Terry came out of Elephant and Castle Tube station and looked around bewilderedly – at the semi-subway he found himself in, the despondent-looking stallholders displaying handbags and scarves and sunglasses that all looked the same, the seemingly identical roads as he emerged onto the roundabout. He’d only ever come out at Lambeth North before and he was disorientated, but he definitely didn’t want to be late. He knew he shouldn’t stress, it wasn’t as though he was on a date or anything, it was just a casual visit to a museum, to indulge a shared interest in military history, that was all. He was pleased though that he’d had his hair cut, he didn’t look so insipid with it shorter, and he liked his new Levi’s and bomber jacket, they almost made him look trendy.
It was strange, he’d always found women so hard to talk to before. Maybe that’s why he’d married Maria all those years ago, she’d been quiet and sweet and barely spoke English – plus she’d mothered him at first, before she’d got fed up with him. But with this woman it was different. They’d got chatting after the inquest had been adjourned when Siobhan’s poor mother had passed out – he’d found her crying outside when he’d popped out to call the vet to check on Humphrey, who’d had gastroenteritis and was still under observation. He’d asked her if she was OK – and because she was so overwrought and he seemed kind, she’d told him in a timid little voice he’d recognised from Hyde Park that she couldn’t believe what she’d done, leaving Siobhan to die like that.
‘No, I heard you,’ he’d said. ‘You wanted to go back and check on her, it was the others who persuaded you it was nothing. You cared, I could tell you did. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’
And then Terry had taken her back inside and they’d sat together amidst the panic, and somehow or other he’d made her feel better. They’d got on to talking about anything and everything: Frank Sinatra, the Franco-Prussian War (she told him she’d done History at Bristol, was passionate about it, especially military history, which was odd for a woman, he’d thought), Terry’s rats, Sissy’s cat: how getting Coco had been a godsend in helping the children cope after their father’s death. And that had led to Terry telling her about his poor sick spaniel, and she had seemed so concerned about Humphrey it was endearing, really it was, not like Maria who’d seemed to almost hope he’d die – although she probably didn’t care either way now that she’d buggered off with one of the tenors from the Barking and Dagenham Choir. Being splashed across the papers putting out the rubbish in her dressing gown, after her husband had been implicated in murder, had given her the perfect excuse.
As Terry walked towards the museum he saw the familiar green dome and the white columns and the two huge guns, and there she was, already there, although he was five minutes early himself, standing between the cannons, in jeans and a puffa jacket and Converse trainers, her hair messily longish, like a teenage boy’s – his first ever female friend.
‘Hello,’ he said, and hesitated, unsure how to greet her. He held out his hand, was that the protocol?
‘Hello, Terry,’ said Sissy, and she shook it, politely.
‘Shall we go in? It’s freezing out here.’ She nodded shyly, and they walked together, side by side, towards the entrance.