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IN COMPARISON TO PHUKET, Gatwick was as if someone had dimmed the lights. George and Edward got their bags and trudged to the exit without speaking. They took turns to yawn.
“I’ve an idea,” George said, when they got outside. “Why don’t you come and see the refuge?”
“What? now?”
“There’s no time like the present. We’re nearer the refuge than we are to your house. And it’s only three in the afternoon. At least you could say you’d done something today.”
“I might have lots to do today for all you know.”
“You said on the plane you didn’t.”
“Did I?”
“I think seeing the refuge would be good for you.”
Edward put his case down. “What would I be looking at?”
“I could make you a cup of tea and introduce you to some people.”
“No, really. What do you want me to look at?”
“It’s just that ... I don’t know. I sometimes get the impression you think my work there’s all misery and violence. There’s very little violence, really. Mostly, it’s very rewarding.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“To know you’ve changed someone’s life, for the better - ”
“Why are you in such a good mood?”
“Am I?”
“You kept humming Lovely Day on the plane.”
“Really? Well, a retreat does that to a person. Re-charges your batteries. It allows you to put things behind you that are best put behind you and move on.”
Edward guessed he meant the femme fatale. He wouldn’t say anything. If George was capable of singing Lovely Day, there was no point.
The refuge was forty-five minutes away by bus. It looked nothing like Edward had imagined. ‘The refuge’ always conjured up the same image for him: a long, high Victorian building made of grey bricks with little multi-paned windows and ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ signs.
In fact, it was a three-storey block, indistinguishable from the flats on either side, with broad windows with white plastic bibs. It was crowned by a flat roof and a satellite dish. The front door didn’t look like it would need many kicks to bring it down. You could lob bricks at the windows. He wondered if they were bullet-proof.
George rang the doorbell and spoke into an intercom. They were admitted by a woman in dungarees, with short grey hair.
Inside it was like an ordinary house. Flowered wallpaper, green carpet, ferns on the window ledges. Only the fire doors and the extinguisher marked it out as having a different purpose.
“It’s good to have you back, Reverend,” the woman said. “All the ladies have been asking after you. Susan especially.”
“Susan?” George said.
“Susan Tomlinson. Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Ah yes.”
“Came in about this time of day, two weeks ago? Dark hair, glasses, fifty-ish? Should I put the kettle on, did you say?”
“Yes, please. Mrs Strawbridge, this is Edward, my brother; Edward, this is Mrs Strawbridge – Geraldine – our housekeeper.”
Edward shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“By God,” she said. “How do people tell you two apart?”
“We’re not actually twins,” George said.
“Aren’t you?”
“It’s probably the light,” Edward said. “We’re quite different, really.”
“Twins often are,” she said.
“We’re not twins,” Edward said. “George is five years older than me.”
She shrugged. “Well, twins never come out of the womb at exactly the same time.”
“Yes, but five years is quite a time-lag.”
“Leave it, Edward.”
Mrs Stawbridge took a sharp breath. “What sort of biscuits would you like with your tea?”
George looked at his brother. “Your call.”
“Anything,” Edward said.
“Well, name one,” she said. “We’ve got everything.”
“I don’t mind.”
George blinked slowly. “You have to name one.”
“You can have anything,” she said.
“Jacob’s Cream Crackers,” Edward said.
Her face fell. She was silent for a moment. “I don’t think we’ve got any of those.”
“But you just said I could choose anything.”
George threw his hands out. “For God’s sake, Edward, those are biscuits to go with cheese! She means biscuits to go with tea!”
“I didn’t - ”
George brushed him aside. “We’ll have Jammie Dodgers, Mrs Strawbridge. Have we got any Jammie Dodgers?”
“We’ve got lots of Jammie Dodgers.”
“Right, we’ll have some of those. Jammie Dodgers okay with you, Edward?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll bring all your post down from your room, Reverend,” she said, “unless you want to take your tea up there, do you?”
“It’s a bit cramped. We’ll go into the laundry room, if that’s okay.”
“There’s no one in there right now. I’ll put the heating on for you.”
Edward followed his brother down some steps into a basement room with two washing machines, two tumble-driers and a large wooden table with metal chairs. The walls were whitewashed and a single window looked out onto a flight of stone steps. It smelt of fabric conditioner.
“Sit down,” George said.
Edward scraped out one of the metal chairs. It was cold. They sat in silence until Mrs Strawbridge came in with the tea and biscuits.
“Thank you,” Edward said. “Sorry about the biscuits mix-up, earlier.”
“No harm done,” she replied coldly. She returned a moment later with George’s post on a tray then left.
“Shall I pour?” Edward said.
“Milk, no sugar.” George flicked through his letters. “Bill, bill, bill, junk, bill, junk, junk, junk. Wait a minute, that looks exciting.” He pulled out a large brown packet. “What have we here?”
He tore it open and emptied it on the table. A slip of paper saying, ‘Compliments of the Metropolitan Police Force’, and a slingback with a kitten heel. The colour drained from his face.
Edward put the teapot down. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s – I - ” George picked the shoe up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Whose is it?”
“It belongs to ... to the woman I was trying to forget.”
Edward went back to pouring the tea. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“It looks quite expensive, if you don’t mind me saying so. Quite distinctive.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“This black glittery effect on the side. Nice.”
“Very attractive, yes.”
“If she looked anything like the shoe, she was probably quite stunning.”
George was pressing his hands together under his chin. “She didn’t look anything like the shoe. How could she?”
“I just mean, as this shoe is to other shoes, if she was that, with respect to other women ...”
“Yes, yes, I get your drift now. Sorry, I’m not thinking.”
“I didn’t mean she might look like a shoe.”
“Point taken.”
“How would that even work?”
“Yes. Let’s move on.”
Edward picked it up and looked at the sole. “It’s new. It’s hardly been worn.”
“Shall we just forget about the shoe?”
“I can’t help feeling there must be a way to get from the shoe to the person. It’s my scientific instinct, I suppose.”
“I don’t want to get to the person.”
“You said she stood you up.”
“So?”
“Surely you’re entitled to an explanation?”
“I’m not going to go to all the effort of tracking her down, just so she can say she didn’t feel like meeting me.”
“It’s a bit inconsiderate of her, though.”
“Inconsiderate happens,” George said.
“What if she’s looking for it?”
“She’d already lost the other one some time before she met me.”
“Did she have a spare pair?”
“I really don’t know.”
Edward sniffed it. “Nice perfume,” he remarked. “Not a hint of BO.”
“You’ll be suggesting I have it DNA tested, next.”
“That could be arranged. I’ve got a friend - ”
“Because I’m not quite sure how that would stand on the creepy spectrum. Whether it would be better or worse than stalking. I don’t know. ‘How did you find me?’ ‘Well, you forgot to leave me your phone number so I had a scientist analyse your DNA.’ ‘Oh, how romantic’ ... Or maybe not.”
“I was only trying to help.”
“I don’t need any help. It’s over, done with, kaput. Okay?”
“So what are you going to do with this? Throw it in the bin?”
George said nothing.
Suddenly Edward felt so tired it was as if he was being lifted off the floor. He realised George had lost all enthusiasm for his visit. He was still staring at shoe as if he hated it. The guided tour would have to wait.
“Okay,” Edward said. “I’ll be going, then.”
George yawned. “Thanks for coming.” He smiled and picked up the shoe. “Sorry about this. Talk about putting a spanner in the works.”
“Hey, sorry about asking for cream crackers.”
When he got home, he showered and brushed his teeth and put his clothes in the washing machine. Then he threw himself into bed.
When he awoke, he picked up the clock. Four hours. He stretched and swung out of bed. He’d dreamt about his house move. He couldn’t remember the details, but it was an anxiety not wish-fulfilment. Presumably sent to remind him he had no time to spare. Noonie would be arriving in England in a few days’ time.
But he had a crushing headache and he was still tired. 22.03, the clock said. It was no use doing anything now. He drank a glass of water with two paracetamol and went back to bed. Perhaps he was coming down with something.
He knew he was dreaming straight away. Noonie and Charles were knocking on his front door and laughing. She wore a bridal dress. Charles had his arm round her, his fingers digging deep into her waist. He wondered how he could be both in bed and seeing them at the same time. He forced himself awake and switched on the light and looked at the clock. Two am.
Someone was knocking on his front door.
Now? It couldn’t be ... No, that was just a dream.
He put on his dressing gown and went downstairs and opened the door without bothering to put the chain on. If he was attacked, that would be something else to do with his empty life: recuperate.
He found himself looking at someone he recognised although it took him a moment to place her. Then he had the odd sensation of not knowing where he was. In England, or in Thailand merely dreaming he was in England.
“My name’s Georgina Chappel,” she said. “You may remember me from Lek’s dinner party. Is it okay to come in?”
