It was five o’clock by the time they’d stacked the dishwasher. The heat was going out of the day and Elizabeth’s headache had been replaced by food-induced lethargy.
‘How about we take our visitors on a short walk?’ Carl suggested. ‘We must show them where to catch the bus if they want to go into the city centre.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Elizabeth said, trying to sound keen. ‘I could do with stretching my legs.’
The four of them set off, she and Diane leading the way, Carl and Jordan a few metres behind.
‘It seems mean, lumbering poor Carl,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘Jordan’s not a great conversationlist.’
‘Don’t worry. Carl can chunter for two.’
‘Isn’t it good to talk?’
‘Talk, yes. But that sort of implies two people exchanging ideas. With Carl it’s as though everything that’s going on in his head has to come out of his mouth. He doesn’t check whether it’s interesting or witty or pertinent. He simply keeps it coming.’
‘You must admit his English is fantastic.’
‘So’s mine but I don’t feel compelled to keep up a running commentary.’
Within five minutes they had reached the main road. Carl pointed to a bus shelter on the far side. ‘There is the bus stop. Buses run in to the city every twenty minutes.’
‘It’s less hassle than driving,’ Diane said, ‘and a lot cheaper.’
‘People will only stop using cars if it gets really difficult and really expensive,’ Jordan muttered. ‘Anyway it’s probably too late. Mum says the human race will be extinct in a hundred years.’
‘Your mother’s an expert, is she?’ Elizabeth said.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Carl, the diplomat, stepped in. ‘How about we go back a different way so that you get a flavour of the area?’
They wandered on past a small park and a dreary rank of shops – Spar, newsagent, hairdresser, betting shop. Set back from the road and screened by high hedges, Elizabeth spotted a grand house, clearly built long before the clutches of new-build housing that had sprung up around it. She peered between the foliage to get a better view. ‘That’s a beautiful house.’
‘In the nineteenth century, this area was way out in the country. Iron masters and mine owners built homes here, well away from the Valleys and the poor sods they were exploiting.’ Diane raised her hands, ‘Don’t get me started. Anyway, most of them have been converted into care homes or flats and the grounds sold off for building plots. Usual story. A few still survive as family homes. In fact there’s one at the back of our house. Not anywhere near as big as this one, but it’s a very nice house. You get a good view of it from Jordan’s room.’
Diane’s resentment at the mistreatment of the working class was predictable but she’d never before shown any interest in real estate. Paul’s death had released a wanderlust in her. She’d not settled anywhere for more than a few months, making do with seedy accommodation, as if one place were as good as any other because she had no intention of staying there for long. Diane had reverted to her unmarried name saying that she couldn’t bear to be reminded of what she had lost and the ‘S’ page in Elizabeth’s address book had become a muddle of crossings out and changed phone numbers, a potted history of her friend’s wanderings. She’d kept her old address books and had, when she added the Cardiff address last year, totted up the scored-through entries. In the space of thirty years, Diane had lived in at least eighteen different places – probably more – whilst, not counting college digs, she had lived in only three.
‘So who’s your neighbour?’ she asked.
‘A local celebrity.’
‘Really? Let me guess. Shirley Bassey? Tom Jones? Catherine Zeta Jones? Aled Jones?’
‘You’re on the right track.’ Diane paused. ‘Dafydd Jones.’
She shook her head. ‘Should I know him? Is he in a soap? Or a band? He’s not the singer in Stuff the Goldfish is he?’
‘Nuh. He’s the weather man on the telly. Known here in Wales as The Rain Man.’
‘Well, Mister Rain Man must be doing okay for himself. Mind you, he’ll never be out of a job, will he? War, famine, credit crunch – we can never get enough weather.’
‘Don’t know about that. But I do know he’s well fit. In a mature, rugged way.’
‘Well fit?’ Elizabeth grimaced.
‘Sorry. I’ll have to stop fraternising with my students, won’t I? Dafydd Jones is,’ Diane adopted a cultured drawl, ‘rather a handsome fellow.’
‘D’you have anything to do with him? Or d’you just sit drooling in front of the telly?’
‘Both. We’ve been on nodding terms since we moved in but we only got to know him a few months ago. His daughters are staying with him at the moment.’
‘The ones you mentioned on the phone?’
‘Yes. That’s how we met. The girls were messing about with a frisbee and it ended up in our garden. One thing led to another and Dafydd invited us round for drinks. Then they came to us for supper, and now…’ she grinned.
Elizabeth glanced behind. Jordan and Carl were deep in conversation. ‘I can’t imagine what they’re talking about.’
Diane patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry. They’re fine.’
They wandered on.
‘Remember how we used to dawdle home from school like this?’ Diane said.
‘Yes. And how you insisted on dragging me past every building site in the area. Some evenings it took me an hour to get home.’
‘After all those spotty boys, I needed to see some good red meat. What was that ad a few years ago? Those posh women ogling the guy in the vest and the hard hat?’
‘We were fourteen-year-old schoolgirls. In our uniforms.’
‘Those brickies always whistled at us though, didn’t they? All men fantasise about schoolgirls, you must know that.’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘They were sorry for us.’
‘You, maybe. And, correct me if I’m wrong, didn’t you keep dragging me into the local library so that you could “bump into” that teacher? Benson? Bartlett?’
‘Barton. Mr Barton. And that was only twice.’
‘And both times you asked him about the homework.’
‘Well, chemical reactions are … tricky.’
‘There’s chemistry and there’s chemistry.’ Diane winked and ran her tongue around her lower lip. ‘That’s really all you need to know.’
The streets were busy. Everyone seemed to be outside, making the most of what remained of the weekend. Cars were being washed, front lawns mown and wheelie-bins manoeuvred onto the pavement. Neighbours chatted over garden fences, pausing to nod in their direction as they passed. Elizabeth thought how different these people were from those who had colonised her own neighbourhood and who barely acknowledged each other, as if by doing so they might be committing themselves to something they would later regret.
She became aware that Diane hadn’t said much for a while. ‘Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?’
‘We met when we were eleven and I’ve barely managed to get a word in since. But today you keep going quiet and sort of drifting off. And you were hell-bent on getting me down here this week, in spite of Jordan. Then there was something Carl said …’
It was Diane’s turn to glance over her shoulder. Carl and Jordan had stopped some way behind them and were studying something in one of the front gardens. ‘What did he say, exactly?’
Elizabeth thought hard. ‘It was more the way he said it. “I’m really glad you’ve come.” It was sort of … loaded. As if he needed reinforcements.’
Diane looped an arm through hers. ‘You’re right. I do need to talk. But not now. It’s complicated.’
Elizabeth wasn’t one for arbitrary demonstrations of affection. She disapproved of the fad for kissing acquaintances and hugging workmates. It undermined genuine fondness, and it was embarrassing. But the pressure of Diane’s slender arm against her own, the sight of the blurry tattoo on her friend’s forearm, was a reminder of the friendship they’d shared since they were schoolgirls.
She frowned. ‘You’re not ill or anything?’
‘No. It’s nothing like that.’ Stopping, Diane called to the loiterers, ‘Get a move on, you two, before you get arrested for voyeurism.’
As they turned into Diane’s street, three girls who were perched on a garden wall, giggling and passing a mobile from one to the next, fell silent. The teenagers, who doubtless kicked up a fuss about wearing school uniform, were identically dressed. Each wore a strappy top, denim mini skirt, frayed at the hem, and fluorescent flip-flops. Their hair was pulled back in pony tails that clung to their skulls, a few strands dragged down and across their foreheads in rigid fringes. Chavs. That’s what the Phoebes and Candidas and Hermiones at Elizabeth’s school would call them. Three pairs of heavily mascaraed eyes weighed them up – weighed Jordan up. Did they think he was ‘well fit’? Did this lanky, loping boy with greasy hair and saggy jeans set their stomachs churning? It was a mystery what, in their bright, predatory eyes, constituted ‘fitness’.
She’d always considered her sons – whether five or ten or fifteen years old – to be astonishingly attractive. Ben, with his curly hair, blue-grey eyes and open features. Alexander – dark haired, brown eyed and such a cheeky smile. But now, when she happened across their school photographs, shoved to the back of a drawer or abandoned between the pages of a book, she had to admit that their faces, frozen in that boyhood moment, might not have appealed to everyone. Motherhood was a mystery, too.
On reaching the house, they went out into the garden. There was an area of decking at the far end, complete with a set of green plastic furniture, and they sat there, sipping iced fruit juice, enjoying the evening sunshine.
‘Mmmm. This is nice.’ Elizabeth slipped off her sandals and spread her toes, the wood of the decking warm beneath her feet. ‘Are you two planning a break this summer?’
‘We are going camping in a few weeks’ time,’ Carl said, ‘maybe to France. Or even Spain.’
‘We’re thinking of going camping,’ Diane corrected him. ‘I don’t object to the concept of camping. Lots of fresh air, watching the sun set over the Med etcetera, etcetera. But it’s never like that, is it? For a start, you have to lug all that gubbins. Camping stove, air beds, torches …’ she waved her arms, scooping the air, gathering a mountain of invisible equipment. ‘And, let’s be honest, campsites are always horribly banal. And so … full of campers.’ She turned to Jordan who was unravelling his earphones. ‘Have you ever been camping, Jordan?’
‘Yeah. Loads.’
Elizabeth didn’t expect that reply. But of course he’d been camping. No doubt, every summer, Vashti Fry had hauled her son from one muddy festival site to another. He probably knew more about ground sheets, sleeping bags and tent pegs than she, Diane and Carl put together.
Her thoughts chased briefly north where she hoped that rain was transforming the whole of Scotland into a quagmire, and that, on the shore of every loch and the slope of every glen, giant midges were going crazy for human blood.
‘This camping obsession has come about because, last autumn, Carl bought a tent.’ Diane explained.
‘Yes. It was in a sale and it was a grrrreat bargain.’ Carl rolled the ‘r’ with gusto, emphasising the magnificence of the deal. ‘As a matter of fact, Jordan and I saw something very similar in one of the gardens that we passed on our little walk. It also was blue. But ours is larger, I think. Did you not see it, Di?’
‘I must have blocked it out.’ Diane rolled her eyes then blew him a kiss.
Raising his glass, he dipped his head towards her in an old-fashioned salute which Elizabeth found peculiarly touching. ‘It will be wonderful,’ he said. ‘You will love it. Lying in a beautiful blue tent next to your German lover.’
Jordan shifted self-consciously and Diane raised a finger to her lips, indicating to Carl that he should stop there.
A warble from Elizabeth’s handbag signalled the arrival of a text message. She was vaguely disappointed to see that it was from Laurence – even more so when she read it.
Best to all in Wales. Hope you are having fun. Tonight paupiettes de boeuf. Cherry clafoutis to follow. Trickier than it sounds! Fingers x-ed. L ×
His cheery words conveyed no hint of missing or longing or loving, merely concern that his paupiettes (whatever they were) might not make the grade; that his clafoutis might turn out to be soggy.
‘Anything interesting?’ Diane asked.
‘No. Unless you’re desperate to know what Laurence is cooking for supper. He sends love to everyone, by the way.’ She sighed. ‘I was hoping it was from Alex. I wish he’d get in touch. He and Vashti could be dead in a ditch for all I know.’
‘They’re not,’ Jordan said. ‘Dead I mean.’ He took out his phone, prodded it, and peered at the screen. ‘Mum rang at precisely … three-seventeen. Mmmm. I suppose technically they could be dead by now.’
Elizabeth wanted to shake the boy and grab his phone. ‘You’ve spoken to your mother today?’ It was all she could do to keep her voice steady.
‘Yeah.’
‘So they do have a signal, wherever they are.’
‘No.’
‘But you just said—’
The hint of a smile played around his mouth. ‘She was ringing from a coin box? They were on their way to the next gig?’ His voice rose at the end of each sentence, transforming statement into question. Ugly. Irritating.
Why hadn’t she thought it through? Maybe Alex couldn’t be bothered to phone his mother but Vashti would want to check that her son was okay. If she’d learned one thing in the short time she’d spent with Jordan it was that he rarely volunteered any form of information. And when he did, it was with the intention of causing consternation.
Of course Alex was fine. She’d hear soon enough if anything were wrong. If she was determined to fret about someone it should be Ben. Whilst Alex was meandering through the Highlands in a cloud of heather and skirling pipes, Ben was thousands of miles away, negotiating the mean streets of Houston, in a country where guns were as available as water-pistols, and police-cars, sirens wailing, screeched around every corner. His job – his whole lifestyle – was an enigma to her which made it impossible to know when she should fret or what she should fret about. At least, from an early age, he’d always been scrupulous about looking both ways before crossing the road. She should be thankful that it was Ben, not Alex, who was dodging bullets and Cadillacs.
She forced a smile. ‘Could you give me a shout next time your mum rings? I wouldn’t mind having a quick word … just to let her know …’
Diane stood up. ‘Anyone fancy anything? Crisps? Beer?’
‘A beer would be good,’ Carl said, ‘or maybe Elizabeth would prefer a glass of wine. I will help you with it.’
Alone with Jordan for the first time since their arrival, Elizabeth asked, ‘Everything okay? You and Carl seem to be getting on well.’
He nodded, ‘Yeah. He’s sound.’
‘You must tell me if there’s anything you want to do. Or anything you need.’
He looked up. ‘I wouldn’t mind having my money. Fifteen pounds for today. And there’s the ten I lent you for the—’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ In order to preserve a measure of dignity in the matter of his wages she added, ‘But we agreed, didn’t we, that it would be paid in arrears? Strictly speaking, you should wait until bedtime.’
‘But the ten pounds was a loan, so strictly speaking …’
‘For goodness sake, what difference does it make whether you have it now or at bedtime? What are you planning to spend it on in the next couple of hours?’
‘I think I’ll go to bed.’ He stood up. ‘So can I have my money?’
She checked her watch. ‘It’s only five to eight.’
‘You said I should tell you what I want to do. Well, I want to go to bed. Now.’
Retrieving her handbag from beneath her chair, she took out her purse, handing him a twenty pound note and the rest in small change.
He dropped the money into the pockets in his jeans. ‘Thanks.’
‘Goodnight,’ she called to his retreating back, determined that he shouldn’t know that he’d got to her, unwilling for him to have the last word of this long day.
Closing her eyes, she let out a sigh. Eight o’clock. Maggie would be hopping over the wall to water the pots. Hearing her, the cat would materialise to rub against her legs, making sure she didn’t forget to feed him.
She pictured her garden, so loved and lovely in comparison to this one. Flanked on both sides by flimsy panel fencing, Diane’s garden – at least three times the size of her own – consisted of a stark rectangle of lawn bisected by a stepping-stone path leading from the back door, via a rotary clothesline, to the ‘deck’ where she was now sitting. In the corner, behind her, stood a shed. She imagined that this contained the mower and possibly a hedge trimmer for the privet hedge that marked the boundary between this garden and The Rain Man’s plot. There might also be a spade and a fork, although there was no need for either. It was high summer but, apart from the grass, nothing grew in this garden. No flowers, no shrubs, not even a few geraniums in a pot. The only colour was provided by plastic pegs, perched on the clothes line like a flock of miniature birds.
It astounded her that anyone as visually aware – as creative – as Diane could tolerate this barren vista. But not everyone cared for gardening or found it satisfying. And, for all she knew, the catenaries of the clothes line set against the rectangles of green grass and brown fencing might, to anyone who was into that sort of thing, be viewed as a glorious abstract.
Voices from the far side of the hedge interrupted her musings. Two girls were arguing. At first she couldn’t make out what they were saying but, as the argument became more heated, their voices grew louder.
‘That’s not fair—’
‘You never wear it—’
‘So?’
‘Anyway, it looks better on me.’
A man’s voice – a mellifluous, accented voice – butted in. ‘Knock it off you two.’
‘But it’s not fair, Dad. Tell her she’s got to—
The man again. ‘Supper’s ready. Come on. Let’s discuss this like civilised human beings.’
‘What’s to discuss? It’s mine. End of.’
The voices faded and a door slammed.
Looking at the back of Diane’s plain, modest house Elizabeth noticed a figure standing at one of the upstairs windows. Jordan. Was he watching her or studying the neighbours? She waved, feeling mildly triumphant when he disappeared from view.
*
Adjusting the lamp on the bedside table, she opened her book, half-listening for footsteps on the stair. She’d read only a few pages when there was a gentle tap on the door. ‘Come in.’
Diane nudged the door open. ‘Got everything you need?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
She waited, assuming that she was going to discover why her friend was so keen to talk to her.
‘No rush in the morning. There’ll be plenty of hot water if you—’
‘Di, it’s me, remember? You don’t have to do the perfect hostess bit.’
Diane stood at the end of the bed. ‘I thought we could maybe skive off in the morning. Find somewhere quiet and have a proper chat.’
‘You’re making me nervous. At least give me a clue what this is about. I shan’t be able to sleep for wondering.’
‘You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.’
‘And don’t forget there’s Jordan. I can’t simply scoot off—’
‘Carl’s around in the morning. He can keep an eye. We’ll be home for lunch. Anyway, boys his age never get up before midday.’
There was the rattle of what sounded like the front-door chain slotting into place followed by Carl’s tread on the stairs.
‘You mustn’t worry, Lizzie. It’ll be okay. Sleep well.’
And she was gone.
Elizabeth took out her phone. It would be after midnight in France but Laurence might still be awake, buzzing with post-prandial adrenalin. She scrolled through to his number and pressed ‘call’, vaguely relieved when it cut straight to voicemail. What had she been going to say? That she loved him, naturally. And that she was missing him dreadfully. Were she at home on her own, that might be true, but, to be honest, he’d barely crossed her mind in the past twenty-four hours. Besides they’d agreed that, unless there was a crisis, they would stick to texting.
Sure the paupiettes (predictive text suggested patrietues forcing her to spell it, letter by letter) were delicious. Everything fine here. Miss you. × E
She was sure his paupiettes were delicious. And everything was fine – so far. There was no harm in adding the reassuring fib.