HE WAS RELIEVED NOT TO BE GOING INTO NEWELL DESIGN, it being Saturday, especially considering the events of the night before. Had it not been for all their vulgar interference, disturbing Caroline from her place of rest, things could have been very different, with no necessity to address the complication of Amelia. It had been a mistake to mention Cronly Lodge to her, trying to impress her with his joy of swimming along the Wexford coast. He had been much more discreet with Caroline, wanting to surprise her with it all.
It would be too risky to take his usual walk up the mountains, so he decided to stay closer to home, opting for a walk in the nearby park instead, planning to pick up a newspaper at the local kiosk on the way. He wanted to keep abreast of events and figured that compiling newspaper cuttings of developments would be a good place to start. Now that he was something of a celebrity, he may as well enjoy and record his elevated status.
Although he enjoyed his walks in the mountains, as he entered Herbert Park he reflected on the niceties of a more structured planting environment. The gardens at Cronly were designed with orderly structure in mind – circular bedding areas, shaped hedges, clipped camellias – with all the elements orchestrated to create the perfect balance between control and beauty. Even the wild flowering areas were set within definitive borders and sub-borders to ensure that whilst they displayed all that was good and wonderful about their softness, they were maintained and trimmed to ensure the garden was always the farthest thing from wilderness.
Herbert Park still boasted the vibrant reds and pinks of late flowering, along with some winter bedding still in its infancy. The farther he walked, the more energised he felt, and he began to look forward to things to come. He managed to pick up a couple of papers at the kiosk. Initially he thought he might stop and have a good read whilst he was out, seeing as both papers had headlines covering the murder, but, on reflection, he kept them under his arm, deciding it would be much better to investigate everything when he got home.
As he strolled along the pathway through the trees, he picked up the loud voices of a couple arguing. Although, he hadn’t needed to hear them shouting to realise what they were at. His study of people had made him quick to detect any changes of body posture or facial expression. Most people could be rather stupid, tending to fall into the trap of thinking that just because they didn’t hear or see you, then you couldn’t see or hear them.
The young girl near them was very pretty, with waist-length sandy hair and an innocent face. As he watched, he could tell her parents were paying no heed to her whatsoever. He sat down on a park bench and held one of the newspapers below eye level and watched. Immediately, he noticed how sad the young girl looked. He could tell that about her straight away. The family had a dog with them, a large black Labrador. The girl was fond of the dog – and why not? It wasn’t as if her parents were giving her any attention.
He was patient, watching the scene unfold. The mother was attractive, and the type of woman who knew it. It was in the way she flicked her hair, held her shoulders back. The man was clean-shaven and dressed well. His style was not exactly to his way of dress, but it was classy nonetheless. Studying the father, he suspected him to be one of those get-rich-fast types, someone who, perhaps by virtue of the current climate, had fallen on harder times. Maybe they were arguing about money. That was a popular one these days.
He hadn’t expected the girl to come over, but the dog played a part in their chance conversation. He despaired sometimes at how negligent parents could be.
The dog’s name was Woody. He heard the girl repeat it a number of times, so by the time Woody flew past him into the bushes, the young girl racing behind him, he was able to join in and help her try to call the dog back. Perhaps it was the smell of Tabs, but Woody came to him immediately.
The girl was younger than Caroline, but equally as friendly. He could tell she was lonely because of the way she displayed such affection for the animal. That was the thing about children – by and large, they were far more trusting and good-natured than adults. It never ceased to amaze him how adults failed to understand the way children thought. He understood it, but it seemed he had a rare gift. Then again, other adults didn’t study children the way he did. He watched and listened carefully, and, in so doing, made numerous helpful observations, including how children made friends quickly and easily – two seconds and you might as well have known them their entire life.
‘Woody’s very obedient,’ he remarked lightly.
She was delighted with this compliment of her pet. ‘He tries to be a good dog, but he can be tricky.’
‘Well, he seems like a very good dog to me. It’s hard for dogs, not speaking our language.’ He smiled, hoping she would smile back.
‘He likes you,’ she said, bestowing a small smile on him.
He patted Woody on the head. ‘Do you think so? I used to have a dog, but sadly I don’t have him any more.’
‘Did he die?’
‘Afraid so, but then he was a bit like me, not so young.’ He smiled again.
‘My granddad’s old.’
‘I bet you and him are great friends.’
‘Mam says Granddad spoils me. He calls me a chatterbox.’
‘Does he? Is that because you’re so quiet?’