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We’d agreed to meet at Phil’s place. Not in his house, but in the little shed in the back corner of his yard. He called it his snug. His wife, Lucy, called it the last refuge of the damned.

Over the years, the spacious yard had been encroached upon by swing sets, ever-larger trampolines and last summer a pool was installed. Phil had muttered that Lucy was eyeing off his corner of the yard for a studio for her creative outlets. No wonder poor Phil was going bald.

We’d entered along the side path, waving at Lucy who was at the kitchen sink, hollering out something to one of the kids. She’d nodded at us, but I’m sure there was a bit of eye-rolling action as well. Lucy was fond of telling us how quaint she thought it was that Steve, Phil and I still kept in contact after all these years. We’d been mates since childhood, growing up in a cul-de-sac which had been absorbed into the suburban spread. Lucy was always looking forward, and I’d wondered at times if Phil still featured in these plans.

We made it to the door of the shed and Steve called out a hooroo, but Phil didn’t respond. I shifted the small esky to my left hand and pushed the door open. It was dim inside. ‘Phil?’ I called, though there was no space in the snug to hide. It was a small shed with just enough room for a narrow workbench, a card table and some directors chairs, stacked against the wall.

‘You sure he said he’d be here?’ Steve was still in the doorway.

I nodded. ‘He definitely said 2 pm on Saturday. And that it was important that we were both here.’

Steve shrugged. ‘I’ll check at the house.’

He headed off, and I ventured inside, placing the esky on the workbench. Phil was a bit casual about putting things away, and it struck me that he must have had a cleanup, as the tools were in their designated spots on the wall. He’d even wiped down surfaces, usually covered in a fine coating of wood dust, shavings, or engine oil. I turned to the card table when Steve returned.

‘Lucy said he headed out here after breakfast and that she hasn’t seen him since then.’

I reached up and pulled a cord to activate a solar light in the middle of the shed ceiling. ‘He might have left a note or something.’

‘What is that stuff?’ Steve was peering over my shoulder at the pile of objects on the table.

I reached forward. ‘Not sure.’ A mug, a paintbrush, a deck of cards, a map, a compass, and a travel diary were arranged in the centre of the table. I flicked through the diary and a slip of paper eddied on a breeze across the room. Steve, always the most co-ordinated of the three of us, snatched it midair. He squinted for a moment, then read aloud, “I hope it turns out better for you.”

This was written to a prompt at my local writing group.

Photo: The Company of Trees by Ro Murray and Mandy Burgess