Chapter Five
Don’t Tell Anyone About ...
Of course, all the coffee shops would be closed by the time Julia finished work, so I waited, in my sexiest shirt, trying not to look like a vicar, outside the Blackheath Bar & Bistro as we had agreed by text. My palms were sweaty. I breathed out slowly, counting to eight like George the mentor had shown me. I’m sure that helped. I berated myself for my adolescent feelings. The day had been fine and sunny, and the air was cooling pleasantly. I turned my attention to the fresh green leaves dancing gently in the breeze and tried to appreciate the colours of the flowers in the street planter boxes.
I had come from home, leaving a teary Mrs Hobson, and had been feeling distressed myself, after we found the threatening message attached to Hero’s collar earlier in the day. Mrs Hobson and I had exchanged theories about who could have written it, and who would have opened the gate to let Hero out. Did he find his own way home? Did someone take him there? He is a very friendly boy, but would he have followed a stranger? We talked round and round in circles. On my way down to the Bar & Bistro I had called into the police station and talked to Sergeant Sahota. He was most sympathetic, an inveterate dog lover, and had filled out an incident report. I am aware that although he felt for me, he wouldn’t be treating the matter as one of priority. Mrs Hobson had decided to pray for Hero’s safety, but I felt eye-rollingly cynical about the efficacy of that. I would much rather have been able to hit the person with my umbrella again, had I been able, and had it been recently raining. I mused that a driza-bone raincoat cannot double as a weapon in emergency situations.
I was wrenched from these ineffectual thoughts by the sight of Julia emerging from her little white car and strolling towards me. Her smile as she approached sent all other considerations flying into the ether. She hugged me (she smelled divine), and we walked inside grinning shyly at each other. My inner teenager self, heart palpitating madly,was rescued adroitly by my accomplished-conversationalist adult self. I enquired about her day and asked what she would like to drink. She was wearing a pink linen blouse over a soft dark coloured skirt. Her skin looked soft and warm, and to my senses, she exuded waves of femininity. We both sipped Pinot Grigio. I’m sure my forehead was mimicking the condensation on the outside of our cold glasses. Being unused to alcohol, I could feel its effect as it slid down my inexperienced gullet.
My inner besotted teenager found it hard to concentrate while watching her mouth and eyes as she spoke. I repressed this part of me as well as I could, asked intelligent questions and encouraged her to say more. We laughed together as she described her workplace and its comical idiosyncrasies. She remarked that it’s essential to have a sense of humour to work there. I thought to myself that my own workplace could definitely benefit from some humour. It’s a bit serious this god business!
When she asked about me, I told her I had been writing a sermon about love, but not about anything romantic, just dry old standard love. She thought this hilarious, that I had made a clever joke, and I suppose it is funny in our strange modern western culture, enmeshed as we are in corny movies, frivolous best-sellers, and shallow sit-coms.
“I must tell you, Julia, that someone has done something most unloving today and I am deeply worried!” I said and proceeded to describe what had happened with Hero and the horrible note fastened to his collar. She was most horrified and reached over and stroked my hand. My inner teenager wicked self almost thought that it was worth having a crisis to feel her warm touch! I described my trip to the police station and how upset poor Mrs Hobson had been.
Julia paused for a moment, looked at me seriously and said,
“Did you know that Wayne Turner is out of jail at the moment? He has been harassing both Michelle and me, and we have taken out an AVO against his having any contact with us.”
I was equally horrified for them both but then the penny dropped.
“Are you thinking that he holds a grudge against me? After all, I was heavily, albeit accidentally, involved in his arrest!”
“It is a possibility, Horace. He seems to think that he owns Michelle even though she’s made it clear that she wants nothing to do with him! He called me all sorts of names and swore that I’m trying to take Michelle away from him.”
I thought this was a good time to reach over and stroke her other hand comfortingly, nearly spilling my Pinot Grigio in the process.
“At least he is not the father of little Horatio thank goodness!” I exclaimed. “Michelle mentioned that the other day.”
Julia nodded and gave a smile of relief. She gripped my hand tighter.
“Just don’t tell anyone about… his real father.” she said, in a conspiratorial voice.