Running up the two flights of stairs, he went straight into the structure at the back of the attic, depositing board and discs in the secret compartment. He switched on the radio, where Terry Wogan’s time check said he wasn't too far behind schedule. Then the guy stuffed it to him, playing Paul McCartney’s My Love – their very first “our tune.” As the former Beatle sang about going away and his heart staying, Eric paused, considering the enormity of his actions.
A creaking stair – the early warning system he refused to fix – alerted him to her proximity an instant before she called out. “I’m back, love. Would you like a cuppa?”
“No thanks. I’m in the middle of something.”
“Okay. Maybe later.”
The smothered disappointment in her tone said she had a surprise planned. Knowing her it would be cake related.
Who was he to deny her the pleasure it would bring?
A glance at the clock confirmed if he did anything now he’d miss the crucial time slot. If he’d worked it through, he’d have planned it better.
Then Wogan played his ace. As the staccato piano phrase announced Leo Sayer’s iconic story song with all its deep-seated connections, Eric came to his senses.
What kind of monster would leave the woman he loved without appreciating all the efforts she would have gone to for his birthday? How could he contemplate leaving her with such a dreadful memory? He’d have another chance in twelve hours – better to make them the best in her life.
He shouted after her. “On second thoughts, I am rather thirsty – I’ll be down in a sec.”
“For me? You spoil me.”
“Because you deserve it. I don’t know why you’d be up there working today, but if it makes you happy, go for it.”
Thankfully, she turned to light the candles, because he had no more chance of disguising the wobble on his face than swimming on the moon. Stepping close, he put his arms round her waist, nuzzling the back of her neck in what she’d confessed was a knee-trembling move.
“Are you trying to set the house on fire?” She tutted.
“No, my love. Only you.”
“Be off with you. There’s a time and a place for monkey business.”
“Not even on my birthday?”
She paused mid-light, obviously thinking about it, and the flame singed her nail, making her drop the match. “Ow. I’m sorry, but Stella was going to cover my dinner lady duties, and now she’s ill … I can’t let them down.”
“Oh dear. Never mind.” A wicked glint sparkled in her eyes. “But that’s not for hours. You’d better blow the candles out first.” And he did.
21:08
After waving Naomi off to her evening aerobics class, Eric had hurried up to the attic with a mission to leave everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion. A shrill alarm alerted about time being of the essence. He scoffed. Whoever coined that phrase had no concept. The extra time had been well spent on a final check of the plans he’d left in place to ensure Naomi would be catered for. He sealed the envelope with her name on it, placing it on his forlorn-looking workbench, bereft of its normal clutter.
The hardest thing he’d ever written.
As he secured the door to his most prized invention, guilt washed over him at the thought of how she’d suffer for the next couple of years. Her intrinsic resourcefulness would rise to the task, and this was another necessary evil to divert the vengeful attentions of the real evil away from her situation. He cursed the day that monster had bought the thriving company with an offer the previous owner couldn’t resist.
He knew enough to guarantee they wouldn’t risk the bad press associated with evicting a grandmother from the crumbling wreck their family home had become. At least on paper. In reality … the second alarm curtailed his musings and, with a short prayer, he rolled the dice.
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