Tim Read Online Free PDF Page B

cloth in case the roof ever leaked, which of course it didn’t, since it belonged to Mary Horton.
    ‘Here’s the tractor, and it’s got the mower already attached. Can you operate it?’
    Tim took the cover off and stroked the tractor’s shiny surface lovingly. ‘Oh, it’s a beaut!’
    Mary suppressed her impatience. ‘Beaut or not, can you work it, Mr Melville?’
    ‘Oh, yes! Pop says I’m awfully good with machinery.’
    ‘Isn’t that nice?’ she remarked waspishly. ‘Is there anything else you’re likely to need, Mr Melville?’
    The blue eyes regarded her with puzzled wonder. ‘Why do you keep calling me Mr Melville?’ he asked. ‘Mr Melville is my father! I’m just Tim.’
    ‘Heavens!’ she thought, ‘he’s a child!’ but she said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, just knock on the back door.’
    ‘Righto, Missus!’ he said cheerfully, smiling.
    ‘I’m not a Missus!’ she snapped. ‘My name is Horton, Miss Horton!’
    ‘Righto, Miss Horton,’ he amended happily, not at all disconcerted.
    By the time she returned inside she was wide awake, and had abandoned any thought of snatching two or three more hours in bed. In a moment he would start the tractor, and that would be the end of it. The house was centrally air conditioned, so was cool and dry no matter what the humidity and temperature outside were, but as she got herself some toast and tea Mary decided that it would be very pleasant to eat on the terrace, where she could keep an eye on her new gardener.
    When she carried her little tray out she was fully dressed in her weekend at-home uniform of a plain dark grey cotton dress, as creaseless and perfect as everything about her always was. Her hair, which she wore in a long braid for sleeping, was dragged into its daytime bun. Mary never wore slippers or sandals, even when she was at her beach cottage near Gosford; the moment she got out of bed she dressed, which meant support stockings and stout black shoes.
    The mower had been purring smoothly from the backyard for twenty minutes when she sat down at a white-painted wrought-iron table by the balustrade and poured herself a cup of tea. Tim was working down at the far end where the yard tipped over into the brick pit, and he was going about it as slowly and methodically as he had seemed to work for Harry Markham, getting down from the tractor as he completed a strip to make sure the next one would overlap it. She sat munching toast and sipping tea, her eyes never leaving his distant figure. Since she was not given to self-analysis or even to mild introspection, it did not occur to her to wonder why she watched him so fixedly; it was enough to realize that he fascinated her. Not for one moment did she think of her fascination as attraction.
    ‘G’day there, Miss Horton!’ came the raucous voice of Mrs Parker, and the next moment the Old Girl flopped her violently coloured body into the spare chair.
    ‘Good morning, Mrs Parker. Would you care for a cup of tea?’ Mary said, rather coldly.
    ‘Ta, love, that sounds real nice. No, don’t get up, I can find another cup meself.’
    ‘No, please don’t. I have to freshen up the tea anyway.’
    When she returned to the patio with a new pot of tea and some more toast Mrs Parker was sitting with her chin in her hand, watching Tim.
    ‘That was a good idea, getting Tim to mow yer lawn. I noticed yer usual bloke hasn’t been for a while. That’s where I’m lucky. One of me sons always comes over to mow me lawn, but you’ve got no one, eh?’
    ‘Well, I did as you asked yesterday and checked to see that everything was all right regarding the builders and their mess. That was when I met Tim, who seemed to have been left to clean up on his own. He was quite grateful for the offer of a little extra money, I think.’
    Mrs Parker disregarded the last part of Mary’s statement. ‘If that ain’t typical of them rotten buggers!’ she snarled. ‘Not content to make the