The Rumor, page 10
Michael puts his card on the counter and follows me out. “Call me if you change your mind” is the last thing he says to her as she slams the door on us.
“For Christ’s sake, Michael. What’s wrong with you? You could see how upset she was.”
He’s walking so fast I can barely keep up with him.
“I really fucked that up, didn’t I? What was I thinking, pushing my card on her so soon?” He slows his pace to let me catch up. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” An accusing tone has crept into his voice. “I could have come up earlier and talked to her. She’s never going to give me an interview now.”
He swerves to get out of the way of a group of giggling teenagers. This isn’t how the afternoon was meant to pan out. Our lovely, romantic lunch ruined, and all because of this stupid, stupid rumor.
“How do you know for sure she isn’t McGowan?”
“Because she hasn’t run away. And anyway, it doesn’t tie in with any of the information I’ve received.”
“What do you think will happen now? Will she pack up and move again, even if the rumor’s attached itself to someone else?”
“I’ve no idea, but there’s a good chance she will. Just to be on the safe side. If I could write that woman’s story, do a piece about false accusations and what’s happened to other innocent people in similar cases, it might all blow over in a few days. But if she won’t even talk to me…”
“Maybe she will talk to you once she’s calmed down.”
Then I remember something Maddie said, the day she cornered me on the playground. Something about feeling bad about passing the information on because she knew Liz was friends with Sonia Martins.
I slip my hand into Michael’s and give it a squeeze. “I know someone who’s friends with her. The woman who runs my book club. Perhaps I can ask her to put in a good word for you. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
He stops walking and draws me into his chest, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and holds me close.
“Sorry I snapped at you.” His breath is warm on my neck. “It’s not the end of the world, what’s happened. I can still get a story out of the false-accusations thing. With or without Sonia Martins. But preferably with.”
“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the pictures.”
20
AS SOON AS I GET home from work and put my key in the door, I’m aware that the house already smells different. It smells of Michael, and it’s a nice smell. Not so much a fragrance, although there is, perhaps, the tiniest hint of aftershave in the air. It’s more his own unique scent and possibly the fact that the house isn’t empty, like it usually is. An occupied space always smells different from an empty one.
He’s hunched over his laptop in the back room, typing up notes, preparing the ground for a possible interview with Sonia Martins and checking facts about previous incidents of false accusations. Innocent people hounded out of their homes and jobs, driven to suicide in one tragic case, and all because of a rumor that’s taken hold.
“Any luck with your friend?” he says.
“Her phone keeps going to voicemail, but I’ll pop by there later. I have to pick Alfie up now from his after-school club. Are you coming?”
He twists his mouth and I know that he’s torn. Torn between wanting to surprise Alfie and needing to carry on with his work. This is what it’s going to be like from now on. I have no illusions about that. Being a freelance journalist is tough, even for someone like Michael, who has tons of experience and contacts. Besides, chasing stories is in his blood. I’ve always known that.
He snaps his laptop shut and stands up. “You haven’t told him anything yet, have you?”
“No. I thought we’d tell him together.”
“Good idea.” He pulls me into his arms and hugs me for so long it’s me who pulls back first.
“Do you really think McGowan’s gone to ground?”
He sighs. “I’ve been thinking about that. She’d only go to all the hassle of moving if she thought she was in real danger, and at the moment she isn’t. Not if the finger’s pointing at someone else. I’m still going to try and put a pitch together for a book. Even if I don’t manage to find her, there are other angles I can use.”
I bury my face in his neck. I still haven’t told him about the Twitter thing, and I should. I should tell him right now. Get it all out in the open. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. But after all the drama of this afternoon I don’t think I can take it if he reacts badly. And anyway, there haven’t been any more tweets. It’s just someone messing around. It has to be.
* * *
—
ALFIE CAN BARELY contain his excitement when he spots his dad standing next to me. He’s already thrilled that it’s the Friday of a holiday weekend, but this is the icing on the cake. I’m aware of some of the other mothers’ curious glances at Michael as he hoists Alfie onto his shoulders. It’s the first time they’ve seen him, although Michael tends to draw admiring glances wherever he is. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons he’s managed so well since going freelance. Out of all the dads at the school playground, he’s definitely the best-looking, although of course I’m biased in that respect.
Not that his good looks and boyish charm worked their magic with Sonia Martins. But maybe they will, given time. If I can just speak to Liz…
“Are you staying tonight, Daddy?”
I look up at Alfie sitting on those broad shoulders, thrilled to be seeing his daddy again so soon.
“Yes,” Michael says. “I’m…” He catches my eye, suddenly unsure of what to say.
“Daddy’s coming to stay with us to work from Flinstead for a while,” I say, which seems the most sensible explanation. For now, at least.
Alfie roars with delight and sticks both arms in the air in a gesture of triumph.
“Be careful, Alfie. Hold on tight!”
I might just as well be talking to myself.
* * *
—
LIZ’S FRONT-DOOR BELL resounds deep within the house. It’s one of those long chimes with eight notes. I wait, expecting any second now to see the shape of her walking toward the frosted-glass panel in the door. I’ve never dropped by unannounced before. I hope she doesn’t mind. As for asking her to put in a good word for Michael with Sonia, I’ve no idea what she’ll say. She might even blame me for what’s been happening. Me and my big mouth.
I glance at the windows of her front room, but the blinds are closed. Perhaps she’s in the bathroom. I press the bell again. As the last dong vibrates and there’s still no sign of her, I step closer to the door and peer through the patterned frosting. It feels wrong doing this, as if I’m spying on her, intruding on her personal space, and yet I feel sure she’s in. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling I have.
The corridor with its dark-green-painted floorboards stretches to the back of the house. I see the fuzzy silhouette of the half-moon console table she keeps her phone on, and the old-fashioned umbrella stand next to it. My gaze drifts past the newel post and the balusters of the staircase on the right to the arrangement of photos on the wall. Arty black-and-white shots of old storefronts and houses. There’s no sign of her coming downstairs, and I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable now. What if her neighbors can see me? One of them might come and investigate. They’re big on Neighborhood Watch around here.
I step back. She’s out. She must be.
I walk up the path to the sidewalk, pausing at the gate to take one last look. A shadow flits across one of the upper windows that stare back at me. A disconcerting blink.
I suppose it could have been a strand of my hair caught in the breeze. Or one of those annoying dark spots or filaments that sometimes float across my field of vision.
And yet I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m sure it was Liz, watching me from upstairs.
When I first got out, I was terrified. It felt like I was wearing a sign with my name on it in big black letters for all to see. The only time I felt safe was when I got back home and locked myself in my bedroom, when I drew the curtains and wedged the chair under the door handle. Only then did I relax. I was used to being locked up.
I got braver as time went on. Learned how to walk down a street without trembling every time someone walked toward me. Learned how to speak to people in stores. The trick is not to act too shy and awkward. Inhabit your own body, they told me. Own your own voice. But don’t get too confident, either. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Appearing normal is a balancing act. Tip too far one way or the other and people start to notice you. The loud woman. The timid woman. The beautiful woman. The ugly woman. The woman who’s always smiling. The woman who never smiles. You have to find the middle ground and stick to it.
Age helps. It’s definitely gotten easier, the older I’ve become. Middle-aged women are virtually invisible. Isn’t that what they say?
But now the cloak is starting to slip. The net is closing in on me. And I’m tired of running scared all the time. Tired of being the hunted.
They want a monster. I’ll give them a monster.
21
KAY LIVES TWO DOORS DOWN from Fatima. I give the exterior of the house a quick visual sweep. It’s a modest shingled townhouse that needs repainting. If Kay were selling her house, I might say something like “within walking distance of all Flinstead amenities.” When a house doesn’t have much going for it appearance-wise, it’s practicalities you have to focus on. Practicalities that will sell it in the end. That and a reasonable price, of course.
Alfie hops from foot to foot on her doorstep. He’s been restless ever since Michael got a call about his apartment and had to shoot off. We’d been having a great holiday weekend till then, relaxing together, the three of us, walking on the beach and playing games. But the sooner he gets tenants installed the better. Then I remembered Kay’s offer of bringing Alfie to see her tropical fish.
She opens the door wearing a striped cook’s apron. Her face breaks into a welcoming smile. “Good timing,” she says. “I’ve just baked some chocolate chip cookies.”
Alfie shoots in past her legs and into the living room. “Where are the fish?” he demands.
“Alfie, that’s very rude. You don’t just run into people’s houses without being asked. Come back and take your shoes off.”
Kay laughs. “It’s fine. Really. Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on.”
Five minutes later I’m sitting in Kay’s front room watching her pour the tea. It’s too weak and watery for me, but I don’t like to say anything. The décor is dated and as far from minimal as it’s possible to be. Patterned 1970s carpet, chintzy overstuffed chairs, and little end tables that gleam with polish. In need of some updating.
I have a sudden flash of recall: my grandparents’ living room. Me perched on the edge of the sofa, a plate of peanut butter sandwiches balanced on my knees, and Granddad’s guide dog, Pepper, a chocolate Labrador, sitting at attention in front of me, waiting patiently for a dropped crumb. Nana would be in one armchair, her permed hair sprayed into a silver helmet, and Granddad would be in another. I can still see those opaque eyes that veered and rolled in their sockets. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Even though I knew he would never see again, I always prayed for a miracle.
Kay’s curtains match the sofa, just like Nana and Granddad’s did—although their house was much messier than this—and there’s a scalloped valance with a fringe. Glass-fronted display cabinets stand on either side of the small tiled fireplace, teapots in one, porcelain figurines and framed photographs in the other, one of which I recognize as Ketifa in her school uniform.
The aquarium has pride of place on the sideboard. Alfie perches on a stool in front of it, his eyes glued to the magical underwater scene playing out before him. I’ve never seen him sitting so still.
“It’s Nemo and Marlin,” he says in wonder as two orange clownfish glide past. Kay crouches down next to him and points out some of the others. “See that yellow one at the bottom, the one with the funny mouth? That’s a yellow watchman goby. And look at the shiny gold one next to that rock. You’ll never guess what that one’s called.”
Alfie taps his finger gently on the side of the glass, and the fish darts away and disappears into the fronds of a plant.
“It’s a licorice gourami,” Kay says.
Alfie giggles. “Grandma likes licorice.”
“And so do I,” Kay says, ruffling Alfie’s hair. “But I wouldn’t want to eat my lovely gourami.”
I sit on the armchair opposite and notice how natural she is with him. He seems to have taken to her instantly. Probably because she’s talking to him in a very sensible, matter-of-fact way and not using that silly high-pitched voice some people use when talking to children.
“Here, let me show you something,” she says. She eases herself off the floor. Then she walks over to a table by the window and picks up a chart with pictures of different tropical fish and their names underneath.
“See if you can find any of these in my tank,” she says, spreading it out on the carpet. Alfie leaps off his stool and studies it intently.
Kay and I try not to laugh as we watch his little head bob from the poster to the tank and back to the poster again. A wistful expression steals over Kay’s face.
“I’d love to have been a kindergarten teacher,” she says. “I think I’d have been good at it.”
“What stopped you?” I say.
She laughs, but there’s a bitter edge to it. “It wasn’t really an option, dear.”
“Why’s that?”
She shrugs. “Oh, you know how it is. Didn’t work hard enough at school. Married too young. Had Gillian.” A shadow passes over her face. Then she smiles, becomes brighter. “Talking of Gillian, let me show you some photos.”
She unlocks the door of one of the display cabinets and lifts out two framed photographs, brings them over for me to look at.
A tanned, freckle-faced young woman with dark-blond hair streaming in the breeze beams at us from a wide expanse of white sand, the turquoise ocean in the distance. She’s leaning in toward an extremely good-looking young man in a pair of board shorts.
“That’s my Gillian,” Kay says. “With her husband, Carl.”
“What a lovely couple.”
“And these two little terrors are my grandchildren, Callie and Marcus,” she says, smiling indulgently.
“They’re gorgeous. How old are they?”
“Callie’s three. And Marcus is six.”
“Ah, so he’s the same age as Alfie,” I say, knowing full well what’s going to happen next and, right on cue, Alfie’s head spins around. “I’m six and a quarter,” he says, indignantly.
Kay laughs. “That quarter makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
“What’s in there?” Alfie says, pointing to a basket on the floor by Kay’s chair.
Kay sets the photos on the coffee table and lifts the basket onto her lap. She unties the bows securing the lid. “This,” she says, proudly, “is my sewing basket.”
“Mommy uses an old cookie tin for her sewing things,” Alfie says.
I laugh. “Yeah, a couple of old needles and a few spools of thread. I can just about sew on a button, and I even manage to mess that up sometimes.”
Kay takes out a beautifully embroidered needle case and strokes it with her thumbs. “I learned from my mother,” she says. “Before…” Her breath catches. She unpops the case, which opens like a book. “…before she got ill and couldn’t hold a needle anymore.”
Alfie watches with interest as she turns each felt page to reveal different-sized needles neatly inserted in each one.
“And of course, we learned at school. The girls did needlework and the boys did woodwork.” She grins. “None of this gender equality in those days.”
Alfie’s attention returns to the fish tank, and my mouth arranges itself into the obligatory smile. Kay and I don’t really have much in common, but she’s a nice woman. I don’t mind sitting and looking at her photos and drinking tea with her. It’s a neighborly thing to do, and Alfie’s just loving those fish. He’s particularly taken with the little skull embedded in the sand at the bottom. Tiny fish like turquoise slivers keep darting in and out of the eye sockets. It’s mesmerizing.
“To be honest, I’d like to be a bit handier with a needle.” I lower my voice. “Alfie’s been invited to Liam’s Halloween birthday party next week. I’ll probably end up ordering some overpriced crap online.”
Kay puts the basket on the floor and reaches for her teacup. “Why don’t I make something for him?”
“Oh no, that wasn’t what I meant at all. I couldn’t possibly…”
“It wouldn’t take me long.” Kay’s gaze settles fondly on Alfie. “Unless, of course, your mom wants to run something up?” She looks pensive all of a sudden. “I know I would, if Marcus or Callie were around.”
I laugh. “The only thing my mom could run up is a hill.”
Kay pats my knee. “That’s settled, then. All we need to do now is decide on the outfit.”
“Darth Vader!” Alfie shouts. “I want to go as Darth Vader.”
Kay’s brow creases as she thinks. “Have you got any black clothes, Alfie?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’ve got your black sweatpants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, haven’t you?”
Alfie nods. “I’ve got black gloves, too.”
“And your new rain boots,” I say. “They’re still nice and shiny. They’ll look just like Darth’s boots.”
“Excellent,” Kay says. “I’ve got an old tablecloth we could dye black and I’ll make a cloak out of it. I’ll put some padding in the shoulder part, give him some bulk. It’ll be easy. Then all Mommy will have to do is pick up a mask. By this time next week, you’ll have a costume for the party.”
“For Christ’s sake, Michael. What’s wrong with you? You could see how upset she was.”
He’s walking so fast I can barely keep up with him.
“I really fucked that up, didn’t I? What was I thinking, pushing my card on her so soon?” He slows his pace to let me catch up. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” An accusing tone has crept into his voice. “I could have come up earlier and talked to her. She’s never going to give me an interview now.”
He swerves to get out of the way of a group of giggling teenagers. This isn’t how the afternoon was meant to pan out. Our lovely, romantic lunch ruined, and all because of this stupid, stupid rumor.
“How do you know for sure she isn’t McGowan?”
“Because she hasn’t run away. And anyway, it doesn’t tie in with any of the information I’ve received.”
“What do you think will happen now? Will she pack up and move again, even if the rumor’s attached itself to someone else?”
“I’ve no idea, but there’s a good chance she will. Just to be on the safe side. If I could write that woman’s story, do a piece about false accusations and what’s happened to other innocent people in similar cases, it might all blow over in a few days. But if she won’t even talk to me…”
“Maybe she will talk to you once she’s calmed down.”
Then I remember something Maddie said, the day she cornered me on the playground. Something about feeling bad about passing the information on because she knew Liz was friends with Sonia Martins.
I slip my hand into Michael’s and give it a squeeze. “I know someone who’s friends with her. The woman who runs my book club. Perhaps I can ask her to put in a good word for you. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
He stops walking and draws me into his chest, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and holds me close.
“Sorry I snapped at you.” His breath is warm on my neck. “It’s not the end of the world, what’s happened. I can still get a story out of the false-accusations thing. With or without Sonia Martins. But preferably with.”
“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the pictures.”
20
AS SOON AS I GET home from work and put my key in the door, I’m aware that the house already smells different. It smells of Michael, and it’s a nice smell. Not so much a fragrance, although there is, perhaps, the tiniest hint of aftershave in the air. It’s more his own unique scent and possibly the fact that the house isn’t empty, like it usually is. An occupied space always smells different from an empty one.
He’s hunched over his laptop in the back room, typing up notes, preparing the ground for a possible interview with Sonia Martins and checking facts about previous incidents of false accusations. Innocent people hounded out of their homes and jobs, driven to suicide in one tragic case, and all because of a rumor that’s taken hold.
“Any luck with your friend?” he says.
“Her phone keeps going to voicemail, but I’ll pop by there later. I have to pick Alfie up now from his after-school club. Are you coming?”
He twists his mouth and I know that he’s torn. Torn between wanting to surprise Alfie and needing to carry on with his work. This is what it’s going to be like from now on. I have no illusions about that. Being a freelance journalist is tough, even for someone like Michael, who has tons of experience and contacts. Besides, chasing stories is in his blood. I’ve always known that.
He snaps his laptop shut and stands up. “You haven’t told him anything yet, have you?”
“No. I thought we’d tell him together.”
“Good idea.” He pulls me into his arms and hugs me for so long it’s me who pulls back first.
“Do you really think McGowan’s gone to ground?”
He sighs. “I’ve been thinking about that. She’d only go to all the hassle of moving if she thought she was in real danger, and at the moment she isn’t. Not if the finger’s pointing at someone else. I’m still going to try and put a pitch together for a book. Even if I don’t manage to find her, there are other angles I can use.”
I bury my face in his neck. I still haven’t told him about the Twitter thing, and I should. I should tell him right now. Get it all out in the open. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. But after all the drama of this afternoon I don’t think I can take it if he reacts badly. And anyway, there haven’t been any more tweets. It’s just someone messing around. It has to be.
* * *
—
ALFIE CAN BARELY contain his excitement when he spots his dad standing next to me. He’s already thrilled that it’s the Friday of a holiday weekend, but this is the icing on the cake. I’m aware of some of the other mothers’ curious glances at Michael as he hoists Alfie onto his shoulders. It’s the first time they’ve seen him, although Michael tends to draw admiring glances wherever he is. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons he’s managed so well since going freelance. Out of all the dads at the school playground, he’s definitely the best-looking, although of course I’m biased in that respect.
Not that his good looks and boyish charm worked their magic with Sonia Martins. But maybe they will, given time. If I can just speak to Liz…
“Are you staying tonight, Daddy?”
I look up at Alfie sitting on those broad shoulders, thrilled to be seeing his daddy again so soon.
“Yes,” Michael says. “I’m…” He catches my eye, suddenly unsure of what to say.
“Daddy’s coming to stay with us to work from Flinstead for a while,” I say, which seems the most sensible explanation. For now, at least.
Alfie roars with delight and sticks both arms in the air in a gesture of triumph.
“Be careful, Alfie. Hold on tight!”
I might just as well be talking to myself.
* * *
—
LIZ’S FRONT-DOOR BELL resounds deep within the house. It’s one of those long chimes with eight notes. I wait, expecting any second now to see the shape of her walking toward the frosted-glass panel in the door. I’ve never dropped by unannounced before. I hope she doesn’t mind. As for asking her to put in a good word for Michael with Sonia, I’ve no idea what she’ll say. She might even blame me for what’s been happening. Me and my big mouth.
I glance at the windows of her front room, but the blinds are closed. Perhaps she’s in the bathroom. I press the bell again. As the last dong vibrates and there’s still no sign of her, I step closer to the door and peer through the patterned frosting. It feels wrong doing this, as if I’m spying on her, intruding on her personal space, and yet I feel sure she’s in. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling I have.
The corridor with its dark-green-painted floorboards stretches to the back of the house. I see the fuzzy silhouette of the half-moon console table she keeps her phone on, and the old-fashioned umbrella stand next to it. My gaze drifts past the newel post and the balusters of the staircase on the right to the arrangement of photos on the wall. Arty black-and-white shots of old storefronts and houses. There’s no sign of her coming downstairs, and I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable now. What if her neighbors can see me? One of them might come and investigate. They’re big on Neighborhood Watch around here.
I step back. She’s out. She must be.
I walk up the path to the sidewalk, pausing at the gate to take one last look. A shadow flits across one of the upper windows that stare back at me. A disconcerting blink.
I suppose it could have been a strand of my hair caught in the breeze. Or one of those annoying dark spots or filaments that sometimes float across my field of vision.
And yet I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m sure it was Liz, watching me from upstairs.
When I first got out, I was terrified. It felt like I was wearing a sign with my name on it in big black letters for all to see. The only time I felt safe was when I got back home and locked myself in my bedroom, when I drew the curtains and wedged the chair under the door handle. Only then did I relax. I was used to being locked up.
I got braver as time went on. Learned how to walk down a street without trembling every time someone walked toward me. Learned how to speak to people in stores. The trick is not to act too shy and awkward. Inhabit your own body, they told me. Own your own voice. But don’t get too confident, either. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Appearing normal is a balancing act. Tip too far one way or the other and people start to notice you. The loud woman. The timid woman. The beautiful woman. The ugly woman. The woman who’s always smiling. The woman who never smiles. You have to find the middle ground and stick to it.
Age helps. It’s definitely gotten easier, the older I’ve become. Middle-aged women are virtually invisible. Isn’t that what they say?
But now the cloak is starting to slip. The net is closing in on me. And I’m tired of running scared all the time. Tired of being the hunted.
They want a monster. I’ll give them a monster.
21
KAY LIVES TWO DOORS DOWN from Fatima. I give the exterior of the house a quick visual sweep. It’s a modest shingled townhouse that needs repainting. If Kay were selling her house, I might say something like “within walking distance of all Flinstead amenities.” When a house doesn’t have much going for it appearance-wise, it’s practicalities you have to focus on. Practicalities that will sell it in the end. That and a reasonable price, of course.
Alfie hops from foot to foot on her doorstep. He’s been restless ever since Michael got a call about his apartment and had to shoot off. We’d been having a great holiday weekend till then, relaxing together, the three of us, walking on the beach and playing games. But the sooner he gets tenants installed the better. Then I remembered Kay’s offer of bringing Alfie to see her tropical fish.
She opens the door wearing a striped cook’s apron. Her face breaks into a welcoming smile. “Good timing,” she says. “I’ve just baked some chocolate chip cookies.”
Alfie shoots in past her legs and into the living room. “Where are the fish?” he demands.
“Alfie, that’s very rude. You don’t just run into people’s houses without being asked. Come back and take your shoes off.”
Kay laughs. “It’s fine. Really. Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on.”
Five minutes later I’m sitting in Kay’s front room watching her pour the tea. It’s too weak and watery for me, but I don’t like to say anything. The décor is dated and as far from minimal as it’s possible to be. Patterned 1970s carpet, chintzy overstuffed chairs, and little end tables that gleam with polish. In need of some updating.
I have a sudden flash of recall: my grandparents’ living room. Me perched on the edge of the sofa, a plate of peanut butter sandwiches balanced on my knees, and Granddad’s guide dog, Pepper, a chocolate Labrador, sitting at attention in front of me, waiting patiently for a dropped crumb. Nana would be in one armchair, her permed hair sprayed into a silver helmet, and Granddad would be in another. I can still see those opaque eyes that veered and rolled in their sockets. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Even though I knew he would never see again, I always prayed for a miracle.
Kay’s curtains match the sofa, just like Nana and Granddad’s did—although their house was much messier than this—and there’s a scalloped valance with a fringe. Glass-fronted display cabinets stand on either side of the small tiled fireplace, teapots in one, porcelain figurines and framed photographs in the other, one of which I recognize as Ketifa in her school uniform.
The aquarium has pride of place on the sideboard. Alfie perches on a stool in front of it, his eyes glued to the magical underwater scene playing out before him. I’ve never seen him sitting so still.
“It’s Nemo and Marlin,” he says in wonder as two orange clownfish glide past. Kay crouches down next to him and points out some of the others. “See that yellow one at the bottom, the one with the funny mouth? That’s a yellow watchman goby. And look at the shiny gold one next to that rock. You’ll never guess what that one’s called.”
Alfie taps his finger gently on the side of the glass, and the fish darts away and disappears into the fronds of a plant.
“It’s a licorice gourami,” Kay says.
Alfie giggles. “Grandma likes licorice.”
“And so do I,” Kay says, ruffling Alfie’s hair. “But I wouldn’t want to eat my lovely gourami.”
I sit on the armchair opposite and notice how natural she is with him. He seems to have taken to her instantly. Probably because she’s talking to him in a very sensible, matter-of-fact way and not using that silly high-pitched voice some people use when talking to children.
“Here, let me show you something,” she says. She eases herself off the floor. Then she walks over to a table by the window and picks up a chart with pictures of different tropical fish and their names underneath.
“See if you can find any of these in my tank,” she says, spreading it out on the carpet. Alfie leaps off his stool and studies it intently.
Kay and I try not to laugh as we watch his little head bob from the poster to the tank and back to the poster again. A wistful expression steals over Kay’s face.
“I’d love to have been a kindergarten teacher,” she says. “I think I’d have been good at it.”
“What stopped you?” I say.
She laughs, but there’s a bitter edge to it. “It wasn’t really an option, dear.”
“Why’s that?”
She shrugs. “Oh, you know how it is. Didn’t work hard enough at school. Married too young. Had Gillian.” A shadow passes over her face. Then she smiles, becomes brighter. “Talking of Gillian, let me show you some photos.”
She unlocks the door of one of the display cabinets and lifts out two framed photographs, brings them over for me to look at.
A tanned, freckle-faced young woman with dark-blond hair streaming in the breeze beams at us from a wide expanse of white sand, the turquoise ocean in the distance. She’s leaning in toward an extremely good-looking young man in a pair of board shorts.
“That’s my Gillian,” Kay says. “With her husband, Carl.”
“What a lovely couple.”
“And these two little terrors are my grandchildren, Callie and Marcus,” she says, smiling indulgently.
“They’re gorgeous. How old are they?”
“Callie’s three. And Marcus is six.”
“Ah, so he’s the same age as Alfie,” I say, knowing full well what’s going to happen next and, right on cue, Alfie’s head spins around. “I’m six and a quarter,” he says, indignantly.
Kay laughs. “That quarter makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
“What’s in there?” Alfie says, pointing to a basket on the floor by Kay’s chair.
Kay sets the photos on the coffee table and lifts the basket onto her lap. She unties the bows securing the lid. “This,” she says, proudly, “is my sewing basket.”
“Mommy uses an old cookie tin for her sewing things,” Alfie says.
I laugh. “Yeah, a couple of old needles and a few spools of thread. I can just about sew on a button, and I even manage to mess that up sometimes.”
Kay takes out a beautifully embroidered needle case and strokes it with her thumbs. “I learned from my mother,” she says. “Before…” Her breath catches. She unpops the case, which opens like a book. “…before she got ill and couldn’t hold a needle anymore.”
Alfie watches with interest as she turns each felt page to reveal different-sized needles neatly inserted in each one.
“And of course, we learned at school. The girls did needlework and the boys did woodwork.” She grins. “None of this gender equality in those days.”
Alfie’s attention returns to the fish tank, and my mouth arranges itself into the obligatory smile. Kay and I don’t really have much in common, but she’s a nice woman. I don’t mind sitting and looking at her photos and drinking tea with her. It’s a neighborly thing to do, and Alfie’s just loving those fish. He’s particularly taken with the little skull embedded in the sand at the bottom. Tiny fish like turquoise slivers keep darting in and out of the eye sockets. It’s mesmerizing.
“To be honest, I’d like to be a bit handier with a needle.” I lower my voice. “Alfie’s been invited to Liam’s Halloween birthday party next week. I’ll probably end up ordering some overpriced crap online.”
Kay puts the basket on the floor and reaches for her teacup. “Why don’t I make something for him?”
“Oh no, that wasn’t what I meant at all. I couldn’t possibly…”
“It wouldn’t take me long.” Kay’s gaze settles fondly on Alfie. “Unless, of course, your mom wants to run something up?” She looks pensive all of a sudden. “I know I would, if Marcus or Callie were around.”
I laugh. “The only thing my mom could run up is a hill.”
Kay pats my knee. “That’s settled, then. All we need to do now is decide on the outfit.”
“Darth Vader!” Alfie shouts. “I want to go as Darth Vader.”
Kay’s brow creases as she thinks. “Have you got any black clothes, Alfie?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’ve got your black sweatpants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, haven’t you?”
Alfie nods. “I’ve got black gloves, too.”
“And your new rain boots,” I say. “They’re still nice and shiny. They’ll look just like Darth’s boots.”
“Excellent,” Kay says. “I’ve got an old tablecloth we could dye black and I’ll make a cloak out of it. I’ll put some padding in the shoulder part, give him some bulk. It’ll be easy. Then all Mommy will have to do is pick up a mask. By this time next week, you’ll have a costume for the party.”
