Chapter four
Oliver lifted his head off the pillow and tried to focus, wondering what the hell had dragged him out of the wonderful dream he was having about Brad Pitt in a loin cloth. There it was again. What the fuck was it?
It’s a bird you idiot.
He could honestly say he’d never been awoken by bird song. Maybe the odd coo of a pigeon, sometimes a howling cat and definitely the screeching of tyres, but bird song? Never. He quite liked it, even though it wasn’t even five-thirty. Putting his face back into the pillow, Oliver sighed heavily and snuggled deeper under the duvet. He wasn’t meeting Malcolm at the surgery until eight and his welcoming party hadn’t left until after eleven last night, so sleep was not something he was willing to give up. Not even for the winged warblers outside the window. He yawned widely and closed his eyes.
An hour later, the birds were continuing their serenade and he was still awake. He punched the pillow and wondered how easy it would be to make a catapult out of his tightest pair of boxers and knock the wittering wankers out of the tree. He just as quickly decided against it. Compounding the error of running over the village dog by knocking wildlife out of trees using his pants and half a packet of Skittles probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had.
Oliver sighed heavily and threw his duvet back. He was not impressed at being awake, but he was buggered if he was going to lay there and listen to the cheerful little bastards a moment longer. Buying earplugs had just shot to number one on the to do list he’d yet to write. He got out of bed and padded out into the tiny hallway—well, square of landing—down the single step and into the bathroom directly opposite the bedroom. He couldn’t help but smile. It may not be a five bed mansion, but it was quirky, quaint and his, absolutely perfect.
The bathroom was like the rest of the house, very neutral. The tiles were white on the walls and the floors, but the shower cubicle, toilet and sink looked brand new. He felt a rush of warmth for Malcolm and Violet. He doubted he would ever be able to voice how much he appreciated the obvious lengths they’d gone to so he would feel at home But he would hopefully be able to show them when he started work today. He didn’t want Malcolm to have to babysit him, the man needed to start his retirement and Oliver was going to make sure he did. He opened the glass shower door and turned on the water to warm the spray before he attended to his morning ablutions. The airing cupboard was set into a recess in the bathroom wall so he opened it and grabbed a towel which he tossed onto the closed lid of the toilet to keep it dry until he needed it.
He stripped off his boxers and kicked them to one side before he opened the door and stepped under the cascading water, closing it firmly behind him. Oliver bowed his head and let the water wash over him. He grabbed the shampoo and scrubbed his hair until it squeaked then rinsed the grime of yesterday’s journey off him. He’d got tied up with unpacking yesterday and then Jason and the others had arrived. By the time they’d gone he hadn’t felt much like doing anything other than throwing himself face down on the bed and going to sleep. He squeezed some shower gel into his palm and set about washing his body. While he did, he thought back to last night and his surprise guests.
He’d discovered quite a lot about the village, with Micah being the biggest font of information as he was born and bred just up the road from the post office. Jason and Harry hadn’t lived in Little Mowbury for very long and Tom informed Oliver that although he’d made his home in the village six years ago, he was still considered an outsider. Micah had told him not to worry, the locals would still be making the sign of the cross when they passed him in the street after about ten years.
Oliver soon discerned Micah had a very quick wit and was hilarious with it, even though it wouldn’t have surprised him if the filter between Micah’s brain and his mouth was sometimes a little faulty. However, his open affection for his friends and obvious adoration of Harry gave Oliver a very good feeling about him.
Harry seemed to be the exact opposite. Quiet and sedate, but there was something behind his eyes, a sadness. Typical doctor, always fishing for the answer, Oliver wondered what had caused that haunted look, but it wasn’t something he had delved into. Towards the end of the evening Oliver hadn’t had to ponder the reason any longer, for he suddenly realised why Harry looked vaguely familiar. He’d followed the trial of Harry’s father while he was in London. The depths of depravity the man had gone to in his attempt to rid Harry of his homosexuality had sickened Oliver and he wasn’t surprised Harry carried the shadow of that. The unseen scars would never fade. Thank God the poor man had Micah.
Oliver thought of his own father and couldn’t imagine a man more different from the parent Harry had been saddled with. Eric Bradford was larger than life, both in stature and personality. His childhood had been filled with love and laughter. Yes, there had been rules to adhere to, but number one had been to laugh every day. He didn’t think that rule had ever been broken. His mother was definitely the more highly strung parent, but his dad was the perfect match for her, and they’d be celebrating their thirty-second wedding anniversary in August.
He’d listened with a sympathetic ear to Jason’s story, unable to imagine how soul destroying it must have been to sit beside your husband for almost two years, knowing he was never going to wake up. Tom had joked he’d been prepared to wait forever for Jason to be ready, but was grateful he didn’t have to put that theory to the test. He didn’t think anyone’s right hand had ever fallen off completely, but there was a first time for everything. Jason had nudged him with his elbow and blushed furiously, which Oliver had found adorable. They were obviously a solid couple, judging by the furtive glances and soft touches they exchanged all evening. They gave Oliver hope that maybe The One was still out there.
For so long he’d thought it was Andrew, which was probably why he’d forgiven him for his indiscretions. What if he dumped him and he’d been The One? Oliver knew now the fear of being alone had kept him in a relationship that made him miserable. It had taken a while, but he’d finally realised he’d rather be alone and at least some semblance of happy.
He’d really enjoyed everyone’s company last night and it had made his first evening in a strange place a lot easier than it might have been. And, of course, the news of Hugo’s imminent recovery lifted the weight of the yoke from round his neck that he’d felt the weight of from the moment he’d hit him. He shuddered as the sound of the sickening thud Hugo made when he bounced off the bumper echoed in his ears. It was a sound he never wanted to hear again.
Oliver turned off the shower and stepped out onto the bath mat, where he quickly dried himself then wrapped the towel securely around his waist. Back in the bedroom, he opened the wardrobe and stared at the row of shirts. He wanted to look professional, but didn’t want to overdo it, so decided against his suit jacket and chose a long-sleeved navy button down and a pair of grey trousers. Satisfied with his selection, Oliver pulled on some boxers and headed downstairs. It wasn’t quite seven yet, so he decided to have some breakfast before he got dressed. Wouldn’t do to show up for his first day with Coco Pops and marmalade down his shirt, would it?
In the kitchen he put on some coffee and popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. After a rummage in the cupboards and finding them Coco Pops free, Oliver grabbed the box of cornflakes and filled one of the cereal bowls he found in the cupboard above the microwave. His toast popped up and he tossed them onto a side plate, liberally spreading them with butter and then the marmalade. His stomach rumbled loudly and he patted it gently. “Chill out, it’s coming.” After pouring some milk on his cereal, Oliver filled a mug with the freshly brewed coffee and, balancing his toast on top of the bowl, carried his breakfast over to the kitchen table and sat down.
The scent of the coffee wafted into his nostrils and he inhaled deeply. God, it was good. Oliver was an out and proud self-confessed coffee-holic. If he didn’t get his daily quota, he was a bitch, who twitched a lot. Yes, he was a doctor and well aware that caffeine wasn’t one of your five-a-day, but he didn’t smoke, only drank socially and recycled, so he figured he was allowed this one little vice. He took a sip and the sweet nectar trickled over his tongue and down his throat, the warmth of it expanding in his chest. The groan he emitted bordered on the obscene but living alone did have its bonuses—which is why he was eating breakfast in his underpants and having a sensorial orgasm over a cup of coffee.
After he’d finished his breakfast, Oliver quickly dealt with the washing up and trotted upstairs to brush his teeth and slap on a little cologne. He checked his reflection one more time and combed his fingers through his hair. Apparently, he was ‘sex on legs’ but that was according to Becky and she always followed up the statement insisting it was only natural ‘cause he was related to her.
Staring at himself in the mirror, he shrugged. He supposed he was alright. His blond hair could do with a trim on the top and it kept falling in his eyes, but the sides were still okay. If forced into an actual description, he’d have said he had an angular face with high cheekbones and a strong jaw ending in a square chin—which he felt made him look a bit like Desperate Dan from the Beano. His nose was straight, if a little slightly off centre above a pair of overly plump lips that gave him a slightly feminine air. Although he did think his eyes were his best feature. They were a deep moss green, flecked with gold and surrounded by thick dark lashes he’d inherited from his mother—much to Becky’s annoyance, she’d got their dad’s.
Of course, all of the above was if he was forced to describe himself. Which he didn’t do often ‘cause he really didn’t give that much of a shit. He just wasn’t hung up on his looks, never had been. He didn’t think he was a movie star or anything, but he accepted he wasn’t dog vomit either. He was just… well… him. Good old Ollie, who always bought a round in the pub, was solely responsible for getting the hospital darts team to the top of the local pub league and could cook a mean stroganoff.
He pulled a face at his reflection and turned on his heel, forcing down the butterflies in his stomach that threatened to take flight. But as well as being good old Ollie, he was also bloody good at his job. He just hoped the residents of Little Mowbury would give him the chance to prove it.
Oliver quickly checked his watch as he headed down the stairs. He was meeting Malcolm at the surgery in twenty minutes, but there was someone else he needed to see first. He took a deep breath and opened the front door.
The morning sun shone on his face as he walked along the high street; the gentle breeze that lifted his hair the perfect complement to its warmth. It was going to be a scorcher today according to the five day weather forecast and from the look of the cloudless sky; the weatherman wasn’t going to be wrong.
Oliver knew exactly where he was going, had driven past his destination yesterday on his way into the village, so he didn’t need directions. It wasn’t a long walk and he stopped outside the village post office within a few minutes. Mentally admonishing himself for the slight shake in his fingers as he pulled down the handle, Oliver pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The lights were on inside the post office-cum-local shop. Micah had mentioned last night that Doris would be up at stupid o’clock to sort the morning papers, but didn’t actually open until eight-thirty, which gave Oliver the perfect opportunity to hopefully smooth things over. Doris stood behind the counter writing numbers on a pile of newspapers, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration. He cleared his throat to make her aware of his approach, but she didn’t raise her head or acknowledge him in any way.
“Um—”
“What do you want?”
Oliver jumped at the sound of her voice, even though he’d been looking straight at her. “Oh, sorry.” He huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t know if you heard me come in.”
“I’m old, not deaf,” Doris snapped back, continuing in her task. “And I said, what do you want?”
Straight to it. Okay.
“Doris, I just—”
“Mrs Abernathy,” she corrected coldly.
“Mrs Abernathy… I just wanted to apologise for hitting Hugo. It really was an accident, I would never hurt an animal on purpose, and I can’t tell you how thankful I am that he’s okay.”
“No thanks to you,” she said as she slammed her pencil down on the top of the pile of papers and glared at him over the top of her glasses, like an infuriated school teacher.
“I’m sorry, so sorry.” Oliver stepped closer to the counter and mentally crossed his fingers she wouldn’t throw the pricing-gun next to her hand at him. “I know you’re angry, I would be, too and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I hope you’ll allow me to take care of whatever it costs to get Hugo back up on his feet.”
Doris narrowed her gaze thoughtfully as she stared at him for a few moments, obviously mulling over his speech. From the expression on her face she knew he’d been practising it in his head on the walk over. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally spoke.
“That could work out quite expensive, doctor.”
“I don’t care,” Oliver said firmly. “I can cover it.”
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms over her ample bosom. “In my experience, most of your generation wouldn’t have even bothered to stop never mind offer up their own money.” Her gaze slid over Oliver and she nodded slowly as if she’d got the measure of him. “Okay doctor, I accept your kind offer. I’ll have the vet bill you direct. It doesn’t make us even but I’m grateful for the gesture.”
Relief washed through him. Like she said, it didn’t make them even, what could? But he had a feeling his status as Little Mowbury’s most wanted had been lowered. “Thank you,” he said, his gratitude audible. He checked his watch. “I’d better go; I’ve got to meet Malcolm at the surgery.”
“Then what are you doing standing around here making the place look untidy for?” Doris said brusquely and waved him towards the door. “You’ve already had a rough start, wouldn’t do to make it worse by being late on your first day.”
“You’re right. If there’s anything else I can do, Mrs Abernathy, please let me know.” Oliver meant it, he wasn’t just paying lip service and, from the narrowing of that sharp blue gaze again, she knew it, too. She gave the briefest inclination of her head and Oliver smiled, then turned on his heel and strode to the door. He opened the door and her reply turned his smile into a grin.
“It’s Doris.”