Brownies For Breakfast
WRITTEN BY SUE COOK
A flock of noisy ducks, a sleep-deprived new neighbour, a night shift and a donated lunch. How can this end well?
Louisa opened the back door to find her dishy new neighbour dressed in a bathrobe and looking more prickly than a hedgehog in a holly bush.
“Excuse me,” he said, glaring.
“OK,” she replied.
Not surprisingly, her neighbour looked confused. “What?” he asked.
“I excuse you.” Louisa tried to shut the door, but his hand shot out to stop it.
She looked pointedly at the hand and then at him — the sudden movement had allowed his bathrobe to fall open, revealing a crumpled white T-shirt and boxers bearing an enormous red dragon.
Dragon man withdrew his hand and re-tied the belt, his cheeks flushing.
“Forgive me,” he said. “That was unforgivable.”
Louisa wasn’t sure if he meant keeping the door open or flashing his undies. Either way, there was literally only one response.
“How can I forgive the unforgivable?” she asked her poor victim.
He stared at her for a moment.
“I’m sorry, but I’m too tired for word games,” he said, then pointed towards the garden. “Are those ducks yours?”
“No. They’re not.”
He took a deep breath in, and as he let it out again, his body seemed to deflate. Louisa felt a thrill of satisfaction that her plan was wearing him down, as it inevitably did with awkward people. She’d learned long ago from her very annoying ex that answering questions literally wrong-footed any adversary, thus defusing the situation.
“Is this your house?” he asked.
Louisa smiled. This was the sort of question people inevitably resorted to when faced with her literal answer technique – questions which could not be misinterpreted. As such, it was a very good question.
“Yes,” she said.
Do you think you could stop your… er… those ducks quacking?
A very bad question. For him, at least.
“No,” she answered honestly.
He stared at her again but with astonishment this time.
“Are you refusing?”
“No,” she repeated. Now he mentioned it, though, she saw he looked exhausted. Perhaps she ought to cut him some slack. She added, “I don’t think I can stop Mrs Simpson quacking, no.”
He pursed his lips, then offered a hand.
“I’m sorry. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I’m Rhodri Hughes.”
Finally! This was where he should have started. Louisa shook his hand.
“Hi, I’m Louisa Watson. I called to ask you round for coffee yesterday evening, but you weren’t in.”
She’d envisioned their first meeting involving lots of laughter and the occasional tingly touch of hands as they both reached for more cake.
His tight smile confirmed the tingly touch boat had sailed.
“I’m the new consultant at the A&E department, and I’m on nights. Last night was horrendous.”
“Oh, Lord!” Louisa’s hand flew to her mouth. “The coach crash on the bypass.”
That would explain his foul mood and crumpled sleepwear.
“Yes. That. Yesterday was my first shift. They’re twelve hours, and I finished late as we were super busy. I’m back on shift again at eight o’clock tonight, and Mrs…”
“Mrs Simpson. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll try to shut her up.”
Louisa looked past him into the garden and bit her lip.
Rhodri smiled gratefully.
“Thank you, Louisa. I’m sorry if I seemed cross. I’m not normally like that.”
Louisa watched him lumber through the gate between their gardens and figured it was she who should apologise.
The incessant quacking was getting on her nerves, too, and she wasn’t trying to sleep. She couldn’t imagine how fractious he must be.
Although, short of catching Mrs Simpson and clamping her beak shut, she was out of ideas. But first, she should catch her duck.
She’d been chasing those ducks around the garden for a few minutes in spotty wellies and a shiny raincoat when Rhodri’s resolve not to get involved snapped.
Catching them was her problem, not his. Except that Louisa was doing a disconcertingly good imitation of his useless ex, Ramona – and if Mrs Simpson kept on quacking, it was definitely his problem too. He donned a coat and some jogger bottoms, grabbed a bag of salad from the fridge and trekked back outside.
He tossed a few leaves towards the ducks. The birds fell on them like starving things. He scattered the rest of the lettuce inside their run. The ducks rushed in, and he closed the door behind them. Simple.
“You’ve done that before,” Louisa said.
“Yes. You’re welcome.”
Rhodri headed back to his side of the hedge, assuming that she could now deal with the problem.
He dragged his weary feet upstairs to bed, his mind full of worry. If those ducks made that rumpus all day, every day, he had a problem. He’d taken a six-month lease on the house. He’d have to move, or complain to the council – which he did not wish to do, however infuriating Louisa Watson and her unhelpful answers were.
He shuddered at the idea of living next door to another Ramona. His ex had liked the idea of back-to-the-earth living, but was more suited to ordering the staff to do it. She wasn’t prepared for all the muck.
As he slipped back into bed, he realised he should have caught Mrs Simpson and handed her to Louisa. The others had begun to make a racket, too, no doubt indignant about being incarcerated.
Surely she could cope now, though. Even Ramona could catch a captive duck.
Nevertheless, he decamped to the front bedroom, which he’d initially rejected because of assumed road noise. He settled into bed, put his earplugs back in and listened for the quacking. He could only just hear it.
He put on his eye mask, turned over, and the next thing he knew, someone was digging up the road outside.
What the…? He sat up and removed his eye mask and earplugs. The noise stopped. The room was pitch black.
He moved to the window to see what was happening, just as someone resumed hammering on his front door.
He peered down. Louisa! Teeth clenched, he opened the window.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she looked it. “Your shift starts in ten minutes. I thought you might have overslept, what with… everything.”
Ten minutes? Rhodri looked around for his phone and realised he’d left it in the back bedroom. “What time is it?”
“Ten to eight.”
Rats. “Thank you,” he said and started to close the window.
“I’ll leave this on the doorstep.” She gestured with a parcel in her hand.
“What is it?”
I made some sandwiches and a hot drink as a goodwill gesture.
Rhodri managed to say “thanks” but inside, he was frowning. This was the sort of thing Ramona would have done, too.
He made it to the department only a minute late. He’d skipped his usual shower and drunk Louisa’s surprisingly strong black coffee on the drive over.
A quick peek into her trendy bamboo lunch box revealed various beeswax wraps — exactly what he’d have expected from Ramona. No doubt they enclosed a veggie wrap, a low fat snack bar and quinoa salad on the side.
He locked the box in his car and strode into the department. Hopefully, work would be quiet and he’d grab something more filling from the canteen first.
No such luck. All the emergency cubicles were full. A nurse slapped a set of notes against his chest as he walked in.
Cubicle three, please, Dr Hughes. Fall from a ladder.
Five hours later, his stomach was growling, the department was relatively quiet and the canteen was shut. Rhodri reluctantly retrieved the lunch box.
Memories of the well-meaning Ramona filled his head as he opened it. She was lovely, but they were totally unsuited. He didn’t dislike quinoa or berries, but on a twelve-hour shift, he needed calories and comfort food as well as vitamins and minerals. Ramona never understood that.
With a sigh, he opened the first wax wrap. To his surprise, it contained beef and pickle sandwiches.
Next, he found a pot of pasta salad, some salted peanuts and a boiled duck egg. There was even a twist of sugar for his coffee and a small pot of milk, which he wished he’d spotted earlier. A handwritten note said, Hope you aren’t veggie/allergic/a health nut. L.
Rhodri smiled. Maybe he’d misjudged his rather attractive neighbour.
At nine o’clock the following morning, Louisa opened her back door to a smiling neighbour.
“No, no, and no,” Rhodri said, proffering the bamboo box.
Louisa wracked her brain. “Sorry. I’ve no idea what you mean.”
He grinned. “The answers to your questions in the most welcome lunchbox in the history of packed meals. I’m not veggie, allergic or a health nut. That lunch was exactly what I needed. And thanks for waking me. I don’t know how I’d have explained being late on my second day.”
Louisa waved a hand nonchalantly.
“Blame it on your neighbour from hell. I’m sorry I was awkward with you yesterday. It’s a habit I learned from my ex. It helps defuse awkward situations.”
Rhodri held up his hands in a guilty gesture. “Like when you’re confronted by a stranger impersonating a hippo with a headache?”
Louisa laughed. “I think I’d have been far less polite in your shoes. You must have been furious.”
Rhodri looked back at the garden. “Where are your ducks?”
“They’re not my ducks,” she explained. “My mother brought them over when she had to go look after my aunt at short notice. They’re a bit discombobulated.”
Quacking, loud and rhythmic, started up behind her. Rhodri’s eyes widened. “They’re in the house?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” Louisa led the way towards them.
Rhodri followed. “That explains why your garden’s so neat. When we kept poultry, there was mud everywhere. The plants they didn’t trample, they ate.”
“We?” Louisa’s hopes sank a little. She had assumed that, like her, he was single.
“My ex, Ramona, liked the idea of keeping chickens – but not the reality.” Rhodri rolled his eyes.
“My sympathies are with Ramona. Those ducks are mud machines.”
“Where are they?” he asked.
She opened the living room door.
It seemed the only solution while you’re on nights. Hopefully it’s only for a day or so.
Rhodri gawped. She’d covered the carpet with thick plastic sheeting strewn with straw. Three of the ducks bobbed in the clam-shell paddling pool, and Mrs Simpson stood in the food dish, quacking.
“Unbelievable. He laughed. “Ramona would never have done this.”
“I’m not Ramona,” Louisa pointed out.
“No.” His eyes met hers, and he added softly, “You’re not.”
Louisa’s heart fluttered. Here was their opportunity to begin over. She’d better make her offer crystal clear, though.
“I was about to have breakfast,” she said. “Will you join me?”
He hesitated, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. Probably Why would I eat with someone who keeps ducks in the house?
Eventually, he said, “As long as it’s not porridge. I hate porridge.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Avocado on wholewheat sourdough toast?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
“No – sorry.”
“Dairy-free yogurt? Spinach smoothie?”
“No, Rhodri. I’m having chocolate brownie for breakfast.”
“Is that a low-fat, low-sugar, gluten-free, no-fun chocolate brownie?” he asked, eyebrows raised and the hint of a smile playing about his very kissable lips.
’Fraid not. It’s a high fat, sugar-loaded, clog-your-arteries, wicked-as-sin chocolate brownie. Take it or leave it.
Rhodri grinned. “I accept. Coffee and cake sounds perfect, except –”
“I know.” Louisa opened the cupboard. “You’ll need decaf so you can sleep.”
Pick up a copy of My Weekly every Tuesday for original fiction stories, and look out for new fiction content on our website every week. Plus this week we bring you a touching tribute to Queen Elizabeth II.
Allison Hay
I joined the "My Weekly" team thirteen years ago and, more recently, "The People's Friend". I love the variety of topics we cover both online and in the magazines. I manage the digital content for the brands, sharing features and information on the website, social media and in our digital newsletters.
