In the twilight, something silvery, like a winter moth, flitted across the back lawn at Number 8 Linden Drive. The presence settled lightly in the corner of the open porch. Then, with a swift shimmer, it rippled into full life and became Matthew Gwynn. The glass in each of the side windows vibrated. Matthew caught his breath and rested a moment against the house door. It was locked and there was no light from the kitchen.
Matthew tapped several times, urgently but not too loudly. No one came. He stood back on to the lawn and looked at all of the windows he could see but there was no light in any of them. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was a quarter to five. He walked round to the front of the house, past the wall of a hedge that protected the property of the Marwoods at Number 6. He could not see their garden through the dense high evergreens; more important, no one on the other side would be able to see him. At that moment, in his sweatshirt and jeans, possibly locked out of his own house, he felt self-conscious.
There were no lights at the front of the house either. No one home. And he had no key to get in. He strolled casually down the front path to the gate and looked towards the end of the street where the bus would stop. A bus did stop.
Coming towards him, shopping in either hand, was Mrs Jolly.
‘Afternoon, Mr Gwynn,’ she said as she approached. ‘Just seen your wife in town. Been a nice day, hasn’t it?’
As she drew closer, she saw something that Matthew had not observed. His hands were covered in slimy vegetation.
‘You been having trouble with that pond of yours?’ said Mrs Jolly. ‘Saw you’d been draining it.’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew, rubbing his hand on an oil rag he managed to find in his jeans pocket. ‘There’s a blockage somewhere.’
‘Never did like garden ponds,’ said Mrs Jolly. ‘They’re always a nuisance. You’re forever having to do something with them. Either they dry up, or they smell, or they flood the garden. I’d get rid of it if I were you.’
Matthew smiled sheepishly.
‘It was there when we came to live here,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s part of the character of the house. It might even be on top of an old well. I know we always find it easy to fill.’
‘Never thought of that,’ said Mrs Jolly, looking cautious. ‘Probably best left, then. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
It did just occur to her that a dammed up well next door might send the water to other properties: water always finds somewhere to go.
She walked on up to her own gate and waved cheerio.
At least she didn’t mention the frog, thought Matthew gratefully.
The problem was, what to do next. He walked round to the side of the house and contemplated the Marwoods’ hedge for some minutes. The next bus would arrive in about half an hour. He couldn’t stay skulking by the hedge for long. Standing in the back garden he might be observed. Paranoia maybe, but Mrs Jolly was never far from a window. A mist was coming up; the weather was on the change again. Matthew looked up and down the street, decided to spend the time walking the long way round to the bus stop.
So he went out of the path and walked quite slowly, head down, towards the crescent at the opposite end from the main road. A gentle walk, all he felt capable of after the shock to the system that always attended the process of diminishing and increasing, would give time for the next bus to arrive. There was no one in sight. The mist thickened and he was glad of it.
The bus passed by on the main road and stopped just a few yards ahead of him. He was relieved to see Alison and Nesta alight from it.
‘Allie!’ he called. ‘Nesta!’
They turned, startled.
‘It’s Dad,’ said Nesta. ‘What’s he doing here?’
For one hysterical moment, Alison thought that the spaceship must have moved somehow. Then Matthew reached them and said breathlessly, ‘I’m locked out. I didn’t have my key with me.’
Nesta flung her arms round her father and sobbed.
‘You’re safe,’ she said. ‘I thought we might never see you again!’
Alison looked round anxiously to make sure there were no passers-by. There weren’t.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Calm down now. We can talk about it when we get into the house.’
She turned them both round and set them off in the right direction.
‘You should have stayed on the back porch, Mattie,’ she said, shaking her head with a sort of motherly exasperation. ‘You might have known we wouldn’t be long.’
Matthew didn’t bother to explain about Mrs Jolly and the pond. It could only complicate things.
Once indoors, they all felt a need to draw breath. Matthew was still suffering the after-effects of diminishing and increasing in such a short space of time. Nesta was once again shocked and bewildered. To see her father emerging from the mist and running towards them had been almost like seeing a ghost. The calmest was Alison. The other two sat tensely silent as she put away the shopping and boiled the kettle to make them all a strong cup of Yorkshire tea!
Bostonians from Ormingat, settling down to a reviving British cuppa, she thought wryly. We really are confused!