he had in the last few weeks.
‘Can I be of assistance?’
Still kneeling, I turned to see the cyclist, one of his brows quirked, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. A rather nice mouth, I decided. I was uncertain if his display of humour was directed towards Bambino, or the predicament I was now in.
Frustrated, and with some effort, I backed out of the car, shrugged and folded my arms. ‘I am turning out to be the worst dog owner possible. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.’
Still with his helmet on, he leant in the car. Pointing, he commanded, ‘OUT!’
With that tone of voice, I would have obeyed as well. Wilbur leapt from the car, and with his tail between his legs, disappeared inside the front gate.
‘Thank you. I’m quite new at this. The adoption was not that long ago.’
‘I see.’ There was that brief smile again, but it was as if he was unused to it, and before I knew it, it had disappeared. ‘Respect takes time.’
‘The car I mean. The car is rather new,’ I attempted a joke, and laughed at myself, but then exhaled heavily. ‘No seriously, I’ve been thinking I need a dog trainer.’
‘Good idea. They’ll have you in shape before you know it,’ he said, his face unreadable.
I laughed. ‘Touché! Very funny.’
And then, he laughed. I think he surprised himself as well. ‘Simple concise instructions are all you need. A dog is a pack animal and needs a leader. One or two clear words spoken firmly and he’ll get the drift.’
‘Well thank you, once again…’
Before I could finish, I heard the gardener cry out, ‘BAD DOG! WILBUR, DOWN!’ And then his voice rose even further. ‘Will you bleedin’ well get off?’
In a flash, I took off down the gravel driveway, once again struggling in my fitted skirt and heels. I knew I must have looked ridiculous attempting to run on my toes. Halfway along, poor old Brownie was crouched on the ground on all fours with Wilbur on his back. Wilbur’s front paws were bracing the man’s shoulders, and he was nibbling at his ears. The dog looked to be having a wonderful game.
I shrieked. ‘NO WILBUR, OFF.’ Awkwardly, I ran to them and grabbed hold of Wilbur’s collar, and with strength I didn’t know I had, hoisted him off the older gent. The cyclist was one step behind me and helped Brownie to his feet, dusting him off. Meanwhile, Wilbur spotted a couple of inquisitive black and white honeyeaters feeding in the lower leaves of the murraya hedge and instantly distracted, shot off after them.
‘Brownie, I’m terribly sorry. Are you okay?’ I asked, holding the older gent’s elbow. He looked feeble enough without the dog doing him any harm. I brushed a leaf off his shirt sleeve.
Brownie, too, brushed down the front of his overalls, looking for damage. ‘I’m fine Mrs Riding. That dog’s quite some weight, isn’t he? I was busy crouching getting the nutgrass out of the gravel and before I knew it, the dratted dog leapt onto me. He very nearly winded me.’
‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ the cyclist suggested, picking Brownie’s hat up off the ground, and giving it a brush off before handing it to him.
‘No, no, I’m fine. Just gave me a bit of a fright more than anything. Mr Carmody always had labs, but this one seems a bit more mischievous than the others, and that’s saying something.’ He glanced at his elbow, checking to see if it was alright. ‘Anyway Mrs Riding, I was about to pack up, so I might be off. I’ll put these tools away in the potting shed.’
‘How about you sit and have a cup of tea first?’ I offered. ‘I was about to have one.’
‘I think I’ll call it a day, if you don’t mind.’
I watched as he walked back down the driveway towards the house. Wilbur, bored with his game with the birds, ran over to him. The old man waved him away. ‘Go on, git out of here.’ But his tone was friendly. From high above in one of the gum trees, a kookaburra cackled as if in derision. I turned to thank the cyclist yet again.
Standing a few metres away, he was examining the garden. When he turned to me, I caught the admiration in his ark eyes. ‘It’s all still here,’ he said, his voice so quiet, I struggled to hear what he had said.
I watched his face, noting that his deep-set dark eyes were surrounded by long, dark lashes. But what struck me most was not the colour, though it was rich and velvety, but their expression. They were filled with something I could not put my finger on, a sadness perhaps.
‘You know the garden?’ I asked, surprise in my voice.
‘Yes, I spent time here as a boy.’ His face appeared animated as he glanced around. ‘My father was the head gardener here for twelve years.’
‘Really? Here… twelve years… I would love to chat with him and see what he remembers.’
He paused for a few seconds. ‘I’m afraid he passed away years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ I was unsure of what else to say.
He shrugged, and was quiet for a few moments more, but continued to observe the garden. ‘I forgot how spectacular the Lagerstroemia Indica was here.’
‘I’m sorry? The what?’ I gave him a questioning look.
There was the slightest look of amusement on his face. ‘The hedge,’ he indicated.
‘Oh the Crepe Myrtle?’
Nodding, he walked over and peered through a gap. ‘The rose garden. Yes I remember it.’ He turned to me. ‘My father was obsessed with them.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘He’d say they had delicate but wise little faces.’ A pensive look crossed his face and I felt he was sorry for sharing so much information.
‘Would you like to have a further look around?’ I asked, intrigued by someone who actually had seen the garden in its heyday.
‘Yes… I would.’ He removed his helmet and with surprise I noted his closely shaven hair, so short I guessed it to be a number one blade. A haircut like that could go either way. You could either look like a thug, or very attractive. Let’s just say he didn’t look like a thug, but really how was I to know. Luckily for him he had olive skin and a good shaped head, two of the requirements for men who wished to wear their hair that short.
Helmetless, I was able to guess his age as a well preserved perhaps mid thirty something. Hmmm… previously, because of his fit physicality, I had thought him much younger than me. I observed him checking his watch and as he did his sleeve rose up and I noticed the bottom half of a brand new tattoo, on a particularly well-muscled bicep. It appeared to be the bottom half of some letters, however in those few brief seconds I was unable to read it. I guessed it to be only recent by the brightness of the colours and the fact it actually did look rather sore. I was not partial to tattoos.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise the time. It’s late.’
‘Of course,’ I said, however the way my mind worked, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was late for. ‘Perhaps another time.’ Suddenly,
