Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“What a disaster!” He chuckles, rolling from side to side. “I might need a hand, dear.”
Exasperated, I go to him, taking both his old hands and easing him up slowly, watching his worn old face for discomfort, worried he’s broken something. “Are you sure you’ve not hurt yourself?”
“Yes, yes, very sure.”
Only when I’m certain he’s steady on his feet do I release him, and he brushes himself down and shuffles round to take in the damage. “Where’s your walking frame?” I ask.
“In my flat.”
“Well, that’s a bit silly, isn’t it?” I find my heels and hang on to the doorframe as I get them on. “How long have you been here?”
His watch appears from his pocket, and he holds it up close and personal to his face. “Thirty-five minutes.”
“Mr. Percival.” I scold him lightly, dipping to pick up his flat cap. “What are you doing dragging trees five times the size of you around? You should have called someone.”
“Like whom?” He faces me as he slips his watch back into his pocket, accepting his hat and popping it on.
“I don’t know. Family?”
“I don’t have one of those, dear.” Taking hold of the wall, he gingerly steps up the corridor over various arms of the tree. No family at all? “So you’re going to have to help me.”
He’s all alone. Not through choice. “Help you?” I retrieve my bag and put it on the stairs. “Right, yes. Help you.”
Mr. Percival places his hands on his hips and stands over the tree, and I join him, kicking my shoes back off. “Camryn, you’re bleeding!” A hanky is quickly on my cheek, dabbing. “Oh no, well now I feel terrible.”
Telling him the tree isn’t responsible for my injury would mean telling him who is. But not telling him means he’ll feel guilty, and I don’t want the old boy to feel bad. “It’s okay, it wasn’t the tree.” I scratch through my mind for something—anything—I can claim is responsible. “I wasn’t looking where I was going in the office and got caught up in some Christmas decorations.”
He withdraws and checks my cheek. “You need some alcohol on that.”
“Let’s get this monster of a tree in your apartment first, shall we? It’s blocking the way.” Turning back to the tree, I ponder how exactly I’m going to manage this. Mr. Percival is a small, frail old man. So I’m on my own.
Lunging over the tree, I bend and grasp the top with both hands, starting to drag it toward his front door. “We should go in bottom first so the branches bend the right way through the door.”
“Good idea.” He hobbles to his front door and opens it.
Endless needles stab my feet as I hoof the tree up and prop it against the wall, my breathing already shot. “Right.” I bend and grab the trunk, backing up until I have to lean back, tugging on endless grunts to get the fattest end through. “It’s going to be bald, Mr. Percival. Why on earth did you buy such a big tree?”
“For the gnomes, dear.”
“What?”
“And Maureen. She likes a big tree.” Maureen. Lady friend? “That’s it, dear, you’re nearly there.”
The rustle of branches has me wincing, as they’re surely scratching all the paintwork off, but it’s plain sailing once the base dislodges, only sheer endurance required to drag it into his lounge. “There.” I push it up against the nearest wall and blow out my cheeks, knackered, my surroundings registering as I slowly turn on the spot, taking it all in.
“What a lifesaver you are, dear.” Mr. Percival shuffles through the clutter with ease, not even looking down to make sure he won’t stumble over any of the endless trip hazards. And he’s completely unperturbed by my obvious surprise. “Now if we could just get it in the bucket I can pour this bag of sand in.” Another chuckle. “Don’t tell anyone, but I pinched it off the building site at the end of the road.” Facing me, he frowns. “Are you okay, dear?”
My eyes cast across his lounge again, feeling watched by the million sets of eyes staring back at me. “Mr. Percival, why is your lounge full of gnomes?”
“Oh!” He chuckles and takes one that’s nestled in the corner of one of his recliner armchairs, looking at it fondly. It’s Father Christmas—its face jolly, its cheeks red, a lantern held up in one hand. “I’m rather attached to them, dear.”
“How many do you have?”
“Last count, nine hundred and three.”
I cough and peek through a doorway to his small kitchen. More gnomes. Everywhere—on the table, the counter, the floor, the window ledge. I laugh under my breath at the fisherman on the edge of the sink with a fish dangling on the end of his line.
“I couldn’t let them go, you see, when I moved from my semi in Epsom, and I have no outside space here. So they live with me indoors these days.” He places Father Christmas back in the chair. “Now, about this tree.”