I tiptoe back to bed and sleep without dreams.
Early next morning, when I open the seat, I find three dead moths, a shrivelled-up spider, the torn corner of a yellowed newspaper from 1979 and a rusty paperclip. I wipe it all out with a damp sponge and let it dry. It is only as I am settling the heavy portable glue gun into the rear corner that I notice the flooring wobbles.
Loath to damage my tools, or lose glue sticks and other supplies into the gap that opens, I peer further inside, and discover a whole floorboard loose. Curious, I wiggle it back and forth then give it a bang and a yank and it is free, the space beneath it dragging my attention deeper. If only I could see around corners. Gingerly I reach inside. There’s something there, velvety and heavy. It falls away from my flailing fingers and my heart rate spikes. It can’t be a rat. It’s cold. My stomach jumps. A dead rat?
I can’t resist. I reach inside again and extend my whole body as far as I can, the edge of the window box hard against my ribs. If it is a dead rat, I want it out of there. I manage to pinch an edge of the thing and draw it closer, and closer again, until I can reach my fingers around it. It’s awkward and surprisingly heavy. I haul it up and out and sit, the deep grey pouch in my lap.
I untie the string and unfold the edges of the old cloth and gasp. They shine and wink like a school of fish in the early morning light – teaspoons of every shape and size, chinking as I turn them over in my hands. Why were they hidden? Who lived here? A thief?
Chapter 19
Lucy
I’m out walking nextday when I spot a taller man, just like my handsome neighbor. He’s way ahead of me again, up the hill, so I quicken my pace.
It’s my lucky day. The traffic lights go red and the man in the coat is stuck for a few minutes while I catch up.
I’m puffing when I reach him, elated it really is Dirk.
“Well, hello, neighbor,” I say, and he turns to me and breaks into a smile.“Where are you going, Doc?”
“Nowhere in particular. Thanks for the drinks the other night.”
“Glad you enjoyed yourself,” I say. “Don’t you just love this neighborhood? So many old trees. How are you liking it?”
“Fine. What is this? An inquisition?”
“It’s called ‘conversation,’ Dirk. It won’t kill you. I’ll leave you alone if you want. We don’t need to walk the same way.”
“No, no. I’ve never been good at small talk.”
“It doesn’t have to be ‘small.’ We can go deep, Dirk O’Connell. Ten questions, remember? The big ones. Like ‘what brings you the most joy.’ That’s an important one, don’t you think?”
“Hmmm. Joy. Hard to define. Never thought about it.”
“But it matters.”
