anyone who hadn’t heard.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said meekly. ‘Can you fix it?’
‘I dunno . . .’ She looked at the clock on the wall.
‘I’m going out tonight,’ I said pathetically.
‘Make the date over the phone, did he?’ asked the charmer with the hairspray. ‘He’ll have a fit when he sees that. Oh well, sit down a tick and I’ll have a go when I’m finished here. That hedge on the top will have to come off.’
When I emerged, some time later, I looked like Joan of Arc about to go to the stake. My hair resembled a reddish-brown bathing cap. She’d trimmed the spikes on top back to little longer than the bits at the sides and brushed it all forward to a little wispy fringe on the forehead. I have to admit, though, it looked quite good, certainly better than before.
Because of this I didn’t get home until three-thirty and the light had a dirty greyness to it presaging the early dark. But I could see the puddle in front of the house still hadn’t dried up. It hadn’t rained again and I wondered vaguely about it before my attention was distracted.
The lights were on in Daphne’s front window, a room she seldom used, and the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Through it I could see, brightly lit, Bertie and Charlie standing close together in deep discussion. Charlie was leaning on the marble mantelshelf and Bertie was puffing on a pipe. They looked the perfect pair of crooks. I couldn’t see Daphne. She was probably making the unspeakable duo tea.
I resisted the urge to knock on the door and ask to see her. If she wanted to tell me what they were up to now, she’d tell me in her own good time. But the sight of them there, looking so at home as if they already owned the place, made my new haircut bristle.
I went down to the basement and my own flat, put on the kettle and sorted through my meagre wardrobe. Since I hadn’t acquired any new clothes in the past three months – apart from a pair of sock-slippers kindly knitted for me by Daphne and hardly suitable for the ‘staff dinner’ – it looked like the ankle-length purple skirt I’d got from Oxfam and the ethnic Indian waistcoat again (Camden Lock Market), teamed with a black polo-neck sweater (BHS sale) and my Doc Marten boots, because they were the only footwear I had at that time, apart from a pair of ancient trainers with holes in both soles.
Later, when I’d showered and put it all on, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror to study the effect. I looked a real ragbag. When I was studying drama, we did a production of Blithe Spirit and I got to read for the part of the batty medium, Madame Arcati. Now I looked as if I was dressed for the role. I was distracted by a loud ring on my doorbell.
It wasn’t even a quarter to eight yet and I didn’t think it could be Ganesh. Besides, the arrangement was I meet him at the shop. As I went towards the door, I noticed an envelope lying on the mat just inside. Either someone had delivered it since I’d come home – and I hadn’t heard the letter box – or I’d stepped over it in the gloom when I’d walked in. I stooped and picked it up, tucking it in my pocket, before opening the door on the chain and peering through.
It was one of the Knowleses – going by the brown jacket, Charlie. ‘Good evening!’ he crowed, and simpered at me in a sickly fashion. ‘Can I come in for a little chat, my dear?’
‘I don’t know what about and I’m not your dear,’ I said to the crack in the door. It was worse than being called ‘darling’ by Hitch. At least Hitch did it unconsciously.
‘Won’t take a mo,’ he fluted in a coaxing voice.
I opened my mouth to tell him to get lost, but I remembered this was Daphne’s nephew. So I slipped the chain and let him in. He nipped over the threshold and toddled past me, uninvited, into the living room. There he stood, dead centre, with his eyes darting all over the place. He might be
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said meekly. ‘Can you fix it?’
‘I dunno . . .’ She looked at the clock on the wall.
‘I’m going out tonight,’ I said pathetically.
‘Make the date over the phone, did he?’ asked the charmer with the hairspray. ‘He’ll have a fit when he sees that. Oh well, sit down a tick and I’ll have a go when I’m finished here. That hedge on the top will have to come off.’
When I emerged, some time later, I looked like Joan of Arc about to go to the stake. My hair resembled a reddish-brown bathing cap. She’d trimmed the spikes on top back to little longer than the bits at the sides and brushed it all forward to a little wispy fringe on the forehead. I have to admit, though, it looked quite good, certainly better than before.
Because of this I didn’t get home until three-thirty and the light had a dirty greyness to it presaging the early dark. But I could see the puddle in front of the house still hadn’t dried up. It hadn’t rained again and I wondered vaguely about it before my attention was distracted.
The lights were on in Daphne’s front window, a room she seldom used, and the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Through it I could see, brightly lit, Bertie and Charlie standing close together in deep discussion. Charlie was leaning on the marble mantelshelf and Bertie was puffing on a pipe. They looked the perfect pair of crooks. I couldn’t see Daphne. She was probably making the unspeakable duo tea.
I resisted the urge to knock on the door and ask to see her. If she wanted to tell me what they were up to now, she’d tell me in her own good time. But the sight of them there, looking so at home as if they already owned the place, made my new haircut bristle.
I went down to the basement and my own flat, put on the kettle and sorted through my meagre wardrobe. Since I hadn’t acquired any new clothes in the past three months – apart from a pair of sock-slippers kindly knitted for me by Daphne and hardly suitable for the ‘staff dinner’ – it looked like the ankle-length purple skirt I’d got from Oxfam and the ethnic Indian waistcoat again (Camden Lock Market), teamed with a black polo-neck sweater (BHS sale) and my Doc Marten boots, because they were the only footwear I had at that time, apart from a pair of ancient trainers with holes in both soles.
Later, when I’d showered and put it all on, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror to study the effect. I looked a real ragbag. When I was studying drama, we did a production of Blithe Spirit and I got to read for the part of the batty medium, Madame Arcati. Now I looked as if I was dressed for the role. I was distracted by a loud ring on my doorbell.
It wasn’t even a quarter to eight yet and I didn’t think it could be Ganesh. Besides, the arrangement was I meet him at the shop. As I went towards the door, I noticed an envelope lying on the mat just inside. Either someone had delivered it since I’d come home – and I hadn’t heard the letter box – or I’d stepped over it in the gloom when I’d walked in. I stooped and picked it up, tucking it in my pocket, before opening the door on the chain and peering through.
It was one of the Knowleses – going by the brown jacket, Charlie. ‘Good evening!’ he crowed, and simpered at me in a sickly fashion. ‘Can I come in for a little chat, my dear?’
‘I don’t know what about and I’m not your dear,’ I said to the crack in the door. It was worse than being called ‘darling’ by Hitch. At least Hitch did it unconsciously.
‘Won’t take a mo,’ he fluted in a coaxing voice.
I opened my mouth to tell him to get lost, but I remembered this was Daphne’s nephew. So I slipped the chain and let him in. He nipped over the threshold and toddled past me, uninvited, into the living room. There he stood, dead centre, with his eyes darting all over the place. He might be
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