That evening, Arnold whistled that lovely song Sister Theresa had just taught him. And though he had trouble remembering the words, he had even more difficulty getting the tune out of his head. He felt certain that, if she released it on record, it would top the hit parade for many months to come and be a major fundraiser for her Mission.
He was in the street, stood on a chair, using a small brush and tiny pot of paint to touch up the weathered JESUS SAVES sign by the Mission door. He’d wanted to make himself useful during his stay, and she’d suggested the sign. While he painted, his free arm clutched his full case to his chest.
He completed a beautiful final ‘s’ finishing off with a dabbed full-stop. Smiling, he admired his handiwork.
But, through the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something, at first just a small blur to his right.
He took a proper look.
‘Oh my,’ he uttered, almost toppling from the chair, his right arm having to flail to maintain his balance. It was her. several yards distant, strolling toward him, up the street’s incline.
The girl with the polka dot hair.
Whistling a tune of her own, she carried a Victorian diving helmet, from which the fingernails of her left hand scraped dried mud. She hadn’t yet noticed him.
Before she could, he jumped down from the chair and ducked into the doorway’s recess, his back pressed against the bare brick wall.
And he hid, case clutched to his chest, chest heaving. He tried to keep his breathing quiet but it was so loud, so loud. How could she not hear it long before reaching him? And his heart pounded. Edgar Allen Poe’s tell-tale heart flashed through his mind. How could his own body turn against him like this?
He tried to hold his breath but was in such a fluster he couldn’t even remember how to do that.
And the girl’s whistling drew nearer, nearer, ever nearer.
He gasped, involuntarily, as she passed just inches from him. She stepped round the chair, not looking at it, and walked on, picking more mud from the helmet. Still she whistled, her bare feet padding. And for some reason, she heard neither his breathing nor his heart.
As her tune faded, he leaned out, watching her back recede up the street then disappear round a corner.
And the whistling faded away.
He waited, in case she planned to leap out from round the comer and surprise him.
He waited.
And he waited.
And finally, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Still shaken, Arnold entered the Mission reception. Letting the door clunk shut behind him, he composed himself.
Sister Theresa was behind the desk, writing in her ledger which was lit by an anglepoise lamp, or ‘angel poise’ as she liked to call it.
Approaching, he reached up, placing paintpot and brush on the counter. Trembly voiced he said, ‘I’ve finished the sign.’
‘Why thank you, Arnold.’ She placed pen on counter and smiled down at him. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
And still shaking, he headed for the corridor that led to the sleeping quarters, so many thoughts swirling in his head.
‘Arnold?’ she called after him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ He stopped, and turned to face her, his feet scuffing floorboards. ‘It was just, I … there was a woman.’
‘A woman?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of a woman?’
‘A beautiful one.’
Her other eyebrow raised. ‘Would that be a beautiful woman of the curvaceous variety?’ she teased, straight-faced.
‘She might have been. I-I didn’t notice.’
‘And did this woman perform unwelcome actions towards you?’
‘No. She just, I…’
‘Did you perform unwelcome actions towards her?’.
‘Oh; no.’ He turned red. ‘I could never treat a lady like that. This was just something I can’t tell you about.’
‘Arnold, have you been having impure thoughts on God’s front steps?’
‘No,’ he insisted, flustered. ‘I …’
‘Not that it matters. No one expects you to live like a nun just because you live amongst them. And, looking at Sister Remunerable’s behaviour, it’s probably best you don’t.’
‘She had polka-dot hair.’
‘Sister Remunerable? Sister Remunerable has never had polka-dot hair. Though she did once sport a rather too ambitious mohawk that collapsed beneath the weight of its own wallpaper paste.’
‘No, the woman. The one who went past.’
‘Ah,’ she said knowingly.
‘Ah?’ he asked blankly.
‘That’ll be Dr Rama.’
‘You know her?’ He feared she might turn him over to her.
‘She goes past every day, armed with some junk or other. Heaven alone knows what she wants it for; some wild scheme or other. There was quite a fuss in the local paper when she arrived in town. It seems she’s quite the recovering basket case and much admired in such circles; others too, judging by the looks she receives from passing males. But she takes it all in her not inconsiderable stride.’
‘Does she live locally?’
‘Not Dr Rama. She’s far too salubrious for this area. She lives in the big house up on Moldern Crescent. And Heaven help any man who finds himself alone in that house with her.’