FIFTEEN

Arthur was coming down the road and Jane managed to turn what she feared was a dour expression into a cheerful smile.

‘Hello, where are you off to?’ He had a sports bag in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing royal blue shorts and a matching T-shirt. Chelsea, she thought.

‘Basketball at the leisure centre.’

‘You play in a team?’

He nodded, putting away his phone, something that pleased Jane, since children, and many adults too, normally kept their eyes glued.

‘I go there for a swim,’ she said. ‘Once a week.’

‘Cool.’ His phone beeped – a text – but he ignored it. ‘You know the computer game me and Simmy are planning.’

‘I do. A story based on Greek myths and the inhabitants of Faraday Road.’

‘You know Gus.’

‘I do.’

‘We thought he could be the hermit that made a makeshift home on the cliffs overlooking the sea.’

‘Really? Did you study Greek mythology at school? No, I believe I asked you that before.’

‘My dad gave me a book for my tenth birthday. He always gives me books.’

‘Good. I mean, I’m glad he takes the trouble to choose something for you. Not all fathers are so conscientious.’

‘That means “painstaking and scrupulous.”’

‘It does. Your character, the one assigned to Gus, is not one with whom I’m familiar.’

‘We looked it up online.’

‘You and Simmy.’ The boy was full of surprises. Well up on Greek mythology but unable to differentiate between “were” and “where”, or “there” and “their”. ‘A hermit. I’m not sure Gus is a hermit. It’s true he spends time in his flat – he watches sport on television – but when you’re retired you tend to have less energy.’

‘You’ve got energy.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Arthur. Right, well, I mustn’t hold you up. Enjoy your game.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Oh, by the way, I believe you know Barnaby, Corinne’s son.’

‘He plays badminton.’

‘Yes, Noel said.’ She wanted to ask what Arthur thought of Barnaby but that would be inappropriate, and he might tell the boy she was making inquiries. ‘I’ll see you on Monday then – for your lesson.’

‘Cheers.’

‘And we’ll talk about subsidiary clauses.’

‘Cheers.’ He had seen Simmy and was hurrying to catch up with her. How she envied them their youth. Their whole lives ahead of them. Another cliché. But clichés had a way of expressing universal truths. That was why they were clichés!

During her last visit to the leisure centre, Jane had completed ten lengths while reviewing her life. She missed the pupils at her old school, no denying it, but surely there must be other ways she could put her people skills – dreadful expression – to good use. Voluntary work was an option, although possibly she was too old. No, that couldn’t be right. She could visit the lonely – the blind leading the blind – or help out in a school, listening to infants like Liam practising their reading. No, definitely not that. Not something to be proud of, but she knew she would resent being given her instructions by a young, inexperienced teacher.

Swimming and choir – surely that was enough. Eddie – the old Eddie – had not joined the choir, preferring to stay at home and watch a film on Channel Five, usually about a stolen baby, or two sisters who hated each other, or a long-lost brother who turned out not to be a brother at all. The ads that punctuated the movies were mostly for indigestion tablets, or proprietary products that prevented your false teeth from falling out, or orthopaedic chairs.

Did Eddie miss the films? At The Spruces, the television was always switched to ITV. When she came for the weekend would she expect the television to be switched on all day? How would she spend her time? Sitting passively on the sofa or scurrying about like a toddler, grabbing whatever she could get her hands on.

Simmy was approaching and Jane steeled herself for the usual question. Have you spoken to my dad?

‘Hello, Miss Seymour.’ The child was looking in good spirits. Something Arthur had said to her? Something about their computer game?

‘Hello, dear, Arthur told me he was off to the leisure centre. Do you go there, for sports or swimming, and I think they have dancing, don’t they?’

‘I don’t like dancing. We have it at school when it rains and we can’t play hockey or netball.’

‘I haven’t forgotten, Simmy, about talking to your father.’

‘Oh, that.’ She chewed a strand of hair. ‘He won’t tell you. Won’t tell anyone. I asked Corinne. Noel knows, I can tell, but I don’t think he’s said anything to her. Most people confide in their partners, don’t they?’

‘I don’t imagine they tell them everything.’

‘No.’ Simmy smiled to herself. ‘I’m never going to get married, or live with someone. It’s not worth the trouble.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you should think like that, dear. Eddie – Miss Knox – is coming home on Saturday and I know she’ll be pleased to see you.’

Simmy’s face expressed doubt, as well it might, although it turned out she was thinking about something quite different. ‘Dad’s denim jacket smelled of sweat so I put it in the wash. Only he said I’d ruined it.’

‘Did he?’ And did the poor child have to do all the household chores?

‘I don’t mind doing the washing ’cos he’s really good at cooking, and not just ready meals, he buys all the ingredients. Yesterday we had Moroccan meatballs. He found the recipe on the BBC website.’

‘Really? Sounds delicious.’ This was a new and pleasing side of Dave. ‘What happened to the denim jacket? If it needs repairing I’d be happy to help.’

Simmy shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t that. It was because of the fabric conditioner. It was supposed to have the scent of a meadow of flowers but Dad said it smelled like a brothel. Cats wash far more than dogs do, don’t they? And they do whatever they want. They don’t care what humans think. Not like dogs. That’s why I like them.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ She felt a twinge of concern for the child, but as Simmy continued up the road, Jane’s thoughts returned to Eddie and whether she would be pleased to see Rousseau, or would she ignore him? If the weather held, a drive out into the country might be a possibility, provided Eddie agreed to have her seat belt fastened. They could have a short walk, and possibly afternoon tea at the café Eddie liked. No, not a good idea. What might she get up to in public, particularly if someone stared at her, or the cakes were not to her liking. Best to stay at home and, provided the weather was good, spend time in the garden, cutting back some of the sprawling plants while Eddie watched from the safety of the basket chair.

The best laid plans of mice and men ... or, to put it another way: the futility of thinking you had any control over your own or other people’s destiny.