by David Nobbs
‘Yes, not bad at all,’ she said. ‘Very little thunder, the lightning scarcely forked, and not a tsunami in sight. Mustn’t grumble, eh, Peter?’
Peter Sparling gave her a puzzled look, said ‘Come on, Kenneth’, as if urging his beloved dog out of the contaminated area surrounding this madwoman, and walked on.
Sally walked on up Oxford Road, past ‘Windy Corner’, the home of the town’s only psychiatrist, the overworked Dr Mallet, and past the trim, neat, lifeless garden of ‘Mount Teidi’, where her neighbours the Hammonds were so silent that she often thought they must be in Tenerife when they were in fact at home.
Everything was silent today. The silence oppressed her.
She opened the gate into the immaculate garden of ‘The Larches’, just as lifeless at this early moment in the year, but full of the promise of bloom. She noticed a weed or two, and decided to let them live a little longer; she wasn’t obsessive, she wasn’t a Hammond.
She put her key in the lock, turned it, opened the door, entered the hall.
Inside the house it was silent too. She saw him straight away, and, that day, he was definitely not being a stickler for his tea. That day he had done something that was definitely dramatic, and might even be considered by some people to be brave. He was hanging from a beam at the top of the stairs. There was a rope round his neck. He was very, very dead.
TWO
In the cul-de-sac
‘They’re old,’ said Arnold Buss in a low voice.
‘And we aren’t?’ said Jill, also in a low voice, although it was absurd to feel the need to speak so quietly, as their new neighbours had only just pulled up behind the furniture van, and were busy getting things out of the ample boot of their silver VW Passat.
The Busses were standing a little back from the window, Arnold further back than Jill, in the cold spare front room on the first floor of number 11 Moor Brow, which was always referred to as ‘The Cul-de-Sac’, as if Potherthwaite was actually rather proud of having such a thing as a cul-de-sac. They didn’t want to be caught peering out. Arnold had taught history, and Jill had been in the forefront of the world of the colonoscopy in the District Hospital. It wouldn’t do to be seen to be curious about their new neighbours.
The man, now carrying two small suitcases, suddenly looked up to examine his new surroundings. Jill and Arnold hurriedly stepped back even further from the window.
‘I don’t like the look of their standard lamps,’ said Arnold.
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘Ostentatious. They’re going to be materialistic. I know the type.’
‘And what did they do for a living?’
‘I don’t know. How could I possibly know that?’
‘I’d have thought their occasional tables might tell you.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Jill. Where are you going?’
Jill Buss was striding towards the door with a sudden sense of purpose. It unnerved Arnold when she showed a sense of purpose.
‘I’m going to tidy my make-up, if you must know.’
This was dreadful news. No good could come out of Jill tidying her make-up. Arnold was not sociable.
‘And why might you be going to tidy your make-up at this moment?’
But Jill was far ahead, out of earshot. She had marched across the landing, now she burst through their large bedroom – the rooms were big in these old houses – strode into her en-suite – they had separate bathrooms, the en-suite was her stronghold – and shut the door in Arnold’s face. She didn’t like him in the room when she was doing her make-up; he could never resist sarcasm. ‘We’re going to the pub for the early bird, not Buckingham Palace.’
He hesitated, then plucked up his courage, opened the door, and went in.
‘Arnold! I might have been on the toilet.’
‘You aren’t.’
‘But I might have been, that’s the point. You couldn’t know I wasn’t.’
‘I’m surprised that …’ He stopped. What he had been about to say wasn’t wise, wasn’t wise at all.
‘You’re surprised what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, come on, Arnold, what?’
He sighed. His sighs were deep and frequent.
‘I’m surprised that a woman who earned her living giving people colonoscopies should be so ladylike about going to the toilet in front of a man who has known her and her body for forty-four years. Why are you touching up your face, Jill?’
‘I’m going round to see them, if you must know.’
‘See them? See who?’
‘Arnold! You aren’t stupid. Don’t pretend to be. Them. Our new neighbours.’
Arnold’s mouth dropped open. He looked as if he’d had a stroke. He could see his appalled face staring out at him from behind Jill’s still-lovely face in the mirror. It was a bad moment. He was terrified of having a stroke, and ending up looking as he looked at this moment, and it was painful to see his face there, haggard, rigid and grey, just behind hers. She looked infuriatingly attractive still, the softness of her auburn hair, the strong curves of the nostrils, the elegance of the upper lip. Even the lines of her face, because they came from smiles more than from grimaces, enhanced her charm. He looked so much older than her. He was older, but only by a year, seventy-three to her seventy-two. No, the picture he saw in her mirror in her bathroom did not please him. But worse even than that was her announcement. Going round to see them!
‘See them, Jill? Why?’
‘Welcome them. See if they need anything. Don’t you want to be friendly?’
‘Of course I do. If they’re the sort of people we want to be friendly with. But they might be Jehovah’s Witnesses. They might be shoplifters. They might be Liberal Democrats. They might be Catholics. They might be vegetarians. They might be Welsh.’
‘They might be Welsh vegetarian Liberal Democrat Catholic shoplifters.’
‘Exactly. Now do you see why I don’t want you to just charge round there?’
‘So how do you propose that we find out if they’re our sort of people? Do we send them a questionnaire?’
‘Don’t be silly. We observe them. We listen. Do they argue? Do they shout? What sort of music do they play? Does he put the box on when he mows the lawn? Do they hang out the washing in a seemly manner? What quality are their underclothes? Do they put the bins out properly? Do they have dogs?’
‘How many times do they pee in the night?’
‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
Jill turned round, away from the mirror, to give him a sober look.
‘I am, you know,’ she said. ‘We’ve been attached on to an empty house for more than two years. This means change, this could be the end of paradise, of course we’re edgy, but we’re human beings, and they’ll be knackered, and they’ll be edgy too, they’ll need cheering up, I would think, coming to Potherthwaite from Chichester, I would be … so …’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep running Potherthwaite down, Jill. It isn’t Venice, but it’s home. And you only run it down to rile me.’
Arnold was writing a history of Potherthwaite. It was called ‘A Complete History of Potherthwaite’. It was very long already, because he was unable to leave anything out, now that he had described it as complete, but also because he was terrified of finishing it, which was in truth why he had described it as complete.
‘They’ll be stressed. They may not have anything to cook with. I’m going to invite them for supper.’
‘Jill. This is recklessness personified.’
‘Yes. Let’s live a little.’
Arnold left the bathroom quietly, shut the door carefully, left her to it. He had almost said ‘I don’t want to live a little, I’m seventy-three’, but luckily he had thought better of it.
So twenty minutes later, having titivated herself to her satisfaction, and looking, she knew, rather stunning for a seventy-two-year-old, Jill called on the neighbours.
There were eight identical buildings in
the cul-de-sac, four on each side of the road. Each building was divided into two identical residences, dignified and solemn in dark, stern stone, listed buildings on which no bright paint could be used. The new neighbours’ house was joined to the Busses’ on the southern side.
In the slowly fading light of a day that had never been fully light, Jill strode up the wilderness that was the neglected front garden of number 9.
She rang the doorbell, and wondered what Arnold would say if they were Muslims. She heard a key and then another key – what were these people frightened of? – and suddenly the front door was open.
The woman who was standing there was shorter than Jill, older than Jill, less attractive than Jill, but could have looked a great deal better than she did if she had made the best of herself. True, she had just endured a tiring journey, but Jill knew that this woman had long ago given up making the best of herself, and this irritated her.
They introduced themselves. The woman’s name was Olive Patterson. Jill didn’t waste time on small talk.
‘I wondered … I expect you’ve had a long journey, you must be tired … I wondered … because I don’t expect you’ll have unpacked your cooking utensils and things, Arnold and I … that’s my husband … we wondered … would you like to pop round for a bit of supper tonight?’
Confusion painted a faint red glow on to Olive Patterson’s pallid cheeks.
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you,’ said Olive. ‘So kind. No, it is, that is so kind, really, really kind, but really we’re … we’re fine, we’re all right … and I mean we had a sandwich in the car, at a service station … well, we had it in the car because you don’t want to both leave the car at the same time, with so much stuff in it, do you? I mean, who can you trust these days? You can’t, can you? So, no, we’re all right, but thank you, thank you again, we so appreciate … Harry … that’s my husband … will really appreciate your offer … but we don’t want to be a nuisance, and we really will be all right, honestly, but, as I say, that is so kind, thank you, but … as I say, another time.’
So Jill went back home, feeling strangely disappointed, but when Olive told Harry what she had said (though not at such great length) he exploded. He told her that in his opinion it was rude to refuse such a friendly offer, it was the first good thing that had happened all day, and he was going round to say they’d changed their minds. Olive pleaded with him – it would make her look silly. He told her that she was silly, and off he went.
A minute or two later, he met Jill’s eyes for the first time, and they held each other’s eyes a second or two longer than might have been expected at the door of a listed building in a cul-de-sac in Potherthwaite at the darkening death of a gloomy late winter’s day. He told her that if the offer was still on they would be delighted. She told him that the offer was indeed still on, and he was indeed delighted.
Bang on half past seven – Olive hated to be late – Jill led the Pattersons into the lounge, which was a large, high-ceilinged room with a chandelier, furnished with a curious mix of Arnold’s reticence and Jill’s ebullience. Jill had dressed down, Olive had dressed up, but Jill still looked the smarter. Arnold looked formal and old-fashioned in jacket and tie and a pale blue shirt with silver cufflinks. Harry was in full ‘they’ll know we haven’t had time to unpack’ mode. How different the two men were: Arnold tall and slim and grizzled, with salt-and-pepper hair and a very obedient little salt-and-pepper moustache; Harry short, not fat but bursting at the seams of his casual clothes, and as bald as a balloon.
Harry glanced round the room, taking in the reticent chairs and the ebullient vases, and said, ‘Nice gaff. Nice room. Just trying to guess, who bought what?’
‘Harry!’ said Olive.
‘I embarrass her,’ said Harry complacently. ‘Sorry, doll.’
‘This is so kind of you,’ said Olive, forced into speech.
‘What are neighbours for?’ said Arnold gravely.
Jill was puzzled by a rather odd look that had passed between Olive and Arnold, almost an exchange of sign language. It was time to leap into action.
‘Now, what would we all like to drink?’ she asked.
‘A small sherry, please,’ said Olive shyly, half blushing at her boldness in asking for alcohol at all. I don’t want to be beholden, said her blush.
‘A gin and tonic, please,’ said Harry with a huge grin. Large one please if poss, said his grin.
‘Usual, Arnold?’
‘Of course,’ said Arnold complacently.
‘Right. I’ll just go and get them,’ said Jill, looking meaningfully at Arnold, for whom the look clearly had no meaning.
‘Let me help,’ said Harry hastily.
‘That’s very kind,’ said Jill, looking not at him but at Arnold.
When Jill and Harry had left the room, there was a moment’s silence. Olive broke it.
‘I thought, “Is it? It can’t be.” But it is, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Arnold. ‘Oh yes, Olive. It is indeed.’
THREE
Purely routine
The policeman had explained to Sally that because there was no suicide note they had to make certain inquiries. It was purely routine. Had she any idea why Barry had killed himself?
She had shaken her head.
Strangely, she had felt nothing. ‘Cry if you want to,’ a female officer had said. ‘Feel free.’ But she hadn’t been able to.
‘I’m afraid nobody can go upstairs,’ Inspector Pellet had explained. ‘It’s designated a crime scene. Purely routine.’
He had made gestures to the female officer to get Sally out of the way. He hadn’t wanted her to be in the house while they examined the rope, tested for fingerprints, searched for minute traces of thread dropped from clothes, or earth brought in on shoes. It wouldn’t be a thorough search, of course – there was really no doubt that he’d killed himself – but things had to be done by the book these days.
The female officer, PC Cartwright, had put her arm round Sally, to lead her towards the door of her own home. Inspector Pellet had turned and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Mottram. We don’t need to bother you again tonight, and we have no reason to think that this is anything but …’ He had hesitated. He hadn’t wanted to say the word. He’d been to a two-day seminar on Tact and Consideration in the Isle of Wight in 2007, and it had stayed with him. ‘… what it appears to be. However, an officer will want to talk to you in the morning, when you’ve …’ He had been about to say ‘had a good night’s sleep’ but had realized that this was unlikely. He had abandoned that sentence and had asked, uneasily, ‘And … um … we … um … we might have to ask to borrow your computer. So … um … if you’re needing to use it …’ He had let that sentence go unfinished too.
‘I don’t use the computer,’ she had said.
‘Ah!’
Inspector Pellet had winced. He had realized that the emphasis he had put on that ‘Ah!’ might carry with it the implication that, in the knowledge that she would never be able to discover them, it was therefore possible that this seemingly innocent lawyer had thought it safe to save large numbers of horribly indecent photos of young children and domestic pets, or of the wives of fellow lawyers caught in flagrante. Or both. In truth the inspector was a nice, sensitive family man and had driven himself close to depression due to his attempts to follow what he had learnt at the seminar all those years ago.
Luckily Sally had been so shattered and so bewildered, and also so innocent, that she had been completely incapable of picking up any implications, let alone ones so extreme. PC Cartwright had led her out of her own front door, pushing her in such a direction that she would have risked dislocating her neck if she had attempted to turn to take one last look at her husband hanging there.
When they were outside, PC Cartwright had asked her, ‘Have you any children you could go to?’
‘Well, my daughter, I suppose,’ she had said.
‘Right. Good. And where does she live?’
‘
New Zealand. That’s the only bugbear.’
PC Cartwright had looked at her in astonishment.
‘I probably won’t,’ Sally had added.
‘No. I meant … now. For a couple of hours like, while they … till you can return.’
‘Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. I was being stupid.’
‘No, not at all, lovey. You’re in shock.’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. No. No, I haven’t. My son’s in Barnet.’
‘Neighbours?’
‘Well … It’s not the most … um …’
‘… sociable street in Potherthwaite?’
‘No. And my husband isn’t … wasn’t … oh God … oh God …’
‘Now now. There there. There … um … surely there must be somebody?’
‘Well, there’s the Hammonds, but … I think they’re in Tenerife. Peter Sparling’s around, I saw him earlier with Kenneth. I could go to them, I suppose.’
‘Oh. Right. Well. Good. I’ll take you. Can you walk it?’
‘Oh yes. It’s only five houses.’
PC Cartwright had led Sally slowly along the road. If there had been any passers-by, they might have thought she was disabled.
‘I’m sure they’ll look after you,’ she’d said, and then she’d lowered her voice, as if she hadn’t wanted her progressive views to be overheard by any colleagues who might be lurking in the bushes. ‘Gays can be very considerate and understanding. It’s with the female hormones, I suppose.’
‘Gays?’
‘Peter and Kenneth.’
‘Oh. No no. Kenneth’s a Labrador.’
PC Cartwright had looked astonished, then shocked, then just bewildered. She had entirely forgotten that she had been to an afternoon seminar on Not Making Assumptions at a moated country house outside Droitwich in 2009. And if she had remembered that she had been, she would still have forgotten what she had learnt.
‘P’r’aps you should just wait a moment at the gate, love,’ PC Cartwright had said, when they arrived at the Sparlings’ house. ‘Best for me to explain, p’r’aps.’
