on her old plant pot whenever it rained. The pot had belonged to Sylvia’s grandmother and been passed down the generations. She hadn’t wanted the ugly old thing, but hadn’t had the heart to throw it out. It had been put to various uses over the years, storing bits and bobs such as keys, old pens, tickets and foreign coins. Once she had sent it to the church bring-and-buy sale but it was returned, unsold. Sylvia had pushed the unwanted object to the back of the cupboard and forgotten about it until she was looking for something to catch the drips. She searched again in the paper and found ads for two other roof specialists. As she was elderly, lived alone and needed help urgently, the first man she phoned promised to come the following day, but a week went by and he didn’t turn up. The other ad showed a fresh-faced smiling youth who didn’t look old enough to have had ten years’ experience as a roofing specialist, but at least he did arrive – and on time. She warmed to him right away as he slipped plastic covers over his shoes before entering the house. He introduced himself as Andy. “My mum likes to keep her carpets nice and clean, too,” he said, smiling down at her. But he stopped smiling when he saw the damage to the extension ceiling. Sylvia’s heart sank. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, Mrs Smith, but the whole roof needs replacing. Anything less would be a waste of money,” he told her. The rough

Harry had built the extension – if only he were here now, she thought