lay there for a moment, wondering if he was still dreaming, but the insistent throbbing in his bicep where the brake lever had poked him made that unlikely. Slowly, he picked himself up and dusted himself off. He could have sworn he hadn’t left the bike there last night. However, severe jet lag and a couple of beers could mean he was wrong about that. He probably shouldn’t have cycled home.
It was then he noticed the crisp white envelope lying on the floor. It was addressed to Mr D. Arden. He kept an eye on it while he righted his bike and leaned it against the wall, then picked the pristine letter up and went to snaffle the milk from the front step.
Thankfully, some things never changed. There was a pint waiting for him, still cold enough to be beaded with condensation. He picked it up, keeping the letter in his other hand, and made a mental note to go out to the shops as soon as he’d finished breakfast. He knew a plastic carton wasn’t going to fool her, but he’d leave a note, explaining …
Once back inside, he dumped a generous amount of milk on his Coco Pops then sat down on one of the kitchen chairs to read the letter.
Dear Mr Arden, it started. He snorted. That made him sound like his father. People hardly ever called him that. Most just used his last name, no pleasantries. Sometimes people used his Christian name, but a lot of his friends just called him Nic, mostly because he’d made it clear if they ever tried to shorten it to ‘Dom’ he’d flatten them. Whatever this letter contained, he guessed it wasn’t going to be good news.
He read on …
It has come to my attention that you are in residence again.
He snorted again, smiling as he continued to shove Coco Pops in his face. In residence? That didn’t just make him sound like his father; now he sounded like the Queen!
As a consequence, I think we should establish some ground rules that allow us to cohabit harmoniously.
Ah, the old bird upstairs. Once upon a time they’d got on fairly well, but maybe she was getting extra crabby in her old age. He stopped both reading and chewing to look at his kitchen ceiling. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her for quite a while. How long had it been? One year? Two? One time he’d come back she’d been so quiet he thought she might have gone into a home.
He’d thought they’d had quite a good arrangement going. Most of the time she had the house to herself and when he was ‘in residence’ she was deaf enough that she hadn’t minded his loud music or the fact his body clock was so messed up that sometimes he clattered about in the middle of the night and slept all day. Mainly, they’d just stayed out of each other’s hair. It seemed that was about to change.
He carried on reading, Coco Pops forgotten, with a growing sense of apprehension.
Firstly, I think we can all agree that the communal hallway is not a bicycle shed.
His eyebrows rose and he let out of huff of surprised laughter. His upstairs neighbour was starting to remind him of Mrs McClure, his old headmistress, who had also had a lot to say about him and bike sheds – but it hadn’t been about leaving his bike there, that was for sure.
Secondly, each of us should be responsible for our own post and the disposal thereof. I’m sure the Amazon rainforest will benefit greatly if you could cut down on your magazine subscriptions and remove yourself from quite so many takeaway food mailing lists.
He picked up his spoon and shovelled another helping of cereal in, frowning. Okay, this had been mildly amusing to start with, but where did this interfering old busybody get off telling him how to run his life?
Lastly, I should remind you that it is your duty to maintain any lights on the ground floor, just as it is mine to replace those on the top landing. It seems the light bulb in the hallway blew last night so I’d be very glad if you could replace it promptly and before you go away again, to prevent any further accidents from happening.
Yours sincerely,
Claire Bixby
Dominic stared at the letter. He wasn’t feeling quite as cheerful as he had when he’d picked it up. He chewed and his frown lines deepened further. Claire? He thought her name had been Laura or Lottie or something like that, although he’d always erred on the safe side and called her Mrs Bixby. He shook his head and threw the now chocolate milk-splattered letter down on the table. But then that generation were keen on abandoning their given names for nicknames. Look at his grandparents … They’d been christened Mavis and Reg, but everyone had called them Teddy and Bob.
He sighed. Normally, he’d have blown this off, because he’d have been away and the snotty letter thousands of miles behind him in less than a week’s time. However, the shoulder he’d busted a couple of years ago working in South America had been bothering him. And if it bothered him too much, then he couldn’t carry his kit, and that just wasn’t thinkable, especially now he was branching out, mixing his freelance camera operator work with making films of his own.
Stupid doctor had told him he needed to rest it, to let it finish its healing process without having to deal with the rigours of supporting a broadcast-size camera for hours on end, travelling in jeeps that would have laughed at the idea of suspension and sleeping in hammocks or on the ground.
He’d had the offer to work on a historical documentary for the BBC in China, about a plucky single lady from London by the name of Gladys Aylward, who’d travelled to China to be a missionary at the turn of the twentieth century. Not only had she ended up adopting over a hundred orphans, but she’d marched them over mountains and the Yellow River to escape the invading Japanese army.
Aside from the fact he was interested in the story, the job would put plenty of money in the coffers for his next directorial project, and would also provide some useful contacts. However, he needed to be fully fit by mid-July or they were going to have to go with someone else. He had some physio sessions lined up and an appointment with the specialist at the end of June, so he couldn’t say yay or nay until then.
All in all, it meant just one thing. He was grounded. For now at least.
Which also meant he was going to have to play nice with the old lady upstairs. He blew out a breath of frustration. Whoop-de-do. Less than twenty-four hours back in dear old London and he was already having so much fun.
He threw his empty cereal bowl in the sink and headed out to the hallway to collect his bike and stash it back in his spare room. And while he was at it, he really ought to write a note – a not too sarcastic note, if he could manage it – and explain about the milk. That was really going to put him in her good books, wasn’t it?
She had a point, he supposed. She probably wasn’t too steady on her feet any more, and the last thing he wanted was to be responsible for a broken hip because she’d tripped over his bike. He had left it in a pretty stupid place, hadn’t he? So stupid that he’d managed to fall foul of it himself. He shook his head and laughed softly as he lifted it up and manhandled it into his flat. It was only as he was resting it against the wall of his spare room-slash-office that he started to think about exactly just how stupidly the bike had been positioned …
He swore. Quite violently. And he didn’t care if the old bat could hear him!
The bike had been left partially covering his door, hadn’t it? Now he was properly awake, he could remember where he’d left it quite clearly, and it certainly hadn’t been where he’d found it this morning.
