She came round the corner of the stairwell, slippers formerly of Bulverhythe, in a pale pink sweatsuit, her handbag over one arm. She came a step at a time, testing it with one foot, finding it, settling a moment before going on again. One hand wobbled on the banister, the other was in Melinda’s grasp.
‘That’s it, now, remember you’re unsteady because you’re weak, June. That’s why.’
About four steps from the ground, she stopped and wobbled, quite overcome to see Ken. She put her hands to her face and rocked in her slippers. Melinda redoubled her grip on her.
‘Oh, those eyes. Oh, Kenneth. I didn’t think you’d come. I’d never have thought it in a million years.’
Ken moved shakily towards the stairwell and peered, wrinkling his nose to see through his glasses. Melinda stood between them, one leg raised on a step, one below it; she looked like a shot-putter, paused after the throw. It made Nick uncomfortable to see a woman display the space between her legs that way, even in denim, even in crisis. The old man cleared his throat.
‘June,’ he began, with forbearance, ‘June . . .’ She put her fingertips to her mouth.
‘HAVE . . . YOU . . . GOT . . . MY . . . MONEY?’ And he enunciated each word as though he were dealing with someone mentally ill and dangerous.
She drew her handbag in to her stomach. ‘What money, Ken?’
‘Don’t come the . . .’ He clenched his fists, but then recovered himself, ‘The money what was under the mattress. Now, by rights, that’s mine, June, you see.’
‘Well, some of it,’ said Nick, making an apologetic face as he stepped forward from the side of the fridge, ducking under the hanging light. ‘The point is, until things are worked out it ought to be held in escrow, perhaps.’
‘What things are worked out?’ said June, her face falling, looking at him. It was clear from her expression that, if Nick were there, things weren’t normal.
‘Where’s the money, June?’
‘What? From the bingo?’ she said, with a nervous trill of laughter. ‘Did you tell him about the bingo then?’ she said to Melinda.
‘Sod the bingo! The for’y grand, June! The for’y sodding grand! Under the mattress!’
‘The forty . . . was it as much as that? No, I think it was thirty-eight thousand and fifty-six pounds, if I remember rightly.’
‘You cunning bitch! Welsh! You can’t help yourself, can you, you lot! Where is it?’
‘Calm down, Dad.’
‘Take it easy, Dad.’
‘Well, Ken, now where do you think it is? What a fuss. I don’t know!’ She doubled her chin and displayed dimples. Her eyes shone as if the prince had come and the shoe fitted. ‘Now you know me, Ken. What do you think I’d do with it? I put it in the bank.’ She offered a glamourous smile to those gathered in the kitchen. ‘I’ve said to him for donkey’s years, Better off in the bank. Well, you wouldn’t want someone thieving it while I was away, would you? And with your comings and goings, I couldn’t be sure when you’d be home. No, best way was to put it in the bank. Didn’t you look at your bank account, Ken? Have you not taken your pension out this week? You must have took some money out for your fares.’
‘We drove,’ said Nick.
‘Oh, well, you should have said, Ken!’
‘I asked you on the phone, didn’t I? You bin playing some sort of game with me!’
‘Well, now you’re here, won’t you have a cup of tea?’ Melinda went over to the kettle and pressed its button. Then
she opened the stable door. ‘You can come out now, kiddiewinks, and see your, um, see who’s here, if you want.’
They didn’t.
‘No chance of a beer, is there, Melinda?’ Dave sidled up to her. ‘Where is he then, your fella, Andy?’ asked Dave.
‘He’s upstairs, working on his poems. He’s doing an epic romance in sonnet form.’ She put two spoonfuls of tea into a brown teapot. ‘Do you want your tea with soya milk or just black, guys?’
‘All of this nonsense at our age!’ June let out a peal of laughter as she glided across the slate floor towards Ken, half his height.
Ken stood there, opening and closing his mouth and hands.
‘Tea? Ken?’ Melinda cried out, assuming he was struck deaf as well as dumb.
He turned, his mouth a firm tight line, and blinked at her. After a minute, he pulled his shoulders back.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, feeling his trilby. ‘We’re leaving.’ He turned his back on them and went to the door. ‘I won’t be made a monkey of.’