Winter in July: The Tales of Little Leaf, #2

By R.P. Gibson Colley

Dan's life is going to the dogs.

Dan is back. And now, at last, he's got a girlfriend. Problem is, he doesn't know how to talk to her, so he enlists the help of his mother's new boyfriend. It's not going to end well.

Yet Dan is more worried about a friend's dog that goes missing. But it's when a second dog goes missing that Dan's genteel life starts to unravel.

Part Two of The Tales of Little Leaf.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rupert Colley
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224716920

Book preview

Winter in July

The Tales of Little Leaf, Part 2

R. P. Gibson Colley

rupertcolleybooks.com

© 2021 R. P. Gibson Colley

Monday

My mother’s new boyfriend bought me a weird present recently. He carried it upstairs to my bedroom, a mischievous grin on his face. I didn’t like it at first and I certainly didn’t want to touch it. Mum screamed on seeing it; she couldn’t understand why he might buy me such a thing. It’s big, it’s hairy and it’s scary. It’s a tarantula. It came in a big, plastic tank with sawdust and cork as its base. ‘There’re some one thousand different species of these things,’ said Julian. ‘This one is one of the most docile, he’s a Chilean Rose.’

‘Right,’ I said, staring at his huge hairy legs. He was a plain brown colour, with black tips at the end of his thick legs.

‘Well, that’s something,’ said Mum, looking she might be sick any moment.

‘Don’t you like it, Dan?’

‘Yes, it’s… it’s, erm, yes, it’s lovely.’

‘I bought you a book too, so you’ll know how to look after him. Tarantula Care For Total Idiots.’

‘How appropriate,’ said Mum.

‘I got you a male,’ said Julian. ‘Because the females can live up to twenty years and I didn’t think you’d be wanting to look after it when you’re forty. Males don’t live nearly as long. What do you want to call him?’

I thought about this. George, perhaps, after George Michael, but no, that’s my boss’s name. Or Andrew, after George Michael’s mate who doesn’t do anything. I quite liked Bertie but somehow this Chilean Rose didn’t look like a Andrew or a Bertie. ‘Nelson,’ I said, finally. ‘Lord Nelson.’ Horatio Nelson, Great Britain’s greatest seaman.

‘Good idea,’ said Julian. ‘Lord Nelson it is.’

‘Couldn’t you have bought him one of those silly computer games,’ said Mum. ‘Like all the other boys?’

‘Can I pick him up?’

Mum screeched. ‘No, you can’t… I’m leaving.’

‘Give him a day or two, Dan. Let him get used to his new surroundings.’

I stared at him, as he scuttled inside a flower pot lying on its side inside his tank. Yes, I thought, Lord Nelson and I could become friends.

*

I’ve got a girlfriend now. Never had one before. It feels nice saying it – I’ve got a girlfriend. I wake up of a morning and have to pinch myself. Her name is Wendy. The problem, though, is that I don’t actually like her very much, and I don’t reckon she likes me at all. That’s the drawback of being desperate – you hold onto things when you know really, you shouldn’t. One problem is, I don’t know how to talk to her; I’ve got no idea what sort of things women are interested in. I’m going around to her house tonight for the first time. She lives with her dad and her younger brother. And, honestly, I’m not looking forward to it. It seems important, this meeting the family event, and it’s been worrying me. I get a lurch in my stomach whenever I think of it. So, today, I asked Julian for help. He used to be in the army, he was a colonel, and that’s really important, so I guess he knows about things, about how to talk to a woman.

I was in the living room when Julian passed through. ‘Oh, Julian, hi. Erm, could I ask you something? I mean, only if you have time and you’re not busy or nothing.’

‘Or anything, Dan. So, what is it?’

‘It’s about… about women, I guess.’

He stifled a laugh but not very well. ‘Oh, that sounds ominous.’

He sat down on our rose-patterned settee and leant forward, his fingers steepled and tilted his head to one side. Julian is one of these people who always looks neat, whatever the time of the day. He wears a collared shirt with a nice cardigan and always has his glasses on the end of a string. Mum’s been rearranging her collection of china figurines she keeps displayed on the mantelpiece. Dad used to hate them. He broke one once, a little huntsman with a red jacket and riding hat. He knocked it off the mantelpiece and the head snapped clean off. It caused such an argument. Mum reckoned Dad had done it on purpose while Dad swore blind it was an accident. Dad tried to stick the head back on but it didn’t work.

‘Well, Dan? What is it about women you want to know?’

Now, having got Julian’s undivided attention, I found it hard to ask. I couldn’t look at him but I managed to splutter it out.

‘Ah!’ he said, leaving back in the settee. ‘So, that’s the problem, is it?’ He crossed his long legs and I focussed on his crocodile-patterned shoes as he spoke, as if from a great height. ‘I’m no ladies' man myself but I think I can help. In a word, you need to be sensitive to a woman’s needs, and have empathy.’

‘Isn’t that two words?’

‘So be it. Sensitivity and empathy.’

He could see from my expression that I wasn’t sure exactly what empathy meant. ‘You just need to nod a lot. Women aren’t like us, Dan; they’re far more, how should I say it… complicated. Yes, complicated. If I got a new haircut, say, and I asked you what you thought, as men, I’d expect you to be honest with me. But not with a woman. If a woman asks you for your opinion, for God’s sake, don’t tell her what you think; she’s not really asking for your opinion at all, she’s asking you to say whatever it is she wants to hear.’

‘So, if a woman, like Mum, got a new hairdo and asked me what I thought of it, I’d say…’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s very nice, Mum. Even if it wasn’t very nice at all.’

‘Exactly! Even better, don’t wait to be asked. Just say it straight off.’

‘Right.’

‘Now, another thing, women liked to be listened to. She might tell you all her woes but she’s not expecting you to provide any answers, simply to listen, to hear her out.’

‘But she never asks my opinion on anything. And I never know what to say to her.’

He flicked a bit of fluff off his trouser leg. ‘As in Wendy? In that case, talk about what’s going on in the world. You read the papers, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘There you are then. You don’t know what’s happening. When are you next seeing Wendy?’

‘Tonight. We’re going out for dinner at The Bull. I’m picking her up at her house first. I’ve never been to her house before.’

‘A new adventure then.’

‘Not really, it’s just a small house in the village.’

‘Go buy yourself today’s Times and have a read of that before you go. Educate yourself. Don’t worry about remembering any of it, it’ll just come back to you at the right moment. It’ll make you look like a man of the world, a person who keeps abreast about things, about issues. Do you see?’

I nodded.

‘The other thing, women like compliments. We all do, of course. But it’s very important to compliment a woman.’

‘About what?’

‘Her clothes, her hair, the fact she looks nice, stuff like that. I mean, some women would say it’s all nonsense and that they don’t need a man’s approval and all that, but don’t believe it.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Every woman likes to be complimented, whatever she says.’

‘I see. Clothes, hair, looks nice.’

‘That’s it; you’re learning fast. We’ll make a Romeo of you yet.’ He played with a ring on his right hand. ‘Oh, and women like a man that can make her laugh.’

‘You mean tell her jokes.’

‘Hmm, maybe not jokes per se, more just amusing asides.’

Now, he really had lost me but I was too embarrassed to admit it. Instead, I said, ‘Heck, I’m never going to remember all this. Perhaps, I should write it down.’

‘Don’t worry, young man; it’ll come naturally to you soon enough’

Soon enough? I need it now, tonight, straight away. I wanted to ask him whether he’d been married before. He’d come into our lives not so long ago and I realised I knew nothing about him. Except that I liked him, that he talked to me in a way Dad never did. I always felt in Dad’s way somehow, but Julian was different – he was just nicer.

‘Anything else I can help you with?’ he asked.

Yes, I thought. At what point does love come into it? What if you suspect your girlfriend thinks that really, you’re a bit of a dick? And what about all that other stuff, the sex stuff? I knew I was turning red even just thinking it. I wasn’t sure how to ask these questions; it all seemed too big. ‘Do you know what we’re having for tea tonight?’

‘Battered cod and chips. But I thought you said you were going out for dinner.’

‘Oh, yes, I am; we are, yes. We’re going to The Bull.’ I had to stop myself from asking him to come with me; I’d feel safer with him there, advising me on what to do and what to say, but it was a ridiculous idea; I knew that.

‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time. Don’t worry about it too much, just be yourself. No point trying to be anyone else. There’s only one Daniel Whitaker.’

That’s the problem, I thought. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

He got up from the settee, his knees creaking.

I wasn’t sure I was any clearer, to be honest. It all seemed rather vague. But at least he stopped and listened and tried. It was more than my dad had ever done for me.

*

I live in a small village called Little Leaf on the southern edge of Dartmoor in Devon in England, Great Britain and Europe, the World and the Universe. I live down Chancery Lane with just my mum. From Chancery Lane, it’s just a hop and a skip to the village square. At one end of the square is the church and up the hill opposite, the primary school, the village hall and behind them, the small swimming pool. I still looked back at those eleven days in June and shudder at how besotted (Mum’s word) I became with Libby, the girl who walked into our lives briefly before disappearing again. I may have been besotted but at least I felt something, that feeling when you see someone you really like and your heart speeds up and you go all giddy. Wendy is nice but I don’t feel these things on seeing her. Not ever.

I’m twenty years old. I have a job working in the village hardware store with my mate Roy and our boss, the owner Grumpy George. When I was sixteen, my mum and dad split up. Dad lives in the city of Plymouth now, twelve point six miles away, with a very nice black woman called Charmaine, who always seems pleased to see me, which is nice, and calls me ‘love’ and hugs me. I really like Charmaine. And Mum has recently met Julian who, like I say, used to be a colonel in the army. So all’s well. But, you know, if I could have any wish come true, any wish at all, I wish Mum and Dad were still together, with me, the three of us, a small but happy family.

An hour later, I sat down on the settee, crossed my legs and opened The Times. I’d bought it in the newsagent, of course, and afterwards I popped into the bakery and got myself a doughnut. Old Mrs Hamilton in the bakery used to be a bit nasty to me but she’s quite nice now. She saw the newspaper. ‘Oh, reading The Times now, are we? I thought you’d be more of a Sun man like all the other retarded men around here. Page Three and all that.’

‘Page what?’

‘You like The Times then?’

‘Yes, I like to keep abreast of things, you know, read about what’s happening in the world.’

She nodded. I think she was impressed. ‘And what is happening in the world? What’s that silly Margaret Thatcher up to these days?’

‘I don’t know, do I? I’ve not read it yet.’

‘That’ll be twenty pence for the doughnut, please.’

I’ll be honest, I didn’t understand much of it. I was more interested in the doughnut. It was a custard one, so a bit special, not your run-of-the-mill jam doughnut.

Mum came in. ‘Good God, Daniel. Have I walked into someone else’s life? What are you doing reading that? Not your usual style.’

‘I’m educating myself.’

She laughed but I don’t know why. What’s so funny about a man reading a newspaper?

‘I’m seeing what that silly Margaret Thatcher is up to these days.’

‘Silly? Don’t let Julian hear you say that. Anyway, go steady; you’ll get brain ache if you’re not careful. And mind that doughnut; no greasy stains on the furniture, thank you. Oh my, is it a custard one?’

‘Yeah. It’s nice.’

She looked all wistful. ‘God, what I wouldn’t do for a custard doughnut right now.’

‘Go buy one then from Mrs Hamilton. They’re only twenty pence.’

She ran her hands down her stomach. ‘Best not.’

I carried on reading. Old Mrs Hamilton was right – there was a lot about Margaret Thatcher and about economic union, and parliament and housing and employment and unemployment and the health service. When will it stop? Is it like this every day? Jeepers, Mum was right – my brain did ache. Instead, I read an interview with Gary Linekar, the football player, but even he sounded like a self-loving twat. Oh, and I read about the Rolling Stones. The headline read, Still together after all these years. They’re all in their forties now; that’s so old, and they look really old, even older than Julian. Fancy still being in a rock band in your forties! It’s obscene. Why couldn’t they find proper jobs now, like… I don’t know, like being a carpenter or something?

Time passed. I had to get ready; I had to go over to Wendy’s, I had a date with my girlfriend to keep. My girlfriend. Despite everything and all the worries I had, it still felt nice saying it… my girlfriend.

*

‘Ah, so you must be the infamous Dan.’

I tried not to recoil as my nose was assaulted by his whiskey breath. ‘Hello, Mr Lincoln.’ The man had a huge set of sideburns that ran so far down his chin, they almost met in the middle to form a beard. He wore a collared shirt but not like Julian’s, this one was bright red and he wore it with the collar up.

‘You’re a lanky kid, aren’t you? So, you are my daughter’s boyfriend.’ I didn’t like the way he said ‘boyfriend’ as if it had speech marks around it. ‘Takes all sorts, I suppose.’

I didn’t know what he meant by that so I just smiled.

‘Well, don’t just stand there; you’d better come in; don’t want the neighbours seeing.’

Mr Lincoln showed me through to their living room except for a moment I thought I’d walked into a museum dedicated to Elvis Presley. There were pictures of him everywhere, and figurines and posters and books and records, stacks of them. In the corner was an upright piano with a plastic dinosaur on it. And standing in the middle of this museum was a tall man wearing an old-fashioned hat and a long coat that almost reached his ankles, and sitting on the bright blue settee, a boy of about ten wearing glasses. ‘Hello,’ said the boy, looking up from the large book on his lap. ‘I’m Aaron.’

I’d never heard of such a name.

‘Aaron.’ said his dad. ‘As in Elvis, of