Chapter Eight

 

 

I made instant coffee for the speed of it. He looked like he needed a quick pick me up. I set it before him at the kitchen table, along with a plate of buttered crackers topped with thick slices of cheddar cheese. I would have made him a sandwich, but the only bread I had was in the freezer.

He thanked me and then set to work, munching steadily through the modest repast without speaking a word. It was plain he was starving and trying not to rush. His hands had a faint tremor to them. For some reason it brought a lump to my throat. I was getting sentimental in my old age.

He finished the crackers, supped off the last of the coffee, wiped his mouth and gave a deep sigh. “I needed that, thank you. You’re kind. My uncle would have liked you. He always said kindness was an undervalued trait.”

“Would you like a biscuit? I’ve got a fancy tin of chocolate chip shortbread. My mother brought it when she visited.”

He nodded eagerly and I got the tin out of the cupboard. “Help yourself.”

He chose a round and bit into it, a look of sheer bliss on his face. “May I take a piece for later, Si, do you mind?”

“You can take the tin and welcome. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.” I stood up and reached for his empty mug. “I’ll make you another coffee on the proviso you tell me how you came to be in this bin scavenging predicament.”

He told me. It was quite a tale in its way.

Dee-Dee is a man of independent means, an heir, sort of. When his great uncle died, he not only willed his apartment to Dee-Dee, he left him all his money, but on condition. Dee-Dee isn’t allowed to have personal control of the bulk. It’s tied up in a fund administered by his uncle’s solicitors.

It seems great uncle Des worried about his nephew, whom he considered unworldly. He wanted to give him security by making sure he had a roof over his head and a means of living throughout his life.

Dee-Dee ruefully scratched his head at that point in the tale. “I don’t have much in the way of formal qualifications. The only school subject I did relatively well at was art. I liked English literature too, reading anyway, not the interpreting bit. My interpretations always seemed to be out of step with everyone else’s. I had one teacher, Mr Harris, who used to read out my essays in a way that made everyone laugh at me.”

“He was abusing his position.” I cut in, appalled. “No teacher worth their salt mocks a student for being original.”

“I never thought of it in those terms. I thought I was in the wrong, a bit stupid. It put me off anyway. I concentrated on my art. Uncle Desmond knew how important it was to me. He recognised my need to do it and wanted to allow me to keep doing it. He knew I wouldn’t be happy with a nine to five job. I did try a few, but they never worked out. Imposed routines depress me.”

“You’re a free spirit,” I said, still angry with a teacher who had singled out a student for derision. The man probably had a pedestrian mind incapable of reaching beyond the set curriculum. Some people despise what they don’t understand.

“Yeah.” He gave a shy smile. “A free spirit.”

Under the terms of the will Dee-Dee receives living expenses, a set sum paid into his bank account twice yearly in March and September. In the years since his uncle’s death the cost of living has risen sharply, but the stipends have remained the same. Dee-Dee admitted to not always budgeting wisely. In the case of March an expensive new computer system and a new flat screen television set had taken a large bite out of his income and made it harder to keep on top of things.

I offered a possible solution. “Why don’t you make an appointment with the solicitors, to request the deposits be reviewed and raised a bit to cover hikes in the cost of living? They perhaps don’t realise the payments are your sole means of income rather than supplements.”

He stared at me. “Damn it to buggering hell, why didn’t I think of that? Do you think they might consider it?”

“I don’t see why not. It’s a reasonable request to make of what is after all your estate. You can at least try.”

“I will, thanks, Si.”

Leaning across the table he hugged me, a move that took me by surprise. It was nice. James had never been much of a hugger.

“Listen, Dee. You’re going to have to learn to plan better, so you’re not left penniless for weeks on end. Think of the money as your salary. You should divide it into monthly portions, not blow it all at once. Buying fewer fancy contact lenses might be a start. They can’t be cheap.” I almost said why waste money on them when you’ve got perfectly nice eyes, but I didn’t, in case he thought I was coming onto him. I didn’t want to set complications in motion. I said instead. “You also need to set money aside for utility bills and to cover repairs, like your washing machine and boiler.”

“You’re right, Si, I know and I always intend to, but,” he lifted his shoulders, “I never seem to quite manage it.”

In common with the first time we met our conversation was interrupted by my mobile, signalling arrival of a text message this time. I pulled the phone out of my pocket to read it. It was from Kye. It said: glad you’ve settled in. James says hi.

I stared at the message. I’d sent James a couple of newsy texts since moving, and some photos of the bakery building and my apartment, and the best he could do in response was to say hi through a second party?

“You all right, Simon?”

“Fine.” I pushed my phone back into my pocket.

“Who was the message from, your boyfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

“A friend you want to be your boyfriend?”

“Of course not. Whatever makes you say that?”

“Your eyes. They look sad, like you’re yearning for something or someone.”

I changed the subject. “Your uncle sounded like a decent bloke, interesting too.”

“He was. I was very fond of him even though I didn’t see much of him. He was always shut in his study working, but at least I knew he was there. I wouldn’t see him for days on end and then he’d suddenly appear. He’d give me a big hug and demand to know what I’d been doing. We’d do some housework, have a meal and then sit and talk for ages or go out for a walk around the grounds.” A look of pride came to his face. “He was the first person to buy an apartment here in the bakery. He had his name down for it before they even started work on converting the building.”

“Was he a fan of Art Deco architecture?”

“It was more for sentimental reasons. He came from humble stock. His mother used to work in Arthur’s factory, filling doughnuts with jam and cream.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “He told me as a kid he used to sit on the office steps while waiting for her to knock off her shift. People in the factory felt sorry for him and used to give him lots of treats, cakes and biscuits. He’d survived childhood polio you see, but it left him with a gammy leg. He used to tire and get ill easily so he missed a lot of school. He read to pass the time. The women who worked with his mam would pass on their old magazines and books to him. It’s what got him interested in writing romances. He bought a second hand typewriter and set to it. He had a story published in a woman’s magazine when he was nineteen. It was the start of his writing career.”

“He must have been good at it to leave a fortune behind.”

“He was prolific, plus he dabbled in stocks and shares as a sideline, excelled at it too, but writing was his real love. He wrote hundreds of books under different pseudonyms, a couple of his historicals were turned into TV costume dramas, and he did screenplays. He even churned out books by the truckload for Mills and Boon. He wrote Regency romances, contemporary romances, doctor and nurse romances as well as a series of sci-fi stories, love amongst the stars.”

“Sugar coated happy ever after fiction for women.” I pulled a face. “My friend Vicky loves that kind of thing.”

“Don’t knock it.” He wagged a finger at me. “There’s nothing wrong with happy ever after stories. Much better than heavy gloom and doom reality stuff.”

“Have you read any of your uncle’s work?”

“Yep, all of it.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I must admit some of it is a bit sugary, especially the stethoscope romances where the dedicated young doctor and the devoted ‘angel’ nurse finally get it on together. Talk about an unrealistic view of the health service. He was a good writer though. My favourite novels are the ones he wrote in his younger days when the market was different and he was writing more to suit himself.” His dreamy look appeared. “They’re all out of print now, considered outdated, but he loved them and so do I. I read them over and over again.”

“What are they about?”

“I’m not telling you. You’ll laugh and think I’m, you know,” he tapped the side of his forehead.

“We’ve already established you’re strange, Dee-Dee, so you might as well tell. I promise not to laugh. Is it bodice ripper stuff? Lustful heroes and panting heroines?”

He scraped his chair back and stood up. “I’ll show you my uncle’s study, where he used to work. I’ve left it exactly as it was when he was alive, in memory. All his books are there.”