His mood plummets further at the memory. Plucking his phone from his pocket, he scrolls through countless news feeds,scanning the headlines with his breath held. He expels it. Still nothing. They don’t know where he is.Thank Christ.
He thinks of the random noticeboard message from earlier.Show kindness to children.What a load of nonsense. As if anyone would run around beingunkindto them. Whoever wrote it must be scraping the barrel today.
Striding to his front door, he picks up the black tool bag provided for the job. There’s a list of tasks he’ll start on. It’s funny, he didn’t think there’d be much to do given the manor conversion was only completed a month ago, but somehow the list grows every day: missing lightbulbs, fences to paint, reoccurring loose wires. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone was creating extra work to stop him brooding over his situation since waking up groggy and pain-laced in a hospital bed. The feeling of being haunted, of carrying a passenger who didn’t ask permission to board. Perhaps he’s like Scrooge inA Christmas Carol, besieged by ghosts intent on showing him the error of his ways, hoping to redeem him.
Groaning, he shakes his head. He must be losing it, if this is the kind of stuff it’s dreaming up.
Later, he’s walking along the first-floor corridor which links the east and west wings, when Kirsten and Rosalie turn the corner. His mood hasn’t improved, so crossing paths with the sunniest people in the place is just his luck.
‘Hi, there.’ The redhead halts, frowning in concern. ‘You okay?’
Harley has the uneasy feeling she recognises him beneath the overgrown beard, unruly hair and baseball cap. ‘Yeah,’ he evades, ‘you know.’
‘That good, huh?’ Her expression turns amused, eyes twinkling.
They’re a gleaming blue, like the sky on a midsummer’s day. Clear, deep and beautiful. He has no idea where the whimsical idea comes from. She’s not his type. He prefers tall, gazelle-like women, not short curvy ones with freckles and heart-shaped faces.
He realises he’s staring as a blush climbs her throat. It’s fascinating.
Thankfully, her daughter interrupts. ‘Scuse me, are you called Harley ‘cos of the motorbike? One time I visited my grandad, he was watching a TV programme about them.’
‘Yeah,’ he blinks, relieved to move on, ‘my dad always wanted a Harley Davidson.’
‘Cool!’ The little girl grins, revealing several missing teeth.
I hope the tooth fairy has visitednearly springs out of his mouth, but he bites it back.Stop that.He orders the voice.
Rosalie’s waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t know what to say. Before, he’d not spent much time around kids, never wanting any of his own and with no friends close enough to ask him to be godfather. Nowadays, he feels like the sodding Pied-Piper, everywhere he goes. Shops, petrol stations, his own bloody home… children want to talk to him. He has no idea why, or how to respond.
‘So, did he get one?’ Kirsten prompts, raising fair eyebrows.
‘Get one what?’ A child? He’s lost track of the conversation.
She squints in puzzlement, ‘Did your dad ever get a Harley Davidson?’
‘Don’t know.’ He shifts on his feet. ‘Didn’t see him for ten years after he left, and then it was in a wooden box at his funeral when I was seventeen.’ He’s not sure why he’s telling her this. He hardly knows her. She has one of those faces though, warm and understanding.
Wincing, she casts a quick look at Rosalie. ‘Right. Sorry to hear that. Erm, Rosie, we’d better get going. Cakes to bake.’
‘Oh, Mu-mmy,’ the little girl groans, ‘not again.’ She peers into Harley’s unzipped tool bag. ‘Can I help Mr Harley instead, please?’
Kirsten opens her mouth, but Harley jumps in, the question breaking him out in a cold sweat. ‘No. I’m not some glorified babysitter.’
The little girl’s face drops, eyes rounding and brimming with tears.
Kirsten shoots him a murderous look before digging around in her pocket. Passing her daughter a strawberry lollipop, she points towards one of the windows. ‘Can you count how many trees there are in the back garden, near the river at the bottom of the slope?’
‘Okay.’ Without looking at Harley, Rosie trudges away, shoulders rounded.
Kirsten spins around. ‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ she hisses, ‘but don’t talk to her like that. In future, just say you’re done for the day.’
‘Lie, you mean?’
‘No, be diplomatic. Don’t break her heart with unkindness or make her feel less than she is.’
‘You’re being dramatic. I’m a stranger. How would not tagging along with me upset her?’
‘For some weird reason, she likes you. After the meeting, she told me even though you look sad and have a beard, you have a good heart.’ Visibly trying to calm down, she adds, ‘Look, she spent years being rejected by her father, so when another man rejects her, it’s upsetting.’
