The House on Hill Street by Judy Nunn

THE HOUSE ON HILL STREET
    Timothy Drew lived in Hill Street, West Hobart, a pleasant street in a pleasant, middle-class suburb in the postcard-pretty capital of Tasmania. Timothy’s house was one in a line of a half dozen or so single-storey terraces built at the dawn of the twentieth century, which now, in 1983, were regarded as fashionable. Brick-rendered and identical, the cottages were not as picturesque as the stone terraces that were a feature of ‘old Hobart town’, but they were attractive nonetheless.
    Timothy didn’t actually own his cottage, he rented it from Henry Jervis, a real estate investor whose passion for restoring old houses had made him a wealthy man, but Timothy felt as though he owned his cottage. He’d lived there quite happily for the past decade and, apart from a biennial raise in the rent, he’d had no interference whatsoever from his landlord. It was not surprising – Henry Jervis only wished that all of his properties could be leased to introverted pharmaceutical assistants like the grossly overweight, meek and malleable Timothy Drew.
    Timothy took great pride in his house and his garden, and the community in general. He considered it a privilege to live in Hill Street – such a respectable neighbourhood. Good heavens, there was even a scientist a few doors up the road. Professor Jameson and his family had moved into the end terrace just the previous year. The professor was a biochemist, employed by the CSIRO no less. In Timothy’s opinion, a person of such standing was a credit to the community and, although he hadn’t dared attempt to cultivate the great man’s friendship, he always kept a packet of sweets in his pocket for those times when he bumped into Mrs Jameson and the children. This was usually during the weekends when she took the boys to the park – always on her own. The professor was rarely to be seen, he was clearly a busy man.
    Eileen Jameson seemed a very nice woman – late thirties Timothy guessed, quite a deal younger than her husband, who appeared in his early fifties. Good-looking, brunette and stylish, as befitted the wife of a scientist.
    Lately, Timothy had taken to accompanying Eileen and her children on their stroll to the park. For Timothy it was more of a struggle than a stroll as he waddled beside them trying to keep up. When they got there he would push the swing for the youngest boy, Thomas, who was six. Nine-year-old Robert, fiercely independent, would eschew any form of assistance, swearing he could swing himself higher than anyone could push him. Eileen, seated on a bench, buried her head in a book and ignored the lot of them. Ten minutes later, when the swings had lost their appeal, the boys would gravitate to each other’s company and Timothy, his supply of sweets by then demolished, would be redundant altogether. That was when he would make his departure.
    ‘Cheerio,’ he’d say, and Eileen would look up from her book and give him a wave.
    Timothy loved his visits to the park.
    One chill autumn day, emboldened by the dreadful knowledge that, with the advent of winter, the park would soon be out of bounds, Timothy made a move that surprised even himself. He joined Eileen Jameson on the bench.
    Clasping a knee with both hands, he heaved one hefty thigh over the other and crossed his legs in a clumsy attempt at nonchalance. ‘I’d be happy to babysit,’ he said a little too loudly.
    Eileen glanced up from her book into the currant-brown eyes of his doughy face and the desperate plea that lay there.
    ‘You could drop the boys off at my house any time during the weekend,’ he said. ‘Or, if you like, I could call by and collect them. And I’m free in the evenings too …’ He tailed off lamely as he noticed that she did not appear particularly receptive to his suggestion.
    Eileen Jameson supposed there was nothing sinister in Timothy Drew’s offer. He was just the lonely man she’d always presumed him to be, she told herself. But she found