Marge stood at the window of Jasmine Cottage, staring down the slope of the garden to the roadway. It was a week since Alfie had left.
“Is something the matter, dear?” asked Liz.
“Just thinking,” said Marge.
If the conversation had been the other way round, thought Liz, Marge would have made an acerbic remark. But that wasn’t Liz’s way.
“About what, dear?” asked Liz.
“Wondering whether to take the car out for a bit of a spin. What do you think?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“Do you want to come?”
“We’re up to date with the fudge orders. Yes, that would be very nice.”
Marge peered at her through the over-sized spectacles. “It might take a while. We might not be back in time for dinner.”
“That’s not a problem, dear. We can stop somewhere.”
They got into the car and Marge laboriously put a postcode into the satnav.
“Blasted thing,” she muttered. “I’m not going on the M40.”
But somehow, they ended up on the M40, Marge’s knuckles whitening as she gripped the steering wheel.
“You’re doing very well, dear,” soothed Liz. “We’ll be fine once we get into London. They say the traffic is slower now than it was in Victorian days when there were horses and carriages.”
Marge wore an expression of ferocious concentration as she followed the satnav’s instructions into the capital. She looked grimly ahead at the road, but Liz was able to take in the buildings, the vistas and conclude that Alfie lived in a very nice part of town.
“I think we’re almost there, dear,” she said.
The satnav directed them off the main road into a narrow street. Liz gazed in awe at the glass and chrome building rising up beside the Thames.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the satnav lady announced in her usual quietly triumphant voice.
“I don’t see anywhere to park,” cried Marge. “Now what do we do?”
“Just pull in to the side, dear, and I’ll go to the flat.”
“What if the blue meanies get me?”
“They won’t. If you see one coming, drive on. Then come round again and find me.”
Liz got out of the car and crossed the road. She had never imagined such an opulent home. The front door consisted of two massive panes of glass. And inside she could see a man in a peaked hat sitting at a desk in front of a row of lifts. A doorman. She wasn’t sure what to do. There was no bell visible, and certainly no door knocker. But as she stood uncertainly at the entrance, the doorman pressed a button, and one of the glass doors swung inwards.
“Oh, goodness,” said Liz, stepping into the atrium and seeing the row of lifts. “Thank you. I’m here for Alfie, Mr McAlister.”
“I’ll see if he’s in.” The doorman reached for the phone. “May I take your name, ma’am?”
“Clarissa Hopkins. No, don’t say that, I mean, that’s my name, but just tell him it’s Liz. Liz and Marge. Tell him we’ve come to take him back.”