Extract from Book 2
Friends of Whitby charity shop.
“Good morning, sir. May I help you?” asked Miss Helen Procter, one of the Whitby volunteers.
“Yes,
I am sure you can. I came to see Mrs Gamble, the owner of the shop. My
name is Eric Pickles, and she is expecting me. I called earlier,”
replied Eric, giving her a more than generous smile.
“She should
be here soon. She did call, asking me to look after you,” Helen
replied, offering him her hand. You must be the gentleman from Bleak
House. Isn’t that the house near to where one of our delivery drivers
was accidently killed in a landslide a few days ago, when the road
collapsed into a disused quarry? It must have been a terrible shock for
you!” she said, her eyes wanting more of him.
“Hamish, you mean.
Yes, it was a shock, and I think that is why Mrs Gamble asked me if I
would be so kind as to drop by the shop when I returned home from
America,” replied Eric, his eyes undressing her beauty.
“Do you
travel a lot? I always wanted to travel, but my mother suffers from
severe muscular arthritis, so the farthest I have ever been away from
Whitby is Edinburgh. My father took me there once before he passed away
two years ago to see the royal yacht Brittania, which is on permanent
display there at the port of Leith. That about sums up my world of
travelling experiences. But you, you look like a well-travelled young
man, handsome, dashing, single and desirable, I would say,” she replied,
blushing and turning away from him, hiding her embarrassment.
“Thank
you, that is definitely something no other woman has ever said to me
before. I feel honoured, especially coming from you, a very attractive
single young lady like yourself. Perhaps we will meet again somewhere
more romantic on the far side of the world at some lazy bar overlooking
the ocean with silver beaches where time just drifts by, cooled by a sea
breeze stealing your wildest dreams and making your heart beat faster
as the tide ebbs away out of reach. I read something like that in a
paperback once that I bought in a WH Smith shop at the airport on one of
my trips,” he replied, smiling back at her words.
“Oh my
goodness me, you take my breath away talking like that. I wanted to be
there with you at the bar,” she said, her words full of excitement.
“I do hope I have not offended you,” said Eric, with concern.
“Good
heavens no! You have opened my Pandora’s box, and my life will never be
quite the same again. What an exciting world you must live in, Mr
Handsome! And please do not ask me why I have let my guard down and
spoken so openly like that. That is a first for me. God, my cheeks are
burning. I think we had better hope Mrs Gamble comes back soon and
rescues me,” she replied, her voice choked as she desperately tried to
hold back her emotions.
“Is that what you would like - to be rescued?” Eric asked, snapping back at her words.
“Goodness
gracious me, no! Certainly not! I am feeling all excited,” she said,
her swollen nipples showing through her paisley jumper as her emotions
betrayed her thoughts. “I meant rescue myself from me, not from you!”
she replied, blurting out the words, embarrassed by her own innocence.
The
telltale tinkling of the shop bell announced the arrival of Mrs Gamble.
Helen, her head still up there on cloud romance, or most certainly in
another place, turned away from him, losing herself behind a bookcase on
the other side of the shop.
“Eric, thank you for coming! Sorry I
am a little late, but there are a lot of people in Whitby who knew
Hamish for what he was, a generous and kind person who went out of his
way to help others. He was a happy-go-lucky kind of person, well-liked
by everyone and unstinting in his labours for the community, young and
old. He cared about everyone and will be sadly missed.
“Now, if
Helen would be so kind to put the kettle on, you and I can discuss
Hamish’s replacement over a nice cup of tea and a biscuit, if that is
alright with you,” she said, pleased to see him again.
“Yes,
that will be fine. I really came to assure you that the funding we
provide for your charity will continue to be paid as usual at the end of
each month. That is the least we can do under the circumstances until
you find a replacement for Hamish,” replied Eric, his thoughts somewhere
else.
“Yes, that is what I wanted to talk to you about. You and
Helen seemed to be getting on well together. She would have been my
obvious choice, but her invalid mother needs her more than we do,
unfortunately.
“Yes she told me about her mother’s illness. A
shame, really, because she is a very attractive young woman trapped in
circumstances that give her very little in return. I am surprised she
has not been swept off her feet and married to a local boy. That would
perhaps give her the freedom she desires to live a more normal life,”
replied Eric, his thoughts still in another place.
“One can only
live in hope. I am thinking of taking on Hamish’s deliveries myself
until I can find a suitable replacement for him. Would that be
acceptable to you? I do have someone in mind, but she is not available
until sometime in June. A local girl, very presentable and of a good
nature and responsible, which is what that position is all about. So all
I can do at the moment is to remain determined and patient, I’m afraid.
A cup of tea and a malted cream biscuit later, Eric left the
shop as he found it, although his thoughts were already asking him
questions he could not answer.
He found himself in a situation
that even his Ispirian powers could not help him with. You must never
use these powers for your own personal gain, your position in life or
financial standing, whispered Zacharias, as she, the woman with no name,
prodded his ribs with her stick. You still have unfinished business to
deal with, Mr Eric Pickles, she whispered in his ear as he left the shop
and said his goodbyes. He was still asking himself what the meeting
was really all about, because it was certainly not about finding a
replacement for Hamish Kruger or exchanging condolences. No, there were
other issues that needed his attention, he was busy telling himself.
“That,
Helen, is the enemy I was telling you about, and I am sure he is the
person responsible for the deaths of Liv Jenko and Hamish Kruger, two of
our top field agents,” Mrs Gamble said. “Did you do as I asked and
openly flirt with him, letting him believe that there was plenty more
honey left in the pot where that came from?” she asked, wanting to know
more about him, anything that could explain why a very good toy salesman
with a Ph.D. from Cambridge University was visiting Bleak House, the
home of an impoverished artist barely making a living from the sales of
his non-descript canvasses. “There must be something more than
friendship involved there. Does he prefer men, perhaps? That would be
good blackmail bait if he were gay,” she said, with a smirk on her face
wanting to hurt him.
“Well, he certainly is not gay. I can
guarantee you that because he most definitely stirred my sex drive, I
can tell you. I am still wearing wet silk for God’s sake! That should
tell you all you need to know about his sexual preferences,” interrupted
Helen, still excited by his visit.
I wonder, said Aesop, repeating her words to himself.
*****
