A Distant Shore

I

England has changed. These days it’s difficult to tell who’s from around here and who’s not. Who belongs and who’s a stranger. It’s disturbing. It doesn’t feel right. Three months ago, in early June, I moved out here to this new development of Stoneleigh. None of the old villagers seem comfortable with the term “new development.” They simply call Stoneleigh the “new houses on the hill.” After all, our houses are set on the edge of Weston, a village that is hardly going to give up its name and identity because some developer has seen a way to make a quick buck by throwing up some semi-detached bungalows, slapping a carriage lamp on the front of them and calling them “Stoneleigh.” If anybody asks me I just say I live in Weston. Everybody does, except one or two who insist on writing their addresses as “Stoneleigh.” The postman told me that they add “Weston” as an afterthought, as though the former civilises the latter. He was annoyed, and he wanted me to know that once upon a time there had been a move to change the name of Weston to Market Weston, but it never caught on. He was keen that I should understand that there was nothing wrong with Weston, and once he started I could hardly get him to stop. That was last week when he had to knock on the door for he had a package that wouldn’t fit through the letterbox, and he said that he didn’t want to squash it up (“You never know what’s in it, do you, love?”). He told me that he had been instructed by head office to scratch out the name “Stoneleigh” if it appeared on any envelopes. Should the residents turn out to be persistent offenders, then he was to politely remind them that they lived in Weston. But he told me that he didn’t think that he would be able to do this. That actually if they wanted to live in cloud-cuckoo land, then who was he to stop them? He didn’t tell this to his boss, of course, because that would have been his job. There and then, on the spot.

So our village is divided into two. At the bottom of the hill there is a road that runs west to the main town which is five miles away, and east towards the coast which is about fifty miles away. Everybody knows this because just before you enter Weston from the town side there’s a sign that says it’s fifty miles to the coast. Then after that there’s the big sign that reads “Weston” and announces the fact that we are twinned with some town in Germany and a village in the south of France. In the estate agent’s bumf about “Stoneleigh” it says that during the Second World War the German town was bombed flat by the RAF, and the French village used to be full of Jews who were all rounded up and sent to the camps. I can’t help feeling that it makes Weston seem a bit tame by comparison. Apparently, the biggest thing that had ever happened in Weston was Mrs. Thatcher closing the pits, and that was over twenty years ago.

The only history around these parts is probably in the architecture. The terraces on both sides of the main road are typical miners’ houses, built of dull red brick; the original inhabitants would have had to bathe in the kitchen, and their toilets would have been at the end of the street. However, these houses have all long since been replumbed, and the muck has been blasted off the faces of most of them so that they now look almost quaint. Mind you, the people who live down there still have to deal with the noise of the traffic at all times of day and night, and I imagine it’s murder to keep the windows clean. Besides the terraced houses there’s a petrol station, a fishand-chip shop, a newsagent-cum-grocery store, a sub-post office that opens three mornings a week, and behind the far row of houses a pub that sits smack on the canal, which runs parallel to the main road. There’s also a small stone church, with nicely tended grounds, but I won’t be needing to go in there. Stoneleigh is up a short steep hill and it overlooks the main road. We’re the newcomers, or posh so-andsos, as I heard a vulgar woman in the post office call us. There are not that many of us, just two dozen bungalows arranged in two culs-de-sac, but there are plenty of satellite dishes, and outside some of the houses there are two cars. Me, I don’t drive. We don’t have any shops up here, so if I do want anything I have to trek down the hill to the newsagent-cum-grocery store. Either that or catch the bus the five miles into town.

In May, I retired as a schoolteacher. Four years ago the school went comprehensive and since then standards have plummeted. It left me in a bit of a spot as I’ve spent most of my life banging on about how it would be better if kids of all levels and backgrounds could be educated together and learn from each other. It’s what Dad believed. He hated seeing the grammar-school boys in their white shirts and ties, and their flash blazers, while the kids from the secondary modern could barely find a pair of socks that matched. I can still see him shaking his head and pointing. “Class war, love,” he’d say. “Class war before they’re even out of short pants.” And then four years ago, the education authority scrapped grammar schools, turned us comprehensive, and they put me to the test. I was suddenly asked to teach whoever came into the school — we all were. Difficult kids I don’t mind, but I draw the line at yobs. But then early retirement came along to save me, and when I saw the Stoneleigh advert in the paper I thought, why not, a change is as good as a rest. Four weeks later, I found myself standing at the door to this place and handing the removal men a twenty-pound tip. I watched the dust rise and then slowly cloud as their big van pulled away. It was only six o’clock and so I thought that rather than sort through my belongings and arrange everything, I’d wander down the hill and take a good look around.

I was surprised by how busy the main road was, with big lorries thundering by in both directions. It took a good while before there was a break in the traffic and I was able to dash across. As it turned out there was not much to see, except housewives sitting on their front steps sunning themselves, or young kids running around. Doors were propped wide open, presumably because of the heat, but I didn’t get the impression that the open doors were indicative of friendliness. People stared at me like I had the mark of Cain on my forehead, so I pressed on and discovered the canal. It’s a murky strip of stagnant water, but because I was away from the noise of traffic, and the blank gawping stares of the villagers, it looked almost tolerable. The skeletal remains of a few barges were tied up by the shoreline, and it soon became clear that the main activity in these parts appeared to be walking the dog. In the fields, the cows and sheep moved with an ease which left me in no doubt that, despite the public footpath that snaked across the farmer’s land, this was their territory. I sat on a low wall underneath some drooping willow branches and looked around. The soft back-lap of the canal was soothing, although the jerky flight of a dragonfly buzzing about my head seemed out of place. This wall belonged to the village pub, The Waterman’s Arms, whose garden gave out onto the canal. In the garden some young louts and their girlfriends were braying and chasing about the place. I watched them as they began to toss beer at each other, and then shriek with the phlegmy laughter of hardened smokers. I didn’t want them to think that I was staring at them, so I turned my attention back to the relative tranquillity of the dank canal, and so time passed.

As the sun began to set, and the second dead fish floated by, the silver crescent of its bloated stomach gracelessly breaching the surface, I decided that I would quite like a drink. My throat was parched, and so I stood up and walked towards the pub. I could now feel eyes upon me, and for a few moments I wondered if some of these slovenly youngsters, with their barrack-room language, weren’t pupils that I’d recently had the rare pleasure of teaching. However, I thought it best not to turn and look them full in the face, and I therefore made my way, without an escort and with eyes lowered, across the garden and up the half-dozen stone steps and into the public bar. Once inside I discovered that the small room was deserted, save for a courting couple snug in the corner, whose feverishly interlaced fingers suggested what was to come.

“Can I help you, love?” Despite the heat, the landlord was wearing a white shirt and a tie that suggested membership of some kind of club. He kept the place neat and tidy, and he’d decorated the walls with what looked like family photos and mementoes of his holidays. This stout man’s private life was on display, and I imagined that the young couple in the corner might well be holding back their enthusiasm out of respect for this fact.

“I’ll have a half of Guinness, please.” As the landlord carefully pulled the beer, I heard a loud cry and yet more jackalling from outside. The landlord glared through the leaded windows.

“Bloody hooligans.” Without looking in my direction he set the half-pint of Guinness before me. “One pound forty.” He continued to stare through the window, but his open hand snaked across the bar. I put two one-pound coins into his palm and his hand first bounced, as if to weigh the coins, and then it closed around them. “Thanks, love.”

An hour later I adjusted myself on the bar stool as he set a second half-pint before me. It was dark now, but the youngsters were still making their noise in the garden, and in the corner behind me the courting couple had set aside decorum and were now practically sitting one on top of the other. Having finished my first drink I had stood up from the stool, but the landlord would hear nothing of my leaving. “No, love, have one on the house. Call it a welcome if you like.” I still had to unpack, and the removal men had left the place in a tip, but I thought it would be rude to turn down his kind offer. I climbed back onto the stool and watched as he pulled the second glass.

“We used to have a doctor here. A young woman, but she didn’t last long. The women didn’t like the men seeing her.”

“But she’s a doctor,” I said, taking a careful sip of the new drink.

“Yes, but she’s a woman doctor, and you know how people are.”

I couldn’t be sure if he was agreeing with the attitude of the villagers, or being critical, but then our attention was seized by the sound of breaking glass. During the past hour the landlord had twice been outside to ask the youngsters to calm down, but things were clearly out of control. I understood his frustration. This was his clientele and to bar them would be to effectively lose his business. The landlord tried to ignore the breaking glass and turned back towards me.

“These days if you need to see a doctor for anything then you have to go into town. You’ve got a doctor there, right?”

I nodded. I looked at the landlord and wished that we had happened upon another subject for casual conversation. But he was hooked now, and it was proving difficult to shake him free and onto a different topic.

“There’s a young Irish nurse who comes around to the health centre four afternoons a week, but with her you’re not talking about proper treatment. She can take your blood pressure and tell you what to eat and all that, but not much more.”

Again I nodded. He paused, then looked over my shoulder at the courting couple in the corner.

“Everything all right back there with you two love-birds?” I didn’t turn around, but I heard the sound of their nervous laughter. The landlord smiled at them, and then he glanced outside where he could see the hooligans tearing around his garden. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head, and then he swivelled his attention back towards me.

“Don’t get me wrong. I liked Dr. Epstein. Nice woman.” The landlord fell silent, and his eyes glazed over as if his thoughts were drifting aimlessly. I looked through the window and could see that two of the louts were now playing on the children’s swings. They were swinging high, but in opposite directions to each other, and when the swings crossed they were anointing each other with beer. Their girlfriends looked on and screeched with laughter.

“But like I said, folks didn’t take to Dr. Epstein, what with her being a woman. Made her life a misery, and that of her husband and kids. Young they were, maybe five or six, a boy and a girl. Rachel and Jacob. Funny thing is they might be happier if they came here today. You know, now that Stoneleigh or whatever you call it is finished. Up there they might have fit in better, but living down here with us, well, it was difficult for them to mix.” Again he paused. “Nobody cares much in the town, but around here they don’t blend in. I mean, Rachel and Jacob. They weren’t even trying. You know what it’s like, you’ve got to make an effort. You’ve lived around these parts all your life, haven’t you?”

“Well, like I said, mainly in town, but never out here.”

“Well, welcome again to Weston.” He raised his glass. “To a long and happy retirement in Weston.”

I picked up my glass and smiled. I thought to myself, I’m glad that I live in a cul-de-sac. There’s something safe about a cul-de-sac. You can see everything when you live near the far end of a cul-de-sac.

That night I walked up the hill under the moonlight. I think Mum would have liked Stoneleigh, but Dad would have hated it. She would have liked the idea that by living up the hill you’d moved on with your life and left something behind. But Dad wasn’t burdened by her ambitions, which is one of the reasons why they argued and why Mum ultimately fell silent. But Mum should have known better, for Dad wasn’t the type to take kindly to disagreement. Almost to the end there was a fire within him which only needed a conversational push, or the prod of an ill-timed comment, for the flames to start roaring. Dad liked to talk, but even as a girl it was obvious to me that Mum had given up on his temper. Instead Dad talked to me, and he tried to treat me like the son he’d never had. He loved nothing more than to sit with his pipe and his tobacco pouch, pressing rubbed flake into the bowl, and tell me about how he’d lost his own dad in the war, and how his mum had struggled to make ends meet.

He was twenty when the war ended, but by that time he’d started as a draughtsman and he’d decided to marry Mum, whom he always described as “the prettiest of all the local lasses.” Whenever he said this he would look at her as though asking himself what on earth had happened to his “pretty lass,” but Mum never looked back and she would just carry on with whatever she was doing. Dad’s responsibilities, and the lack of money, meant that he never went to university, and although he claimed to be glad that he had been spared the upheaval of leaving his home town, I never really believed him. When I finally went off to university at eighteen, I could see how proud he was, but he never did say anything to me, nor did he ever travel, apart from the one disastrous trip that he and Mum made to Majorca. His dad fell in Belgium and this seemed to have soured his attitude to anything that lay outside the orbit of his home-town life. So much so that whenever he swore, which he seldom did, he was always quick to say “pardon my French,” which, of course, made no sense unless one viewed it through the prism of contempt.

Unfortunately, while I seemed to get on with Dad, Sheila barely spoke to him. To begin with they used to get on. I may have been the “son,” but she was definitely the much-loved daughter. I was actually jealous of her for he used to dote on her, and take her to the allotments, and buy her presents, so much so that I used to call her “Daddy’s little pet.” But as she got older, and grew to know her own mind, Dad seemed to change towards her. I could see what she meant when she said that he seemed to be going out of his way to pick on her, but she didn’t help herself. Any chance to misbehave, she took it, and of course that only made things worse. Mum sided with Sheila, but her voice didn’t count for much with Dad, and so Sheila began to resent Mum’s impotence in the household. And where was I in all of this? Either doing my homework or playing the piano. I knew I wasn’t much use to Sheila, but when my sister started to smoke, and then stay out late, even though Dad had told her that she had to be back by ten, then I began to see his point of view. She was acting up, there was no question about it, and then I went and made it all worse by going off to university and leaving her alone with the two of them. I often wonder if things would have worked out differently if I’d stayed at home, or gone to the local college, or just got a job. Maybe I could have been more help to them all.

At the top of the hill I stopped and looked back at Weston. I remember seeing it clearly, for the full moon hung heavily in the sky, as though supported by an invisible column. Bathed in the moon’s bright glare, Weston looked serene and unencumbered by the problems that continued to plague the town. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but these days whenever I go into town it’s the homeless people who annoy me the most, and the frightening thing is they seem to be everywhere. There are dozens of them living beneath the underpass in boxes that used to hold fridges or big colour television sets, with their matted hair and their bottles of meths. It looks to me like they’ll always be around as long as the church is happy to give them plastic cups of sweet tea and change their ulcerated bandages, without holding them accountable for anything. During the day they sit around the precincts playing the guitar like it’s some kind of summer camp that they’re attending. Why didn’t they pay any attention at school? It’s not too late to get their lives back on track. They’ve got their health, and they’re not retarded. Well, at least not the younger ones. And they’ve even got some kind of talent. It’s just a wilful waste, that’s all, and I believe most of them are doing it on purpose because they’re lazy and they want sympathy, but they never get it from me. When I refuse to give them money they scream at me, and I often feel scorn when I walk past them. I didn’t used to, but I do now that they’ve started in on me and other passers-by. A few days ago I was coming back from the hospital when I caught one of them, a filthy beast, eating out of a dustbin like a dog. I didn’t say anything, but I did look at him and then he started to shout. “You can’t hurt me any more,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.” Who said that I wanted to hurt him? I’m glad that Dad isn’t here to see what’s become of his town. I suppose I’m also glad that he’s not here to see that I’m living up in Stoneleigh. He’d never say anything to me about it, but he’d find a way to let me know that he didn’t approve.

I put the key in the door, slipped off my shoes and slumped down in my favourite armchair, surrounded by the mess of boxes and packing cases. In fact, I didn’t even take off my coat. The walk up the hill, plus the two halves of Guinness, had taken their toll. Through the uncurtained window I could still see the powerful light of the moon. Dad would have liked The Waterman’s Arms, that much I was sure of, for he regarded pubs as a place of refuge. He always used to say that they should be a sanctuary where you can be yourself and not have to watch your p’s and q’s, but this being the case you had to find a pub that fitted you. He’d remind me that they’re all different, like people, and while some bring out the good in you and open you up, others close you down and make you quiet so that you just want to sit in the corner and nurse a pint. “They’re not about drinking” was his big line, but Mum would just roll her eyes and get on with her ironing or whatever she was doing. I’d listen though. He’d insist that they’re about being yourself, and he’d stress that you had to keep looking around until you found a pub that you felt comfortable in. However, he never told me what to do if I found myself living in a place that only had the one pub. I don’t think either of us ever imagined that anything like this could ever happen.

I’ve not been in the local pub since that first night, and that was three months ago. But I see everybody all the time. The young courting couple, the yobs who were playing outside, the landlord. You can’t help it. You go for a walk, or you go to get a paper, or you wait by the bus stop, and there they all are, the cast of the village acting out their assigned roles. Those of us from Stoneleigh, the small group of extras who live up the hill, have yet to be given our parts. We’re still strangers to each other, let alone to the other villagers. The somewhat undernourished coloured man in the small bungalow next door is the only one I see regularly. He’s the caretaker for all the houses; if anybody needs a lock fixing, or a door rehanging, or the plumbing seeing to, then he’s the man to call. Apparently, there were so many complaints when the bungalows were finished that some owners in both culs-de-sac threatened to sue the developers unless they did something about it. I must have been lucky for everything’s fine with my place, but it turns out that I’m the exception. So, in order to keep everybody happy, they built a small bungalow for a handyman-cum-night-watchman and Solomon moved in. I can see him now, behind his blinds. He never pulls them fully closed, as though he always needs to have a little light coming into his place. Either that, or he’s not sure how to make them work.

His car is parked out front in its proper place. It’s clearly second-hand, but it’s always carefully washed and clean. The other day I saw him take a cloth to it and go at the bodywork as though he was buffing up a piece of brass. I’ve thought about asking him why he takes so much trouble over a car, but there’s no point because it fits in with how he behaves about everything. The way he dresses, or cuts the lawn, or combs his hair with that sharp razor parting. Everything is done with such precision. Like most of the folks up here, he keeps himself to himself, but unlike most of the folks up here, he lives by himself. Like me, he’s a lone bird. There’s me, there’s him, and there’s a man in the other cul-de-sac who has let it be known that he used to be something in the London jazz scene. He claims to have known all sorts of famous people, and played all the clubs, but he talks too much which, of course, makes me think that he’s making the whole thing up. But Solomon is different. He’ll be over in ten minutes. I know his routine by now, and I’ll have to be ready for him so that he can drive me into town to see Dr. Williams. In fact, I’m nearly ready. All I have to do is find my referral card and pull on my coat and I’ll be ready to go. Dr. Williams is not a proper doctor, more of a specialist. In psychological pressures. My old GP recommended him to me a few months ago, just after Sheila died. He thought it would do me good to talk with somebody, but after all this time I’ve still not been getting any real sleep, and so I asked Dr. Williams to give me some tests, which he did. Today I expect him to give me the results.

As I wait for Solomon I glance at the mantelpiece. I recognise my sister’s handwriting on the envelope. The lines are weaker, the shapes less aggressive. Strange, really, for it never occurred to me that handwriting can age, but it does. When I first saw the letter on the door-mat I looked at it and felt afraid to touch it. Finally, I picked it up and then propped it on the mantelpiece where I could see it, but I knew that I’d have to be stronger before I could tackle it. I remember laughing. It’s not a rugby-playing bloke, I thought, it’s a letter. I don’t have to tackle it, and so I left it where it was, but every day I find myself glancing at the handwriting. Weak or otherwise, it’s still her handwriting. After all these years of silence my sister can still do this to me. And then I hear Solomon knocking at the door.

I like the way he corners the car. He always holds the wheel in two hands and he pushes and pulls it gently, as though he’s making something, rather than spinning it around as though he’s gambling. He also wears driving gloves, which I like. Not the tacky type with the Velcro backing; his gloves have studs which you push to and they snap into place, all snug. I like this about his driving. It’s neat and careful, and it makes me feel safe.

“Will the doctor be giving you the results today?”

He asks the question, but Solomon does so without taking his eyes from the road. When he first did this I thought it was rude, however I now realise that it’s just his way of being careful. It’s simply a matter of safety first, that’s all. Because I have not replied to his question, he continues.

“I hope you do not mind my enquiry?”

This time he throws a quick glance in my direction. He’s a handsome man, which makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve never asked him, but I’d guess he’s in his early thirties, although it’s difficult for me to tell. He returns his attention to the road.

“Of course I don’t mind your asking.” I pause. “The doctor said that he’d tell me today.” Again I pause, unsure as to whether I should be volunteering any more information. But I trust this man. He doesn’t expect me to be perfect.

Again he glances at me. It’s a worried glance which says, “Is there something that you are not telling me?” I say nothing as he slows down now, and then he turns into the hospital car park. There is, of course, one thing that I’ve been meaning to tell him, but I haven’t found the right opportunity. It’s about all this washing of his car. I want to tell him that in England you have to become a part of the neighbourhood. Say hello to people. Go to church. Introduce your kids to their new school. You can’t just turn up and start washing your car. People will consider you to be ignorant and stand-offish. But I’ve yet to find the proper moment to talk to Solomon about the way he flaunts himself in his driveway with that bucket of soapy water and his shammy.

Dr. Williams is a balding man of about forty. He’s at that place where men either tumble rapidly down the slope towards irreversible middle-age spread, or they start to exercise and take care of themselves in an attempt to hold on to some of their youth. My guess is that Dr. Williams isn’t sure what to do with himself. He asks me to please take a seat, but he doesn’t get up from behind his desk. I sit down and place my handbag in my lap, and then I realise that I probably look like a Sunday School teacher. Sadly, it’s too late. I’ve got butterflies in my tummy, but any change of position will suggest to him that I’m nervous, and I don’t want to give out this impression.

“I have your results, Miss Jones, and everything seems fine.” He looks me full in the face and he tries to put on that stupid little doctor smile that they all have. “But my nurse has passed on your messages, and if you say that you’re still having problems sleeping, then perhaps we should talk.” He gives me that half-sad, half-cheerful chin-up thing that they all do, and then he opens my file and takes his pen from the top pocket of his white overcoat. He clicks the knob of the pen with his thumb, then he uses the pen as some kind of a marker as he traces his way through the unbound pages.

“You’ve been through a lot recently, haven’t you?”

I look at him and wonder if he’s really asking me, or if he’s just telling me.

“Early retirement can be a problem, but you’re still teaching music, aren’t you? The piano. I mean privately.”

Why is he asking me this? It was his idea that I advertise myself in that vulgar way. Desperate woman available for music lessons.

“I’m trying to talk to you, Miss Jones. Staring at the wall isn’t going to help either of us, now is it?”

I look at his chubby face and decide that it’s my turn to give him the stupid smile.

“The death of your parents, your divorce, the death of your sister, early retirement, and then moving home, that’s a lot of pressure for anybody to have to deal with in a short space of time.” He pauses to give me an opportunity to comment, but I have nothing further to say to him. “You have to start planning a new life, Dorothy. Your sister has gone, but you’re still a relatively young woman, and there’s nothing wrong with you physically. You’ve still got a significant expanse of life ahead of you, and you must start to plan and reach out and take it. Am I making myself clear?”

Solomon and I usually have lunch in town before going back to Stoneleigh. While I’m at the hospital he tends to do a bit of shopping, although he never tells me what he buys. Mind you, I never ask him either. He’ll come back to the hospital with whatever he’s bought safely stashed in the boot of his car. Sometimes I’m already out and waiting under the green Outpatients awning, while other times I know that I’ve kept him waiting, but he never complains. He’s a volunteer driver, and the village nurse will probably have told him that he has to be tolerant if he’s going to be driving folks who are ill. Because I used to live and teach in the town, it’s usually up to me to choose the place for lunch. Once upon a time I chose the Somalian and Mediterranean Food Hall and it now seems to have become our regular, although they could keep the place a little cleaner. Still, he seems to like it.

He glances up from his lamb kebab and looks at me with his big eyes, as though I’ve somehow betrayed him.

“You have not told me about your results.”

“Inconclusive,” I say, but I continue to eat. I stuff some pitta bread into my mouth so that it is momentarily impossible for me to continue.

“I see.” He waits until I have finished chewing. “Will there be more tests?”

“I don’t think the doctor knows what he’s doing.”

“He still cannot diagnose the problem?”

“So he says.”

“This is very troubling.” He pauses for a moment and continues to stare at me. “And your sister. Did you reply to her letter?”

I put down my fork, but before the words come out of my mouth I realise that I’m about to say too much to this man.

“I haven’t read the letter yet.”

“You have not read it?” He now puts down his own fork and he looks across the table at me. “But she is all that you have now that your parents have passed on. And you say that she lives only one hour away on the coast. I have told you, I am prepared to drive you there.”

This strange man. The caretaker at Stoneleigh. The estate handyman in his free bungalow. Solomon and his second-hand car. Not even a dog. Just him alone, hiding behind those blinds, waiting for a piece of guttering that needs fixing or a door handle that has to be replaced. At nights I see him out on patrol with his torch. The Irish nurse told me that if I didn’t want to take the bus into town there were two volunteer drivers. And then one afternoon, of all people, he came and knocked on my door. My knight in shining armour with his polished chariot. And now Solomon wants to drive me to the coast so that I can spend some time with Sheila, and all I’m thinking is why doesn’t he finish his lamb kebab? There’s people in the world who are starving to death and who would do anything for a bit of lamb kebab.

In the evening I stare again at the letter on the mantelpiece. Before I open it I feel as though I ought to go and visit my parents’ grave and ask their permission. At my age I shouldn’t feel compelled to ask for their approval, but Sheila didn’t treat them well and I don’t want them to think that by reading Sheila’s letter I’m betraying them. I pour a glass of white wine and look out of the window. After a few minutes it occurs to me that it’s not so much their permission that I’m seeking, it’s more that I’m simply informing them of what’s going on. I suppose that’s it. I just want to let them know what’s what and I hope that they’ll understand. The light is beginning to fade from the sky. One of the things I like most about this house are the evenings, for you can see the sun setting on the horizon from up here. To the west there is a clear uninterrupted view straight out to where the old railway viaduct marches across the valley on its strong stone legs. A train hasn’t passed across it for over fifty years or so, and it’s some kind of a monument now. Every evening the sun sets behind this viaduct, which means that I can sit at this window with a glass of wine and watch the day come to a peaceful conclusion.

I’ve not been up long before I hear the banging on the door. It’s all right because I’m already washed and presentable. I’ve even had time to brush out my hair, before tucking it back up into its familiar bun. I long ago forswore the vanity of trying to disguise the grey, and leaving it natural saves me stacks of time. Even though I no longer have to be at school at eight in the morning, I’ve kept the habit of being an early riser. I’ve generally had a bowl of cereal and some orange juice by the time the cars are pulling out of the driveways and the kids are running off to catch the school bus. Again I hear the intemperate banging on the door, as though whoever it is has decided that I’m asleep and is determined to wake me up. I’m not altogether happy about this, for it suggests bad manners. I go to the door and Mrs. Lawson is there, but without Carla. The two-piece navy linen suit, and the matching pale-blue scarf around her neck, tells me that she is on her way to work.

“I’m sorry for coming by so early, but I wanted to catch you before I went off.”

Well, I’d guessed that much, and from the way she was standing it was clear that she’d not come over to borrow a cup of sugar. Two days earlier, at her last piano lesson, Carla had refused to do her final lot of scales. Again I reminded her that sitting at the piano without any sense of propriety, her feet dangling uselessly above the pedals, was an insult to both teacher and instrument. I gently covered her hands with mine and asked her to feel it in her chest. To let it rise up from her body and out through the top of her head. I squeezed her hands, telling her that she must forget them, for they should be like lettuce, limp and useless. Then again, I reminded her that it all begins in the chest and that her performance must always be strong and passionate, but the girl was clearly unimpressed. In the end I snapped at her, and asked her if she thought that her mother was paying all this money out so that she could sit and stare into mid-air and give cheek. But this only made things worse. Carla began to snipe back, and then she banged the lid of the piano down, pushed back her chair and stood up. As she snatched her bag, she shouted, “I’m going to tell my mother about you,” and then she bolted from the house without closing the door behind her. I looked at the book of exercises that stood discarded on the piano, the corners carefully upended to make it easier to turn the page, and decided that enough was enough with this girl. I had half-expected to see Carla’s mother within the hour, but when she didn’t appear I wasn’t surprised. In fact, when the mother had first answered my handwritten advert in the newsagent’s window, which somewhat immodestly advertised my skills as a “firstclass” piano teacher, I was sure that Mrs. Lawson was simply looking for the most convenient way of keeping her daughter out of trouble. She told me that she was the clerical manager at the big supermarket in town and that she often worked late. Apparently, she and Carla’s father were separated, so most of the time the poor girl was left to her own devices. However, predictably enough, Carla soon became bored by both me and the piano, and it was inevitable that in the long run she would become obstreperous. And now the mother has shown up. I look blankly at the woman.

“It’s about Carla,” she says.

“I’m sorry.” I blink and try to refocus on the woman. “Please come in. Would you like some tea?”

“I can’t stay for very long. Only a minute or two.” The woman squeezes past me and makes her way towards the living room as though she is a regular visitor in my home.

“Would you prefer tea or coffee?” I ask.

“Either, thanks. Whatever is easiest. Honestly, I really can’t stay long.”

I follow her into the living room, sit her down and then go into the kitchen to pour her a cup of tea. In my house it’s easy to carry on a conversation with somebody from the kitchen. You don’t have to do any shouting or anything, so I wait for her to say what’s on her mind, but she doesn’t say anything, so I pour the milk into the tea and then stir.

After she has gone I begin to clear away the tea, and then the plate with the biscuits that she refused to eat. I pick up the plate and look through the window as she clip-clops her way, in her stupid high heels, down towards the end of the cul-de-sac where her new red hatchback is waiting for her. She does not look back, but rather than envying her confidence, I find myself despising it. She has, after all, just come into my home and very quickly stepped beyond the boundaries of decorum. As I set down the tea and biscuits before her, I asked her if she would like sugar. She shook her head vigorously as though I had offered her rat poison.

“Well,” I began, “I suppose you have to ask yourself, does Carla really want to learn the piano?”

“I thought she did,” said the mother, “but now I’m not so sure. She’s at a difficult age, and she has strong opinions about certain things.”

“I see.” I took a biscuit. “Such as playing the piano?”

“Well, not just this. There’s your own behaviour to consider.”

“My own behaviour?” I replaced the biscuit on the plate and looked at the woman.

“I think you need help, don’t you? Carla likes you all right, but she says you shout, and then at other times you’re nice, but most of the time you just stare out of the window and you don’t hear anything that she’s saying to you. Can I ask you frankly, Miss Jones, what’s the matter?”

“You’re taking your daughter’s word for all of this?” The woman stared at me with a piteous look that would have tried the patience of a saint. “I see, so I’m to understand that I’m the one with problems concentrating.”

“Carla’s a good kid, and she wouldn’t lie. In fact, she’s quite upset about you. I mean, she likes you, but she thinks you should get some help as you’re behaving strangely.”

For a few moments I stared at this woman, and then it dawned on me that she was serious.

“More tea?” I asked. The woman glanced at her watch and then reached for her bag.

“You know, at least I tried. I’ve really got to be going.”

“As you please.”

The woman leaned forward now and she tried to appear sympathetic.

“I think you should remember, it’s a small village, and like you I’ve been used to the town. But these people, they talk, you know.”

“About who?”

“About you, Miss Jones. There are good people in the village that you can spend time with. You don’t have to be by yourself.”

“Well, I can’t stop them talking.” It was difficult to remove the anger from my voice, and Mrs. Lawson seemed to accept the fact that there was little further to be said on this, or any other, subject.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I really just came to tell you that Carla won’t be coming back for any more piano lessons.” With this said, she got to her feet and bade me good morning. I look at her now as she leans forward and unlocks her car door. She climbs in and starts the hatchback’s engine, and soon she is indicating right and then turning into the traffic and making her way to work.

There is a young man weeding in the graveyard. He is there almost every time I visit. What makes his labour strange is the fact that he does this job by hand. Not with a scythe, a trowel, or even a pair of scissors; this young man pulls out the weeds by hand and stuffs them into a black plastic bag that is looped to his belt with a piece of frayed rope. As I walk up the short incline I can see that he has finished my parents’ grave. They lie side by side, Mum having died first and then Dad a year later. They planned this final resting-place together, and they arrived in almost perfect harmony. One day, while Dad was down at his allotment, Mum’s heart gave out. He said goodbye to her in the morning and left the house which they had shared for almost fifty years. When he arrived home at the end of the day she was gone. According to the neighbours, she collapsed in the back yard while taking out the rubbish, and one of them called the ambulance while the others tried to bring her round. There had been a few minor scares over the years, including a mild stroke when they went abroad, for the first and only time, to Majorca. She had to be flown back, on insurance, and she spent a fortnight in hospital. But this final blow was swift and sudden, like a hammer falling, and there was no time to do anything but react. Dad phoned me and I travelled up from Birmingham. I made him a cup of tea and we sat together in silence, a banked fire glowing red in the grate, until the weak sun came up the next morning. I knew that he’d not be able to last long without her.

In the morning he asked me to get hold of my sister, and so I said I would, although I had an address but no phone number. It turned out her number was unlisted, but it wasn’t that difficult to find Sheila’s number in London and so I called her and broke the news about Mum. She was silent, and then when I asked her if she was coming to the funeral she simply said “yes.” When, two days later, she turned up with her friend, it took all my self-control to stop myself from saying something to my younger sister. Now was not the time to be introducing Dad to such lifestyle choices, for he was fragile enough as it was. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been more angry, but luckily Dad was too grief-stricken to notice what Sheila had done. My so-called husband Brian played the role of peacemaker, and somehow we all survived the funeral. And then Dad started to get worse. His ailments seemed to all flare up together. The chest from all the years on the pipe. Then his hips, which had long been riddled with arthritis, went from bad to worse, and then finally his eyes started to mist over with glaucoma. Six months after we buried Mum he had become so bad that he couldn’t go to the toilet, or take a bath, or do much of anything by himself. To start with, I was travelling up from Birmingham and spending every weekend with him, but his doctor finally told me that unless we got a nurse he’d have to go into a home. So I asked the doctor to be honest with me and say how long he’d got left. He knotted his fingers together and said maybe a year, but probably less, and so we arranged for a retired midwife to live in the spare room. Soon Dad couldn’t leave his bed, but he still made the poor woman’s life miserable, even going so far as to tell her that he didn’t believe in good women, only women who lived under the influence of good men.

Less than a year after Mum went, he passed away in his sleep, and the sour-faced midwife made a performance out of leaving the house before his body was even cold. Again, I telephoned my sister, and this time I got her answering machine and left a message, but I heard nothing. I wasn’t surprised, and if truth be told I was somewhat relieved that I would be spared a rerun of Sheila’s selfishness. It had been her own wilful decision to leave home at seventeen, and for nearly thirty years Mum and Dad had hardly had any contact with her. It was something they’d reluctantly learned how to deal with, and they’d become well schooled in the practice of deflecting questions, telling half-truths and hiding their grief. Mum, in particular, seemed to suffer. Sheila’s rejection of them both, and her determination to live her own life in the south, caused Mum to retreat even further from people and conversation. Mum began to eat by herself, and there was something deeply painful about seeing her sitting alone with her Bible and her face furrowed in lonely concentration. Dad had argued any real faith out from under me, but Mum still believed, although she didn’t bother with actually going to church. I used to wonder if things might have been better for her if I could have given her some little ones to be proud of, but I soon came to realise that nothing would help. Mum had lost her youngest daughter, and even the blessing of grandchildren wouldn’t have begun to compensate for this loss. Dad, on the other hand, continued to rail about every subject under the sun, but the one subject he refused to take on was that of our Sheila.

Over the years, whenever I’d returned home I always knew that I could find him in his shed. I’d go down past the old cottages, then across the wasteland till I came to the patchwork quilt of allotments, with their turnips and runner beans laid out in obedient rows. He’d be there sucking on his pipe and bemoaning the fact that we were giving up our English birthright and getting lost in a United States of Europe, or the fact that one never sees men in collars and ties on Sundays, or expressing his continued astonishment that ordinary folk could have any respect for the memory of Churchill, a man who during the 1926 General Strike had, as Dad had been telling me since I was a small child, referred to the workers as “the enemy.” I would listen, knowing that I would never hear a word from either him, or Mum, about Sheila, but everything about their behaviour suggested a profound pain at having failed to hold on to one of their two children. It was, of course, easier for me; she was my younger sister, and although I missed having her in my life, I didn’t depend upon her in any way. I never had.

The young man who is weeding among the tombstones recognises me. We have one of those “nod and a wave” relationships. He seems to enjoy his work, or at least he never complains about it, which surprises me. I’m so used to young people who either don’t want to work, or who make it clear that although they are working they are doing so reluctantly. This young man’s work ethic seems to have been born in an earlier generation. In fact, he dresses as though he were from an earlier generation, with his flat cap and big boots. I stand and look down at my parents, their names freshly picked out with a wet cloth. I can feel the young man’s eyes upon me, and it suddenly occurs to me to ask him if he’s ever seen anybody else standing here looking at Mum and Dad. Maybe Sheila has visited out of some vaguely remembered sense of duty, choosing her times to coincide with my absences. For a moment I toy with the idea, but the truth is Sheila would never bother to cultivate such cunning. Not my Sheila, the seventeen-year-old girl who ran away from home while I was at university, and who showed up penniless on my doorstep. Once I’d recovered from the shock of opening the door on Sheila and her lopsided grin, I asked her in. She left her rucksack by the door and sat down on the edge of my single bed.

“Where have you been, Sheila? You look like a cat dragged you backwards through a hedge.”

She stared at the Jean-Luc Godard poster on my wall and said nothing, so I made her a cup of tea and waited for her to speak. I had concert practice that evening, but I knew that I wasn’t going to make it. While the tea was brewing I quickly excused myself and dashed down the dormitory corridor. I slipped a note under my friend Margaret’s door. I didn’t feel like explaining anything to anybody, so a note was easier. I told Margaret that something had come up, which it had, and that they would have to manage without me tonight. I hurried back to my room and closed the door behind me, then locked it. Sheila didn’t look up. I felt guilty, but I couldn’t help but notice how much bigger on her chest she’d become. I poured us both a cup of tea and then sat next to my sister, ready to talk. But she wasn’t ready to talk, and her eyes began to fill with tears that eventually spilled out and ran down her gaunt cheeks.

I must have lingered too long at the graveside, for it appears that I’ve missed the four o’clock bus. A woman of my age finds it both difficult, and a little undignified, to run. I sit on the bench by the bus stop and stare at the hordes of badly dressed schoolchildren milling about and shouting. I recognise the green sweatshirts, and the ties that hang down like cords that you might yank to turn on a light switch. Then I realise that I know some of the kids, so I look away and try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. A doublechinned man, burdened with shopping bags, sits next to me. He was on the bus that brought us out from the village a few hours earlier, and he attempts conversation. “It’s still warm out.” I can’t help him, and so I smile and silently beg his forgiveness. He registers my reluctance and opens a copy of the evening newspaper. I look around and wonder how I ever managed to live in this noisy, filthy town. Mercifully, I now live in Weston, or in the “new development,” which the man next to me has no doubt already guessed. I’m sure that he sits at home at the bottom of the hill, probably by himself, judging by all the shopping bags, and considers me and everybody else in the new development to be interlopers. All of us, disturbing a pattern that has gone on for decade after decade until Stoneleigh came along to make them feel as though their shrinking lives, which were already blighted by closures and unemployment, were even less important than they had hitherto imagined.

It’s a little after five-thirty when the bus rolls slowly into the village. There are those who don’t stir, for they will be alighting at one of the small towns or lonely villages beyond Weston. However, I watch as my bench partner gets to his feet and struggles with his shopping bags, and then two younger women make their way from the back of the bus and join him at the door. I bring up the rear. The driver is a polite young kid who seems to specialise in this route, and he wishes us all, individually mind you, a good night. Strange, I think, as it’s still bright out, but I appreciate the gesture. Usually I would turn to the left and begin the short walk up the hill, but having read some of the back of the man’s evening newspaper it occurs to me that catching up on the news would be a nice way to spend the evening. I wait until the bus has moved off on its way, and then I cross the main road. Carla sees me coming towards her and, at least to start with, she’s a little shocked, as though I were the last person she wanted to see. Then she catches herself and looks somewhat nervously at me.

“Hello, Miss.” She is dressed to go out, with her eyes overly made-up and her hair neatly combed so that it fans down over her shoulders. If I’m not mistaken there’s even a dusting of glitter on her face. I look at her, budding all over, and done up like a promiscuous little so-and-so, but there is nothing that I can say to her by way of admonishment for she is no longer one of my pupils.

“Hello, Carla. I’m sorry I won’t be seeing you again.”

Carla shrugs, not with insolence, but as though to imply there’s nothing that she can do about the situation.

“I’m sorry too, Miss.” She pauses. “Is it true you’ll be going into a home?”

I say nothing, but I’m taken aback.

“It’s just that people are saying you’re ill.”

I stare at Carla who, despite her mother, is not a bad girl. Christ, I’ve taught far worse. In fact, as far as delinquency and bad behaviour go, this girl is practically an angel. I begin to think of what I’d do with her if she were my child. But she’s not my child or, if truth be known, even my friend. She asks this intrusive question because, like all young people today, she feels entitled; entitled to dress, behave, speak, walk, do whatever they please.

“Yes, Carla, I am ill, and it’s a bully of an illness.” The girl looks momentarily alarmed. “But you’re all right. It’s not catching.” Carla smiles weakly.

“What is it, Miss?”

“What is it? What do you think it is?”

Carla shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know, Miss. Your nerves?”

I can see that the blushing girl wishes that she’d never asked the question, so I rescue her.

“I don’t think I’m quite yet ready for a home, Carla, do you?” I throw her a parting smile and move off into the newsagent’s, leaving her to wait for the bus that will no doubt take her into town for her night of teenage antics with her friends.

It’s a bit of a pull up the last stretch of the hill and I begin to tire. It has already been a long day and my hip has started to hurt. Too many years of sitting at the piano in the same position, said my old doctor when I first went in to complain about it. “You need regular exercise” was his solution, but some chance, I thought, looking after Brian, trying to teach all day and taking on more pupils at night to make some extra money. And so the hip just got worse, until it reached the stage where it was difficult for me to walk any distance. That’s when the old doctor gave me the steroid shots and, miraculously enough, they seemed to do the trick. Now that I’m retired I do, of course, have a lot more time to exercise. But what use is it now? Dr. Williams told me not to think like this, but Dr. Williams is a specialist, not a proper GP. I can feel the evening newspaper getting damp in my grip, so I tuck it into my bag. And then, as I enter the cul-de-sac, I see Solomon. As usual, by himself, washing his car, oblivious to everything around him. He has a habit of keeping the car radio on, and a window wound down just a little bit, so that he can listen to light music on Radio 2. I hate this kind of mindless commercial rubbish, but I’ve never told him this for fear of offending him. He puts it on when he drives me, although he makes a point of asking first. I’m always accommodating and I say “fine,” so it’s obviously my own fault. I’m sure he isn’t going to throw a fit or anything if I say, “No, I don’t like it,” but generally I try to be pleasant. As I come up to him I realise that today there’s no music. He’s washing his car in silence.

“Is everything all right?” Solomon asks me this without looking up at me. For a second or so I’m taken aback, but I understand that it’s probably his way of being discreet. He’s allowing me my space. I stop and look at him waxing the bonnet of his car.

“I think everything’s all right,” I say. “I missed the bus coming back, but that’s about the highlight of my day.”

Solomon stares at me.

“You missed the bus? How did that happen?” He seems genuinely concerned, so I try to set his mind at ease.

“No emergency or anything. I just spent too much time with my parents.” He continues to look puzzled. “At the cemetery. Time just flew by.”

“Oh, I see.” He puts down his cloth now. “Miss Jones, it is true that sometimes life can be difficult, yes?” He turns to face me. The dying sun forms a halo around his head and for a moment I find myself more caught up with this image than with his enquiry. Solomon notices that my attention has drifted off, but he simply waits until my mind returns.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I must be tired after the walk up the hill.” He seems confused now, but we both know that his question still hangs in the air between us. “Yes, Solomon, sometimes life can be difficult.” I pause. “And why on earth do you still insist upon calling me Miss Jones.” I laugh now. “For heaven’s sake, I keep telling you to call me Dorothy. I don’t employ you, you know.”

“Yes, Dorothy. I know this. I am just trying to be polite.”

I feel bad now, because I can see that he doesn’t know if I’m mocking him.

“Solomon, you couldn’t be any more polite if you tried. In fact, I sometimes wonder if you shouldn’t be less polite. People will take advantage, you know.”

Solomon says nothing, he just smiles that same enigmatic smile that always seems to be on his face.

“I am sure that your parents were wonderful people.” He isn’t giving up. I set down my bag now, but he continues. “I would like to learn more about your family.”

“Well, talking about my parents and my sister, these are not easy topics, Solomon.”

“But it is not good to keep these things locked up inside.”

I look at him and understand that he is only speaking to me because he wishes to help. However, we shouldn’t be standing in the cul-de-sac, in the full view of others, talking like this.

“You know, Solomon, why don’t you come inside and I’ll brew a nice pot of tea. When you’ve finished your car, that is.”

Solomon raises his eyebrows.

“You want me to come inside for tea?”

“Well,” I say, “only if you want to. I might even give you a biscuit, if you’re lucky.” Solomon smiles and he throws down his cloth.

“A biscuit? Now the temptation is too great.”

“No rush,” I say. “I’ve got to put the kettle on. You might as well finish your car.” He wipes the excess water from his hands by rubbing them along his overalls. Then he bends down and tips the bucket of soapy water into the gutter.

“I will just finish the waxing.”

“I’ll see you in a minute.” As I turn to walk towards my house, the full glare of the dying sun hits me in the face. Solomon has been blocking out much of its force, but I now squeeze my eyes closed against its powerful light.

Solomon waits until he has had a second cup of tea before he asks his question. I look at him as he prepares himself. He is a thin man and he seems dwarfed by the armchair. Not that he’s sickly, but his legs and arms seem a bit too long for his body. I offer him the whole pack of biscuits in an attempt to stem his question, but it is too late.

“You have not really spoken of your illness. I am sorry if I seem to be prying.”

“You’re not prying.” I make a bowl with my hands and cradle the cup.

“But will you be fine?”

“Dr. Williams says things are all right for now, but I need more tests.”

“But he does not understand the problem?”

“So he says.”

“But I do not understand. You appear to me to be strong.”

“I have difficulty sleeping. And sometimes my mind wanders. You must have noticed this.”

I look at Solomon, who now seems somewhat embarrassed that he has raised the subject, and we fall into silence. He stares at me, and I wish that he would look away, but I can see that he has no intention of doing so.

“That’s enough about me,” I say, trying to strike a lighter tone.

“If you say so.”

“I do, I do.” Here is the moment that I’ve been hoping for. An opening into which I can place my own question. “But what about you, Solomon? I hardly know anything about you.”

I look across at him, and he suddenly seems very tired. He has not yet finished his new cup of tea, and the cup hangs at an angle in his hand. It is politely balanced over the saucer, which he supports in the broad palm of his other hand, as though he were holding a small coin. He washes his car, he drives me to the hospital, he stays at home behind his blinds. At night he patrols the culs-de-sac. He smiles nervously in my direction, as though apologising for his inability to answer my question. But it doesn’t matter. I look at him and feel sure that at some point soon he will lever his thin frame out of the chair and pretend that he has something that he must attend to. Always polite. Until then I am happy to watch him as his mind drifts beyond my question, his idle thoughts turning over like leaves in the wind. I am simply happy to be in Solomon’s company.

Solomon left an hour ago. He suddenly snapped to attention, looked around and understood where he was. He was embarrassed that he had allowed himself to fall asleep, but I chuckled reassuringly as he made his excuses and then hurried away. And now I am alone again. There doesn’t seem to be any point to cooking a dinner for one, so I’ll just have a few more biscuits and another cup of tea. I see Sheila’s letter staring down at me, and again I’m reminded of the time she turned up at my room at university. I handed her a cup of tea and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. I watched as she wiped away her silent tears.

“I’ve run away,” she said.

I couldn’t stop staring at her skinny, unwashed body. Her new chest aside, my poor sister looked like a stick insect, with her dirty clothes hanging off her.

“I need some money and a place to stay. Just for tonight.”

I remember laughing. Nobody could ever accuse Sheila of not getting straight to the point about things.

“So, you want me to give you some money?”

“I’ll pay you back, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Sheila, I’m not worried about that. I just want to know how you got yourself into this state in the first place.”

“What do you mean by ‘this state?’ ”

I could see she was angry now. She always bit her lower lip when something or somebody annoyed her; in this case, me.

“There’s no need to get your mad up, Sheila. I’m just saying, you turn up looking like a drowned rat and, I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“I’m off to London, and I just need a bit of money. I’ve had it with up here.”

“You’ve had it with Mum and Dad, or you’ve had it with the North?”

“Both. You’re such a creep going to university in Manchester so you’re not far away.”

“I’m not a creep. It’s the only place that took me.”

“Well, I’m getting out of here.”

“You’re not off anywhere tonight, are you?”

“I told you I need a place to stay for the night.”

“Sheila, why are you carrying on like this?”

“They think they own me. And you too. But I suppose they do own you, don’t they?”

I felt the sting in her words, but I could also see that she was still upset. I tried to change the tone in my voice.

“Sheila, they just don’t understand. Why can’t you ignore them instead of always having to battle it out? You can always get your own way, but you’ve just got to be clever about it.”

“I can’t be bothered.” A door slammed with this statement. She waited for a moment, and then she looked up at me and spoke quietly. “It’s my life and I don’t see why I should have to play games.”

She spent the night with me, but neither of us really slept. When we weren’t arguing, one of us was reminiscing about something in the past that made us laugh. Like the time that Mum decided to join the local choral association, but wouldn’t accept the fact that she had the worst voice in the world. Or the time I entered the school swimming races, but forgot to tell anybody that I couldn’t swim. I agreed to give her the money to go to London, where she was sure she could get a job, and in the morning she gave me that grin of hers and I waved my sister goodbye and watched her walk out of our lives. Once Sheila reached London, silence reigned between her and “home.” In the first few years after college, I found reasons to go to London occasionally, either by myself or with Brian, and in this way I kept in some kind of contact with Sheila. But I never told Mum or Dad, for fear of upsetting them, and then, without really understanding why, Sheila and I just drifted apart. And now a letter on my mantelpiece. A single letter asking for what?

I make myself a cup of tea, pick up the letter and then sit in the chair by the window that Solomon was sitting in. I look out into the cul-de-sac and can see that the moon is lighting up the street, so that tonight there’s really no need for street lights. There’s no movement behind Solomon’s blinds and I imagine that he must be out on his patrol. I try to imagine the inside of his bungalow and assume that it’s probably as impossibly neat and tidy as he is, but I’ve no way of knowing this. The letter lies ominously in my hands and I understand that at some point I’ll have to open it. I feel myself falling asleep in the chair, caught between the need to get some rest and the desire to discover what has happened to my sister’s life. However, even as my head grows heavy on my shoulders, I can already feel the responsibility of having Sheila back in my life.

In the morning I wake up in the same place with the pages of Sheila’s letter scattered about me like confetti. My neck aches from the awkward way in which I’ve been resting it on the edge of the chair, and I immediately recognise that I’m in some pain. But there is also another feeling, although I’ve no words to describe it. I glance out of the window, half-hoping to find Solomon washing his car, but there is nobody in sight. Then I understand the strange feeling that has come over me. Loneliness. Carla won’t be coming today. I stare at the piano and realise that music lessons won’t help me today, but before I fall into any kind of depression I know what I’ve got to do. I’ve seen enough programmes on the television about this condition, and I’ve read enough articles. I know that I’ve got to go out, and so I decide to take a shower and dress quickly before my mind can absorb any more thoughts.

The woman in the newsagent’s shop at the bottom of the hill knows me. In fact, I get the impression that she knows everybody, and their business. She beams at me and I wonder if she reserves this particularly foolish expression for me, or if she uses it for all of us from up the hill. She always breaks off her conversation with whatever customer she’s dealing with so that she can take care of me. Today I buy a newspaper and a few groceries, and this gives her the opportunity to say, “So I take it you’ll not be going into town today then?” I beam back in her direction.

“No, I won’t.”

“Lessons?” she asks. “Has the card in the window brought you any luck?”

I’m sure she knows that only Carla has materialised as a result of the card, and now there’s nobody.

“I’ve had some promising phone calls.” I say this in a manner which lets her know that there’s nothing further to be said on the matter. The other woman stands in the shop and looks at me with a kind of pity. There’s something about her which makes me angry. She has no right to be staring at me in this way, let alone thinking whatever it is that she’s thinking. I take my change and turn from the pair of them. I hear the doorbell tinkle as I walk out, but I also feel their eyes upon my back and I know that as soon as the door closes their conversation will resume. It will be a highly different conversation, one that will, of course, include me as subject matter. I’m pretty sure that I’ve become the sort of person that Weston people feel comfortable talking about.

Once I reach the top of the hill I don’t have any doubt as to what I have to do. I go straight to his bungalow and knock loudly. A somewhat crumpled Solomon opens the door and looks me up and down. He rubs his eyes and blinks vigorously, and then he politely stifles a cough with the back of his hand. It must be strange for him seeing me in the morning, standing on his doorstep with my few bits of shopping. Neither of us says anything, and then he speaks.

“We are not supposed to be going into the town today, are we? I have not forgotten, have I?” He seems embarrassed, but I let out a short laugh to assure him that everything is fine, and there’s no need to worry.

“You haven’t forgotten anything. It’s just that I thought I’d come by to see if you were all right.”

He seems puzzled now. Again he looks me up and down as though trying to work out what has changed about me. He’s looking for evidence of some change, but he won’t see anything. At least I don’t think he will.

“Well,” he says, “you must come in.” He steps to one side. “Or have you already decided the answer to your question?”

“What question?” He catches me by surprise now.

“You can ask your question when you come in.”

I edge past Solomon and into the house, and he closes the door behind me. It’s much darker than I’d expected, but when he switches on the lights I feel a little easier.

“Please put down your shopping and let me take your coat. Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”

“Whatever’s easiest for you.”

“Please take a seat,” he says, pointing to the living room. “I will be fast.” With this said, he disappears into the kitchen and leaves me by myself. There’s not much in the way of furniture or home comfort to the room. In fact, it’s really quite bare, but I am most taken by the absence of any pictures of his family, although strangely enough there is a framed photograph of a middle-aged Englishman. I’m looking for clues as to who this man is, but there are none. He shouts out from the kitchen.

“Do you take sugar in your coffee?”

“Two, please.” I pause. “I know it’s a bad habit.” He doesn’t reply, which makes me feel anxious. He is, of course, right. I do have a question. Does he realise that he is also one of those people who Weston folk feel comfortable talking about? Does he care? As I look up he comes through with two cups of coffee, both of which he places on a small table.

“Taking sugar is not sinful. You have only yourself to please, is that not so?”

“Well, yes,” I say. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Biscuits?” Clearly he’s remembering yesterday.

“No, thanks. I’m fine. But thanks anyhow.”

He sits now and picks up his coffee and takes a loud sip. Then he puts it back down and turns to look in my direction.

“Perhaps people have been talking to you about me?” he asks.

“No, they haven’t, but I don’t care what people say.”

He smiles, then laughs out loud. Then he stands and walks the three or four paces to a tall wooden chest, pulls out a drawer and claims a sheaf of letters. He shuts the drawer and puts the letters on the coffee table.

“What are these?” I ask.

“Letters. Perhaps from the same people who have been talking.”

“What do you mean?” I put down my cup of coffee now. “I’m not following you.”

“Some people like to write to me.” Solomon laughs. He picks up his coffee again, which I take as a cue to pick up my own.

“What do they write to you about?”

I feel embarrassed, as though I am somehow responsible for these people, whoever they are. Solomon can see the predicament I’m in, so again he stands up.

“I am going for more coffee. Would you like some?” I shake my head. Solomon points to the pile of letters. “This is England. What kind of a place did I come to? Can you tell me that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you like it here?” asks Solomon, his voice suddenly impassioned.

I look at Solomon, but I really don’t understand. I feel as though he’s blaming me for something.

“I really don’t know anything else, do I? I mean, this is where I’m from, and I’ve not got anything to compare it to. Except France. I once went there on a day trip. I suppose that seems a bit pathetic to you, doesn’t it?” Solomon shakes his head.

“No, but I am asking you, what do you think of this place?”

“It’s where I’m from.”

He points again to the pile of letters. “Then maybe you should not read the letters.” Solomon disappears into the kitchen and I hear the clatter of dishes, and water being noisily poured into a kettle. Solomon sounds angry, but I don’t know what to do, so I simply stare at the letters.

After a few moments the noises stop, and then Solomon comes out of the kitchen and he sits opposite me. He seems calmer, and his eyes are softer, but I notice that his hands are shaking slightly. He carefully moves the cup up to his lips and then he replaces it on the saucer. When he’s driving he holds on tightly to the wheel. He’s in control and I feel safe with him, but sitting in this house he seems curiously vulnerable. He glances at the letters and I feel as though I have to say something.

“Do you want me to read them, is that it?”

Solomon laughs now, but he doesn’t say anything. I realise that he’s been hurt, and I watch him for a while and then decide that I should leave. As I stand up he also gets to his feet. It’s awkward for both of us, but I don’t think the relationship is in any way broken. Solomon reaches down and picks up an envelope.

“How do you open your letters?” He doesn’t hand me the envelope, he simply lets it dangle between his fingers. I look at him unsure of how I’m supposed to answer his question.

“Well,” I begin. “I just tear open the envelope.”

“Ah,” he says. He smiles now. “Just tear open the envelope. I usually do this too, but for some reason I decided not to with this one.”

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from all of this, but I continue to listen.

“For some reason I took a knife to it. This was a fine decision, for somebody had sewn razor blades into a sheet of paper and carefully turned the page over so that I would grab the so-called letter and have my fingers sliced off. This is not very kind.”

He laughs slightly and tosses the envelope down onto the pile with the other letters.

“Love letters,” he laughs. “From people who do not want me in this place.” Again he laughs. “I am beginning to take this personally.”

I sit back down and stare at the pile of letters. Solomon sits too, and he asks me if I would like more coffee. I look across at him and nod. “Would you mind?” He takes my cup and saucer and disappears into the kitchen.

“I’m not naïve.” I say this to myself. I whisper it under my breath. I’m not naïve. I’ve got stuck into these arguments in the past. With Mum and Dad, for starters, both of whom disliked coloureds. Dad told me that he regarded coloureds as a challenge to our English identity. He believed that the Welsh were full of sentimental stupidity, that the Scots were helplessly mean and mopish and they should keep to their own side of Hadrian’s Wall, and that the Irish were violent, Catholic drunks. For him, being English was more important than being British, and being English meant no coloureds. He would no more listen to me than would the teachers at school, who also hated coloureds. When people were around, they’d go on about them not really adapting well to our school system, but in private they were always “cheeky little niggers.” I know this is what people think, I’m not naïve, but why the hatred towards Solomon, who doesn’t talk to anybody? Who washes his car. Who hasn’t done anything. What do these people hope to achieve? In fact, who are these people? Are they the same people who write letters to the paper complaining about the new coins being too bulky, and the fact that telephone kiosks are no longer red? Do I know these people? Do I sit on the bus with them? I look up and Solomon has returned from the kitchen. He’s watching me looking at the pile of letters.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as he sets down my coffee and takes up the seat opposite me.

“You are sorry for what?” he asks. “I do not understand. You did not write any of these letters, did you?” He flashes me a smile. I don’t know if it’s appropriate to laugh, or if my laughter will somehow be interpreted as being disrespectful. But Solomon saves me. “Do not worry,” he says. “I know you did not write any of these letters. I am only making a joke.”

“But I’m sorry and I’m ashamed.”

“Well,” says Solomon. “I too am ashamed.”

“But what have you got to be ashamed about? You shouldn’t be ashamed of anything.”

“Why not? Sometimes the behaviour of my fellow human beings makes me ashamed.” He pauses. “And I too am not without guilt. Who among us is?”

I look at Solomon as he bites into a biscuit. He looks up and catches my eye.

“Please,” he says, “you must not apologise for these people. Most of them sign their names. They want me to know who they are.”

“But what do they want?”

“They want me to go away.”

“But why?”

Solomon sits back in the chair now. He seems nervous, but behind his uncertainty there is hurt.

“I do not know. They just want me to go. That is all.”

“But go where? I don’t understand.”

“Away.” Solomon looks tired. It’s still early in the morning, but there’s an aspect of defeat about his demeanour. “Just away, that is all.” He pauses and then he slowly shakes his head.

In the evening I decide to go to the pub for a second time. The landlord is friendly and he remembers me. He doesn’t, however, remember what I drink and so he asks me what I’d like. I tell him a half of Guinness, but I’m never sure if I really should be drinking and undergoing Dr. Williams’s tests at the same time. As he begins to pour, I make a promise that I’ll limit myself to the one drink.

“We don’t see many of you folk down here.”

I’m not sure if I’m being criticised, or if this is a situation with which the landlord is comfortable.

“A lot of people work long hours. Two jobs some of them, I think.”

“Yes,” he says as he takes a plastic knife and smooths off the top of the Guinness. “I expect they need to make some brass to pay off their fancy mortgages.” He laughs to let me know that this is his idea of wit. I smile to let him know that I’m not offended.

I hand him the exact money, and then I sit in the corner of the pub so that I can look out over the canal. In the garden, and seated around the wooden picnic tables, are the young hooligans, all of whom are drinking beer and gazing lovingly at their cluster of motorbikes as though worried that people might not realise that they’re the ones who own them. There’s only myself and the landlord in the pub, and an elderly man who watches over a pint in the corner opposite me. When I sat he nodded in silent acknowledgement, and I gave him the briefest of nods in return. It was, however, already clear that this would be the full extent of our intercourse.

I stare out of the window at the dark leaves of an old oak tree. Through its branches I can see the enlarged sun finally sinking in the west. I haven’t given it much thought, and perhaps this is my failing, but Solomon is the only coloured person in the village. In the town there are plenty of dark faces, but in this village he’s alone. And maybe he feels alone. Perhaps I should have invited him to come to the pub? It would have been easy to have said, “Can we get together this evening? Maybe go for a walk by the canal, and then pop into the pub for a drink. Would you like to do this, Solomon?” But I didn’t make any effort. Even tonight, as I was leaving the house to come out, I could have stopped by and asked him if he’d like to join me for a drink, but I didn’t. The landlord is washing glasses behind the bar. I have Solomon’s number on a piece of paper in my bag. I could ask the landlord if he has a public phone, and then call Solomon and suggest that he comes down and joins me in the pub, except that it would look like an afterthought and he might be insulted. I don’t want Solomon to become a problem in my life, but today I get the feeling that this is what he’s becoming and it’s making me feel awkward. I lift the glass to my mouth and take another sip. I decide that I’ll mind this drink until I see the sun disappear beyond the canal, and then while there’s still some light in the sky I’ll walk back up the hill to Stoneleigh. By the time I get to the top of the hill it will be dusk and I should be able to walk home without being seen.

I wait by the bus stop and worry that I might have got the time wrong. After a long night without sleep, I have made my decision and this morning I will act upon it. But I’m the only person standing here. Across the main road there are those villagers who are going into town. They talk to each other with casual ease, picking up conversations as though they have simply been set on the back burner for a few minutes. I stand by myself, going in the wrong direction, with a small suitcase by my side. I feel like I’m running away. In fact, I’m temporarily avoiding a man I don’t really know. I’m leaving my home for a few days. A day? I don’t know. But I’m alone at a bus stop waiting for a bus to come into view, and for the life of me I can’t work out if I’m doing the right thing. A girl is waving at me. It’s Carla, who’s seated in a white van that’s sitting outside the newsagent’s. A boy in a leather jacket, and with one of those army crew cuts, comes out of the shop and gets behind the wheel. Carla turns from me to the boy. They say something to each other, and then the boy leans past Carla, looks at me, and then the hairless boy starts the van’s engine. They pull off in the direction of town, and as they do so Carla waves me a final greeting. No doubt somewhere, down beneath the boy’s waistline, desire is already leaping like a trout, but who am I to warn Carla of the ways of men? Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think Carla feels sorry for me. However, she shouldn’t, for I’m quite resilient. People, especially young people, are always picking things up and dropping them again. Especially feelings. But I imagine Carla will find this out for herself in the fullness of time.

As I walk by the canal I keep looking around and wondering where exactly they found him. I know it was beyond The Waterman’s Arms, and out towards where the double locks are. It seems stupid that I should be so concerned with this, but I am. Where exactly? As far as I know, he didn’t go for walks down by the canal. In fact, he hardly left his bungalow apart from taking me to the hospital and patrolling Stoneleigh with his torch. It’s been raining heavily so the towpath has turned muddy, and the odd puddle has formed here and there. Somewhere, behind the hedges, I can hear the rush of a stream that has been swollen by the recent rain, and over the canal there hangs a thin ribbon of mist, which makes the water look like it’s sweating. At the best of times the stiles are an obstacle, but today it’s like climbing Ben Nevis. I don’t like traipsing about when it’s like this. You seem to spend as much time looking at your feet as you do trying to take in the scenery. The other thing about wandering up the canal path is that there are no benches, so this means that you have to keep going. And these towpaths always remind me of work. Straight lines, no messing, keep walking. Unlike rivers, canals are all business, which makes it hard for me to relax by one. It’s late morning, which probably accounts for why there’s nobody around. Early in the morning or late in the afternoon, before or after work, people walk the dog or take a stroll to work up an appetite; these are canal times. But even then, there’s hardly ever anybody by this canal, which is why it doesn’t make any sense that Solomon should be down here by himself.

The police haven’t a clue. They told me that there isn’t necessarily anything suspect, although they detected some evidence of bruising to the head. The truth is I’m not sure how hard they’re trying. I mean, there’s no yellow police tape, or signs asking for witnesses. It’s only two days ago that a man was drowned in this village, but everything is just going on as normal. I stop and peer over a hedgerow where a white-ankled horse stares back at me with that vacant quizzical look that they sometimes have. And your problem is? My problem is that my friend was found face down in this canal and nobody seems to care. I turn from the hedgerow, and the field’s curious occupant, and begin now to walk back in the direction of the village. Face down in a canal because he said something to somebody? I just don’t know. When I reach The Waterman’s Arms I turn from the towpath and cross the sodden garden, dodging the discarded children’s toys, until I come to the six stone steps that lead up to the public bar.

Inside the pub it’s quiet. A few people have already settled in for a lunchtime pint, and they barely look up as I enter. As I walk to the bar the landlord surprises me by reaching for a half-pint glass. “Half of Guinness, isn’t it?” I smile and ease myself up and onto a stool. The landlord focuses on the drink, as people tend to when they’re pouring a Guinness, and then he looks up at me.

“Friend of yours, wasn’t he?” The landlord hands me the Guinness and I remember to answer the question.

“Yes,” I say. “He was a friend of mine.”

“It’s a sad business, isn’t it? I’m sorry for him and I’m sorry for what it’s doing to our village.”

I take the Guinness and wonder if I should leave this stool and go to the other side of the pub, but it’s too late. It would look as though I was running away from something, which would, of course, be the truth.

“What it’s doing to the village?”

“Well, it makes us look bad, doesn’t it?”

“I still don’t understand,” I say. This time I take a drink and stare directly at him.

“Well, it must have been an accident because there’s nobody in Weston who would do anything like that.”

“I see.”

He looks over my shoulder at the other men in the pub. Now I understand. This is not a private conversation.

“If you’ve lived here as long as I have, love, and you’ve grown up with folks like these, you’d understand that there’s not one among them capable of harming anybody. That’s just how they are. Decent folk committed to their families and their community. We don’t have murderers here. A few villains, some with light fingers, and a few who are quick with their fists, but that’s about it. Nothing more than this.”

I nod, for I have no desire to upset his sense of community. I’m not sure that I want the rest of the Guinness, but to leave at this point would be to admit defeat, and out of respect for my friend I won’t be doing that. Not with these people. And then the landlord suddenly reaches beneath the bar as though remembering something. He rips open a packet of crisps and offers the bag to me, but I shake my head.

“No, thanks.”

He withdraws the bag, and then thrusts his hand in and pulls out a half-dozen crisps at once. “I can’t help it,” he says, “I’m addicted to the beggars, but only Bovril and maybe prawn. The others I can let go, but I’m addicted to Bovril.”

I watch this unselfconscious man and understand that until the bag is empty our conversation will remain on hold, which suits me fine.

I lock, and then bolt, the door behind me. The clock reminds me that it is only one in the afternoon, and I look around and realise that I’ve simply replaced the gloom of the pub with the gloom of my own house. It’s early autumn, but it looks and feels like winter. The Guinness seems to have gone straight to my head, and not even the walk up the hill in the fresh air has sorted me out. I slump down into the chair nearest the fireplace and close my eyes. It was only yesterday afternoon that I came back from the seaside and went directly to the hospital. When the bus passed through the village I stayed put. The doctor had previously told me that I must come in straight away if I ever didn’t feel right, and so I did as I was told. I had spent just the one night away, but I was in some discomfort and I could barely think. However, when I got to the hospital Dr. Williams took a quick look at me, and then he stared at my suitcase. He asked me to sit and then he began to quiz me about where I’d been, and so I told him that I’d just been to see my sister. I knew this would upset him, and I was right. “Dorothy,” he said, “your sister is dead. She died earlier this year in London. You know you haven’t been to see your sister, so where have you been?” I said nothing, for we’d already been through this enough times. He put on that caring face of his. “Dorothy, you’re going to have to learn to live without Sheila. I know it’s difficult for you, but if you can’t let go then we’ll have no choice but to get you some help.” Again I said nothing and I just waited until he’d run out of things to say. Eventually he got fed up of me, and then I dashed to the bus stop for it looked like it might start to rain. I was standing on the bus going home when I felt it in my blood that something was wrong. It wasn’t just the sight of burly, unemployed men sitting in the seats reserved for the handicapped and the elderly that was disturbing me, there was something else. I stared out of the window at the town’s terraced houses, great stripes of them arranged in narrow, ramrod-straight streets which, as we made our way into the countryside, finally gave way to a desolate landscape of empty fields over which the sun now hung ominously low.

I got home and had barely set down my suitcase before I heard the knock on the door. Standing there in the dark was a policeman and a policewoman, both in uniform, so there was no need for them to introduce themselves. I felt my stomach lurch. They asked me if I was Miss Dorothy Jones, and when I said “yes,” they asked me if they might come in for a minute. I stepped to one side and tried to work out just what they were doing round at my place. I mean, why would the police come banging on my door? They wiped their feet on the mat, took off their hats and I ushered them into the living room. However, even before they said anything it suddenly dawned on me who it was they had come to talk to me about. The woman spoke up.

“It’s about Solomon Bartholomew.”

“Yes,” I said. “Please take a seat.” They looked around and then, hats in hand, they backed gently into the sofa. I was going to offer them a cup of tea, but this seemed ridiculous. I wanted to hear what they had to say. The man spoke now.

“So you know Solomon Bartholomew?”

“Yes, he drives me to the hospital. He’s a very nice chap, who lives just there.” I pointed. “The green car is his.”

Now it was the turn of the policewoman.

“And when was the last time that you saw Mr. Bartholomew?”

“Just before I went away. I’ve been at the coast for the past day. Well, one night and two days. In fact, I’ve only just come back. Is something the matter?”

Again the woman spoke. “And you’re returning directly from there, are you?”

“Well, no. I stopped in town at the hospital.”

“But what I mean is you’ve not been here, in the village, for the past two days?”

“I’ve just told you, I’ve only just got back.”

The policewoman looked at the man, as though giving him the cue to assume his seniority.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Mr. Bartholomew has been found dead. He was found drowned, face down in the canal.”

I don’t know what expression crossed my face, but the look obviously registered something with him for he felt compelled to go on.

“You know the canal we’re talking about?”

“What happened?” I knew that I was whispering, but I couldn’t find my breath.

“Well, there was some bruising to the head so we can’t rule out foul play. But as I’m sure you appreciate, we don’t want to jump to any conclusions for there isn’t necessarily anything suspect.”

The woman leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“I’m sorry. We thought it best to come and tell you ourselves as people said you knew him.”

It was after the police had gone that Carla came to see me. I hardly ever have anybody come to my door, so to have two visits in rapid succession was disturbing. I got out of the chair and imagined that it was somebody else wanting to tell me about Solomon. Young Carla stared up at me with sad eyes, and so I asked her in. She wiped her feet and then sat down somewhat heavily in the armchair that I had just vacated. She did so without taking her eyes from me the whole time, which made me feel nervous. I asked Carla if she’d like some tea or coffee, but she just shook her head and then, for the first time, she spoke.

“It’s about your friend. The black guy.”

“Solomon.”

“Yeah, him.”

I looked at her and waited for her to go on, but she said nothing. She lowered her eyes and stared at the space between her trainer-clad feet. “What’s the matter, Carla?”

“I really shouldn’t be here. Paul will kill me if he knows I’m here.”

I sat now, and it was my turn to watch her closely.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Carla twisted herself around and reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a letter. As she handed it to me, she looked up.

“I found this and it’s addressed to the black guy. They’re out of order, Miss. I’m not stupid. I know what they’re like.” Carla paused. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

“You’re sorry about what?”

I looked closely at Carla, who was now leaning forward so that she was sitting on the edge of the armchair.

“They’ll kill me, Miss, if they find out I’m here.”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Carla?”

“Paul and his mates. Paul’s my boyfriend. They’re just stupid bullies.”

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“No. Course not.”

“Have you put yourself in danger?”

“I don’t think so.” Carla looked puzzled and then she sat back in the armchair. “What do you mean?”

“Carla, where did you get this letter?”

“I nicked it out of Paul’s pocket. I told you, they’re bullies. They’ve been writing stuff like this for a while now. They think it’s a laugh, but I’ve told them it’s bang out of order.”

I looked at an agitated Carla, who was clearly ready to leave now.

“Did they harm Solomon, Carla?”

“I think they just wanted to frighten him. But I didn’t want any part of any of it, Miss. None of it.”

“Any part of what?”

Carla stood up now. She began to fumble with the zip on her jacket.

“Miss, maybe you should go to the police, but you can’t tell them anything about me.”

“Perhaps you should go to the police, Carla. Unless, of course, you’re simply making the whole thing up?” Carla flashed me a look that was initially disbelief. Then I saw her face change as she became angry. “Listen, Carla, if you’ve got something to say, then please say it. We shouldn’t be falling out. Not over something as serious as this.”

“We’ve not fallen out, Miss.”

I looked at her as she finished zipping up her jacket.

“I mean, I brought you the letter. What else do you want me to do?”

“I want you to tell me the truth, Carla.” For a moment Carla looked at me as though she was going to storm out, and then she sighed and shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but they told me to fetch him, so I did.”

“They?”

“Paul and his mates, Dale and Gordon. I knocked on the black guy’s door and asked him to give us a hand pushing Paul’s van as it wouldn’t start. He was okay about it, but when he came out they jumped him and tied him up. That’s when I didn’t want nothing to do with it any more.”

“But did you help Solomon?”

Carla lowers her eyes. “No, Miss.” She pauses. “They drove him down to the canal, then out towards the quarry. They just wanted to have some fun, but when they opened the back of the van to let him out, he went nuts, Miss. He’d undone the ropes and he started to attack them like a madman. It was scary, and he was shouting and carrying on, and then he had a go at Paul. The others grabbed him and then Paul bricked him.”

“He did what, Carla?”

“They were by the quarry, Miss. Paul picked up a stone and smacked him on the head and he went down. Then they all started to brick him, but it didn’t take long before he wasn’t moving no more. Miss, I was scared. I didn’t know what to do, but Paul said it was self-defence and they’d be okay. But the others didn’t want to know, so they decided to push him in to make it look like an accident.” Carla looked up at me. “Miss, he was terrifying. I thought he was gonna kill them, honest. They’ll never say anything, but I could see that they were scared stiff. He kind of went mad, Miss, talking about how he was a bird that could fly, and he kept mentioning you.”

“But Carla, they murdered him, and you helped.”

“I know, Miss.” Her voice broke and tears began to roll down her face. “I’d best go now.”

“What’ll you do, Carla?”

“I ain’t got much choice now, have I, Miss?” She paused. “Paul and his mates are off on holiday on Monday, so I’ll have to tell the police before then.”

“And you will tell them? Everything you’ve told me?”

“I will, Miss. I told you, I promise.”

I watched as Carla left the room, and I decided to leave her alone. There was no need to see her out. I waited for the door to slam shut, and then I looked at the grubby envelope with Solomon’s name and address painstakingly scrawled in capital letters.

When I wake up it’s dusk. I’ve fallen asleep in the chair by the fireplace and slept the afternoon away. Obviously the half-pint of Guinness took hold of me. I look out of the window and see the green car standing alone. Without Solomon, Weston suddenly seems like a strange and empty village, and it feels as though a whole lifetime has passed since the day that Solomon came calling. I have a doorbell, so it was unusual to hear somebody knocking at the door. In fact, it seemed a bit rude, so I opened the door somewhat gruffly. I saw Solomon standing there in his Sunday best, his hands clasped in front of him as though he were about to pray. I’d seen him cleaning his car, of course, and I’d noticed him walking about, especially in the evenings, but I couldn’t for the life of me work out what he thought he was playing at, knocking at my door like this.

“I saw you at the bus stop yesterday. And before this, in the rain.” I looked him up and down and waited for him to go on. However, I realised that he wasn’t going to say anything further until I said something to him.

“Yes,” I said. “I was going into town. I go once or twice a week.”

“Yes, I know. I have seen you as I have driven past. But I am not really sure if I should stop.”

“Stop where?” I wrinkled my forehead.

“Stop to ask you if you would like me to drive you into the town. After all, we are neighbours. I am the night-watchman for the Stoneleigh estate.” He gestured all around him. “This is my job.”

I nodded. I knew who he was, but he was being a bit strange, so it seemed best to say nothing more. I thought about just closing the door, but then he spoke again.

“Please, when are you going to town again?” Suddenly I felt sorry for him, for I could see now that he was harmless. Obviously he didn’t have any friends, and it seemed stupid to have him standing on the doorstep like he was some kind of Jehovah’s Witness.

“Would you like to come in?” He stared at me, but he did not reply. Didn’t he want to come in? I looked over his shoulder to see if there was anybody else in the cul-de-sac watching, but I couldn’t see anybody.

“You have not answered my question,” he said. “If you need some time to consider my offer, then I will understand.”

Very generous, I thought, but at least he seems more peculiar than he does dangerous.

“I’ll be going in tomorrow. I’ve got to see the doctor regularly these days.”

“I am sorry. Is everything all right?”

“Well, hardly.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth I felt terrible. I knew there was no need to speak to him in this way. He was only trying to be helpful, and the truth was he had done nothing to deserve this kind of reply.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I’ve just had a bad few days.”

“Well, standing at the bus stop does not help one’s spirit.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t help at all.” I paused for a moment, and then I realised that this was the first real conversation I’d had in weeks.

“What time is your appointment?”

“Noon. What I mean is I have to be there by noon.”

“Then I shall collect you at eleven-thirty precisely.”

“Eleven-thirty,” I said. I watched as he bowed slightly, and only then did he turn and move to go away. It seemed to me a strange way to leave somebody, and so I didn’t shut the door. Instead, I watched as he practically marched the short distance back to his bungalow. As he put the key into his door he didn’t turn around. Perhaps he could feel my eyes upon him? Perhaps he was already lost in some thoughts of his own? Whatever it was, I sensed that this man was lonely and in need of conversation.

The next morning, instead of walking over, and then the two of us walking back to where his car was, he drove the short distance, kept the engine running, and then came and knocked on my door. I wanted to laugh when I saw what he’d done, but I didn’t know if this would cause offence. For the first few minutes he was silent, and then he began to talk. He wanted to know if it was serious, whatever it was that I was going to the hospital for, but I didn’t answer him.

“I do not mean to pry. I just thought that it might please you to have somebody to talk with.”

I found the gloves the most unusual part of his costume. It was hot, yet he was wearing gloves and a collar and tie, but I appreciated the formality.

“The doctor says I’m suffering from stress, whatever that means.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did give a slight nod as though to let me know that he had heard.

“But apparently it’s difficult to get to the bottom of it. It’s always difficult to know what to do.”

“I am sorry to hear this unfortunate news.” He looked across at me now. “But you look well. You look very well.”

“Thank you.” I paused. “I’m doing all right, I suppose.”

“Do you have anybody to help?”

“Help?” I asked. “I’m not sure what you mean by help.”

We looked at each other now.

“I mean somebody to talk to. Somebody to assist you with this difficult situation.”

“Do I look like I need help?”

“No, that is not what I meant.”

I knew that he was trying to make me feel more comfortable. I appreciated this, but I didn’t want him to do anything more than just drive me. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted him to do this.

“I am sorry.” He had an apologetic tone to his voice, and the look on his face was pained. “I did not mean to interfere.”

During the bus journey back from the seaside I had thought of poor Solomon sitting alone in his bungalow, with only his memories for company, wondering where I’d gone to. Wanting me. The journey itself was dull and uneventful. I sat near the front and looked over the driver’s shoulder at the road ahead. I could see everything from his point of view, but there was nothing inviting about the coarse, bracken-strewn landscape that swam out flat to either side of the road and so I closed my eyes. When I opened them again the sky had already begun to turn dark, and I was being blinded by lights either flashing past us red, or barrelling towards us white. When the bus reached the town I stood up and remained hopeful that Dr. Williams might still be seeing patients, for the splitting headache that had plagued me during the previous night had returned. “Have a good evening, love,” said the driver, but I didn’t reply. I was clutching my suitcase with one hand and gripping the hand rail with the other, and trying hard to concentrate so that I didn’t fall down the three stairs.

The half of Guinness has really done for me. I’m still tired. Not surprising though, for I didn’t sleep much last night. In fact, yesterday was difficult. First, I’d had to endure a day of sitting alone on a windswept promenade. Then the tedious bus journey, followed by yet another encounter with Dr. Williams in which he didn’t appear to want to take me seriously. Then the police. Then Carla and the stupid letter. After Carla left I maybe got a couple of hours at most before the sound of car doors slamming woke me up. And this morning I walked by the edge of the canal in the dreary autumn haze, and I thought of my friend lying face down in the water like a dead fish. It’s hard to believe that there will be no more trips to the Somalian and Mediterranean Food Hall, or conversations with him in my house, or time spent with him in his house trying to work out who exactly the strange man is in the photograph on the mantelpiece. I worry over who will look after his car, or tell his family. I don’t even know if he has any family. The poor man may as well have been living on the dark side of the moon. It was only after I’d been to the pub and had the half of Guinness, and then walked back up the hill, that it finally dawned on me. I slumped down in this chair and realised that there’s no way that I can live among these people. I don’t think they care about anybody apart from their stupid selves, and if this is true then I too may as well be living on the dark side of the moon.

Out beyond the viaduct, and through the evening gloom, I can see that night has paused on the horizon. In a minute I’ll get up out of this chair and pull the curtains. Weston is simply not the place that I hoped I might be retiring to. I suppose I knew this yesterday when the policeman and policewoman came to tell me about Solomon as though they were enquiring about an unpaid parking ticket. And then there was poor confused Carla, who was obviously terrified of the boyfriend who’d been doing Lord only knows what with her for the past few months. I listen to the birds singing as the day finally begins to fade behind the viaduct. I turn Solomon lightly over in my mind. Maybe I should visit the small stone church and say some kind of a prayer for my friend? And then one final trip to town to put flowers on Mum and Dad’s grave? And then what? Off to some tropical place to tell Solomon’s family? And then? Back here and live with Sheila by the seaside? If I mention Sheila to Dr. Williams he only gets annoyed, so it’s perhaps best to say nothing further to him on this topic. Maybe Sheila and I can go abroad together. For the first time I want to leave England. To see Spain or Italy. England has changed.

I decide to take Carla’s boyfriend’s letter to the pub. I have to do something because I don’t want it in the house with me for another night. After I’ve had breakfast, I put on my jacket, but then I realise that it’s still too early. So I sit with my jacket all buttoned up, and with my handbag on my lap, and I wait until just before eleven. Then I get up and go out. It is a nice morning. I double-lock the door behind me. Strange really, because I only used to do that when I lived in town, and then only when I was going away for any length of time. Here, at Stoneleigh, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to double-lock. This is a residential area, and I don’t get the idea that we’re in any danger of being broken into. There’s also a night-watchman and so it has never occurred to me to double-lock. But maybe that’s it. We don’t have a night-watchman any more.

As I walk down the hill I realise that I’ve been foolish because instead of just sitting in the house for three hours staring into mid-air, I could have gone for a walk. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Get some exercise, or do some shopping, but I’ve already failed to make proper use of this day. There is an early autumn chill in the air, and I can tell that winter is just around the corner waiting to pounce. There won’t be many more days like this and so there’s something sinful about having wasted the better part of the morning. At the bottom of the hill I see a few of the villagers, but I ignore them. Especially now, after what they’ve done. I stop at the main road and wait for the traffic to clear. It looks to me like it might take for ever as the cars and lorries are streaming by in both directions. I feel uncomfortable standing helplessly where everybody can see me, and I think about just dashing out into the road and making them stop for me. But I know that I’m just being silly. I’ll have to wait like everybody else.

I am the first one into The Waterman’s Arms. I knew I would be, for it is only a few minutes past eleven. I shut the door behind me and walk the few paces to the bar. There is no sign of the landlord, but I can hear voices. Somebody is around. In fact, somebody has to have drawn back the curtains and unbolted the door. My guess is that the landlord was simply not expecting anybody this early so he’s gone round the back to finish off some chores. Fair enough, I think, I’ll wait. There’s a bell, but I don’t want to sound it off like I’m in a hurry, or annoyed, so I sit on a stool and stare out of the window. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring, but it seems like ages before I hear the landlord’s voice. At first he frightens me, and then I turn and see him smiling at me from behind the bar. He’s caught me by surprise, but I’ve also caught him by surprise for he’s still doing up his tie.

“Well, you’re keen, aren’t you?”

“Good morning.” I hope this will put him in his place. After all, if he’s going to wear a collar and tie, he can at least make the effort to conduct himself as though he’s familiar with the type of behaviour that generally goes with civilised dress. He seems a bit taken aback that I’ve chastised him, but I can see that he’s also keen to pretend that he hasn’t been scolded. No doubt this better suits his ego.

“And it’s a blooming nice morning at that. What’ll you have? Your usual?”

“I’ll have a half-pint of Guinness, please.”

He’s already pulling the half-pint from the pump, but he stops for a moment and looks puzzled. Then he continues. However, it is his own fault for being too familiar. He ought to know his place. He hands me the small glass of Guinness, and I hand him a five-pound note and then smile sweetly when he produces my change.

“There you are, love.”

I’m sure he assumes that I’m going to sit with him at the bar, but I take the money and the drink and I walk to a small table by a window where I turn side-on to him so that when I look up there can be no accidental eye contact. For a few minutes I can hear him tidying up around the bar, but the truth is there isn’t really any tidying up to be done. He’s only just opened up and everything is in order. He’s just embarrassed that I’ve walked away from him, but he can’t pick a fight with a middle-aged lady. I let him stew for a while and then I hear his voice, which is somewhat less assertive than usual.

“I’ll just be out back finishing off a few things.”

I turn and look at him, as though shocked to discover that he is still present. And then I smile, as I might smile at a pupil, just to let him know that he is dismissed now.

I don’t really want the beer. As soon as he goes through to the back I push it away from me. I want to do what I have to do, and then go before anybody else comes in. I stand up and walk over to the small notice board. Aside from a small postcard-size piece of paper asking for volunteers for the village rugby team, there is nothing else pinned up. I take the envelope from my handbag, slip the letter out, open it up, and then I take a drawing pin from the bottom left-hand corner of the rugby notice and pin the abusive letter into place. I’ve “mailed” it back to them. I don’t need it in my house, for it doesn’t belong there. They can have it back.

Once I reach the top of the hill I walk straight past my house and towards Solomon’s bungalow. It is actually getting warm now and so I slip off my jacket. When I get to the bungalow I stop and stare at it. I think about what secrets I might find inside, were I to sneak in and rummage around. The one time that I visited Solomon, I saw nothing which gave me a clue about his past or his present. Besides, that is, the photograph of the Englishman on the mantelpiece. I don’t even know what Solomon liked. Except, of course, his precious car, which still stands in the driveway. I put down my bag, then scrunch my jacket up into a ball. The least I can do for him is to polish it. It’s getting dusty and Solomon would never have let it deteriorate into such a state. And so I start to polish his car, but I try to copy the way that he used to do it. All careful, with small circular movements like you’re gently stirring a bowl of soup.

I suppose it’s when I see them standing in the street and just staring at me that I know something is wrong. I have to ask myself, is it that fascinating watching me trying to keep Solomon’s car clean? Don’t they wash their own cars? Of course they do, and I don’t come and stand and look at them, so I don’t see the point of this communal gawping. Not everybody has come out, but there’s enough of them to make me feel awkward and so I stop. The car is almost spotless anyhow, so it isn’t like I haven’t done a good job or anything. It’s just that I don’t want to be putting on a show, and that’s how I feel. But I also don’t want to stay in Stoneleigh with them any more. I resolve to use the day sensibly and go into town and talk with my parents. I uncrumple my jacket and fold it up and push it into my bag. It is far too dirty to wear, but I don’t want to go back into my house and feel trapped there, so I secrete it in my bag where nobody can see it. I just have to hope that the weather doesn’t change, otherwise I know I’ll get cold.

When I get to the cemetery the boy is nowhere to be seen. I’m surprised because he always seems to be there with his seemingly unstoppable enthusiasm. But today of all days he isn’t around. I spread the jacket out on the grass by Mum and Dad’s grave and then I sit down and begin to talk to them. I tell them everything about Solomon that I can think of. I know Dad has some opinions about coloureds, and that he won’t be totally sympathetic to a lot of what I’m saying about Solomon, but I still want to tell them. Dad doesn’t say much. After a while Mum starts to cry and she asks me what it was about Solomon that made me want to be seen with him. I think for a while, and I then tell her that there was nothing in particular, it was just that Solomon was a proper gentleman. In fact, one of the first gentlemen that I’d ever met, with his smart driving gloves. He really showed Brian up for the slob that he is, but I don’t have a chance to say anything for Mum hasn’t finished. She goes on, but she’s so upset that she can hardly get the words out. Didn’t I understand what people would say about me if I were to be seen with a coloured, and particularly one as dark as this Solomon? She’d not brought me up to be that type of girl. Why, she wants to know, why would I want to do this to them both? There’s no point in looking to Dad for any help, for I’m not going to get any from him. I try again and tell them that Solomon treated me with respect, but they don’t want to hear this for their minds are already made up. Eventually neither of them will speak to me, and so I begin to plead. I just wanted to be happy, I say, and I could tell that Solomon was a man who could have made me happy. Mum continues to weep, but Dad has his one ugly word, and I could have predicted it before he even opened his mouth. Slag. He doesn’t even want to look at me any more, that’s how bad it is. As it starts to get dark, I reckon that I’d better leave them alone. This isn’t going anywhere and I’m starting to get cold. I stand up, pull on my filthy jacket and look around one final time to see if I can spot the boy, but there’s no sign of him.

On the way back to the bus station I see a few of them. They are staring as though there’s something the matter with me, but I try to ignore them. Really, they should be ashamed of themselves with their hands out, begging for decent people’s money when there’s no reason at all why they shouldn’t be working and earning their own. I’m retired and I don’t have anything to give to them. And even if I did, why would I? They should go and get a job. I tell this to one of them and he just laughs and shows me his yellow teeth. Like an animal, he is crouched in a doorway. They’re disgusting, dragging themselves and the country down like this. Just behind the bus station I see a large group of them gathered around an oil-drum which they’ve set alight. It has bits of wood sticking out of it, and they are huddled together and vigorously rubbing their hands and stamping their feet. It makes me feel angry just to look at them.

“What you looking at?” says one of them. It’s a woman, which somehow makes it worse. She looks and sounds like a gypsy, with her black hair, and her black eyes, and her grimy black hands. Sheila and I have always been scared of gypsies and Mum had told us to run away if any of them ever spoke to us. They are nasty, and they like to take away people’s children, everybody knows that much. So I don’t say anything back to this woman, but when she spits in my direction I feel my blood beginning to boil. It’s awkward, for I’m not dressed how I want to be dressed. There isn’t much dignity to a crumpled jacket, but I’m not going to let this stop me from speaking my mind. But I don’t know what to say.

The policewoman says that they found Dr. Williams’s phone number on the referral card in my bag. That’s how come Dr. Williams finds himself at the police station, sitting across a table from me, nervously kneading his hands together as though he’s making bread. I still don’t know what I’m doing here, but I suppose that something bad must have happened. I’m just waiting for either Dr. Williams or the policewoman to speak, for I know that one of them will have to explain to me what the gypsy woman did. After all, I’m covered in bruises and I’m still bleeding.

“Are you all right, Dorothy?” Dr. Williams is looking at me, but I can see that he is worried. I stare back at him, but what am I supposed to say? I don’t know if I’m all right. I don’t even know what happened.

“What time is it?”

The doctor looks at his watch and then he arches his eyebrows. “It’s getting late. Nearly eleven.”

“At night?”

Dr. Williams nods and I stare first at him, then at the policewoman, then back at him.

“I don’t think you’re well, Dorothy. Shouting and brawling with homeless people, well, that’s just not you.”

I remember something now. She spat and I spat back, and then the shouting started, and then I struck her, and the police arrived. Maybe this policewoman was one of them, but no matter how long I stare at her I can’t remember if she was there or not. The policewoman looks at Dr. Williams as though asking for his help, but why? I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just looking at her and trying to work something out, but that’s how it seems to go these days. I can’t do anything right at all, can I?

I turn to Dr. Williams. “I don’t want to be in this police station.”

He is smiling at me, but I need something more than this. I’m afraid smiling isn’t good enough any more.

“I don’t want to be in this place! Can’t you hear me? I don’t want to be in this place!”

“Dorothy, I think you need to spend some time convalescing in an environment where you can get better, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

I look closely at him, but his words make no sense. I know I’m sick. I still have problems sleeping, but unless there’s been some serious change that he hasn’t told me about, then I should be going home. That’s where I belong. I shouldn’t be at this police station talking about convalescing. Perhaps I’ve got Sheila’s cancer, but I’ve been managing with it all right, haven’t I? My jacket is a bit crumpled, I can see that. In fact, it’s dirty, but it just needs a wash and then everything will be fine, won’t it? It will be all right. I’m all right. It occurs to me that if I just stare at Dr. Williams then I can make him believe me when I say that everything is all right, but he simply looks back at me and the longer I stare, the more I begin to feel like a fool.

Apparently I am convalescing. They always keep a light on somewhere. In the corridor, or on the other side of the room. I confess, I can’t sleep properly. I’ve told them this, but they said that if the tablets and the hot milk don’t help, then they can always give me the needle. But I’m not sure that they really listen to me. When I went to the seaside I didn’t sleep. It took just over an hour to get there, and as we entered the town I saw a big field with maybe a hundred caravans set down on top of thick concrete slabs. In the corner of the field there stood a row of rusting tin sheds that I presumed to be the toilets and showers. Kids were drinking from standpipes, and recent rain had turned the whole place into a huge sea of mud. Once I got off the bus there was nowhere to go, so I lugged my suitcase into the bus-station café and found a seat in the far corner. I noticed a sticky mess of honey on the table where it had not been properly wiped off, so I was careful not to put my elbows up. A pregnant young girl came across and stood with pocketed hands. Before I could say anything she announced, “We’re all out of buns, but we’ve got cellophane-wrapped fruit cake and sandwiches.” I just wanted tea, and when it finally arrived it did so with a clatter. I sat in the bus station for a while and had one cup of tea after another and watched the pregnant girl, who was clearly stupid with confidence. She ashed her cigarette into a tea cup that was similar to the one that I was drinking out of, and then she started to gyrate to imaginary pop music as she stacked the saucers on top of the side plates. I felt my arms fold up across my chest, like the sleeves of a shirt after it’s been ironed, and I stared at the creature.

Eventually it got dark, and little Miss Know-it-all made it clear that she needed to close up the café. She gave a deliberate yawn in response to my question, and then pointed me towards a small hotel that overlooked the promenade. It had one of those signs outside that advertised the name of the hotel, then beneath it there were two hooks where they could hang a sign that said “vacancies” or one that said “no vacancies.” I was lucky, for the sign said they had “vacancies,” but judging by the dismal state of the place, I imagined that on most days they would have vacancies. The woman asked me if I’d like dinner in my room or in the dining room with the other guests, but I saved her any bother by letting her know that I didn’t want dinner, full stop. I wasn’t nasty about it or anything, but I felt that I had to make myself clear so there would be no confusion on her part. She asked me if I wanted a hot water bottle, as mine was an attic room and it could get a bit nippy, but I let her know that there would be no need for a hot water bottle. Fatigue had begun to cloud my mind like a thick fog, and I didn’t want to be disturbed.

The room smelled of mice and unwashed clothes. There was a single bed, a severe upright wardrobe, a pine dresser, and in the corner a metal chair over which a white towel was draped. There was also a paraffin heater, but it didn’t look like anyone had used that in a while. The bed felt warm and clammy, as though somebody had recently crawled out of it, and so I reached for the towel, which was as rough as sandpaper. I spread it on top of the brown bedspread, and then listened. I heard feet pass my door and then fade away down the corridor. A door opened and then closed with a powerful echo, and I turned and glanced in the mirror on the dresser. I was tired, and I looked terrible, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep in a single bed. For most of my adult life I’d associated them with not being grown-up, and they always made me feel like I’d stepped back into an era that I remember being anxious to leave behind. I kicked off my shoes, and then lay on the towel and looked up through the unadorned skylight. There was no bedside lamp or radio, and I now understood that I would have to survive till morning staring at the black night through this skylight window.

Dawn broke without emergency. I had been presented with the gift of the whole night to think everything through. I wanted Solomon to understand that he wasn’t going to be able to just take me for granted. I wanted to be able to tell him about my adventures with my sister, and then I would wait a few weeks and disappear again. Lonely Solomon. I wanted to keep him on his toes until he realised for himself that he really didn’t like it if I wasn’t around all of the time. Then he would want me. I swung my legs down off the side of the single bed and felt the damp chill of the floor. I remembered something else about single beds that I didn’t like. They reminded me of when Sheila turned up at university with her rucksack. After I’d cancelled my music practice for that evening, I sat back on the edge of my bed with her and we both cradled our cups of tea in our hands. And then she told me. I knew I should have made more effort to help her instead of just staring at her, but it wasn’t easy to hear what she had to say. I kept trying to get the conversation back onto more pleasant things like Mum’s embarrassing attempts at singing, but Sheila would have none of it. She kept asking me why I wouldn’t believe her, and why did I think that she would lie about something like that? “You know he used to take me to the allotments with him. I mean, what’s the matter with you? Why can’t you believe me?” The problem, of course, was that I did believe her. I knew she was right when she said that the fact that it had stopped now didn’t make it any better, but underneath it all the real question that I wanted answered was how come I escaped his attention? Did he love her more than me? I knew that he loved me more than he loved Mum, but why take Sheila down to the allotments with him? Of all people, why our Sheila? I tried again to change the subject, but Sheila still wasn’t having any of it. She wanted to make sure that I’d heard her, and I had. I eventually slipped my arm around my sister’s shoulders, but her weeping had now given way to silence. Trying to change the subject was stupid, and I’d not said the right things. I’d failed her, and we both knew that something had changed between us. In those few moments, sitting on the edge of my single bed, a part of my sister simply disappeared from view. The rest of her life had not been very satisfactory. Including our brief time together in London. After nearly thirty years we tried once more to be together, but it was too late. Following that night in my dormitory room, Sheila couldn’t talk to me again, and her grief was not something that I could simply penetrate by sympathy. We were civil with each other, but I’d lost her that night, with her rucksack standing by the door. After Sheila died I wrote to myself and pretended it was her doing the writing. It was all I had left of her. My imaginary Sheila who likes me and still needs my help. But my cowardice had lost me my real sister. My poor, grieving Sheila. Daddy’s little pet.

My memory is getting stronger. I think that’s a part of convalescing. If so, then it’s a good part for I don’t want to forget things. The people in this place give me tablets and hot milk, but although they don’t help me to sleep, they help me to remember. I checked out of the depressing hotel and spent my second day by the sea sitting on a bench on the promenade. The water was being lashed and torn, and it leaped upwards in great buffalo-headed waves. What I really desired was a steady, comforting beat, with the surf printing its pattern like lace against the sand, but instead I had been presented with an angry summer sea. The wind was making a clown of my scarf, and it kept blowing strands of grey hair across my face. Regular as clockwork I had to take the loose hairs and pull them back from my eyes, but there was not much to see. A cargo ship far out on the horizon, and just beneath the promenade an energetic dog acrobatically fielding a Frisbee that its bored owner was dispatching with increasing impatience. I kept wondering what he’d be doing right now, whether he’d be knocking at the door to make sure that I was all right, or just peering from behind his blinds and wondering where I’d got to. By the time the afternoon came it was starting to get a little chilly, so I picked up my suitcase and began to make my way to the bus station. I thought about killing some more time by popping into a pub, but the only one that I saw had a garden out front whose grass was worn bald, no doubt by yobbo powwows, and wooden tables that were covered with empty pint glasses and overflowing ashtrays. I pressed on, and I waited in the station until a bus was leaving for Weston. Once on board I sat near the front so I could look over the driver’s shoulder. Across the aisle a blowsy woman proceeded to annoy me, for she slapped sand from her unshod feet onto the floor of the bus, where she no doubt imagined that somebody less important than her would clean it up. I decided not to get off at Weston, and instead I went straight through to town and saw Dr. Williams, which was a waste of time. But the truth was I just wanted to take up a bit more time so that Solomon would miss me even more. However, an hour or so later, when I finally got back to the village, I knew that something was wrong. When I saw the policeman and the policewoman standing at the door I felt my stomach lurch. I told them to come in, and they took off their hats as they did so. Then they told me.