Free The Eunuch's Ward (The String Quartet) by Silver Smyth Page B

liberally sprayed the hinges and the lock with oil first to give them time to loosen up, then set about removing the overgrowth. The scissors didn’t quite live up to their reputation, but I was nevertheless making slow and steady progress. It would have been much faster if I simply hacked through the greenery, but that wouldn’t have been very wise. Instead, I made a cut in each branch that stood in the way, taking care to cut nothing off. It occurred to me at some point that I was probably on a hiding to nothing. There had to be another gate on the other side and that one was bound to be firmly locked. With my bare hands I swept the debris under the foliage, moved the branches out of the way and pulled the door.
    It opened smoothly and quietly to reveal the neighbour’s terrace in all its colourful grandeur.
    I carefully pulled the door behind me until it was only slightly ajar and crouched in the shade of the arched doorway and the profusely flowering bougainvillea.
    The patio door was wide open which meant that someone was at home. It was good ten minutes before I detected a movement behind the glass wall. Something light and floating. Feminine.
    I waited.
    Another ten or fifteen minutes later a woman stepped out, a rather tall woman in some kind of a short floral negligee. Her hair was hidden under a vivid pink terrycloth turban, her face behind very dark sunglasses. As she walked across the turquoise tiles I realised that some of her height was down to five inch heels. When she reached the sun lounger she kicked off her killer mules and slipped out of the flimsy wrap.
    She was stark naked.
    Once she was fully stretched out on the lounger I started my appraisal.
    Slim, almost skinny, long well toned legs, naturally suntanned. Perky boobs, size D in my opinion, were in all likelihood held up by implants. Stomach flat under tout skin. The modesty bush, dull brown, was anything but modest. It was proudly shooting out in all directions. Apparently, if the dodgy websites on the internet are to be believed, some men love that look. I wouldn’t, but what did I know?
    After a couple of minutes of immobility, she lifted her head and turned it towards the flat. I couldn’t hear anything but I had a feeling that she was talking to someone. Whatever she expected to happen didn’t. Eventually, she got up, stuck her feet back into the mules and hobbled indoors. When she came back she carried a tall misted glass in one hand and the mules in the other.
    True, when I’d embarked on this idea there was a thought of some kind of introduction at the back of my mind. Having seen her, there was very little chance of that. I didn’t like her. It wasn’t her age that was closer to my mother’s than mine, nor the nudity, not even her notions of personal grooming. I think that what told me more about her than anything else was the footwear. Hoping against hope, I’d expected to find that pretty Indian lady on the other side of the wall. I didn’t see what she wore on her feet when I watched her cross the street with her family, but she walked tall, lively, confident and comfortable.
    I would have trusted a lively and confident woman who felt comfortable in her skin.
    I returned to my side of the wall, reconnected the cut through branches back to their original state or as closely to it as I could, slipped out of my tunic and dived into the pool.
    I was bitterly disappointed.
    Over the next few days I peeped in a few times again, but the place looked abandoned. Locked up. The woman must have lived on her own and held a position that involved travel. An air hostess, perhaps?
     
     
    * * *
     
    ‘Sorry, darling. You father couldn’t turn down the invitation to Korea,’ my mother was given the task of apologising for yet another extension of their travel plans. ‘I’ve bought you some beautiful island jewellery. You’ll love it. And a large suitcase worth of divine batik fabric...’
    ‘In the meantime, my gaolers keep me a