Free The Pull of the Moon by Diane Janes Page B

So with Cecile’s connivance I came up with an alternative which would keep them well at bay. Although I was nineteen years old, there
was no question of making my own decision about how to spend the summer – there was a long debate about the France proposal, with my brother Edward offering an opinion and even my little
sister chipping in with her fourpennyworth, before my parents conceded that the fruit-picking plan might be suitable, subject to various conditions being satisfied. In fact, by the start of the
summer holidays, my parents were feeling rather smug about their decision to allow me to go to France with Cecile. They made no secret of the fact that an incidental benefit of the scheme would be
to keep me apart from Danny, about whom they regularly cautioned me not to get ‘too serious’ because it might affect my studies. Too serious. God!
    By the time I have finished in the shower, Pam has moved across to the hairdryers, where she is using the mirror to guide her application of face paint. The process requires a degree of
concentration which precludes her from conversing with Marjorie, who instead turns her attention to me.
    ‘I saw you in Menlove Avenue, last night.’ She tosses the words in my direction with barely an upward glance, continuing to fold her damp costume into her towel and pack various
other items into her swimming bag, prior to departure.
    There is no trace of accusation in her tone, but she has caught me unawares. Startled, I don’t dare to meet her eye – stay focused on the utilitarian white tiling and carry on
towelling my thighs. Playing for time, I say, ‘Menlove Avenue?’ as if I’ve never heard of it. ‘Where is that, exactly?’
    ‘It’s in Kings Heath off Harding Lane.’ Unfortunately my affecting ignorance has merely served to intrigue her. ‘You were there last night,’ she prompts
encouragingly. ‘Waiting to pick someone up, it looked like.’ There is no subtlety about Marjorie’s nosiness. Another person might sense evasion and back off, but she doesn’t
retreat an inch.
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘Can’t have been me – I didn’t go out at all last night.’ I don’t look at her. Dry between each toe as if my life depends on it.
    ‘Well, I thought it was you. Of course, it was dark.’ She pauses for a millisecond – long enough for me to inhale thankfully, then almost choke as she adds, ‘I
said to my friend Gwenda, it’s Kate from swimming – I know that car.’
    ‘It can’t have been mine.’ God, why won’t the bloody woman just shut up and go home? ‘Not unless someone’s borrowing it without me knowing.’ Try to make
a joke – that might do it.
    Marjorie has her jacket on and her bag zipped, but she continues to linger. ‘Isn’t it strange? When Gwenda came to let me in, she said, ‘‘Do you know, Marjorie, I’m
sure that must be an unmarked police car. There’s been someone sitting in it for almost half an hour. They must be watching one of the houses.”’
    ‘Well, maybe that was it,’ I suggest. ‘Perhaps it was the police.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t think so – not in Menlove Avenue. It’s such a nice road.’
    Rescuers come in unlikely guises. It is Pam’s turn to give Marjorie a lift, and by now she’s completed her toilette in readiness for the bridge club, or wherever it is they propose
to occupy themselves this morning, and is standing rather obviously by the changing-room door. Good manners prevent Marjorie from keeping her waiting any longer. Only when they have gone do
    I notice that the background muzak is still playing – hits from the musicals again. Elaine Page is belting out ‘Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina’. I wish she’d shut up
too.
     
    NINE
    The night of the vase smashing marked the appearance of the first obvious rift in our little group. Until then we had all managed to sidestep any real arguments. Like children
charged to be on our best behaviour at a birthday party, none of us wanted to ‘spoil