No Bones

The boys are back at school. Work resumes as usual. Lester looks surprised to see me. His problem, not mine. If he wants to kick me out he’s going to have to spell it out. We make polite conversation. I ask about the project. He asks about the boys. Polite, engaged, appropriate. We’re both relieved to hear a key turn in the door.

Bruno doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised to see me sitting at my desk. He just might be the nicest man I know.

He says ‘We’ve got the archeology report.’

‘And?’

‘And they didn’t find any bones at Macey’s Patch.’

‘None?’

‘None at all.’

‘Dead bodies?’ I say hopefully.

‘No bodies and no bones.’

Lester looks exasperated. ‘So what was all that bollocks about Gala-the-Fox-Terrier and the sanctity of his sodding grave?’

I am staring at my feet.

‘But they did find something else.’ Says Bruno.

He has our full attention.

‘Boxes.’

‘Boxes?’

‘Boxes. In a disused septic tank.’

Lester says ‘We’ve had the services report. There wasn’t any mention of a tank.’

‘It’s been out of use for years.’ Says Bruno, scanning the report. ‘They built it at the same time as the hospital. It became redundant once they got connected to the mains.’

I say ‘So what’s inside the boxes?’

Bruno says ‘Not boxes, exactly. Maybe more like tins.’

‘Tins.’ Lester says scornfully. As though he’s heard it all.

‘Metal boxes. Small metal boxes. A bit too small for biscuits; too big to be sardines.’

‘What’s inside?’

‘They’re not too sure.’

‘Haven’t they looked?’

‘They didn’t think it was appropriate. They felt they ought to leave the evidence in tact.’

Lester rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not a murder investigation, it’s an archaeology report.’

‘They have to take it seriously. It’s their job.’

‘I thought they were meant to have some sort of X-Ray vision.’ Says Lester. Isn’t that what we pay them for?’

I say ‘It’s just a desk-top survey. We only paid two grand.’

‘Jesus Christ. Two grand? You can buy a sodding metal detector for fifty bloody quid. If I’d known we were paying that much I’d have gone poking around myself.’

I know better than to argue.

‘Lazy sods. You’d think for two bloody grand they could at least have bought them down here in a carrier bag.’

He’s putting on his coat.

‘Right’ he says. ‘I’m going to dig them up.’

 

Loyalty Card

Bruno says ‘Perhaps she’s moved the body. Now she knows we’re onto her.’

I say. ‘You read the report. No signs of recent disturbance. Well, there weren’t before we dug the whole thing up.’

Bruno says ‘Shame really. It’s the only thing that made this project interesting.’

I say ‘I would have thought you got enough thrills from your other job.’

‘It’s not as exciting as it sounds.’

I say ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

He looks offended. ‘I’m not hustling on street corners. These are long-term client relationships with respectable married women.’

‘There has to be an element of risk.’

‘Ninety per cent of my business comes from repeat customers.’ He is clearly proud of this statistic.

‘In fact….’ He’s fishing around in his laptop case. ‘I’m toying with different options for some sort of loyalty card.’

‘Here.’ He says triumphantly. ‘What do you think of this?’

He holds up a business card that says:

Bruno Brown
Personal Trainer. Very Personal Trainer.
I can satisfy your sexual needs AND get you back in shape.

‘Nice.’ I say. ‘Subtle.’

He says ‘Do you think I ought to leave the last line off?’

‘I like the combination of promise and implied insult.’

He says ‘You think it’s cheesy don’t you?’

I say ‘I like the font.’

He is rummaging though his case.

‘I’ve got a more sophisticated option. I’m just worried it’s a bit too cosmopolitan for St Anselm’s.’

He brandishes another card.

He says ‘So what do you think?’

I say ‘I think that you spell Gigolo with a G.’

 

Glory Days

Lester says ‘So what’s your best bet?’

We are sitting round the table. Tins stacked neatly in the middle. Identical. Sides neatly sealed with bright red wax. A single word scratched on each lid. Ruby, Gala, Coty, Blaze.

I say ‘They sound like dogs to me.’

‘Stop banging on about your bloody dogs.’ Says Lester.

‘It could be ashes. Maybe they’ve interred them.’

‘They’re bloody heavy for ashes.’

‘Maybe they’ve buried the ashes with their prize possessions. Their collar or their favourite bone. Some sort of ritual burial. Like Pharoah in the pyramids.’

It’s probably best if I shut up.

I carry on all the same. ‘Maybe there’s photographs in with the ashes. Capturing the glory days. Chasing rabbits. Winning Crufts…’

Bruno interrupts me in mid flow. ‘You wouldn’t call a dog Blaze. It sounds more like the sort of name you’d give a pony’.

‘Maybe it’s just animals in general.’

‘A pet cemetery?’

‘A pet crematorium.’

‘They’re not pet names.’ Says Lester. ‘If they were, there’d be six of them called Ruby.’

‘Maybe Ruby had an awful lot of ashes. Or maybe a single owner gave all his dogs the same name.’

He shoots me a look that begs me to stop talking.

‘I had an uncle who did that.’ I say. ‘He always had a spaniel and he always called it Otter. He was on Otter V by the time he died.’

Lester asks if anyone has a penknife.

I find a blunt knife and a corkscrew from the kitchen.

Everyone falls quiet.

‘Do you think it’s safe to open them?’

Lester picks up a tin and starts chipping at the seal.

He says ‘We’ll soon find out.’

‘What if it’s explosives?’

Lester stands frozen to the ground. Everyone is silent. Lost in thought.

He says ‘I’m going to open them outside. You two stay in here.’

 

Customer Care

‘I do a discount for long-term customers.’

I need to get the conversation back on a more professional footing. I should be pulling rank. Reminding Bruno that we’re in an office situation. That he really ought to focus on the job he’s paid to do.

Or I could just remind him that he told me that I wouldn’t have to pay.

I say ‘I’m not a prospective client.’

‘You couldn’t afford me.’

I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.

I say ‘So are there that many forty-year-old women prepared to pay good money for sex?’

‘Erotic exploration. With a professional personal trainer. And a personal fitness plan.’

‘Of course.’

‘I pretty much only work with women in their forties. Sometimes a bit older.’

‘Why?’

‘They can afford it. I get to work in nice big houses.’

‘You fuck them in their houses?’

‘It’s usually the home gym. The first time. Or in the marital bed.’

‘Aren’t they terrified their husbands will come home?’

‘There’s always part of them that wants their husband to find out.’

‘So what are they like, these women?’

‘Confident; articulate; sassy; sad. A bit needy. But in a good way. Angry more than clingy. Disillusioned with their husbands. Disappointed with the way that life’s turned out.’

He shrugs.

‘They’re pretty much like you. Just with an awful lot more money. And more expensive clothes. Just generally better presented. More visible signs of effort.’

He squints at me, as though he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at.

‘Do you put make-up on when you go out?’

 

Wind Up

Lester says ‘Three guesses what’s inside.’

‘Ashes.’

‘No.’

‘Drugs.’

No.

‘Tell me, I give up.’

He pauses for effect. His prerogative. Fair enough.

‘Lipstick.’

It takes a moment to sink in.

Bruno is the first to speak.

‘Lipstick?’

‘Lipstick.’ Lester says grimly. ‘Someone’s been winding us up.’

I say ‘You don’t think they’ve boiled down their dogs’ remains and turned them into lipstick?’

‘Jesus Fucking Christ.’ He shrieks. Will you stop banging on about dead dogs. It’s got nothing to do with dogs or ponies or dead bodies. It’s make-up. Lipstick. Cos –Met-Ics.’

I say ‘They’ve got pet names.’

Bruno says. ‘They’re different colours. Ruby, Gala, Coty, Blaze. Different shades of red.’

 

Bric-a-Brac

‘So what do you think we should do with it?’ Says Bruno.

‘Give it to the Church for prizes in the raffle.’ I say helpfully. ‘Offer them to Elsie Tanner for the Easter Fair? Presumably there’s some sort of bring and buy stall.’

‘Bring and buy?

‘You know. Bric-a-brac. You bring something from your house to sell and buy something in return.’

‘Do you think it’s even safe? We don’t know how long its been down there. It might be made from some terrible corrosive substance. The good ladies of St Anselm’s will all be marching about with cold sores.’

It’s a reasonable point.

I say ‘I wouldn’t fancy putting that on my face.’

Bruno says ‘It might be an improvement.’

I ignore him.

‘Do you think it still works? It hasn’t dried out or coagulated or something?’

Bruno pulls out the Ruby Red. He strokes the case. A pristine gold-plated bullet. Gingerly pulls off the cap. As though he expects it to explode at any minute. Holds it to the light. Turns it slowly. Looks at it from every angle. Mesmerised.

Quick as a flash he pulls it to his lips. Draws a quick, bright, slash of scarlet. A Ruby Red wide smile.

Nest Egg

It’s been five days since Linda considered killing her Grandmother with a tea tray. To be fair, she didn’t consider it, so much as envisage it; feel it; fantasise. You couldn’t call it pre-meditated. The way the impulse came upon her. Immediate, intense, uninvited. It would have been manslaughter, not murder. They look more leniently on that.

Self-defence or undue provocation. It happens sometimes, when women kill their husbands. She’s seen it on TV. Extenuating circumstances. Decades of domestic tyranny; physical violence, psychological abuse. Hard to argue in a court of law. Irene as the aggressor. The cumulative impact of a life-time of petty provocations, snide asides. Just as well she didn’t kill her. She’d be in all kinds of trouble now.

She takes a deep breath as she knocks on her Grandmother’s front door. Note to self. Don’t even consider decapitation. It can only end in tears.

Irene says ‘Can’t keep away?’

‘We never finished our conversation.’

Irene says ‘I rather think we did.’

No, thinks Linda. I went home. I walked out because if I hadn’t I might have accidentally murdered you.

She smiles angelically at Irene.

‘You were telling me about Alan.’

‘What is there to tell?’

‘Where he’s staying? Why he went? Why you suddenly have a stash of cash to help him in his hour of need?’

‘There’s nothing sudden about it.’ Irene says theatrically. ‘It takes a life-time of hard graft and ingenuity for a working woman to build up a nest egg. That’s something you wouldn’t understand.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Says Linda. ‘You’ve never done a day’s work in your life.’

Although now she comes to think of it, she knows this isn’t true. Didn’t Irene have some sort of job at the Infirmary. A nurse perhaps? A cleaner? Some sort of administrative role?

‘Darling,’ says Irene regally. ‘I never stopped.’

 

Gravy Browning

Irene is doing her important face. Linda knows what’s coming. A trip down Memory Lane. Irene in the glory days. Irene in the War. Irene loved the war. The days when girls were girls and men were men. A heady mix of girlish wonder and coquettish adolescence. Party frocks fashioned from parachute silk. Beetroot used as lip stain. Boot polish as mascara. Irene’s ingenuity knew no bounds. Stockings painted on with tea. Gravy browning for the fake seam up the back. You should see the photograph of Irene on her sixteenth birthday. You’d think it was a cover plate from Vogue.

Linda wonders idly if Irene still has the photo in her dressing room. With all the war-time posters. The dressing room – the boudoir, as Irene likes to call it – is out of bounds. Linda hasn’t been inside for years. She can’t think how she came to be there: hiding, snooping, skulking, sulking. But the posters are imprinted on her mind. Irene’s shrine to war-time glamour. The Land Girl with red lips and a flash of black mascara. The Wren with picture-perfect make-up and a scarf wrapped round her head. The Gala Lipstick advert showing the different shades of red.

Oh. She thinks. Of course. Gala wasn’t a dog. Gala was a lipstick.

 

Lord’s Prayer

‘Not just any old lipstick.’ Says Irene. ‘Gala Lipstick.’

She rolls the word around her tongue with a near-salacious relish.

She is doing her dreamy look. The look that says ‘I’ve seen things you could never hope to understand.’

Linda isn’t quite sure what to say.

Irene starts to murmur, as though she’s in a trance.

‘Nantern Red; Heart Red; Red Bunting; Red Sequin;
Cyclamen; Cock’s Comb and Blaze.’

Different shades of lipstick; she has learnt them all by rote. A spell; a chant; a talisman. A Lipstick-Lover’s Lord’s Prayer.

‘And then there were the pinks. Heavenly Pink, Ballet Pink….’ Irene tails off. ‘And Chestnut.’ She says briskly. Her tone of voice suggests that Chestnut doesn’t really count. Mundane, verging on brown, a dull imposter in the ranks of pinks and reds.

Linda says ‘But why?’

Irene starts, as if she’s been woken from a reverie. Her dreaminess turns stern.

‘To look our best. To make an effort. Something your generation doesn’t seem to understand.’

She peers again at Linda’s face. The pale-faced impropriety, the audacious lack of care.

‘You’d feel a whole lot better if you made yourself look pretty.’

Linda absorbs the insult. Counts to ten inside her head.

 

Powder Puff

‘Why did you bury it?’ says Linda. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘It wasn’t buried, so much as stashed. We had to hide it somewhere.’

‘But why hide it at all?’

Irene looks confused. As though Linda is speaking some sort of foreign language.

‘Because…we weren’t meant to have it.’

Linda processes this information.

‘Where did it come from in the first place?’

Irene smiles her enigmatic smile. Holds her finger to her lips.

Linda says ‘I’m thirty-two. Please don’t tell me to be quiet.’

But perhaps she only says it in her head.

‘So,’ she says out loud. ‘Where did you get the lipstick from, and why did you have to hide it?’

Irene is looking wistful. Over-acting. Misty-eyed.

‘It didn’t start off as a secret. In the beginning it was wonderful. They made military branded lipstick: Tangee’s Lips in Uniform; Helena Rubenstein’s Regimental Red. I had a powder puff shaped like a military cap.’

Linda has seen the powder puff. On Irene’s dressing table. So that bit’s true at least.

She says ‘So then what happened?’

Irene does a double take. As though she’s forgotten she had an audience. She looks at Linda as though she’s trying to place her.

‘They put the prices up so no-one could afford it.’

Linda tries to guess where this is going. Imagination’s never been her thing.

‘They introduced a tax on luxury goods.’

Irene holds Linda’s gaze. Waiting for a reaction. Outrage. Disbelief.

No reaction.

She’s going to have to spell it out.

‘They decided make-up was a luxury.’

Irene waits for the full impact of this bombshell to sink in.

‘We..ll,’ says Linda hesitantly. ‘I wouldn’t say it was exactly an essential.’

‘No.’ Irene says gently. ‘I don’t suppose you would.’

 

Union Jack

An idea is taking root in the back of Linda’s mind. ‘Were you some sort of make-up thief?’

It sounds absurd. Risible. Ridiculous. If she could take it back she would.

But Irene is wearing an expression that says ‘The penny’s finally dropped.’

‘Not a thief.’ She says at last. ‘An undercover distributor.’

Hushed tones. As though someone might be listening. As though the apartment might be bugged.

‘A middleman?’

Irene shrugs. ‘Women had to get it somehow.’

Linda is surprised. She thinks of Irene’s youth as an endless whirl of glamour. Men in military uniform. Women in full make-up. She’s never given it much thought, but she’d pretty much assumed that cosmetics were compulsory. There’s a poster in the boudoir that says ‘Beauty is a Duty’. Emblazoned on a fluttering Union Jack.

She says ‘Was make-up rationed?’

‘It may as well have been.’ Says Irene mournfully. ‘First we couldn’t afford it. Then there simply wasn’t enough of it. Factories were bombed. Supply ships sunk at sea. Nothing was what it should have been. Lipstick without the lipstick case; powder without the puff. Refills wrapped in cardboard. No proper packaging at all.’

‘In the end…’ Irene leans forward conspiratorially. ‘They tried to close them down.’

Linda is struggling to keep up.

‘Close what down?’

‘The Cosmetic Houses.’

Irene imbues the words with gravitas. A secret society; a mystic super-power.

‘Revlon…’ she utters the word Revlon in tones of utmost reverence. ‘Revlon….had to make first-aid kits for the troops.’

It’s clear that Irene views this as the ultimate indignity.

‘We-ell.’ says Linda doubtfully. ‘Well, someone had to do it.’

Irene misunderstands her.

‘Well of course, someone had to do it. We weren’t going to be beaten. But it had to be a secret. We were driven underground.’

Linda tries to take this in. She does some rapid calculations in her head. Irene would have been fourteen when war broke out, twenty when it finished.

She says ‘But you were just a teenager.’

‘Quite.’ Says Irene. ‘Off the radar.’

Linda looks confused.

‘Off the radar. And inside the Infirmary.  It was the perfect place to collect consignments. One more crate amidst the lotions and the potions and the ointments and the creams.’

Linda tries to take it in.

Irene says ‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I’m just processing the fact that my grandmother ran a black market cosmetics scam.’

‘It wasn’t a scam.’ Says Irene,with genuine surprise. ‘Darling, this was a Crusade.’

Family Business

‘How did the make-up come to be there anyway? Under Macey’s Patch?’

‘It wasn’t.’ Says Irene. ‘It was in the Infectious Diseases Unit. In the store-room. We had to move it before they knocked it down.’

‘We?’ says Linda, vaguely. She is trying to imagine Irene breaking into a derelict building. Carrying heavy loads. ‘How?’

‘There’s a tunnel.’

‘A tunnel?’

‘From the Infirmary. Below the dorm. It runs the whole way to the War Room.’

‘The War Room?’

‘The old septic tank. It’s under Macey’s Patch.’

Irene still finds it thrilling. Secret passageways. Clandestine manoeuvres. Contraband. She recalls the moment when it dawned on her. That you didn’t need a lantern or a match. That you could navigate by following the pipework with your fingers. You had to watch your step. Especially in winter. When your fingers were too numb to feel the heat. Before you knew it they were burning. Chilblains that persisted. For seconds, minutes, days, months. Until the ground began to thaw and the itching settled in. She’d give anything to feel it now. Life-affirming pain. Respite from the numbness and the silence and the unremitting cold. From the sense that she is fading. That she will never feel these things again: the burning and the itching and the welcome warmth of spring.

Linda is eyeing her suspiciously.

‘Did you do it by yourself?’

The whole thing is preposterous. Irene is in her nineties. Elegant. Tiny. Frail.

‘I issued the instructions.’ Irene days defensively. ‘In any case it’s man’s work.’

Linda almost laughs. The sheer absurdity. The notion of her grandmother with hired muscle to hand.

She says ‘So who did you get to help?’

Irene looks to the left and to the right. As though there might be someone listening.

‘I have my ways and means.’

Linda feels uneasy. There is something in Irene’s expression. The twinkle in her eye.

Linda runs through the list of possibilities in her head. Colin in the Butchers, Arthur from the Bingo, Pat McGinty from the shop.

Irene says. ‘Let’s just say I believe in keeping business in the family.’

Linda is growing increasingly uneasy.

‘Is Alan involved in all of this?’

‘Not Alan, no.’

Taunting; testing. Willing Linda to press on.

Realisation starts to dawn.

‘You asked Billy to move your make-up?’

‘I didn’t ask him, I employed him. He was grateful for the job.’

 

Full Blast

Irene starts to shiver. Turns the gas fire up full blast. She likes to hear her heat. She can’t stand central heating. The way you don’t know if it’s working. Not unless you touch it. Not like the pipework in the hospital. Cranking into action, and chuntering away. The beckoning call of warmth and life. The pops and bangs and hisses. It’s silent now, of course. The heating long since disconnected. But still, she wanted Billy to see it. To have his adventure too.

 

High Jinks

Linda shuffles through the objections that are swirling round her head. Rattles them out in quick succession. Tries them all to see what sticks.

‘It’s child labour, exploitation.’

Irene says ‘All boys love an adventure.’

‘It’s dangerous, it’s dark. And Billy hates dark spaces. The poor boy must have been terrified. It isn’t safe. It’s falling down. There could have been an accident and no-one would have found him. It’s trespassing, it’s illegal.’ She says this last word with emphasis, glad that she has seized on something so tangible and dramatic.

Irene smiles serenely. ‘They’re not going to arrest an eight-year-old. That’s the beauty of it. Can you imagine what they’d say if they discovered me down there? I’d have to pretend I’d lost my marbles. Nobody would question Billy’s motives. Youthful curiosity. An innate need to explore. At worst, he’d get a good clip round the ear.’

‘This isn’t Billy Bloody Bunter.’ Linda screeches in frustration. ‘Policemen don’t give errant schoolboys a good clip around the ear. Billy would be a young offender. With a track record that would follow him for life.’

Irene says ‘It’s not like you to be melodramatic.’

Linda looks defeated. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.’

This is what upsets her most.

Irene gives a knowing smile.

‘Oh.’ Says Linda icily. ‘You told him not to tell me.’

This seems the greatest crime of all.

‘You can’t do that. You can’t go telling Billy to keep secrets from his Mother.’

Irene plays her ace.

‘Men like to have their little secrets. You of all people should know that.’

 

Last Resort

‘Did you make any money? From selling make-up?’

Irene looks affronted. She doesn’t discuss earnings. It’s indelicate. Indiscreet.

‘It wasn’t about the money. It was about patriotic duty. About giving every woman the opportunity to look their personal best.’

‘But you must have made some money?’

Irene shrugs. ‘Enough to purchase this apartment.’

Linda is incredulous. ‘You own this flat?’

She says ‘flat’ quite deliberately. A dig at her Grandmother’s pretensions. Irene thinks apartment sounds more cultured, that it suggests a world of Continental Boulevards, Gracious Living, Parisian Aristocracy.

Irene arches an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Well yes.’ She says. ‘Of course. Who else would it belong to?’

Linda is struggling to articulate quite why she’s so surprised.

She says ‘You’ve always been so scathing about mortgages. What’s the phrase you always use? The Bank of Last Resort for Imbeciles and Fools.’

‘Absolutely.’ Says Irene. ‘If you can’t afford the merchandise you’ve got no right to buy.’

It takes a moment for the implications to sink in.

‘You bought it outright? Without a mortgage?’

‘Of course.’ Says Irene blithely. ‘And plenty more besides.’

Linda contemplates this new-found information. How could she not have known? She never thought to ask. This has always been her problem. Lack of curiosity. Failure of imagination. She’s been told often enough.

 

Tea Tray

So, the inheritance is significant after all. There’s a property to play for. It’s not unpleasant. Light and airy. Well looked after. Nice high ceilings. Nowhere for Billy to kick a ball. But better than no home at all. If Irene were to drop dead now all Linda’s problems would be solved. She could put her own house on the market before it’s repossessed. She can pay the mortgage off and have a decent sum left over. Enough to tide her over until Alan comes to his senses or she works out how to get a job.

It’s a shame Irene’s so agile, so clearly in rude health. Still, she shouldn’t be living in a flat. All those stairs, at her age. She may be sprightly now, but it can’t go on forever. Surely the state must have some sort of obligation to step in. If Irene’s too infirm, too frail, to live an independent life. It would be a relief to get her somewhere she’ll be properly looked after. Before she gets Billy doing Christ-Knows-What and lying to his Mother. Before Linda accidentally spins the tea tray at her neck.

Early Bird

It’s Linda Kirkby. Here with Billy. Lester brightens visibly. As though she might be coming round to sell her strip of land. As though at any moment she’ll produce the property deeds. As though all we need to do is find a pen.

I search for a professional way to say ‘See? I’m here. I haven’t lost my job.’

But she’s already talking. I forgot about her disregard for niceties.

‘I’ve heard you’re building old people’s housing on the scheme.’

I say ‘It’s not Old People’s Housing. It’s Housing for All Ages.’

Linda looks confused.

‘They’re not just for older people. They’re designed to be flexible, to respond to changing lifestyles.’

She looks entirely blank. As though she’ll tune back in when I start talking sense.

‘They’re bungalows.’ I say.

Linda looks relieved. Back on familiar ground.

‘What’s the best way to get one for my Grandmother?’ says Linda.

‘There’s a sales launch in July. But if you want to start discussions beforehand you need to speak to Bruno Brown. There’s an Early Bird discount. For reservations made off plan.’

Linda wants to say ‘I don’t want to buy one. I want to get a free one.’ But she can tell it doesn’t sound quite right. She is searching for the right words in her head. She should have thought this through. Worked out the script. That’s what she usually does when she’s about to face unusual situations. At least, it’s what she used to do. Before she turned into the kind of person who makes impetuous decisions, who eats sitting on a bean bag, who runs a tally in her head of different ways to kill her Gran.

She says ‘She’s not in a position to buy a house.’

‘Is she interested in the Affordable?’

Linda nods uncertainly. She’s not sure what this means. Affordable-with-a-capital-A.  As though it’s a noun and not a verb.

She wants to ask if Affordable-with-a-capital-A is another word for Free.

I say ‘Where’s she living at the moment?’

‘On Milton Row. Above the sewing shop.’

‘Is that a Housing Association property?’

‘No, she owns it.’

‘I’m not sure she’d be eligible for affordable accommodation.’

Linda thinks ‘She’ll be homeless if she gives the flat to me.’

She says ‘She doesn’t want to sell it. She wants to keep it in the family.’

I say ‘I’m not in charge of allocations. But I’m pretty sure that’s not the way that social housing works.’

 

Ice Queen

Bruno says ‘What was she doing here?’

Lester says ‘What time do you call this?’

I say ‘She wants a bungalow for her Grandmother.’

‘The Ice Queen? I thought she was dead against the whole development. How come she suddenly wants to live here?’

‘Her granddaughter thinks she ought to live here.’ I say. ‘I’m not sure it’s the same thing.’

 

Noddy Box

Billy says ‘Why can’t we live there too?’

Linda says ‘They’re bungalows for older people. Not families like us.’

‘There are big houses too.’ Says Billy. ‘And a playground.’ He puts on his grown-up voice. The one he uses when he pretends he’s on the telly. ‘It’s an exemplary development by award-winning architects. A contemporary project that will stand the test of time.’

‘Oh for goodness sake.’ Says Linda. Though she’s impressed by his vocabulary. And she shouldn’t be surprised. She only has herself to blame. He’s spending every waking hour at Dee Delaney’s. Eating macaroni cheese. It’s so easy, so convenient. The boys are good for Billy. Easier than his real friends. No awkward questions about his Dad. Handy, really. That their father’s buggered off as well.

Still, she should have foreseen that this would happen.

Billy’s been indoctrinated.

She says ‘It’s soulless, modern housing that’s going to ruin our view.’

Billy mulls this over.

Linda hits her stride. ‘It’s Noddy box development that will block out all our light and decimate the value of our house.’

She wishes she hadn’t said decimate. She’s a feeling it might mean divide by ten. Or cut to a tenth. Which wouldn’t be quite accurate. Linda can’t abide exaggeration. She’s always been a stickler for the truth.

Billy says ‘So, let’s move somewhere else. Let’s buy another house.’

Linda ought to say ‘We can’t afford it.’ And just leave it at that.

She says ‘We will. When Great Gran dies.’

Billy looks bewildered.

‘Is Great-Granny going to die?’

If only.

Linda has to concede it seems unlikely. The woman who has dodged bullets in the war; disposed of errant husbands; wayward daughters; difficult questions; ugly cats. The woman who glides while others flounder; who eschews the drudgery of daily life: mortgages; solicitors; taxmen; banks; insurance. The woman with perfect make-up; painted nails; professionally coiffured hair.

Irene is invincible. Irene will live forever.

It was a stupid thing to say.

‘Your Great Grandmother’ she says decisively, ‘is going to live for ever.’ She looks at Billy sternly. As though it was Billy who suggested that they wait for her to die.

Better carry on talking. Before Billy thinks to mention that she started it, not him.

‘Trust me.’ She says grandly. ‘She’ll outlive us all.’

 

Barking Mad

Bruno says ‘They should both be locked away. The daughter’s killed her husband and the mother’s barking mad.’

It’s good to be back. I’ve missed the idle speculation. The casual prejudice.

I say ‘As long as we’re not repeating unsubstantiated rumours.’

Bruno shrugs his shoulders. ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’

I say ‘Didn’t we start those rumours in the first place?’

‘You must admit it’s odd.’ Says Bruno. ‘He’s been missing for several weeks and she hasn’t called the police.’

‘I think she’s called them now. In any case, he isn’t missing. He calls Billy once a week.’

‘You’ve only got her word for it.’

‘And he’s been to see Irene.’

‘You’ve only got her word for that. What if she’s in on it as well?’

Wishful Thinking

Linda knocks on the door of Macey’s Lodge.

She says ‘I hate to ask but could you keep an eye on Billy. There’s stuff I need to do.’

‘I’m working.’ I say lamely.

She says ‘I’m really struggling. It’s not easy now I’m on my own.’

It can’t be easy. Not now I’ve got my job back and she can’t leave Billy at mine.

Bruno is looking at Linda’s legs. She’s wearing a short skirt. And heels. It doesn’t look quite right. Like a child dressing up.

Lester says ‘He’ll be fine just playing on the field.’

I say ‘Can’t your Grandmother look after him?’

She says. ‘Actually she can’t. She’s showing symptoms of dementia.’

She knows this isn’t true. Irene is just Irene. This is wishful thinking. Trying it out for size.

‘Really?’ I say ‘She seems so …well put together.’ Bruno’s words are ringing in my ears.

Linda says ‘Don’t let appearances deceive you.’

She is taken aback by her own audacity. This is the polar opposite to Irene’s guide to life: that appearance is the only thing that counts.

We look at her, expecting more. Some sort of explanation.

Linda is giddy with her own daring. Her defiance.

She says ‘I can’t leave Billy with her. She sent him down that tunnel. Under the Infirmary. She paid her eight-year-old great grandson to break into a building site and transport stolen goods.’

There’s some sort of noise from Lester. A snort. Or perhaps a sneeze. Or something in between. He’s not sure which of them is crazy. Linda or Irene.

Linda’s confidence is wavering. She can sense his incredulity. She is being melodramatic. She must be more precise.

‘She made him cart two-hundred-and-seventy-seven boxes from the basement of the Infectious Diseases Unit to the disused septic tank.’

I say. ‘Billy? Are you sure?’

The boy who’s scared of cramped dark spaces.

Linda says ‘Absolutely.’

With that, she’s out the door.

I say ‘I don’t believe her. Billy’s terrified of tunnels.’

Bruno says ‘Perhaps we should be asking why?’

Lester says ‘Do you know what would make me really happy?’

We look at him expectantly. This is not the kind of thing he says.

‘It would make me really really happy if you two could stop indulging in stupid speculation and start doing the job you’re paid to do.’

He walks out and slams the door.

‘You know,’ says Bruno thoughtfully  ‘Linda Kirkby’s actually got half-way decent legs.’

 

Sleep Walking

Linda dashes to the hairdressers. Punctuality is important. Elementary manners. Proper standards. It isn’t that she’s late. But she likes to turn up everywhere with at least ten minutes to spare. She shouldn’t have wasted time on all that chatter. She’s not sure why she did it. She’s never been one for small talk. But there’s something about that Bruno Brown. She starts behaving differently. Loses her usual self-possession. Her dislike of unnecessary words. Starts to gabble like a teenager. As though she wants to be interesting. She has never aspired to that before.

She settles in on the sofa. Faux brown leather, cowhide cushions. Magazines from months gone by. Flicks through the features pages. How to change your life in thirty days. How to visualise your dreams. How to be the woman you were always meant to be. She reckons it’s pretty easy. One short step would do it. Irene’s disappearance, whatever form it needs to take. Incarceration, institutionalisation, hospitalisation, death. If you say it fast enough it has a rhythm of its own. A chant. The chug chug chug of a childhood train. She’d like to say it aloud. Like a poem. But she shouldn’t be saying at all. Not even in her head.

She half expects to see her. Irene is always at the hairdressers. Having her hair ‘set’. Not just cut like other people. She is the only person Linda knows who has a ‘do’ and not a style.

The stylist looks familiar. One of Lisa Bletchley’s cousins. Irene can’t recall her name. She is running a comb through Linda’s hair. Long dark lustrous hair. The hair that Linda has hidden behind for all her adult life. An outward sign of maturity, of motherhood, of wifeliness. A sign too of order, of control. Untouched by fashion or whimsy. No fringe; no layers; no tangles. Long and thick and straight and clean. Immaculately cared for. Not one hair out of place.

Lisa Bletchley’s cousin says ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Cut it off.’ Says Linda. ‘Short and sharp and sassy. Angular. Off my face.’

Linda walks along the High Street. She feels momentarily exposed. Light-headed without the weight of all that hair. She juts her chin out, stands up straight, walks a little faster. The world looks brighter, sharper, more in focus. She has been sleep-walking for years.

 

Kitchenette

Billy Kirkby’s hanging round the door. Just being there. As though he wants attention. He has a field at his disposal yet he won’t go out of sight. Kicks his ball despondently. Nowhere in particular. From foot to foot. Against the wall. It’s driving me insane.

‘Where are Sonny and Kit?’ He’s asked this twice already. The answer’s still the same.

‘They’re at After School Club.’ Where you would be if your mother hadn’t dumped you onto me. They’re at After School Club while I look after you.

Still, it isn’t Billy’s fault. I give up trying to work and talk to Billy instead.

‘Billy, is it true that there’s a secret passage that runs under Macey’s Field?’

Billy is staring at the ground.

I say ‘Have you been in it?’

He’s not giving anything away.

I say ‘Did something happen? In the passage? Did something make you scared?’

Billy looks uneasy.

Bruno shouts from somewhere out of sight. ‘Dee, I need you in the kitchen.’ Not that it’s a kitchen. More a kitchenette.

I say ‘I’m just chatting to Billy.’

He says. ‘I need you NOW.’

It’s not like him to shout.

I say ‘Excuse me Billy.’

Bruno slams the kitchen door and hisses in my ear.

‘There are rules about interrogating children. I’ve seen it on TV. You’re meant to have some sort of training. And an impartial witness. And I’m pretty sure you’re meant to have it taped.’

‘I’m not interrogating anyone. I’m making idle conversation.’

Bruno says ‘With an eight-year-old child.’

I say ‘With one of my sons’ friends.’

 

Avon Lady

Bruno says ‘Nice haircut.’

I think: You’ve been to the hairdressers. You could easily have waited until Billy was at school.

Linda says ‘I have to check on Irene. Is it OK if I leave Billy for another couple of hours?’

Bruno and I both speak at once. I say ‘We’ll be going in a minute.’ Bruno says ‘Of course.’

Bruno fills the silence.

‘So how is Irene in any case?’

I say ‘So you’ve forgiven her? For sending Billy down the tunnel?’

Linda says ‘It’s not a question of forgiving her. I have to keep an eye on her. She’s doing all sorts of peculiar things.’

Bruno says ‘Aside from the poison pen letter and the imaginary pets?’

Linda looks disconcerted.

I say ‘That wasn’t senile dementia. She was trying to scare us off. We should be used to that by now.’

Bruno says ‘It’s a funny way to go about it.’

‘I think…’ says Linda. She pauses. She isn’t used to having an audience. She decides she rather likes it. ‘I think she was resorting to desperate measures to …’

Bruno says ‘To what?’

Linda says ‘This is going to sound strange.’

‘To what?’

We are all looking at her expectantly. Intrigued.

Linda blurts it out. ‘To protect her stash of lipstick.’

There is a pause.

‘She ran some sort of black market make-up franchise during the war.’ Says Linda nonchalantly.

‘You’re saying it’s stolen goods.’ Says Bruno. ‘That Irene was a fence.’

‘Not stolen, so much as forbidden. It should never have been made at all.’ Linda feels quite breathless. Giddy to be the keeper of so much information. ‘The government had put a stop to it. Cosmetic houses were meant to concentrate on ointments for the troops. But they didn’t. Not altogether. They carried on making lipstick. Dropped it off at the infirmary. Hidden amidst the boxes of medical supplies. Irene was the middle man. An undercover agent. A sort of Black Market Avon Lady.’

She feels a bit self-conscious. This is the longest speech she’s made in years.

She feels she ought to take a bow. Perhaps a curtsey. But it might seem a bit weird.

‘Wow.’ Says Bruno, whistling. ‘I’m seeing her in a whole new light.’