Free Out of the Blackout by Robert Barnard

time the old lady had managed a day in London. And she’d been back two or three times since. You could spend a whole day there, and still there’d be lots of things left that you wished you’d seen.
    Miss Cosgrove was in her early forties: desperately unstylish, but sensible and straightforward. She had a mother in Sussex somewhere, but she had adapted to London, and dreaded the possibility that some day she might have to go back and look after her mother. She managed a law stationer’s off Holborn, and loved living near the opera. So cheap! she said. In fact, she seemed to be one of those Londoners who relished everythingit had to offer. Simon found himself volunteering to show her round the Zoo, when he had got to know it better himself.
    â€˜Oh, that is kind of you. I would enjoy that, because you learn so much more when you’re with someone who really knows. I’m a demon for learning things. I suppose it’s some sort of puritan conscience coming out in a funny way. I like to get something out of what I do.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Simon. ‘I suppose I’m the same.’
    â€˜After all, when you’ve got all those theatres and galleries and museums within easy reach, you ought to make use of them, oughtn’t you? And evening classes. That’s where I’ve been tonight—one on Italian civilization, because I’m off to Florence in September. I always seem to be going somewhere or studying something. I’d rather spend my money on that than on a bigger flat.’
    â€˜You’ve been here a long time?’
    â€˜Longer than I care to think. Seventeen years or so. Not that there haven’t been efforts to get me out.’
    â€˜Really? Why would Mr Simmeter do that?’
    â€˜Because I rented the room unfurnished, so the rent is controlled: they can’t put it up, not by more than a pittance. If I got out they could try various fiddles—doing bogus improvements, and then applying to put it up. It was Mother that tried first. A very forceful lady she used to be. Definitely failing by now, of course. Then the son tried—he’s the same type, but he hasn’t got the same confidence.’
    â€˜Do you know them well?’
    â€˜Just to hand the rent to—and argue with, if they try anything on.’
    â€˜You don’t visit down there?’
    â€˜Good Lord, no. Why would I do that? I don’t think the Simmeters have much to offer anybody.’
    She seemed to find the suggestion odd, so Simon hastened to justify his curiosity.
    â€˜It’s just that where I come from, in the West Country, it would seem a bit funny—living on top of a family all these years and hardly knowing them.’
    â€˜It’s perfectly normal here. Funny—I’d have said you came from the North.’
    Simon bent to get the kettle, to hide a blush.
    â€˜I’ve lived in Leeds for five years. You pick up the accent quickly. I expect I’ll talk London soon.’
    â€˜There’s no London accent, only different accents from different parts,’ said Miss Cosgrove, in her didactic but rather pleasant way. ‘Remember Professor Higgins in Pygmalion ? Round here there’s a tremendous conglomeration of accents—there’s so much of a floating population. There is a basic Islington accent, but it’s a long time before you pick it out. The Simmeters, now: they’re not local.’
    â€˜Are they not?’ asked Simon, with that quick blush of embarrassment again. Miss Cosgrove’s openness and directness made him conscious of his own deviousness.
    â€˜No—West London somewhere. I couldn’t pin it down. I did a course on London dialects once, but I’ve forgotten most of it. Now Connie—she’s got an overlay of something else. She’s worked somewhere, or tried to lose her accent, or something.’
    â€˜Connie?’
    â€˜She’s the sister; you may not have met