Free Cold to the Touch by Frances Fyfield Page B

now she lived at the bottom with two houses either side that were empty during the week until gumbooted families came from somewhereand played with nature and each other from late Friday until Sunday afternoons. Non-villagers came from surrounding towns and other alien places to drink in the pub three doors away and have drunken fights after closing time, which she enjoyed. Such fun, my dears. She had moved each time because she had wanted to, and now she was stuck with the view and a role as a landlady which she only relished sometimes. The late Mr Edwin Hurly, who had been as difficult to acquire as he had been to keep until he wilfully released himself from the burden of life, would have approved. He had always liked white walls and might have enjoyed the thought of his widow being reduced to this screaming boredom with her own brand of venom neutralised. Mr Edwin Hurly had been an excellent provider, common as muck and hell to live with, as bullies are. The only love of his life had been his late-born and only legitimate child and even that had not lasted. He had come to prefer animals. The first thing Celia had done when he drowned on one of the deep-sea fishing trips he took every year to give himself a challenge and get away from the place he had failed to conquer was to get rid of the dog.
    Another perfect day, then. The vicar is coming to tea. I can sing yet. Did I mean sting or sing? Someone will deliver organic vegetables and someone will come in to clean, so everything is all right with the world.
    I would like to know who that woman is who took Jack Dunn’s house, and why she took it in such a state without making any complaint about the dog hair. I would like to know where Jack Dunn’s mad dog went after it was dumped on me, as if that was going to make up for the unpaid rent, but the agent deals with that. I don’t care. Jack Dunn called his wretched dog Jess. That was why I couldn’t keep it.
    She stood by her window and sang DO-RE-ME-FAR-SO, loudly. The view remained roughly the same and no one noticed.
    At high noon, inside the white room, Celia dressed in careful shades of grey and black: she could still afford her good old clothes whatever other economies she might have to make. She descended to the front door. Ignoring the lack of letters on the mat, she took her coat and her own version of a shopping trolley and opened the door. Manoeuvring the buggy, she sidestepped the puddles in the road outside, got to the end of the track flanking the houses and pushed herself up the steep incline, keeping to the middle of the road. Cars always stopped for someone pushing a baby buggy, not knowing that this buggy was empty. Celia was on her way to enliven the dull lives of the butcher and that horrible boy. She had all her spite and anger about her today, because she was sick of feeling simply sad. The boy only came in after twelve. Mrs Hurly reckoned she was the only person alive who knew exactly who he was: she could see a resemblance to that drowned good-looking bastard, her dear late husband.
    Please come home, Jessie. Please understand that I am way too proud to ask. Please just arrive.
    On her laborious way uphill she rejoiced in the muscular strength of her arms and the sound of cars braking either in front of her or behind. Everyone waited for the not-so-regal progress of the black widow Hurly, not because they knew who she was but because she was there.
    ‘A re you open yet?’
    The publican of The Star turned round quickly at the sound of a voice, ready to throw away his cigarette. Withsome amusement he had been watching Mrs Hurly make her way out of the sea road and creep up the hill. She could go a hell of a lot faster than that if she wanted; she was hardly ancient yet, or not in comparison with so many others who lived further up the hill. The village was a good place for aged widows far older than her to break their necks. It was polarised: suffocated by old men and women, hidden adults and small