Heller's Regret (8 page)

I really wasn’t looking forward to meeting up
with Clive again. When I entered the section, I was surprised and
touched that the men present clapped for me. I heard various
refrains of “Welcome back,” from more than one of them.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, over and
over.

Clive looked up from his work and then
pointedly glanced back down, ignoring me.
Geez, how juvenile –
pretending I didn’t exist,
I thought. Who would have expected
that from him, of all people? He was forced to come out and
virtually throw the ID card I’d had to hand in all those months ago
at me.

“Thank you, Clive,” I said politely, taking
perverse pleasure in the inarticulate grunt I received in
return.

I asked if anyone was heading out soon in the
general direction of the suburb I needed.

Bick spoke up, “Farrell and I are working in
the next suburb. We can take you.”

“Thanks, Bick,” I said gratefully. What an
interesting team they’d make. Farrell, so reserved and serious,
while Bick was cheeky and cheerful. But they were both professional
and focussed on the job, so perhaps they had more in common than I
realised.

“Is that okay, Hugh? Heller’s too busy to
take me,” I asked politely, careful to keep my voice neutral. Our
history was well-known, gossip shockingly rife amongst the men.
There were no secrets in this section, and I did my best these days
not to fuel their gossip. Heller too had become much more discreet
about our relationship, to my eternal gratitude.

“Sure, Chalmers. No problem,” he replied,
turning his attention back to fastening his utility belt.

We waited patiently while Bick primped and
preened in front of the section’s full-length mirror, adjusting his
uniform slightly to better highlight his muscularity, running his
fingers through his hair to tweak his hairdo.

I sighed impatiently. “Come on, princess.
Hurry up! You look beautiful enough. Let’s go!” I urged, worried I
was going to be late.

With one last look at his rear view, he
followed us down to the garage where I jumped in the back seat of
their allocated vehicle, throwing my bag in beside me. As Farrell
drove, I explained to them my laidback assignment, lording it over
them that I’d be playing with Lego and throwing a Frisbee, while
they were stuck doing security at a suburban bank which had been
robbed the day before. It was exceedingly improbable that the bank
would be robbed again today, as it no longer contained any money,
but management felt it would calm nervous customers to see some
beefy men protecting them. Barn door, horse,
et cetera
. For
them it would be a day of utter tedium, standing for hours in the
sun in front of the bank, attempting to remain alert on the
minuscule chance that there actually was any trouble.

“I hope there’s some talent working there to
perv on at least,” prayed Bick. “I haven’t had a date for
ages.”

I hesitantly offered to see if any of my
single friends were looking for a date.

“No, thanks,” he refused adamantly. “The last
time you set me up with a friend, it didn’t end too well.”

I still felt guilty about that. I’d
introduced Dixie and him and they’d dated a few times, but she’d
treated him badly. He didn’t deserve that.

“How’s your love life, Farrell?” he
asked.

“Can’t complain, Barnes. I go more for
quality, not quantity.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
Bick burst out laughing.

“That means he hasn’t been getting much
either,” he chortled.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that
statement,” Farrell responded, deadpan.

Bick laughed harder. “And that means he
hasn’t been getting
any
.”

We drove in silence for a while.

“Tilly, do you think I’m good looking?” asked
Bick. Dixie must have really crushed his self-confidence.

“What do you mean, Bick?” I prevaricated.

“As a woman, do you think I’m good
looking?”

I tried to lighten the mood. “I only like
pretty boys,” I teased.

“Hey, hang on a minute! I can understand you
saying that about Farrell. He’s as ugly as sin. But
I’m
a
pretty boy,” Bick protested, turning to pout at me.

“You? A pretty boy? In your dreams, Barnes.
Face it, you’re butt ugly. What do you think, Hugh?”

“He’s as butt ugly as they come, Chalmers.”
Deadpan again.

Bick sulked for a few minutes before Farrell
pulled up in front of an enormous timber house. It was on a big
block of land, hidden from its neighbours by tall, unkempt hedges,
although the yard itself was tidy and neatly mown. A two-metre tall
wrought iron fence, severely rusting in spots, surrounded the
entire yard.

The house was double-storied, painted in a
dreary dark grey colour, with black trimmings. It was unusually
constructed, with four gables jutting from the roof and a wide,
uncovered veranda at the front.

The house had a closed, still appearance,
every window tightly shut, every curtain drawn. I stared at it in
dismay. It didn’t look like a fun place for a kid to live. I
couldn’t see any swings or bikes left lying in the driveway, no
tennis balls or Frisbees stuck on the roof, or any other toys
strewn across the lawn.

“Geez,” exclaimed Bick. “It looks like a
haunted house.”

“Don’t say that.” I scanned the house again.
“It doesn’t seem as though anybody’s home,” I said, puzzled,
double-checking the address Heller had given me. We were at the
right place.

I asked the men to wait until I made sure
that the client, Mrs Grimsley, was home and there hadn’t been any
misunderstanding. I dragged out my bags and opened the tall, rusty
gate. It screeched all the way open and all the way closed. I
cringed at the noise.

I walked quickly up the path and front steps
to knock loudly on the black front door.

I waited for an age and was about to give up,
when the door hesitantly and slowly opened and a sweet-faced
elderly woman poked her head around, a mop of white fluffy hair
surrounding her face like a cloud. I explained who I was and she
smiled nicely, inviting me in. I gave the guys the okay symbol, and
they drove away with a jaunty toot of the horn.

I stepped into the house and Mrs Grimsley
shut the door behind us. The first thing I noticed was the
incredible heat, which was not surprising given that every window
was shut and it was thirty-three degrees already that day. I could
feel the prickle of sweat immediately forming between my shoulder
blades and between my breasts.

“Goodness me, it’s warm in here,” I
commented.

“Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? The warmth is
very good for my poor old bones, and Samuel prefers it warm as
well. This house gets very cold, to be honest. It’s too big for us,
but I was born here and will probably die here, just like so many
other Grimsleys.” She sighed. “I couldn’t possibly live anywhere
else. Not now. Not at my age.”

“Samuel? Is that your grandson?”

“Yes.”

I gazed around the large entry hall, the
three-metre ceiling, ornate cornices and light fitting all
impressive, but the old-fashioned furniture and general sense of
dilapidation and lack of maintenance gave it a shabby appearance. I
could see no sign of the boy.

“Is he here? I should probably meet him
before you leave. I don’t want to frighten him. You know, an
unfamiliar face suddenly appearing in the house.”

“He’s a bit shy,” she smiled. “When he’s
ready to meet you, he’ll come out. Let me know if you see him.
He’ll probably lurk around for a while before he’s ready. He
doesn’t get to meet many new people, I’m afraid.” She shook her
head sadly, then cheered up. “Now, how about a lovely hot cup of
tea? You do drink tea, don’t you?”

She looked so anxious about being hospitable,
and knowing how elderly ladies loved their tea, probably not even
having any coffee in the house anyway, I assured her that I loved
tea, despite the wilting heat. The last thing I really wanted to
imbibe at that moment was any boiling liquid. I felt a trickle of
sweat making its ticklish way down my spine as we spoke. But she
was as sweet-faced as my favourite grandma, so I couldn’t possibly
refuse.

However, when she painfully made her slow,
arthritic way to the kitchen, I felt a massive pang of guilt and
forced her to let me make the tea instead. To my surprise, she
allowed me to. It had always been my experience that elderly women
didn’t like anyone messing in their kitchen and shot pure daggers
of steel into the spines of anyone who even dared suggest that they
weren’t still capable of doing everything themselves. But maybe
that was just my grandmas.

We entered a dark hallway off the entry hall
with a row of closed doors on either side. She took me down to the
door at the end of the hallway to a large, but antiquated kitchen.
She hovered as I made the tea, giving me instructions, ensuring
that the water was boiled to the right temperature (on the
stovetop, not in an instant kettle), the teapot warmed
sufficiently, and the right amount of tea leaves placed in it. Just
like my grandmas. My heart panged – I missed my two grandmas.

After much nervous instruction, everything I
did had been finally approved. I was allowed to bring the tray into
the ‘tea room’ off to the right of the hallway, a tiny,
claustrophobic, dusty room stuffed full of very old-fashioned
furniture. Portraits of severe, humourless, long-dead relatives
glared down at us disapprovingly as we sipped from her delicate,
floral china, sweltering in the humidity. Well, I was at least. Mrs
Grimsley appeared as fresh as a daisy as she carefully held her
teacup. I gulped my tea, despite its bitterness, wanting the
torture to end as soon as possible. I was worried I might faint
with heat exhaustion if it became any hotter. I decided the first
thing I would do when she left was crack a few windows open and
maybe just lay in the front yard, swallowing in fresh air,
regardless of what the neighbours thought.

“I can see you were thirsty,” she exclaimed
with delight, probably the first time that her tea had been
‘appreciated’ for years. She topped up my cup with her shaky hands,
and I watched her closely, breath held, afraid that she would burn
herself with her unsteady actions. I didn’t have the heart to say
no to more tea, even though I was almost melting.

“Thank you, Mrs Grimsley, that’s lovely,” I
lied, discreetly wiping the perspiration from my brow. I took
another polite swig of tea, remembering what I’d read on the
internet about people in very steamy climes drinking hot beverages
liberally.
I guess it made sense – it probably helped you
sweat
, I thought and sipped my tea. It was certainly helping me
sweat.

Somehow, I managed four cups before I felt my
bladder pressing down on me. She directed me to an ancient toilet,
which she referred to as the ‘water closet’.
Possibly the first
one ever installed in the city
, I thought idly as I pulled the
chain to flush. I took the chance to splash my face with lukewarm
water from the washbasin tap, noticing my reddened appearance in
the spotty mirror. I returned to find with dismay, my cup filled to
the brim again.

But as I sat there drinking that other cup
(fifth or sixth? I couldn’t remember). An unexpected chill crept
around me.
Ooh!
I thought happily,
maybe the
air-conditioning had finally kicked in
. Tendrils of icy air
wended their very welcome way around my legs, slinking up my body
until I actually shivered.

“Is everything alright, Miss Chalmers?” she
asked, sharp-eyed.

“I suddenly got a chill. Your
air-conditioning is slow to fire up on a hot day, but thank
goodness it finally arrived.” She smiled with satisfaction.

We finished our tea and I carried the tray
back to the kitchen, quickly but carefully washing up the china. We
went to sit in the parlour, a generous room overlooking the front
yard, full of large, Victorian-era sofas and wing-backed armchairs.
I rubbed my arms, which had broken out in goose bumps,
vigorously

“I can’t believe how quickly the
temperature’s changed. It’s really quite cool now, isn’t it? Your
air-conditioning must be very powerful,” I marvelled.

She smiled tightly. “I did warn you that it
is a very cold house, Miss Chalmers.” She paused for a moment. “You
can take your choice of bedrooms upstairs. There are a number of
them to choose from. I sleep in a small room on this floor. The
stairs are just too much for me these days, I’m afraid. I don’t go
up there very often anymore at all.” She sighed. “This house is
just too big for me to manage by myself, I know that, but I have to
keep going for Samuel’s sake. My biggest concern is his welfare.
I’m his only remaining family and I’m ever fearful that they will
take him away from me. I don’t know what will happen to him then.
Every knock on the door makes my heart pound.” She smiled sadly. I
squeezed her hand sympathetically, catching a movement in the
corner of my eye. I glanced over to the doorway in time to see a
little head disappear.

“I just saw him,” I told Mrs Grimsley in a
low voice. She clasped her hands together.

“Wonderful! I’d call him over, but there’s no
point. It won’t be long before he comes to meet you himself. Now
he’s made an appearance, I know he’s not afraid of you.”

Chapter 7

I kept my eye on the doorway, smiling in a
friendly manner when I noticed the little head peeking around once
more. It quickly withdrew when he saw me looking at him. A few
minutes later, the head appeared again, this time a body following.
He stood shyly in the doorway, regarding me solemnly with enormous
black eyes. He was small and thin, with a mop of dark blond hair
and a sweet, serious face.

He was dressed in a very conservative,
unfashionable manner in a long-sleeved buttoned white shirt and
grey shorts reaching to his knees, black shoes and long white
socks. His clothes probably reflected Mrs Grimsley’s elderly
fashion taste. He came into the room hesitantly, standing beside
Mrs Grimsley, and staring at me the entire time.