THE TROUBLE WITH PAPER PLANES(10)

“Henry! What the hell are you doing?”

I startled him, but he managed to keep his balance. “Jesus, boy! What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

“Give you a heart-attack? That’s bloody rich! What’re you doing up there?”

“Checking the hot water cylinder overflow valve.”

“I could’ve done that for you, y’know.”

“I’m not in the grave yet,” Henry grumbled, his full head of steel-grey hair glinting in the sun.

He made his way slowly across the roof to the ladder leaning against the end of the house. For as long as I could remember, this had been Henry’s house. As a kid, I used to come by with Vinnie to visit. His wife, Glenda, made the best cheese scones I’d ever tasted, and she could whip them up in twenty minutes flat. I loved them fresh out of the oven, loaded up with butter that melted on impact. Vinnie liked his cold, the weirdo. Even before Em and I got together, there was Henry and Glenda. Our families were close then, and even more so now.

When Glenda died twelve years ago, there had never been any question of him moving. He’d lived here, in this house, for over fifty years. But the older he got, the more obvious it became that it was only a matter of time. The house needed maintaining, and even though Henry was determined to act like he was fifty, not closer to eighty, it was getting the better of him. Moving him out, selling the house, was the only option. The only trouble was, no one had actually bothered to tell Henry this.

He was a formidable force, but I loved spending time with him, despite the sometimes gruff exterior. He was a product of his generation – hardy, adventurous and independent. He was also cantankerous and short-tempered. It was the direct attitude that I admired most, though. Henry called a spade a spade, which meant you knew exactly where you stood, always. There was no *-footing around where Henry was concerned. It was as refreshing as it was entertaining, as long as you weren’t on the receiving end.

I watched him navigating his way across the roof. Putting down the coffee and the paper bag on the porch, I went over to hold the ladder for him. Henry slowly made his way down, spying the treats as soon as he was back on terra firma again.

“Good timing, I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, leading the way inside without another word.

Christ. Up on the roof, and up and down a ladder that looked older than I was. I didn’t want to think what might’ve happened if he’d slipped. I picked up both coffee and bag and followed him. Bridget would chuck a fit.

“Don’t even think about it,” Henry warned, reading my mind as he made his way across the front porch and into the house. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

I couldn’t help but smile. The old bugger was as sharp as a tack, as usual. While his body may be letting him down as the years passed, there was nothing wrong with his mind.

We settled down at Henry’s kitchen table, he with his cup of tea, me with my takeaway coffee. He ripped open the brown paper bag and helped himself to a chocolate éclair, murmuring appreciatively as he ate. Bridget knew they were his favourites. I’d fallen into the habit of finishing work early on a Thursday just so I could call in at the café and pick up a coffee for me and a treat for Henry on my way over. He deserved it.

I visited him twice a week – Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Tuesdays, we went to the Police Station, then I dropped him off at the RSA for his weekly game of pool with his mates. Thursdays, we did this. He was a stickler for routine, and after Em disappeared, I needed something solid to set my clock by. I needed to keep track of the days somehow, to keep myself grounded. I’m sure Henry knew that. Henry seemed to know everything.

“How’s Jasmine?” he asked, between sips of tea. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.”

“She’s fine. Fighting fit.”

“How much longer is it now? Can’t be much.”

“Anything from two to four weeks, apparently. She’s due on the 20th, but they say first babies could go a week or two over.”

He nodded. “That’s right, I remember now. Vinnie’s having his birthday party tomorrow night, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, at the café. Costume party. Don’t ask why, I have no clue. Jas’s idea, apparently.”

“You still planning on going?”

Not him, too. “It’s his thirtieth. Of course I’m going.”

“Good. No use mooching around the beach like you did last year.”