The quote we receive from the roofer seems surprisingly reasonable, although it’s possible that in anticipation of the quote I was simply letting my paranoia run wild. The truth is, I had no idea how much a new flat roof should, or could, cost.
But my wife wasn’t home when the roofer came round, climbed out on the roof, and said: “That’s really bad.” She didn’t hear his wholly convincing explanation of what was wrong, and what must be done to put it right. She was not impressed by my version of those explanations. And she probably hadn’t worked herself up into expecting a quote at double the price. In any case, she has reservations.
“How do we know if he’s any good?” she says.
“He seemed to know what he was talking about,” I say.
“How would you know if someone knew what they were talking about?” she says.
“You gave me his number,” I say.
“I told you, it was a secondhand recommendation,” she says.
“In that case, we just check,” I say, opening my laptop.
Unfortunately, the roofer has a very common name, common even to roofers, including one scam roofer who, on closer inspection, confines his operations to the eastern portion of the state of Massachusetts. And also a man who killed someone closer to home, but a decade ago – his mugshot is one of the first things to come up.
“That’s not him, is it?” my wife says.
“Probably not,” I say.
“What do you mean, probably not?” she says.
“I mean I didn’t spend the whole time looking at him,” I say.
“So it could be him,” she says.
“The quote was reasonable,” I say.
“On the whole I’d prefer a roofer who hadn’t killed anyone,” she says.
“Me too, but I’m not sure we can afford that,” I say.
“Call him and say we want to meet him again,” she says.
“On what grounds?” I say.
A second meeting proves hard to arrange; we have only just come back from holiday; the roofer is busy during most weekdays, and my wife has a string of appointments. A week slips by. Then 10 days.
“Why is he being so elusive?” my wife says.
“I think he’s probably asking the same question about us,” I say.
In the meantime, after a summer of fortuitous drought, rain has returned. My wife obtains another roofing recommendation, but no one picks up the phone when she rings the number.
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On the 11th day, the roofer sends a text asking if it’s convenient for him to drop by that afternoon. I call my wife, who is out.
“Are you gonna be here?” I say. “There’s no point if you’re not …”
“I’ll be back by lunchtime,” she says.
“I mean, I’ve already met him,” I say.
“I’ll be there,” she says.
As soon as I hang up, a long-threatened thunderstorm erupts; 10 metres of belting rain separates my office shed from the house, where I can just make out the oldest one working at the kitchen table. I stand there, willing him to go upstairs and position the bucket under the hole in the roof. But he’s not picking up the vibrations.
The roofer arrives shortly after 2pm, by which time the sun is out. He comes into the kitchen, shakes our hands, pats the dog, re-explains both the problem and the solution, offering a best-case and a worst-case scenario, and a price to go with each. He is patient with my wife’s inquiries about his experience – which seems to be considerable – and on his way out engages in a brief and knowledgable exchange with my oldest son about the football transfer window.
“Well I like him,” my wife says as soon as the door shuts.
“He’s definitely not the murderer, by the way,” I say.
“When can he start?” she says.
“He’s gonna let us know,” I say. “Hopefully within the next two weeks.”
A couple of hours later I find what eluded me a fortnight ago: dozens of five-star reviews for the roofer and his work, on a reputable building website, stretching back years.
“Why didn’t we see these the first time?” my wife says.
“I have no idea,” I say. “I even used the same search terms.”
“Well that’s it,” she says. “From now on you’re not allowed to handle this sort of thing on your own.”
I think: if I have accomplished nothing else in the past fortnight, I have accomplished that.