‘KGB?’
‘You know—the KGB—the secret police.’ Margery had withdrawn an abundance of material on the Gestapo and KGB from East Leeke Library’s well-stocked history section.
‘You must of heard about the KGB, Beatrice—how they used to come in the night while you were asleep,’ Margery carried on, breathless. ‘The footsteps on the stairs, down the hallway…knocking on doors, doors opening…people disappearing.’ She paused. ‘They came in the night,’ she said again, insisting on this.
After a while, Beatrice said lightly, ‘So does Freddie Kruger.’
‘He sounds German—was Czechoslovakia covered by the Stasi?’ Margery asked, interested.
‘Margery,’ Beatrice reined her in. ‘How long are you staying for?’
This brought Margery up short. Always sensitive to any hint of expulsion or the fact that she was outstaying her welcome, she said quickly, ‘Not long—it’s just while I’ve got the decorators in.’
‘What colour?’ Beatrice asked. She’d been to Margery’s East Leeke bungalow once—when Kate and Robert got married—and the only place she’d ever been to before that bore even the slightest semblance to the bungalow in terms of décor and overall atmosphere was a euthanasia clinic on Denmark’s Jutland coast.
‘What colour—what?’
‘What colour are you having the walls painted?’
Beatrice was shouting—Margery was sure Beatrice was shouting at her, and there was no need to do that; there was nothing partial about her hearing.
‘Magnolia,’ she said, surprised Beatrice had even asked.
‘What colour was it before?’
‘Magnolia.’
A pause. ‘Margery—is Kate there?’
‘She went out,’ Margery said, making it sound like she’d gone shopping and not to work as a clinical psychologist.
‘I was just phoning to see if Finn got into St Anthony’s—Kate said they were meant to hear by today.’
Finn—was Robert Rob or Robbie? ‘The letter came.’
‘And?’
Margery paused; suddenly thrilled by the notion that she had a small piece of the Hunter family’s future in her hands that Beatrice wasn’t yet aware of. ‘Well…’ she trailed off, provocatively. She could get Edith to the point sometimes where she was begging, her cheap dentures sliding around inside her mouth across saliva-ridden gums.
‘Did he get in?’
‘The letter said he did.’ What did that mean? Margery wasn’t sure, but she felt herself scanning the lounge to see if Kate had left the letter anywhere. She wouldn’t mind a look at that letter.
‘Thank God,’ Beatrice breathed down the phone. ‘Kate was talking about home schooling if Finn didn’t get in…leaving London—the works,’ she carried on.
‘Leaving London?’
‘Well, now she won’t need to bother.’
‘Leaving London for where?’
‘I don’t know, Margery, you know those two—Kate was going on about America, and Rob…’
She called him Rob.
‘…was talking about New Zealand. They talked themselves into a taste for bigger things; who knows, maybe they’ll end up going anyway,’ Beatrice concluded cheerfully.
Margery was shocked. New Zealand? Robert never said anything to her about New Zealand.
‘I’ll try and catch Kate before she starts work—and you must come down here to see us—get a blast of fresh air.’ She paused. ‘Come on your own, if you like, I mean if you get sick of family life. I can always come and get you—just give us a bell.’
Margery didn’t respond to this; still hadn’t responded by the time Beatrice rang off. New Zealand. She tried phoning Edith, but Edith didn’t answer.
Martina appeared in the lounge doorway.
Margery stared helplessly at her before blurting out, ‘New Zealand’s on the other side of the world.’
Martina smiled and moved cautiously into the room with the hoover, watched by Margery. After a while she put the hoover away and disappeared into the kitchen. Margery remained in the lounge, staring at the phone.
‘I go now,’ Martina called out.
‘Already?’ Margery responded, involuntarily, walking slowly into the hallway.
Martina was at the front door, the white envelope in her hand. ‘Now I have much ironing to do for Mr Catano.’
‘Catano?’
‘A bit Korean, I think.’
‘Korean?’ Margery said as Martina opened the front door, thinking briefly of cousin Tom.
Martina pushed her bike past sunflowers that Kate had let Findlay plant and that Margery thought would look ridiculous by July when they reached shoulder-height.
‘I see you again next week.’
‘Maybe,’ Margery called out, unable to think about next week when she could barely keep her mind fixed on what was happening the rest of today—especially after hearing about New Zealand.
‘And please—I fed the cat.’
Margery was about to say something about the cat when she heard the door to No. 20—the Jamaican’s door—start to open. She went quickly back inside, slamming the door to No. 22 shut and going into the lounge where she watched carefully, through slatted blinds Martina hadn’t forgotten to dust, as Mr Hamilton moved slowly over to his recycling bin and put an empty milk carton in it.
The sun glanced off his gold wristwatch as he turned round, shaking his head at a private thought before looking up suddenly, straight at her, smiling.
Scowling, Margery backed away from the window, almost running into the hallway where she slid the chain across the front door as quietly as she could, then waited. No sound of movement on the other side. Then, after another minute, the front door to No. 20 was shut.
Scared as well as preoccupied, Margery went into the kitchen to pick up where she’d left off with the corned beef pie. She sliced an onion over the pastry base and went to get the corned beef out the cupboard before remembering that she’d already done that. There it was on the bench. Only the tins were empty. When had she done that? She looked from the empty tins to the empty pie case.
Where was the corned beef?
Slowly her eyes took a downward turn to Ivan’s bowl, which was full.
Robert sat staring about the Ellington Technology College staff room waiting for Kate to call him about St Anthony’s—and whether Findlay had got a place.
The seat next to him was blue and covered in cigarette burns from the days when staff were allowed to smoke. A Swiss cheese plant belonging to Les Davies, deputy head—that had been there as long as Les—was on top of a filing cabinet behind him that nobody had opened for years, and that blocked out what little natural light had the heart to try and make its way into the room.
The bell had rung and the dust had resettled. An art teacher with a cold was snivelling in a corner and muttering at a memo Sellotaped to the wall while inadvertently slopping the sleeves of her jumper into her coffee. The memo was from the Metropolitan Police warning staff at the school of a new gang whose initiation ceremony comprised