Page 52 of Loving Netta Wilde

THE REAL SAMUEL SWEETING

‘Tek a biscuit.’ Mrs Sweeting shoved the plate under Doogie’s nose. He didn’t really want one but after yesterday, he decided it was best to just take it.

‘You want tea, coffee or lemonade?’

‘Tea’s fine.’ He’d have said water but as far as he could see, Mrs Sweeting was easily offended and he’d already offended one woman in the last twenty-four hours. Actually two, if you counted Claire whose calls he was avoiding.

He was standing next to the hedge, juggling some ancient garden shears, the biscuit, and the T-shirt he’d just pulled off because he was sweating, while trying to decide whether he was supposed to sit in one of the green plastic garden chairs.

The old lady came back out with two drinks. She put them on the sun-faded but spotless green plastic table, sat down and pointed to a chair. ‘Tek a seat.’

That was his question answered then. He left the shears on the grass and sat down.

He hadn’t even finished the biscuit before she pushed the plate over to him. ‘Tek another one.’

‘I should be getting back on. It’s a big hedge.’

‘Is it too much for you?’

‘No. There’s just a lot of it and you’ve only got these old shears. It’s gonna take a while.’

‘You got somewhere to be?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I was just saying.’

Mrs Sweeting nodded at the plate. ‘You got time for a break then.’

Doogie sighed and took another one. Now he had one and a half biscuits to finish. Actually, they were pretty good. They tasted like fig rolls. It made him think of Mary who’d lived next door to them when he was a kid in Nottingham. She’d loved fig rolls. Whenever he went round there, which was a lot, she used to have a packet waiting for him. They were a little family, his mum, Mary and him. When she died, it was like losing a nana.

‘I suppose you’d better tell me your name,’ said the old woman.

‘Doogie. Doogie Chambers.’

‘Doogie? That your real name?’

‘It’s Dougal. Dougal Macrae Chambers to be exact. But I usually go by Doogie.’

‘Hah! I can see why. Where you from?’

‘Nottingham originally, but I live in Scotland now. Right up in the Highlands.’

‘What’s a man like you doing living all the way up there?’

‘I like it. My family’s from there. My mum’s side that is.’

‘And what about your father, where’s his family from?’

‘St Kitts. He’s moved back there now.’

‘You see him much?’

‘Not really.’ Fucking hell, this was like being under interrogation.

‘You don’t get on.’ It wasn’t a question, so Doogie didn’t feel the need to answer.

‘I said you don’t get on?’

Ah, so it was a question then. Doogie shrugged. ‘We’re not close.’

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