Naturally shy and quiet people are often called upon to excuse or explain their dislike of talking to strangers or wishing to avoid them completely, and this was certainly the case between Pete and me. When we were in London, he would often ask why I didn’t just ‘chat to some of the neighbours’ in our apartment or see if Delores in the flat next to ours wanted to grab a coffee sometime.
‘Because Delores is a high-powered businesswoman who co-manages a fashion and cosmetics brand. We have nothing in common.’
This wasn’t entirely truthful – or at least, not the whole truth. Of course, it was definitely a factor, but I still would have felt squeamish about just starting up a conversation with her, even if she spent her days doing the things I did: shopping for food, taking my husband’s clothes to the dry cleaner’s, trying to match my son’s socks and put them into drawers.
After I’d finished university, I’d fully planned to get a job and put my degree to use, but the more the years went by, the less attractive the idea became. Having to prove myself to bosses, get my annual leave signed off, trying to befriend and be polite to colleagues – all of it started to sound less like normal life and more like a nightmare. A nightmare others were fully able to cope with, whereas I would probably be reduced to a trembling wreck.
So when we moved to Oak Tree Close, I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to start knocking on doors with muffin baskets saying, ‘Hi, we’ve just moved in!’ as they do in television shows. I might have got used to the comfortable way of life that Pete’s money had brought me, but that didn’t mean I could easily converse with those who had known nothing other than extreme wealth for their entire lives.
In some ways, London was more suited to me, as nobody really had much time for or interest in others. In Oak Tree Close, however, it became immediately clear we’d be expected to ‘participate’. The word sounded like a threat when I first heard it in that context, falling from the lips of a woman named Drucilla, who lived five doors down, and arrived at our door a mere three hours after we’d said goodbye to the men from the moving firm.
‘I’ve brought you some local organic honey that my brother-in-law produces over in Cheshawk Road,’ she said, beaming, her eyes bright but slightly shifty, darting around the hallway at the boxes stacked along the corridor. She looked to be in her early forties, with a perfectly styled blonde haircut and earrings that reminded me of Camilla Parker-Bowles. I was a bit puzzled at first, before I realised it was some kind of welcome-to-the-neighbourhood offering. I tried to be polite and friendly, and she was too, in a way, but there was a definite edge to the way she said, ‘We’re all good friends along Oak Tree Close and welcome anyone and everyone to the fold, especially those who are ready to contribute and participate.’ Contribute and participate. I felt myself going weak even at the thought of it. Bring-and-buy sales at the local church? Coffee mornings and book clubs? Nothing of this kind was ever expected of me when we lived amidst the busy streets of central London.
As it happened, Drucilla Maguire and her family didn’t turn out to be the nosy neighbours that defined our time in Oak Tree Close. That honour, of course, fell to Janet and Richard Franklin.
I first met them five days after our arrival. I’d decided to return to my daily run – something I had done in London nearly every day without fail, whatever the weather, enjoying the familiarity of my route along Elisabeth Street and back to Warwick Square, stopping off for a strawberry-flavoured mineral water at the Sainsbury’s near Victoria Coach Station. I knew if I didn’t get back into the habit sooner or later, I’d end up losing one of my favourite hobbies. So, on a pleasant Thursday afternoon, I got into my running clothes and set off down the road, deciding against any listening material while I got used to the geography of the neighbourhoods. And it was on this first run, less than five minutes in, that I collided with a large metallic-blue Range Rover. Or rather, it collided with me, properly knocking me over onto the hard ground.
It was probably my fault, misjudging how far away the car was from me as I ran across the road.
I looked up to see a man and a boy in the front seats, both staring in shock. Then the man quickly got out of the car and came over to me.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. His voice was low and well-spoken, with a clear note of worry in his words. I looked up at him, focusing on his face, still recovering from the shock of having been knocked over. It was lined with age – I guessed he was probably about sixty, with his hair transitioning from light-brown to grey. He was wearing thick squarish glasses, and behind them I could see the concern and alarm in his eyes. They widened a little when I didn’t answer straightaway. Perhaps he feared I’d hit my head and could be concussed. Maybe he just envisaged a lengthy and costly lawsuit.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, taking his hand and getting shakily to my feet. ‘It was my fault, I’m sorry.’ I felt something wet on my leg and looking down was startled to see blood already staining the grey material of my leggings.
‘You’re injured. Get in the car and I’ll give you a lift back.’
I looked up at him, frowning. He seemed to guess what I was thinking.
‘I’m Richard Franklin at number 55. You’ve just moved in opposite us, haven’t you? Number 42?’
‘That’s right,’ I said, getting into the back seat of the car, nodding in both confirmation and thanks to him as he stood back with his hand on the door so I could gingerly bend my legs. I was quietly terrified of getting blood on the spotless seats, wincing as I went to close the car door. To my surprise, Richard took my hand instead, peering down to examine it.
‘You’ve grazed your palms badly. Sorry, I should have noticed that before I pulled you up. It must have hurt.’
‘Oh… er… I didn’t notice…’ I said, a little embarrassed. He didn’t give back my hand straightaway, just stared at the scratches and granules of grit caught in my broken skin. Then his eyes came up to meet mine. An odd prickling sensation ran down my spine. He released my hand, gave me a thin smile and went to get back into the driver’s seat. I looked ahead into the front of the car and could see the teenage boy watching me. As soon as he saw me notice him, his face snapped back to the road ahead.
The drive back only lasted a minute or two, but the silence made it feel like hours. When we got to the house, I turned to go back into mine, muttering some thanks about the lift, and was about to apologise again for all the bother when Richard cut across me. ‘You can’t just go home. You’re bleeding. Come inside and we’ll get you patched up.’
He didn’t wait for a reply, instead walking purposefully to his front door, unlocking it and heading inside. His confidence and direct manner suggested he was a man used to having his orders obeyed, and I glanced over at his son, who was pulling a Nike sports bag out of the boot of the car. He didn’t say anything, but met my gaze very briefly as he passed me by, following his father over the threshold of the house.
I didn’t feel like I had much of an option.
Inside, I felt a sudden sense of going back in time to my childhood years, when I was a guest round a friend’s house, viewing everything with a stranger’s eyes. Back then I’d found houses like this both intimidating and exciting, with their many rooms and hidden places to explore – and explore I did, often through games of hide-and-seek, before going back home to my parents’ much smaller and less grand house on the poorer side of our town. The Franklins’ house looked well lived-in but also nicely cared for; a little untidy but still presentable. Tasteful creamy white wallpaper, hallway with a place for Joules-patterned wellington boots and trainers, a little table where post had been left (a new copy of the Spectator and a RadioTimes still in its delivery wrapping). I could hear the hum of voices – probably Radio 4 – coming from deeper into the house. Was someone else home? Or perhaps they left the radio on all day to dissuade burglars? I’d heard of people doing that.
I followed Richard through to the kitchen, which looked exactly how I expected – clean, but ‘busy’, with some books and magazines on the table at the end, a mug on the counter top and an Aga to the left of the window that looked out on a neatly manicured garden. The warm, lived-in feel of the house would be welcoming to some, but to me it felt strangely alienating. I’d never experienced this. Not in my own home when I was young, nor in our London flat, which was too grand and imposing outside for my tastes, and too sleek and stylish and modern inside to ever feel like a proper home. But this, I thought looking around me, this was the type of house, the type of existence, people dreamed of. I wondered if they were happy here. If they felt as comfortable and as settled as the house suggested. I wondered if our home would be like this in a month, a year, a decade.
‘Come over here and I’ll put this on your grazes,’ Richard said. His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He’d conjured up a first-aid kit, as if from nowhere, and was taking the plastic off a pack of rolled-up bandages. ‘And we should clean the wounds with one of these.’ He picked up a small rectangle which I presumed to be an antiseptic wipe.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t have to go to all this trouble,’ I said, feeling awkward having this much attention placed upon me by a stranger, when I just wanted to get home and sort out my cuts and scrapes myself.
Richard didn’t offer me reassurance exactly, just shook his head and said, ‘Come over here,’ again. So I obeyed. He took out the wipe, took me by the wrist and gently brushed at my grazed hand, dislodging most of the grit with very slight streaks of blood coming off onto the material. Once again our eyes met, as they had done in the car. Then the moment was gone and he was starting to unwind the bandage and gently wrap it round my hand. That was when I heard a thud somewhere to my left, and within seconds a figure came into view through the archway that led into the lounge.
‘Oh! What’s going on here then?’
I turned to see a woman in her late forties or early fifties, with greying brown hair and a dark-red expensive-looking coat on, even though it was far from cold outside.
‘Janet, you’re… back early.’ Richard said, drawing away from me quickly.
‘My mother decided to go out with a friend without telling me, so I had a wasted journey. And I see you’re spending time with a friend, too?’ She gave the word friend the very slightest amount of emphasis – just enough for it to be awkward, but discreet enough for her to potentially deny it. She managed to give us both what appeared to be a warm smile anyway, as if she was genuinely happy to see me in her kitchen.
‘This is Stephanie, from the house opposite. I hit her with the car. As in, she—’
‘It was my fault,’ I said, feeling I should come to his rescue. ‘I was out on a run and completely in my own world and stepped out in front of the car without paying attention. But I’m fine, honestly. I really don’t need all this fuss.’ I clutched the slightly loose bandages around my hand. ‘I should be going.’
‘Oh my goodness, I won’t hear of it. The least we can do is tend to your wounds. Let me see,’ she said in a similarly authoritative voice to her husband’s.
‘It’s fine, really,’ I said again, stepping away and edging towards the doorway into the hall. ‘Thank you so much for… everything.’
I knew I was sounding flustered and tried not to look at either of their faces as I turned and walked in the direction of the front door. I could hear my hosts following me, with Janet saying, ‘Let me get the door for you.’
‘I can manage!’ I said, trying to sound bright and cheery but probably coming across as anything but.
Just as I stepped outside I heard car doors slam. Pete was home with Danny, but as he walked around the car he glanced in my direction and noticed me. He carried on into the house, but Danny let the front door swing close, jogged down the drive and crossed over the road to me.
‘Mum?’ he said, a note of confusion in his voice. The bandages and the blood on my leg no doubt made the whole thing even more bizarre.
‘I was just saying hello to our neighbours!’ I said, still attempting to sound happy and carefree. I turned to introduce him. ‘This is my son, Danny.’
‘Oh, hello,’ Janet said, distractedly.
‘You look about Jonathan’s age,’ Richard said, more enthusiastically than I’d have expected. ‘We should get him down so you can both meet properly.’
Janet looked at her husband, clearly puzzled by the suggestion, but before she could say anything he’d called up the stairs.
‘Jonathan. Down here. Now.’
‘Richard, what—?’
‘He should meet his neighbour,’ Richard said. ‘It’s only polite.’
I saw Danny’s eyebrows rise, clearly feeling the awkwardness of the situation. Soon the thud of Jonathan coming down the stairs filled our ears, then the boy came into view.
‘What?’ he asked, bluntly.
‘This is… Daniel, was it?’ Richard said, gesturing at my son. Jonathan frowned, apparently unsure what was expected of him.
‘Well, say hello,’ Janet sighed at her son, seeming keen to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
‘Er… hi,’ Jonathan said, adolescent awkwardness writ large on his face.
‘Hi,’ Danny said, smiling, his hand lifting in a half-wave.
‘Well, shake his hand,’ Richard said through clenched teeth, sounding frustrated.
‘Richard, really,’ Janet protested.
Jonathan looked so embarrassed that I thought he might just bolt back upstairs at any moment. Danny, however, seemed to think the easiest way to get out of the situation was to go along with it. He stepped forward, the perfect model of old-fashioned politeness, and said, ‘Great to meet you, Jonathan,’ his hand outstretched.
For a moment, I wondered if Jonathan would decline just to spite his father, but after a few beats he stepped forward past his parents and shook Danny’s hand.
‘You two will probably become good friends,’ Richard said.
I saw Janet’s brow crease again. Maybe it was just the peculiar behaviour of her husband, or maybe she wasn’t too sure about her son befriending mine. I had no way of knowing. But after we said goodbye and Danny and I headed back across the road towards the house, with me limping a little, I tried to put a positive spin on the whole thing. Perhaps it would be nice for Danny to already be acquainted with one of his classmates before the start of term.
If he was happy, I was happy.
That was how I’d always thought of motherhood. And aside from the more peculiar aspects to my first meeting with the Franklins, I hoped they would help play a part in us all feeling settled and welcome on Oak Tree Close.