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I wonder how they stand it.
I wait under the awning, in front of the boxes of yellow and scarlet fruit, turning towards the bookshop window as she selects a lettuce and pays for it. Then there’s the business of edging the buggy out again, sending a shiver through the cherries. When the buggy bumps down onto the pavement something falls out: Christopher’s shoe, a soft little fabric sandal. As she bends to retrieve it, as I squeeze past her to pay for my apple, I find it’s the work of a moment to dip my fingers into the yawning mouth of her bag.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ says the greengrocer, putting down a pallet of lemons, and I know what he’s really saying: Sorry about that dozy mare . Outside, she’s lifting Christopher up to the postbox as he pushes some envelopes into the slot. I can see the little grimace at his weight against her bump, his unhelpful vitality.
‘That’s OK,’ I say, handing over the coins, her wallet snug between my arm and my ribcage.
At home, I spread the contents out over the kitchen table, assembling the clues. She’s Emma Nash now. She lives on Carmody Street, in the little line of workers’ cottages between the park and the main road. The usual credit cards, library passes, loyalty schemes. Receipts: organic milk from M&S, flour and cereal from Iceland. A recipe from the Guardian supplement for chicken curry. A green prescription form, scrawled over with a GP’s hurried initials, for an entry-level antidepressant. Tucked behind the book of stamps there’s a small tired-looking snapshot, a picture of a man, the husband, the Mr Nash, smiling into the sun, arms folded, leaning against a bike on a country lane. Quite attractive, I suppose.
I have a quick shower and then I make the call.
‘Is that Emma Nash? I’ve found your wallet, you dropped it on the high street.’
She gushes a bit. I’ve saved her life, she seems to be going mad, she’d forget her head if it wasn’t, etc.
‘It’s no trouble,’ I say.
She’s so relieved. She asks if I live nearby, offers to pop over once her son has finished his tea.
‘Oh, let me bring it back, it’s no problem,’ I say quickly. I’m no longer nervous; I want to get inside her house. I want to see how she lives.
I anticipate that she’ll be more flustered on her own territory, less likely to recognise me, though the chances of that are really very slim. Still, I’ve got my line ready, just in case it’s needed. ‘I’m in Pakenham Gardens,’ I say. ‘It’s only around the corner. I’ll be with you in ten.’
I put everything back in the wallet and leave the house. It’s a beautiful evening. Monica Prewitt is out in her front garden, trimming the lavender bush, filling a trug with the spent straws, and the fragrance of it drifts down the street. Someone in number 34 is practising Chopin in front of an open window, going over the same few bars, making the same mistakes: a pleasant, mildly melancholy sound. The pavements are warm and dappled with sunshine.
I slow down when I get to Carmody Street. The houses here are two-storey, rather than three-, and the façades are narrower, less ornate, set back behind cramped front gardens that barely merit the term. Not all the houses have been gentrified: several still have net curtains. One is pebble-dashed. There’s a bit of double-glazing. Some ugly leggy climber roses. The noise of the main road at the end of the street changes as the traffic lights on the roundabout click through their sequences.
Emma’s is a halfway house. There’s a potted bay tree on the front step and a powder-blue front door, but the gloss paint is chipped, and some of the slats on the plantation shutters are broken, hanging off at an angle, giving the impression of a mouthful of bad teeth. At full stretch , I think, as I unlatch the little gate and walk up the short path. Then, Here we are. Here we go.
Standing on the step, I’m aware, when I swallow, of the dryness of my throat. I run a
I wait under the awning, in front of the boxes of yellow and scarlet fruit, turning towards the bookshop window as she selects a lettuce and pays for it. Then there’s the business of edging the buggy out again, sending a shiver through the cherries. When the buggy bumps down onto the pavement something falls out: Christopher’s shoe, a soft little fabric sandal. As she bends to retrieve it, as I squeeze past her to pay for my apple, I find it’s the work of a moment to dip my fingers into the yawning mouth of her bag.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ says the greengrocer, putting down a pallet of lemons, and I know what he’s really saying: Sorry about that dozy mare . Outside, she’s lifting Christopher up to the postbox as he pushes some envelopes into the slot. I can see the little grimace at his weight against her bump, his unhelpful vitality.
‘That’s OK,’ I say, handing over the coins, her wallet snug between my arm and my ribcage.
At home, I spread the contents out over the kitchen table, assembling the clues. She’s Emma Nash now. She lives on Carmody Street, in the little line of workers’ cottages between the park and the main road. The usual credit cards, library passes, loyalty schemes. Receipts: organic milk from M&S, flour and cereal from Iceland. A recipe from the Guardian supplement for chicken curry. A green prescription form, scrawled over with a GP’s hurried initials, for an entry-level antidepressant. Tucked behind the book of stamps there’s a small tired-looking snapshot, a picture of a man, the husband, the Mr Nash, smiling into the sun, arms folded, leaning against a bike on a country lane. Quite attractive, I suppose.
I have a quick shower and then I make the call.
‘Is that Emma Nash? I’ve found your wallet, you dropped it on the high street.’
She gushes a bit. I’ve saved her life, she seems to be going mad, she’d forget her head if it wasn’t, etc.
‘It’s no trouble,’ I say.
She’s so relieved. She asks if I live nearby, offers to pop over once her son has finished his tea.
‘Oh, let me bring it back, it’s no problem,’ I say quickly. I’m no longer nervous; I want to get inside her house. I want to see how she lives.
I anticipate that she’ll be more flustered on her own territory, less likely to recognise me, though the chances of that are really very slim. Still, I’ve got my line ready, just in case it’s needed. ‘I’m in Pakenham Gardens,’ I say. ‘It’s only around the corner. I’ll be with you in ten.’
I put everything back in the wallet and leave the house. It’s a beautiful evening. Monica Prewitt is out in her front garden, trimming the lavender bush, filling a trug with the spent straws, and the fragrance of it drifts down the street. Someone in number 34 is practising Chopin in front of an open window, going over the same few bars, making the same mistakes: a pleasant, mildly melancholy sound. The pavements are warm and dappled with sunshine.
I slow down when I get to Carmody Street. The houses here are two-storey, rather than three-, and the façades are narrower, less ornate, set back behind cramped front gardens that barely merit the term. Not all the houses have been gentrified: several still have net curtains. One is pebble-dashed. There’s a bit of double-glazing. Some ugly leggy climber roses. The noise of the main road at the end of the street changes as the traffic lights on the roundabout click through their sequences.
Emma’s is a halfway house. There’s a potted bay tree on the front step and a powder-blue front door, but the gloss paint is chipped, and some of the slats on the plantation shutters are broken, hanging off at an angle, giving the impression of a mouthful of bad teeth. At full stretch , I think, as I unlatch the little gate and walk up the short path. Then, Here we are. Here we go.
Standing on the step, I’m aware, when I swallow, of the dryness of my throat. I run a
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