Free Heller's Regret by J.D. Nixon

to wait until I made sure
that the client, Mrs Grimsley, was home and there hadn’t been any
misunderstanding. I dragged out my bags and opened the tall, rusty
gate. It screeched all the way open and all the way closed. I
cringed at the noise.
    I walked quickly up the path and front steps
to knock loudly on the black front door.
    I waited for an age and was about to give up,
when the door hesitantly and slowly opened and a sweet-faced
elderly woman poked her head around, a mop of white fluffy hair
surrounding her face like a cloud. I explained who I was and she
smiled nicely, inviting me in. I gave the guys the okay symbol, and
they drove away with a jaunty toot of the horn.
    I stepped into the house and Mrs Grimsley
shut the door behind us. The first thing I noticed was the
incredible heat, which was not surprising given that every window
was shut and it was thirty-three degrees already that day. I could
feel the prickle of sweat immediately forming between my shoulder
blades and between my breasts.
    “Goodness me, it’s warm in here,” I
commented.
    “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? The warmth is
very good for my poor old bones, and Samuel prefers it warm as
well. This house gets very cold, to be honest. It’s too big for us,
but I was born here and will probably die here, just like so many
other Grimsleys.” She sighed. “I couldn’t possibly live anywhere
else. Not now. Not at my age.”
    “Samuel? Is that your grandson?”
    “Yes.”
    I gazed around the large entry hall, the
three-metre ceiling, ornate cornices and light fitting all
impressive, but the old-fashioned furniture and general sense of
dilapidation and lack of maintenance gave it a shabby appearance. I
could see no sign of the boy.
    “Is he here? I should probably meet him
before you leave. I don’t want to frighten him. You know, an
unfamiliar face suddenly appearing in the house.”
    “He’s a bit shy,” she smiled. “When he’s
ready to meet you, he’ll come out. Let me know if you see him.
He’ll probably lurk around for a while before he’s ready. He
doesn’t get to meet many new people, I’m afraid.” She shook her
head sadly, then cheered up. “Now, how about a lovely hot cup of
tea? You do drink tea, don’t you?”
    She looked so anxious about being hospitable,
and knowing how elderly ladies loved their tea, probably not even
having any coffee in the house anyway, I assured her that I loved
tea, despite the wilting heat. The last thing I really wanted to
imbibe at that moment was any boiling liquid. I felt a trickle of
sweat making its ticklish way down my spine as we spoke. But she
was as sweet-faced as my favourite grandma, so I couldn’t possibly
refuse.
    However, when she painfully made her slow,
arthritic way to the kitchen, I felt a massive pang of guilt and
forced her to let me make the tea instead. To my surprise, she
allowed me to. It had always been my experience that elderly women
didn’t like anyone messing in their kitchen and shot pure daggers
of steel into the spines of anyone who even dared suggest that they
weren’t still capable of doing everything themselves. But maybe
that was just my grandmas.
    We entered a dark hallway off the entry hall
with a row of closed doors on either side. She took me down to the
door at the end of the hallway to a large, but antiquated kitchen.
She hovered as I made the tea, giving me instructions, ensuring
that the water was boiled to the right temperature (on the
stovetop, not in an instant kettle), the teapot warmed
sufficiently, and the right amount of tea leaves placed in it. Just
like my grandmas. My heart panged – I missed my two grandmas.
    After much nervous instruction, everything I
did had been finally approved. I was allowed to bring the tray into
the ‘tea room’ off to the right of the hallway, a tiny,
claustrophobic, dusty room stuffed full of very old-fashioned
furniture. Portraits of severe, humourless, long-dead relatives
glared down at us disapprovingly as