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walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, the sun beating down on the top of my head. Glancing up at the small, pale blue weatherboard cottage, I spied Henry perched on the roof. What in the hell was the old bugger up to now? His attention was so captivated by whatever it was he was doing, he didn’t even see me, and suddenly I forgot all about Maia and what had happened at the café.
    Henry was a legend. The whole town knew him. He’d lived here his whole life, married Emily’s grandmother here, raised Bridget and her brother, owned a business and retired here. Part of me harboured a deep-seated hero-worship of him, and the other part of me sometimes felt like I was charged with babysitting a head-strong five-year-old. The old man had no idea the amount of mini-strokes he had caused everyone in recent years, due mainly to his fierce independent streak. Should I tell Bridget about this latest stunt? Probably best to find out what was going on first. I stopped still and stared up at the roof.
    “Henry! What the hell are you doing?”
    I startled him, but he managed to keep his balance. “Jesus, boy! What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”
    “Give you a heart-attack? That’s bloody rich! What’re you doing up there?”
    “Checking the hot water cylinder overflow valve.”
    “I could’ve done that for you, y’know.”
    “I’m not in the grave yet,” Henry grumbled, his full head of steel-grey hair glinting in the sun.
    He made his way slowly across the roof to the ladder leaning against the end of the house. For as long as I could remember, this had been Henry’s house. As a kid, I used to come by with Vinnie to visit. His wife, Glenda, made the best cheese scones I’d ever tasted, and she could whip them up in twenty minutes flat. I loved them fresh out of the oven, loaded up with butter that melted on impact. Vinnie liked his cold, the weirdo. Even before Em and I got together, there was Henry and Glenda. Our families were close then, and even more so now.
    When Glenda died twelve years ago, there had never been any question of him moving. He’d lived here, in this house, for over fifty years. But the older he got, the more obvious it became that it was only a matter of time. The house needed maintaining, and even though Henry was determined to act like he was fifty, not closer to eighty, it was getting the better of him. Moving him out, selling the house, was the only option. The only trouble was, no one had actually bothered to tell Henry this.
    He was a formidable force, but I loved spending time with him, despite the sometimes gruff exterior. He was a product of his generation – hardy, adventurous and independent. He was also cantankerous and short-tempered. It was the direct attitude that I admired most, though. Henry called a spade a spade, which meant you knew exactly where you stood, always. There was no pussy-footing around where Henry was concerned. It was as refreshing as it was entertaining, as long as you weren’t on the receiving end.
    I watched him navigating his way across the roof. Putting down the coffee and the paper bag on the porch, I went over to hold the ladder for him. Henry slowly made his way down, spying the treats as soon as he was back on terra firma again.
    “Good timing, I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, leading the way inside without another word.
    Christ. Up on the roof, and up and down a ladder that looked older than I was. I didn’t want to think what might’ve happened if he’d slipped. I picked up both coffee and bag and followed him. Bridget would chuck a fit.
    “Don’t even think about it,” Henry warned, reading my mind as he made his way across the front porch and into the house. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. The old bugger was as sharp as a tack, as usual. While his body may be letting him down as the years passed, there was nothing wrong with his mind.
    We settled down at