10

Miss Carla Hahn

I am going to speak to Mr Huff.

I am going to speak to Mr Huff.

I am going to speak to Mr Huff.

I am. I am.

Apologize. Confess. Apologize. I am. I will. Yes. I will. It’s just that … that after all the drama with the landslip I simply haven’t had the … the … you know … the wherewithal … the nerve … the will … uh … no … the opportunity. Then I was scheduled on, last minute, for three, consecutive shifts at Mallydams: reception desk, cleaning out cages, hand feeding that snappy young vixen with the broken jaw etc. (they’re short-staffed – poor Amy Burrell contracted Rat-bite Fever from a weasel. It’s been all the talk in Guestling this week), and of course poor Dad’s foot medication ran out yesterday (he forgot to warn me in advance) so I was obliged to charge on over to the Ore Surgery just before closing (ditched the bike, got the bus). Then there was a queue twenty deep at the pharmacy …

But I am going to speak to Mr Huff. Yes. It’s an absolute priority.

I am going to speak to Mr Huff.

Confess. Confess all.

Yes.

Although … Although no word as yet from Mrs Barrow (and this is a scheduled cleaning day at the cottage, so … uh …), so perhaps it didn’t all pan out quite so badly as I … uh …

Hoped?

Anticipated?

Feared?

No. No. It must’ve … It must’ve been terrible. Awful. The bin hidden in plain view. The little stone through the window (but only a little stone, and it’s my window after all), the stolen bulb (although – again – it’s my bulb to steal). And … and the shark. The dead shark. There’s no … I mean there’s no excusing … no arguing my way out of … Under the bed! The dead shark! The shark with its guts full of vile, writhing, rapidly pupating …

Oh Lord!

I am going to speak to Mr Huff.

Although (in my defence – I know I don’t actually have a leg to stand on) he left all the doors wide open! Really! What else did he expect? Honestly!

And he insulted Rogue! Yes! Mortally! And Dad!

And he’s an awful, supercilious snoop! He ran over Mum’s cat, for heaven’s sake!

(That was actually his wife, though, wasn’t it? Before she left?)

And then, to compound the injury, he pretty much accused me of lying! To my face! About the poor old boy’s age! Followed by the letter! That awful, vain, self-aggrandizing … Urgh! Just thinking about it makes my … makes my blood … urgh … boil.

Such a rude man.

And the subtle way he’s gone about ingratiating himself with everyone. Oh lovely, charming, creative Mr Huff with his curly hair and his clever, hazel eyes and his cheekbones and his braces and his cosmopolitan life and his artistic hands and his winning ways and his extraordinary sensitivity (Please!) and his shrunken heads and his social conscience and … and his amazing gift – his deep empathy – with macaws!