Towers of Silence

Chapter Twenty

I was in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor when my mobile rang. It was Eddie Cliff from the Whitworth Centre. He had spoken to the Craft Club the previous day and he thought tomorrow would be all right if I still wanted to talk to them. Some people were a little edgy about it but he could be there and give me the nod if he felt anyone was getting uncomfortable.

“I know the signs,” he explained. “It’s not always obvious.”

It was short notice but fitted in with my plans to do anything other than spend another day bored rigid watching Adam Reeve brood at the Arndale Centre.

Digger slunk in while I was finishing the call. I shooed him away with my foot. He shot me a doleful look, resentful that he couldn’t occupy his favourite spot beside the old armchair by the bay window in the kitchen. Originally I thought he liked it there because it was handy for any food dropping events but it’s actually just where the central heating pipes run under the wooden floor to the radiator. Warmth plus the prospect of table scraps.

Mopping complete, I shut the door on it and plugged the hoover in the hall socket. First I needed to sweep the stairs with a stiff brush. I don’t enjoy housework but I try and do it as energetically as possible and consider it exercise. Well, I try. I duly swapped the little brush from hand to hand and went down the stairs like the clappers. Digger was now stretched out alongside the radiator in the hall. When I switched the hoover on I swear he rolled his eyes at me before getting to his feet with an air of resignation and padding off into the playroom.

I had been responsible for arriving home unannounced with Digger. But my role in his care stopped there. Digger adores Ray and sees me as a bit of an irritant. It’s mutual, every which way. Oh, he’s a pleasant enough dog but I am not a doggy person.

Looking in the playroom there was precious little carpet visible beneath the tide of bright plastic bits that reached from wall to wall. I couldn’t face the sort and tidy ordeal required to excavate the carpet for hoovering and I didn’t have the time anyway. It was ten to three. The lounge was okay. I wheeled the hoover in there.

The garden looked glum at this time of year, even though there were plenty of evergreen shrubs. I’d left most of the herbaceous perennials as they were, hoping that a coating of frost would redeem them and preferring old stalks to bare earth. However we hadn’t had such low temperatures yet and they all had that sodden, battered look. Half-dead and neglected. A hardy fuchsia still sporting tiny deep pink flowers, hanging like delicate lanterns and a snowberry bush heavy with masses of small white balls were the only bright colours in among the muddy browns and straw shades. Oh, of course the grass was green. The grass was drenched. I could have grown rice out there. Or farmed trout. Well – almost.

A squirrel dug in the lawn, stashing some nuts or seeds. Another month or so, maybe six weeks and the snowdrops would be starting. The days would get a little longer. Everything would start to grow again. I couldn’t wait.