Fingers Crossed

‘She wanted something quiet, low-key. Just close family and friends.’

Linda has her fingers crossed inside the pocket of her trench coat.

Christ knows what Irene would have wanted. A flag draped on the coffin. An outsized Union Jack. Men in uniform playing trumpets. A military salute. Her coffin carried down to the aisle to the Alleluia Chorus.

She’s probably left instructions somewhere. Linda can just imagine it. The circumstance. The pomp. The expense.

The vicar is saying ‘Did she have any thoughts on hymns?’

Irene’s views were absolutely clear. Hymns should be rousing, grand, and patriotic. There were only three that really cut it: Jerusalem; I vow to Thee my Country; God Save the Queen. She hated anything saccharine. Or childish or soppy. But Irene’s not here to state her views. Linda smiles sweetly at the vicar and says ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful; All Creatures Great and Small.’

 

Playing Ball

Lester says ‘We need a decision on the access. Is Linda Kirkby playing ball or not?’

Bruno says. ‘I don’t think we should be putting her under pressure. She’s got a lot to deal with at the moment. It’s Irene’s funeral this week.’

I say ‘I think I’d like to go.’

Lester says ‘Go where?’

‘To Irene Grover’s funeral.’

‘Why on earth would you do that?’

I’m not quite sure myself. Curiosity? Morbidity? A show of support for Linda? A misjudged mark of respect?

I say ‘She’s part of the history of the project. She spent years in the Infirmary. She lived in St Anselm’s all her life.’

Bruno says ‘Doesn’t Linda Kirby want you dead?’

‘It was a turn of phrase. We’ve all moved on since then.’

‘A turn of phrase from a woman whose husband’s disappeared.’

I say ‘I think we should be nice to her. She’s been through a lot.’

Lester says. ‘I think you should leave it well alone.’

I say ‘I’m going. I want to go.’

Lester shrugs. ‘Not on company time, you’re not. You can take time from your annual leave.’

Bruno says ‘Watch out. You could be next.’

 

Family Firm

The sign above the door says ‘Serving the people of St Anselm’s for four generations’. ‘Serving’ seems an odd word. Though she can see that ‘Burying the people of St Anselm’s’ might sound a bit indelicate. The ‘four’ is printed in a slightly larger font. Someone’s painted over ‘three’ and written ‘four’ instead.

For an outfit with such a pedigree, they look distinctly fly-by-night. An ashtray on the table. Fold-out chairs. Instant coffee for the recently bereaved. Mr Bradstock can’t be more than twenty. He must be Generation Number Four. Bradstock Junior Junior Junior. Linda supposes that counts for something. Longevity. Then again, it seems intrinsic to the business. She wonders if there’s such a thing as undertaker start-ups. Pop-up funeral parlours. It doesn’t sound quite right.

Bradstock Junior Junior Junior says ‘We’re pretty busy at the moment.’

Linda says ‘People don’t stop dying.’

He says ‘None of us can live forever. And thank the Lord for that.’

Linda wants to ask how many times he’s used this line before.

 

Father Figure

I have a text from Daniel. ‘When’s a good time to talk?’

Lester says ‘We need to have a proper conversation. What are you doing for lunch?’

I weigh up my options. Lester Daniel. Daniel Lester. I can’t decide which one I’m dreading most.

I say ‘I’m having lunch with Daniel.’

Life work balance. Of a sort. Putting the implosion of my personal life before the death of my career.

Lester leaves and slams the door. He doesn’t approve of life work balance. As a general rule, he doesn’t approve of lunch.

Bruno says. ‘I don’t know why you bother. I’ve heard the way you talk to Daniel on the phone. You can barely even speak to him. You’re all stilted. As though you’re speaking in a second language. You don’t even sound like you. You use a different voice.’

‘The children need their father. I have to fight to give them that.’

‘You’d be better off with me. I’m actually pretty good with kids.’

We both fall silent, staring at our screens.

I say ‘Do you honestly think that there’s a version of events where you and me become a couple and live happily ever after?’

‘I think it’s a possibility. It’s up to you to choose it.’

I go to put the kettle on. I’m not sure what to say.

Bruno follows me to the kitchen. ‘I think you’re too hung up on sex. It’s really not important. You learn that pretty quickly when you sell it by the hour.’

We’ve run out of teabags. I hate it when that happens.

‘Look at us.’ Says Bruno. ‘We’ve barely even touched.’

 

Collection Box

Linda admires her handiwork.

At Irene’s request, the money put aside for a funeral wake has been given to charity. Anybody wishing to make an additional donation should leave money in the collection box. All contributions will be given to the Welfare Society for the Widows of Sailors Lost at Sea.

She couldn’t face a wake. Sycophantic platitudes about Irene. Questions about Alan. She’d have to concoct a proper story. Vague symptoms wouldn’t cut it. He’d have to be on his deathbed. To miss his mother-in-law’s funeral. And Billy would have to be on board. He’s never been the brightest. There’s no way she could rely on him to get his story straight.

And she’d have to pay for caterers. Or canapés at least. It’s not as though she’s made of money. God knows, the funeral costs enough.

 

Lunch Break

Sitting in the sun with my former-not-quite husband. The Man Who Would Be Free. A sudden burst of sunshine. Unexpected for the time of year. St Anselm’s looks almost continental. Daniel is positively glowing. He smacks of happiness and health. His bulk is toned. His skin is tanned. His sunglasses are ostentatiously expensive. He hasn’t looked this good in years.

It could be a Romantic Mini-Break. A pavement café in some exotic city; cappuccinos curdling in the midday sun.

But it’s not.

We have to make some difficult decisions. Specifically, we have to sell the house. Or rent it out at least. He can’t keep paying his share of the mortgage. It’s not that he wouldn’t like to. But he has to be realistic. He has other expenses now.

Well yes, I can see that. The suit, the shades, the suntan. The suntan. You don’t get skin that colour without a long haul flight. I guess the girlfriend doesn’t come cheap.

It’s important not to argue. To keep it civil. For the kids.

I order wine. Red wine.

He says ‘I’ve started drinking white.’

He talks through his options with the waiter. Makes a considered choice.

‘It’s better for you.’ He says helpfully. ‘Fewer calories than red.’

I say. ‘It’s Kit’s party on Wednesday. It would be great if you could come.’

He smiles apologetically.

He says ‘You know, kids parties. They’re really not my thing.’

He has a point. It doesn’t go with his persona. More Condé Nast Traveler than Malcolm Hodge Memorial Hall.

I say ‘It’s great to see you looking so well.’

‘I’ve been playing tennis, walking. My counsellor made me realise. He said that he could help me with what’s going in in my mind, but that it’s up to me to help my body. Eat well; lose weight; keep fit.’

He adds, by way of afterthought. ‘You ought to do more exercise. You’ll find it helps a lot.’

Dear God, he’s giving me advice.

I want to say ‘Did he tell you to walk out on your children; humiliate your not-quite-wife?’

I want to say ‘While you were getting yourself and your new body ship-shape for your new life I was holding everything together. Drinking wine and eating chips.’

I want to say ‘Come home. The children miss their Dad.’

I don’t say any of these things. I can’t quite find my voice.

I say ‘Please don’t patronise me.’

But I can tell from his expression I haven’t said the words out loud.

He says ‘You really shouldn’t be drinking. It doesn’t suit you at all.’

Condolence Book

Two men flank the porch. Acknowledging the mourners. A slight bow of the head; a sympathetic murmur. A vague air of Dickensian solemnity. Hands clasped behind their backs.

A third man stands inside the door. He looks about nineteen. Top hat, black gloves. The outfit looks incongruous. As though he’s borrowed his father’s clothes. Earring in one ear. An orange tan you just don’t get round here.

He says ‘Would you like to sign the Book?’

I hesitate.

‘The Book of Condolences.’ He’s holding out a pen that says I’m made from old car tyres. I’m sure I’ve seen that pen before.

I’m not sure what to write. I scan the page for clues. A list of names. The occasional comment. You can tell a couple of them are teenagers. Big loopy hand-writing. One of them has written Love You Forever with hearts where the Vs should be. Somebody has written ‘I hope you have fun in heaven.’ You can see the concentration in the solemn, childlike hand.

‘It’s for the relatives.’ Says the man with the earring and top hat. ‘It’s nice for them to have a complete list of the mourners. You don’t have to say anything clever. You can just write down your name.’

 

Chief Mourner

Linda looks round surreptitiously. It’s tricky to be nosy when you’re standing at the front. The price you have to pay for being the self-proclaimed chief mourner. Still, she’s doing pretty well. Putting names to faces. Jenny and Melissa from the sewing shop. Jenny’s husband Derek. Melissa’s new boyfriend John. Her ex-husband Steve. Good of him to come. Jenny’s children. Melissa’s twins. She’s surprised to see them if she’s honest. They were on friendly terms, but not that close.

There’s Dee Delaney by the door. Hand hovering over the Condolence Book. Deciding what to write. That damned Book of Condolences. Expensive. Leather covers. A waste of a good notebook. A waste of fifty pounds.

Pat McGinty from the shop. Elsie Tanner looking tearful. God knows why. It’s not as if the two of them were friends. Dr. Tanner standing in a different pew. Five rows away at least. Christ knows what he’s doing here. Taking a professional interest. It seems a bit extreme. He can’t turn up to every patient’s funeral. He’d never be at work.

 

Blank Expression

I write my name in the Condolence Book.

‘Ah’ he says. ‘Dee Delaney. Someone left something for you.’

He’s fumbling behind him. He proffers a lilac envelope. Sloping purple-hand-writing. Proper ink. A proper pen. I tuck it in my handbag. As though this is an everyday occurrence. Receiving written correspondence from a corpse.

I sidle into a pew. The middle-aged man in front of me is trying to check his emails. It doesn’t seem quite right to take a quick peek at my post. I bow my head as if in prayer.

The organ changes tempo; changes key. Mournful; more processional. There is a drawing in of breath, a nod towards the aisle. Towards the coffin bearers. Serious, steady, slow. One at every corner, two in the middle either side. Three of them look like professionals. Identical blank expressions. Identical cheap black suits. Standard issue mourning wear. The same pressed crease down the legs. A steady even gait that says they do this all the time.

The others have been drafted in. I guess there’s a shortage of male relatives. Too young; too puny; too self-conscious for such a heavy responsibility. Pained expressions; mis-matched suits. An awkwardness that signals that they’ve not done this before.

There’s Linda in the front row with Billy. Scanning the congregation. Pretending she hasn’t seen me. Odd that she’s wearing lipstick. No reason why she shouldn’t. It’s just that I’ve never seen her wearing it before. The odd splodge of mascara. But never lipstick. It seems a funny time to start.

 

Personal Touch

Reverend Pitt is making heavy weather of the eulogy.

He’s generally pretty good at it. Judging the right balance between familiarity and gravitas; solemnity and warmth.

But he’s struggling with the personal touch. The information he’s been given by the granddaughter just doesn’t seem to tally with the woman he thought he knew.

Not that he really knew her. But you can’t help forming an impression.

He is trying to stick to facts. But these are few and far between. He struggles for something to convey her character.

He says ‘She took a lively interest in amateur dramatics.’

Even he can tell it doesn’t really cut it as an epitaph. He looks across the sea of expectant faces before he adds his punchline.

‘And often played the lead.’

This is going nowhere.

He needs help. Divine Inspiration. He calls to mind a ditty from his childhood days in Sunday School.

Never fear when you’re in doubt…
Trust the Good Book to help you out

Ah, he thinks. Of course. He addresses the congregation with a renewed sense of purpose.

‘Irene’s granddaughter has asked me to share with you Irene’s favourite passage from the Bible.’

‘And why take ye thought for raiment?
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow;
They toil not, neither do they spin;’

Odd that it should be Irene’s favourite. He always considered her to be something of a clothes horse. Not that he’s in any position to judge. Still, her granddaughter seemed absolutely sure.

The mourners are looking blank.

Time to round the whole thing up; retreat to well-worn ground.

‘Lord, comfort us as we recall our dear departed sister.’

He needs to grab his audience. Regain the upper hand.

‘Irene Violet Grover.’ He intones, with all the grandeur he can muster.

He makes a final effort to summon up his Fire and Brimstone preaching voice. The one he learnt at theological college. Where you say Every Significant Word as though it Starts with a Capital Letter.

‘Loyal Servant of the Lord. ….Loving and Much Loved Mother; Grandmother; Great Grand-Mother and Friend….So Many Things to So Many People.’

Elsie Tanner’s words are echoing in my head.

A Silly Woman Who Talked Too Much.

 

Pound Shop

You don’t think of an envelope as heavy. Yet somehow this one is. A weight inside my pocket. A nagging, tugging presence. Begging to be read.

I’ve made a superhuman effort not to read it in the service. Not to rip it open as the young men in cheap suits transport the coffin down the aisle.

I wait until I’ve left the church. Until the mourners have disbanded. Until I’m at least two blocks away. Sheltering in the doorway by the Pound Shop.

Now I’m looking at it closely it’s crinkled round the edges. It’s been reopened and resealed. Someone else has seen the message.

One last message in purple ink.

‘DO NOT DISTURB THE GHOSTS.’

 

Styrofoam

She’s been looking forward to this bit.

Standing by the graveside.

She’s seen it enough times in her mind’s eye; in the movies; on TV.

She wishes now she’d made more effort with her outfit. She’s thinking Mafioso Widow. Pillbox hat; smudged mascara; black lace veil to screen the tears.

Linda eyes the flowers on the coffin. It’s a miracle they haven’t blown away.

Christ knows how you anchor wildflowers to a coffin. Bradstocks seem to have managed it. They must know a trick or two. You would do, really. Four generations in the trade.

They’re barely even wildflowers. Little more than weeds. She and Billy picked them this morning. Out on Macey’s Field. She’s told anyone who’ll listen that it’s what Irene would have wanted. Flowers from the field.

She’s chucked in a couple of lilies too. She didn’t want to look too mean.

She had to bite her lip during the service. All that guff about the lilies of the field. She knows just what Irene would say. ‘There’s no such thing as understated beauty.’ Irene would hate those lilies. Freshly cut. Not even properly arranged. She’d hate the wildflowers even more. Irene liked a formal flower arrangement. Symmetical. Blocks of floral Styrofoam. Given a choice she would have opted for artificial blooms.

Bradstock Junior Junior Junior murmers something in her ear.

This is her big moment. Time to take a sad step forward. Throw a flower in the grave.

She hasn’t come prepared.

Billy steps up to the mark. He has pocketed Irene’s powder puff. Vintage Revlon. The one that’s shaped liked a peaked cap. It falls onto the coffin with a clunk.

Meal Deal

Linda says ‘I thought you’d like to see the Book.’

‘The Book?’

‘The Book of Condolences. From Irene’s funeral’

Jenny looks at her suspiciously. Linda is painfully aware that she hasn’t been round in years. Hasn’t said Hello when they’ve crossed paths in the hallway.

She’d like to say ‘Forget it.’ But she can’t. She needs the key. The key to Irene’s flat. It’s embarrassing not having one. Now that she’s decided that the flat is hers to keep.

Jenny says ‘I’ll have a look when the shop’s closed. Just leave it on the side.’

Linda hasn’t thought this through. She’s planned the culmination of this conversation. The point where she says ‘While I’m here, I may as well check up on Irene’s flat.’ But it seems a bit too soon to drop it into casual conversation.

She says ‘I thought maybe we could look at it together. Just to see who came.’

Jenny looks uneasy.

Linda says ‘It’s just that Irene talked so much about you.’

Jenny says ‘Irene?’ As though she’s trying to place her.

‘What did she say?’ She says more sharply. ‘That we’ll never make any money out of ribbons and buttons and thread? That I should have married a man with money if I wanted lots of kids?’

‘Irene adored your children. We were so touched to see them at the funeral.’

‘Lena couldn’t make it. She’s in Australia on a Gap Year. The fares are so expensive. You can get a good deal if you’re flexible. But it was all so last minute.’

Linda is bored. A bit bemused. Why does Jenny think she needs to make excuses? Why would anybody cross the world to pay respects to an acquaintance? To the woman from the flat above her mother’s sewing shop? It occurs to her that Jenny is defensive, maybe nervous. Talking for the sake of it.

Linda’s had enough.

‘While I’m here,’ she says, ‘I may as well check up on Irene’s flat.’

She makes a show of searching through her pockets, rummaging through her bag.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a key?’

Jenny says ‘We haven’t looked at the Book.’

Linda looks at the Book as though it’s the first time she’s seen it. As though it’s materialised from thin air.

Jenny runs her finger down the list of names.

‘This is my lot. Broadly speaking. I’m not sure John exactly counts as family. She’s only been with him a year. She calls her his fiancé but they’ve never mentioned marriage. This one’s her ex-husband. Well, that’s how she refers to him. I’m not sure that they’re actually divorced. She’s never been one for tying up loose ends.’

Jesus, will she ever stop talking.

‘This one, Sean, he’s my oldest daughter’s boyfriend. I don’t know why she bothered bringing him. This time next year she’ll have forgotten all about him. You know what they’re like at this age. She’s convinced that he’s The One.’

Linda laughs conspiratorially. The folly of young love.

‘Arthur and Barbara from the St Anselm’s Players. They took Irene to the Carvers’ Arms on Sundays. For the Meal Deal. There’s Lauren, who’s Lena’s friend from way back. They took Jammy Dodgers up to Irene every Thursday after school.’

‘Why?’ says Linda suddenly. ‘Why were you all so nice to her?’

Jenny is caught off guard.

‘We didn’t have any choice. We were afraid she’d kick us out.’

Linda takes this in.

‘Did Irene own this building?’

Jenny looks surprised.

She says ‘Irene owned half the street.’

 

Show Girl

Back in Irene’s boudoir. Linda sits on Irene’s chair. The walnut frame. The velvet seat. Uncomfortable but gracious. Small-boned, like Irene. Irene Violet Grover. Landlady and Queen.

She inhales Irene’s air. Lavender and mothballs; mahogany and musk. Surveys the make-up laid out lovingly in front of her. Potions, lotions, pots and tubs. She rifles through the lipstick. Tries out the Nantern Red. Peers at her reflection. She can’t see. Not properly. The lights are far too dim. Starlet lighting. Bulbs around the mirror. Designed for flattery and glamour more than practical effect.

She tries the light switch by the door. She’s surprised to find it works. Overhead lighting is one of Irene’s many bugbears. So prosaic. So unflattering. She’s never seen the room like this. In all its ordinariness. Without the smoke and mirrors. She’s used to snatched impressions, hurried glimpses. A hazy shroud of atmospheric lighting; clouds of powder; wafts of perfume. Irene in soft focus, reflected in the mirror. The embodiment of feminine mystique.

Linda remembers Irene’s boudoir as unknowable, amorphous. A pool of light around the mirror and an endless sea of darkness. Yet here it is. A box room. A modest one at that. A couple of rails of clothes. Some open shelves. Framed posters on the wall. Wrens and Land Girls. Lipstick adverts. Big hair, big lips, big statements. She laughs at the audacity of Tangee’s slogan.

‘No lipstick – ours or anyone else’s – will win the war.
But it symbolises one of the reasons we are fighting’

Really? Thinks Linda. Really? Fighting for the right to paint our faces. Not for territory or democracy. Not to quash the Nazi menace. Not elementary self-defence. Linda scoffs. The whole room is a shrine to vanity and self-improvement. A narcissistic Neverland. A playground for a girl who treated wartime as a fashion show and never quite grew up.

 

Clip Frame

She laughs. And then she pauses. And then she looks again. At the ordinary room. With its clothes rails and its posters and its unflattering white light. There’s something nagging at her consciousness. Something out of kilter. Something’s not quite right. She tries to listen to her subconscious, but she doesn’t quite know how. She shakes her head impatiently. Shakes off any thoughts of superstition, intuition. It’s really not her style.

She tries to focus. She must be rational. She carries out a silent audit of Irene’s prize possessions. The case, the mirror, the powder puff. Powders, potions, pots and tubs. A metal tube shaped like a bullet. Tangee’s Lips in Uniform. The lipstick has long since congealed. Irene must have kept it as a lucky charm, a keepsake, a memento of the war.

It said so in the advert. Just a symbol, not the reason. The symbol of the reason. You shouldn’t take it at face value. You need to look behind it. You need to look at what it hides. Linda walks across the room as though she’s in a trance. Takes the framed poster from its hook and turns it over. Just a simple clip frame. Four satisfying clicks as she disconnects the hardboard from the frame.

There it is. The Last Will and Testament of Irene Violet Grover. In scratchy purple hand-writing with vivid purple ink. Please God don’t let it be a riddle or a ditty or another sodding clue.

It takes a couple of minutes to register the contents. She needs to think through the implications. She needs a good stiff drink. Linda heads towards the cabinet in the corner. Between the salon and the kitchenette. A Special Occasion cabinet. With Special Occasion drinks. She’s never opened it before. She wouldn’t dare. Odd how such a tiny flat can have forbidden corners. She pours herself some brandy. She lets the words sink in.

‘I, Irene Violet Grover, leave my estate in its entirety to my great-grandson Billy in the hope that it will free him from the undignified pursuit of elementary comforts and afford him sufficient security to do something heroic with his life.’

‘To my granddaughter Linda Kirkby, I leave the contents of my boudoir – make-up, clothes and perfume – in the hope that it will give her the confidence and encouragement to ready herself for the next phase of her life with the panache and determination it deserves.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Thinks Linda. ‘Patronising Cow.’

 

Tycoon

Jenny is waiting for Linda as she tries to tiptoe past the door. To make a break for it. To get a copy of the key before she brings it back.

She gets straight to the point.

‘We’re all wondering what will happen? Who’s going to own the shop?’

Linda doesn’t miss a beat.

She says ‘It all belongs to me.’

Jenny looks at Linda nervously.

‘We won’t be able to survive if we have to pay more rent.’

Linda doesn’t answer for a moment. She is lost in her own thoughts. Contemplating her position; her unexpected power.

She’s not sure how to play it. Philanthropic landlady. Benign dictator. Ruthless property tycoon.

She says ‘I’m not going to rush in to any rash decisions.’

She likes the way it sounds.

Enigmatic. Non-committal. Mildly menacing. Cool.

Loyal Toast

Linda is distinctly tipsy. Dancing round the kitchen. Uttering a silent prayer of thanks for Dee Delaney and her steer on screw-top wine. Not that it makes much difference. She’s already drunk the bottle.

She feels much better for it. If she’s honest there was a part of her that was feeling slightly guilty. A tiny tiny nagging thought that perhaps she should have kept the will. Let the inheritance pass to Billy. But that would have been absurd. He’s just a boy. And not the brightest. What was Irene thinking? It would have been a complete and utter waste.

She is talking to herself.

‘The Queen is Dead. Long Live the Queen.’

Sod Queen Irene. She’d like to propose a toast.

‘A toast to Queen…’

A cloud falls across her face.

‘Queen Linda.’

Even in her drunken state she knows it doesn’t sound quite right.

 

Autumn Leaves

Bruno looks across the field at Linda Kirkby’s house.

The curtains have been drawn all day.

He says ‘Do you think we should go over? It’s not like her to leave the curtains drawn. Do you think she’s OK?’

I say ‘I guess she’s grieving. It takes people different ways.’

‘For sure, but she’d still have had to get up for Billy.’

‘Billy stayed at my house. She said she needed time to be alone.’

We both gaze at the window. The curtains with the avocado borders. The Autumn leaves motif.

I say ‘Perhaps it’s really hit her. First her husband, then her grandmother. It’s just her on her own.’

Bruno says ‘Perhaps she’s revelling in the freedom. Nobody to answer to. She can stay in bed all day.’

‘Oh yeah, it’s a blast, this single-parent lark. Just one long lazy day.’

Bruno gives me a sideways look. ‘You don’t have to be alone. You could always be with me.’

I say ‘I’m not getting into this.’

‘Name me one person on this earth who loves you more than I do.’

‘My kids?’

‘Name me one fully developed adult male who loves you more than I do.’

‘I suppose that in an ideal world I’d like a boyfriend who was mine alone; who wasn’t anybody’s for hire.’

Bruno smirks. He’s flirting out of habit. His heart’s not really in it.

He’s looking out across the field, at Linda Kirkby’s curtains.

He says ‘One of us should go over. It’s not like her at all.’

 

Natural Causes

I say ‘I saw the curtains were still drawn.’

She shrugs as if to say ‘Whatever.’

She’s still wearing lipstick. I’m surprised it isn’t smudged.

There are empty bottles by the sink.

I say ‘Have you been up all night?’

‘I’ve been celebrating.’

‘Celebrating?’

‘I’m a wealthy woman now.’

She does a drunken pirouette across the carpet.

‘Irene left everything to me.’

I say ‘We were worried. We thought you might be upset.’

‘Upset?’

‘Grieving.’ I say, by way of prompt.

She giggles. ‘It’s worked out very nicely. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.’

‘You didn’t though, did you?’ I say uneasily.

She says ‘Only in my head.’

She’s honest, I’ll give her that.

‘And…‘ Linda pauses for effect. ‘I left her vanity case behind.’

She opens another bottle. Throws the cap towards the bin.

She says ‘She asked me to bring her make-up and I left it in the flat. I think that might have been what killed her in the end.’

‘You only think that because you’re drunk.’

‘You should have seen her face. She looked so pale, so indistinct.’

I say ‘It was an innocent mistake.’

‘That’s the thing. It wasn’t. It was premeditated.’

It’s a curious choice of word.

‘I didn’t forget to bring it. I picked it up. And then I put it down again. I left it behind on purpose. There was deliberate intent.’

I say ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not a known offence. Premeditated decision to leave a vanity case behind.’

Linda pours herself some wine. Lifts a glass to toast herself.

I say ‘I’m not sure you should be drinking any more.’

She says ‘If you’ll excuse me. I have a lot to do.’

 

Show and Tell

I have things to do as well. It’s Kit’s pirate party. I need to sort things out. Power Rangers. Plastic Swords. Prosecco for the parents.I have to collect the boys from school.

Mrs Sekibo is waiting in the playground. She used to be Miss Wingate. Before she got married in Africa. She brought in the video to share with the class. Where warriors danced with shields and spears and a bird did a poo on her dress.

She says ‘I probably ought to tell you about Kit’s Show and Tell.’

Kit’s been sharing too. Told the class that Daddy’s left. That we’ve all had enough so he’s had to move out. To a flat on the thirteenth floor.

His classmates live in seaside cottages, period terraces, mid-century mansion blocks. Nobody lives in a tower block. Some obvious questions come to mind.

‘Is it higher than the clouds?’

‘Can you see the top of birds’ heads when they fly?’

‘Is there a staircase or a lift?’

‘Is it a lift or just an elevator?’ Confusing, this one. Though Mrs Sekibo assures me that no-one questioned the distinction.

‘If your Dad spat from the window would it land on someone’s head?’

 

Pass the Parcel

The Malcolm Hodge Memorial hall looks positively jaunty. There’s a skull and crossbones in the corner. I’m wearing a bandana. Well a handkerchief. It isn’t really big enough. But it’s the best that I can do. Kit is a Power Ranger Pirate. He likes to mix his themes. Sonny is too old for this. He’s worn a stripy T-shirt. That’s as far as he’s prepared to go.

Billy Kirkby has an eye patch. The bit of cloth I use to clean my glasses. You can make out ‘Jones Opticians’ in the corner. It’s all a bit last minute. He wasn’t actually invited. He’s three years older than the others. But it doesn’t look as if his mother’s in any rush to pick him up.

Pete the Pirate turns up late. He smells of beer and Murray Mints. Even for a pirate he’s too loud; too jolly; too drunk. The kids are terrified. We’d have been better off with Magic of Milton Keynes in his polyester suit.

The kids are getting restless. They want to win some prizes. It’s time for Pass the Parcel. I’ve forgotten the CD player. There’s a radio in the kitchen. I fiddle wildly with the buttons. There’s an awkward minute or two whilst we seem stuck on Radio 4. There’s a discussion on changing attitudes towards domestic abuse. The five-year-olds fall silent. The adults look embarrassed. I could do with some support.

Pete the Pirate has requisitioned a bottle of prosecco. It doesn’t seem quite appropriate. For a children’s entertainer. For a pirate. He could at least be drinking rum.

Kit says ‘When’s Daddy coming?’ I say ‘You know, kids’ parties. They’re really not his thing.’

 

God’s Gift

Bruno says ‘So where have you been?’

I say ‘Kit’s birthday party’.

‘Maybe don’t tell Lester that.’

I manage not to snap. He’s trying to look out for me. Covering my back.

I say ‘What did he want me for?’

‘He wants to know how you got on with your discussions with Linda Kirkby.’

I say ‘She doesn’t seem like a woman who’s suffering from grief.’

Bruno says ‘People deal with things in different ways.’

‘To be honest she seems positively triumphant. Irene has left her all her worldly goods.’

‘Did Irene have much money?’

‘She had a flat. ‘

‘Is that it? The flat?’

‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask.’

‘Aren’t you intrigued?’

‘It’s two days since Irene’s funeral. It seemed a bit distasteful to be discussing it all.’

Bruno shrugs.

‘Lester wants to know if she’s prepared to do a deal.’

I say ‘She’s been drinking since the funeral. It really wasn’t the time to bring it up.’

‘She must think she’s won the lottery. Her husband’s disappeared, she hasn’t got a job, she’s struggling with the mortgage, and we’re hovering like vultures willing her to lose the house. Irene dies in the nick of time. It’s like a gift from God.’

‘Irene died of natural causes. With a doctor in attendance. I know it’s disappointing but I think we have to drop the theory that Linda finished her off.’

‘I’m not saying she’s a murderer. I’m saying perhaps she’s learnt from Irene.’

‘Learnt what?’

‘The secret of survival. To see an opportunity where others see a threat.’

Job Share

Lester is trying to be kind. It doesn’t suit him. Not at all. He is explaining why it’s in everyone’s best interests to make my job part time. And to have Linda Kirkby in the office on the days I’m not at work. Two-and-a-half days each. Well, that’s the long-term plan. Linda will work three days to start with. So we can both be in the office for a morning every week.

He presents the arguments as bullet points. As though he’s written it down.

‘It’s good community liaison. Jobs for local people. She’s a single mother. It’ll be brilliant PR.’

I’m a single mother. And I’m local. And this is my job.

Christ knows, I need the work.

I say ‘She’s just come into an inheritance. You’re not being socially inclusive. You’re employing an heiress.’

I’ve thrown him off his stride. He says ‘How much did she inherit?’

‘You ask her. You’re her boss.’

Lester pretends he hasn’t heard.

He says ‘She isn’t qualified of course. Or experienced. But that’s a good thing. She’ll work for half your salary.’

Well yes. And so will I. Half the hours. Half the pay.

‘She can do the mundane tasks. The stuff you’re over-qualified for. It’ll leave you free to concentrate on the things you’re really good at. The bits that you enjoy.’

I’m struggling to recall exactly what those things might be.

 

Double Whammy

Linda and Lester are strolling out across the field.

I say ‘What do you think they’re doing?’

Bruno says ‘It’s an Orientation Tour.’

‘An Orientation Tour?’

‘He’s showing her round the site.’

I say ‘She’s lived here all her life. I’d say she knows it pretty well.’

‘He’s explaining our approach. Showing her the ropes.’

I say ‘It doesn’t look like business.’

I’m never seen Lester walk like this. It’s completely out of character. He strides. Or storms. He never strolls.

‘Then again.’ I say ‘It doesn’t look like Lester.’

‘Why? What’s he doing?’

‘Walking at a leisurely pace.’

Bruno says ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘How did it come about?’ I ask. ‘Did Linda approach Lester or did Lester scout her out?’

I’m not letting Bruno get off lightly. It seems pretty clear to me that he knew more than he let on.

‘The job was her idea. She made an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

‘It’s quite a sales pitch. Let me do the easy bits of Dee’s job, and I’ll work for half the pay.’

‘It’s not quite that straightforward.’

‘It’s perfectly straightforward. I’ve been partially usurped by someone younger and more willing.’

It’s becoming something of a habit.

Bruno’s keen to change the subject.

He says ‘They’ve been gone for ages. What do you think they’re doing?’

‘Christ knows. Skipping through wildflower meadows? Pinning poems on trees?’

Bruno seems decidedly distracted.

I say ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?

He strokes his chin. As though he’s weighing up his options.

He says ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?

‘Who didn’t tell me what?’

‘Lester. He didn’t talk to you about the Show Home.’

‘What about the Show Home?’

‘That we’re going to demolish the Kirkbys house and build a show home on the site.’

I don’t like being in this position. Racing to catch up. That’ll teach me. To leave work early. To have Kit’s party on his birthday and not at the weekend.

‘So is Linda selling us the house?’

I think of Linda doing pirouettes around the kitchen.

‘Last time I saw her she could barely string her words together. Let alone negotiate a property deal.’

Bruno makes a noise. A cross between a snigger and a snort.

‘She seemed to manage pretty well.’

I say ‘So how much is she selling it for?’

‘She’s not exactly selling it. We’ve struck a deal. We knock down her house and build the Show Home. Slightly closer to the hedge. So there’s room for access from the High Street.’

‘Wow.’ I say. ‘That’s quite a deal. So what’s in it for her?’

‘Linda gets to live in it once all the homes are sold.’

An awful lot can happen in a single afternoon.

I don’t want to seem petty. But it is a bit annoying. She’s not up to collecting Billy. But she’s absolutely capable of stealing half my job and commissioning a house.

A perfect double whammy. A new career. A brand new home.

 

House Proud

I say ‘There’s just one tiny little detail that I don’t quite understand.’

Bruno’s shoulders slump. He thought we’d finished.

‘I can see why that whole deal makes sense. I still don’t see why it means we have to employ her.’

‘She’s organized. She’s tidy. She keeps a perfect house.’

‘We’re not looking for an au pair.’

‘We need someone in the show home. Showing people round. Making sure it’s spick and span.’

What could be more authentic? The perfect house-proud housewife in her perfect new-build home.

‘So what’s she going to do while the house is being built?’

‘Soft marketing. By stealth. Letting it be known that she’s all for the development. That she was dead set against it. But now she understands our vision she’s decided it’s the best thing for the site. Telling anyone who’ll listen she’s so excited by the project that she’s desperate to be part of it. Securing early reservations for a select few personal friends.’

An undercover role. A spy. Corporate espionage. Irene would be proud.

‘Wow.’ I say. ‘And Linda Kirkby came up with all of that herself?’

Not bad for a woman with no imagination.

Bruno looks uncomfortable.

‘Lester said he’d told you.’

‘He gave me the impression she was in some sort of support role. Not that she’s part of our long-term strategy. Or that we’re building her a house.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sniffy.’ Says Bruno. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to find a part-time professional job?’

I say ‘I haven’t found a job. It’s my job. And half of it’s been stolen.’

He says ‘You’ll get more time with the kids.’

‘I have to pay the mortgage. A mortgage that was predicated on two adult incomes; two full-time well-paid jobs.’

‘Look on the bright side. You can sell your house and live with me.’

‘That’s what Daniel wants to do.’

Bruno looks confused.

I say ‘Sell the house. Not live with you.’

 

Box Room

Here we are. In Bruno’s box room.

I say ‘There’s no way the boys would fit in here.’

He says ‘You could have bunk beds. But I don’t think the standard ones would fit. You’d have to have them specially made.’

It’s an attic flat. The ceilings slope.

We are discussing built-in bunk beds. This is insane. He is a colleague, an underling. I am his line manager. At least, I was last time I looked. It’s been a while since there’s been any clarity about reporting lines.

He says ‘Do you want to look at my room?’

I don’t. Not really. Not at all. I don’t want to be here.

I sound all breezy. ‘Yup, for sure.’

It’s roomy, spacious, airy, clean. A rail across one side. A practical solution. What with the sloping ceilings. A standard wardrobe wouldn’t work.

It’s hard not to look at Bruno’s clothes. Jeans in various shades of denim; denim jacket; denim shirts. Arranged not by item, but by hue. A graduated stretch of blue. A denim pantone chart.

I say ‘Who does that? Hangs their clothes in colour order?’

There’s something in his body language. The way he doesn’t answer, doesn’t look me in the eye. It makes me feel uneasy.

Who would do that? Who indeed. A perfect housewife. A woman who would organise her mail by the precise tint of the envelope. Darkest at the bottom; lightest at the top.

‘Oh.’ I say. ‘She’s organized your wardrobe.’

He’s fucking her. It all makes sense.

Jesus, she’s been busy.

He says ‘You told me to be nice to her.’

‘I didn’t tell you to fuck her.’

‘I don’t wait for you to tell me who I should and shouldn’t fuck.’

It’s the first time I’ve heard Bruno sound aggressive. I’m wrong-footed, disconcerted.

He doesn’t like it either.

He tries a different tone entirely. Petulant, aggrieved.

‘I was trying to cheer her up.’