No. 8 Ask for help
three
August
Ihave a busy day. Half the village seem to have things needing fixing and when that happens, I’m the one they call.
Leaving Darcy with a slow-release treat toy—because I’ll be out most of the day and as much as I grumble, I love the little shit and he deserves his beef biscuits—I lock up the house and head out the front gate.
I try not to let my eyes dart to the front door across the road to the cottage where Bea now lives, but they flick that way against my will, only to be distracted by something laying in the road.
A rumbling complaint comes from my chest as I stomp over to the foreign object, cursing this city dweller for littering on her first day in the village.
It's not until I’m swooping down to pick the scrap up with the intent of posting it through the letterbox of the cottage that I realise what I’m picking up is in fact a pair of women’s underwear.
A thong, to be precise. In shocking pink.
What the…? I’m still holding the lace pinched between my thumb and forefinger when the door to the cottage swings open and there stands the village’s new little ray of sunshine looking flustered and wrapped only in a towel with bare feet and one hand clutched at the cloth at her chest.
“Oh, um.” She stutters to a halt in front of me, in the middle of the road. “They’re…they’re mine.”
I look between her and the underwear several times, unsure of what to say. I’m just about thrust them at her and make a hasty retreat when she speaks again.
“There was a spider,” she blurts rather frantically.
“And it made a break for it with your underwear?” My tone is flat and my face expressionless.
“More or less,” she mumbles, looking to the ground where her bare feet rest over the rough road surface.
I’m briefly annoyed she hasn’t got shoes on; it must be uncomfortable.
Colour has risen high on her slightly rounded cheeks, and her lips purse as she chews on the inside of her cheek.
“There was a kerfuffle and I accidentally lost control…of my underwear.”
“Right,” I say, drawing out the word disbelievingly. “Well, here you are.” I extend my arm out to offer her the offending garment, but she looks at it and swallows loudly.
“I just want you to know, I’m not usually the kind of gal who throws her panties out the window only for strange men to pick them up before she can get to them,” she babbles.
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to wave the pink lace at her again for her to take it, but she kind of jerks back from the offering.
“But you know, this thing was really big—”
“Right.”
“—I mean, it must have escaped from the zoo or something, it was basically Shelob.”
“The fuck is Shelob?” I say, screwing my face up in utter confusion at what she’s talking about and why I’m still holding her fucking thong. My arm drops to my side as it’s becoming increasingly clear she’s not taking it from me.
“Oh, you know…” She perks up a bit, giving me a happy little smile. “The spider from Lord of the Rings?”
“Never seen it,” I grumble.
“Oh.” Her smile drops. “Well, you should read it, it’s really good.”
“I don’t read.”
She blinks at me like I’d admitted to not being able to read, her expression turning almost sad. “I see.”
I raise my hand again and once more try to palm off her delicates, but she shies away.
“Um, so, you see…this isn’t my usual MO or anything, I’m not some weirdo who like…gets off on tall handsome strangers holding their underwear—”
“That’s great, so can you just take them?” I snap, waving them in front of her.
“—but could you maybe, um…check them?”
“Excuse me?” I say, my brows shooting to my hairline.
“It’s just if that…thing is still in there, I may actually have an aneurism.
I’m not sure my anxiety could handle it touching me.
” She fans her face with her free hand. “Just thinking about it is making me kinda nauseous.” She’s hopping from one foot to the other, her pink hair piled high on her head bobs from side to side and I honestly don’t know what the fuck is happening right now, but I hold my hand up to try and get her to stop jumping about.
“Okay, okay,” I say placatingly. With a sigh both long and loud, I hold up my new neighbour’s underwear, still touching only the smallest amount of fabric as possible with my thumb and finger, and I twist them around to…
inspect them. Holy fucking hell. I don’t see a hairy tarantula; I see pink lace and sheer fabric with a thin string at the back that must nestle so prettily between her arse cheeks.
It’s hard not to picture. Clearing my throat like it might distract me from the fact blood seems to be sinking south, I hold the thong in front of her again. “No spider,” I croak.
Obviously feeling a lot more confident after my assessment, she snatches them from me and straightens her shoulders. “Thank you, I, uh…I appreciate it. And sorry. That was really weird.”
“It was,” I agree rather awkwardly.
The silence stretching between us feels stifling in the cool, early summer morning air. So even though she looks like she might be trying to find something to say, I walk away and refuse to turn back to watch her retreat back inside. Nor do I dwell on the fact she called me handsome.
After hanging three new doors for the Gordans and putting up custom shelves for Mr and Mrs Pointer, I arrive at Mrs James’s front door.
I don’t have my toolbox for this job, and I shove my hands in my pockets after ringing the bell while I wait for her to answer.
The yapping of her little dog is loud and constant until Mrs James’s aged voice calls out.
“Oh hush, you silly thing. It’s only August.”
One side of my mouth tips up as I listen to her continuing to berate the chihuahua with the familiar clicking sound of her walker frame heading toward the door. When the bolt slides loudly and the door clicks open, Ruth James gives me an assessing up and down.
“Hmm,” she hums, lips pursing. “You need to shave.”
I roll my eyes and step into the hallway of her cottage.
It’s a beautiful home she’s lived in since I’ve been alive, but unlike other old folk who seem to let their houses freeze in whatever decade they felt most comfortable, Ruth likes to refresh the place every few years.
She even hires Joanie to help her, not that I think my sister charges Ruth, just as I won’t be charging for my visit today.
No locals would charge Ruth; she’s basically the matriarch of the whole village.
“Coffee?” she offers, clicking away ahead of me toward the kitchen.
“Please.” I’ve already had three cups today, each of my customer’s keeping me well supplied with drinks and cookies, but I’ll hardly ever say no to a cup.
I follow her into the bright kitchen and I’m proud to see it still looks good after I fitted it for her last year, the house is immaculate, much like its owner.
Mrs James was always old; she looked like a grandmother for as long as I could remember, but she’s also the most glamourous person I’ve ever met.
Even today, when she probably won’t see another soul aside from me, she’s wearing makeup, the chain attached to her giant, comically magnifying glasses glints with what look like diamonds, although I doubt they’re real.
It’s May and the weather is certainly warm, but she has on a thick, red jumper that covers her neck and black trousers that, in my very humble and uneducated opinion, look elegant.
Her nails are always painted red, and she smells of the same perfume she’s worn for sixty years.
“If it’s good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it’s good enough for me,” she’d say anytime anyone commented on her signature scent.
In the kitchen, I let Ruth start filling the kettle knowing full well if I offered to help, she’d stare me down and tell me off for insinuating she can’t do it herself.
I head straight over to the patio doors she’d called me about and open it up, the creak is loud and obnoxious.
There’s a can of WD-40 already out on the dining table, so I go about oiling up the hinges until the door is silent.
Then I go to the cupboard under the sink and collect three new lightbulbs from her stock, moving around the house to replace the ones she’d told me had gone out.
By the time I’m back in the kitchen to change the final bulb, she’s sat at the breakfast bar with her own mug of coffee, a second one sat steaming, waiting for me.
“So,” she says, like that one word is a whole sentence.
I barely have to stretch to change the recessed light in the kitchen, the three-hundred-year-old cottage having mercilessly low ceilings for my-six-foot-eight frame.
I concentrate harder than necessary on the task at hand as I know the tone means she’ll be bringing up subjects I don’t want to talk about.
Just like the Gordans did, just like Mr & Mrs Pointer did.
Port Doone runs on gossip and tourism, and the tourist season won’t be starting properly for another few weeks.
“So,” I mumble in response.
“How’s the new neighbour?” she asks casually.
I shrug like I don’t know the answer even though I already have some fairly strong opinions. “Hardly spoken to her.” Have thoroughly inspected her underwear, though.
“Mmhmm.” She sips her coffee and folds her arms, leaning back on the stool to narrow her glare at me. “And are you being nice?”
No. “Yes.”
“Have you welcomed her to the village?”
No. “Yes.”
Her face softens as I finish changing the bulb and she tilts her head, her purplish white hair not budging at all with the movement. “We were all routing for you, darling.”