The Doris Day Vintage Film Club. Fiona Harper
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were well past their expiration date.
His stomach growled and clenched.
Great.
It had finally made up its mind what it wanted: anything, basically. As long as it arrived within the next thirty seconds. He was just giving the can of kidney beans some serious thought when he spotted something brightly coloured lurking in the back of the cupboard. Before his brain even registered what it was, his hand delved in and retrieved it.
He laughed a little manically as he saw it and thought to himself, still smiling, that he was definitely still sleep loopy. Why else would the sight of a multipack of miniature cereal boxes be quite so funny?
He started tearing at the cellophane, which was a pretty stupid idea, he discovered, because as he battled with one end of the package, a box of Coco Pops fell out the other.
Ah, he’d already started them. He remembered now. This had been the joke gift Pete had given him on his birthday, quipping that Dominic couldn’t even commit to something as big as a whole box of cereal.
He abandoned the boxes still imprisoned in the cellophane for the one that had escaped. He ripped open the top and poured the contents into a bowl and ate it with a spoon that was technically too large for his mouth. He didn’t care. It was just the first thing that his fingers had landed on when he’d raided the cutlery drainer on the sink.
He turned and sat on the table, legs swinging, as he munched his way through the first couple of mouthfuls. Once he’d shoved the third in, he realised that, as nice as they were, Coco Pops were a tad dry on their own. He glanced hesitantly at the fridge. Any milk he’d left in there had probably been growing bacteria for so long it had now evolved into an organism the size of a small Yeti.
And then he remembered …
The old bird upstairs had her milk delivered. Had done for years.
He checked the clock. Six-forty. If he timed it right, he could ‘borrow’ a pint, then go out and buy a replacement before she came down to fetch it in. He wasn’t usually given to such petty thievery, but he was desperate. She was a nice old lady, with a great sense of humour and a twinkle in her eye. He was sure she’d understand.
He dropped his cereal bowl on the table with a clang, sending a shower of tiny chocolate pellets across the surface, and headed out of the kitchen. He was just salivating at the thought of all that ice-cold milk making his cereal pop when he opened his flat door, stepped outside and immediately found himself face down on the hall floor, something sharp digging into his arm.
He discovered it was a brake lever.
What the …?
He 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