Henry Hoey Hobson by Christine Bongers Page B

phoned and explained that she won’t be able to make it to the pool this afternoon.’
    I didn’t say anything. I needed to hear what Mum had planned before blundering in with any plans of my own. I had to be careful what I said round Mr Paulson; those green eyes didn’t miss much.
    â€˜She has organised a replacement and I’ve told Mrs Mallory at the pool to expect you both this afternoon.’
    â€˜Did she say who?’ I asked.
    He flicked through the papers on his desk. ‘It was one of the people she nominated as your emergency contacts ... ah, here it is ... Caleb Moore, that’s the one. She said he would take you to swimming this afternoon and sign off on your times.’ He looked up. ‘Is that all right with you, Henry? You look a bit pale.’
    I swallowed and managed an unconvincing nod.
    My own personal vampire was going to sign off on my swimming times in broad daylight at the local pool.
    Thank the high heavens, as Vee would say, that Angelica wasn’t going to be there to witness it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    The postman’s motorcycle had cut a bald strip in the dry grass leading up to Caleb’s front gate. It veered in towards the letterbox and out again, as though it couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.
    Heat-frazzled grass crunched underfoot as I stepped off the footpath, pushed through the squawking gate, and made my way down the cobbled path to the front door.
    The bright, spangled afternoon sun had stripped away last night’s illusions, revealing the candle-lit corridor into the house as nothing more magical than cheap tea-light candles, protected from the breeze in brown paper lunch bags weighed down with handfuls of sand.
    Pools of congealed wax at the front door were the only evidence of the giant candelabra that had stood sentry the night before. Today the front door was shut up tight, an ornate brass knocker hanging like a lion’s paw at eye level. I hefted it and rapped sharply, twice for luck, and stepped back.
    The latch snicked open and the door swung inwards.
    Caleb flinched at the bright day. ‘I’ll need sunglasses,’ he muttered. ‘You better come in.’
    I followed him into the cool dark living area, the scent of candle wax still heavy in the air.
    â€˜It still hot outside? Of course it is. It’s Brisbane and February. I’ll need a hat and sunblock.’ He waved a hand at a plate of food on a corner of the dining room table. ‘Eat something – Manny said you’d be hungry – now where is that blessed hat...?’
    â€˜Thanks.’ I helped myself to a couple of Tim Tams and a banana, which was the easiest fruit to manage with my braces. ‘I’ve got some sunblock. You can borrow mine, if you want.’
    â€˜Blasted move, I can’t find anything.’ He was fussing and crotchety, like the old ladies that Mum usually sucked in as my emergency contacts. Out of their comfort zone looking after a half-grown boy. Irritated that they might miss their afternoon soaps, or the tennis on TV, when pressed into service. I usually settled them down with a cup of tea and joined them on the couch, but today that wasn’t an option.
    â€˜Sorry. I didn’t mean to stuff up your day.’
    Caleb’s guilty start meant that I’d guessed right. I didn’t blame him; it was hard to say no to my mum. What she lacked in height, she more than made up for in determination; she was a right little terrier when it came to getting her own way.
    â€˜I know Mum bullied you into this. Don’t worry, it won’t take long–’
    He waved the rest of the sentence away. ‘No, no, it’s OK. I’m not irritated at you. I’m irritated at me .’ He interlinked his fingers and twisted them in frustration. ‘I’ve gotten to a point in my manuscript where the plot is so damn knotted, it’s going to take a miracle to unsnarl it. And instead of