As well as clearing the flower bed, Helen mowed the lawn and pulled out the weeds between the paving slabs. Her shirt stuck to her underarms and her back was stiff, but she was happy-knackered; a good day’s work. She sat on the step with a coffee as some teenage girls moved through Dickensweg towards the cut-through. They tapped into their mobile phones. When Chris’s sports car roared up, the girls flocked around it, all their texting forgotten.
“Have you decided yet, sir?” one said, flicking her greasy side fringe behind her ear.
Chris brushed his hand through his own thick, white hair. “I’m still working on the casting.”
“What are you looking for?” a tall, elegant girl asked. Helen thought she was stunning.
Apparently so did Chris. “Strong features like yours might work.”
The girl lost her poise as the compliment reduced her to a giggling teenager. The girls crowded closer and all talked at once. Chris fed them with non-committal but encouraging one-liners: I have to get the balance right; everyone has a chance; I’ll let you know when I screen test.
As he walked past Helen, he said: “We only have to do the back gardens, you know. School maintains the front between May and October. Another three weeks and they’d have done it for you.”
She stamped the mud out of her wellingtons before going indoors. Prick, she stamped, prick, prick, prick.
***
That night her sleep was fitful. But as well as Gary’s frantic tapping on the games controller through the left-hand wall, other noises invaded her dreams. The face at the Howards’ back fence morphed into the crow at the Stephens’s window. Her heart raced and she sat up in bed until the dream left her. When fully awake, she ached her way to the bathroom, her back and knees complaining about the gardening. The sounds from her dream were louder through the wall. She sat on the loo, releasing her stream slowly to keep it quiet. A nosy git like Chris Mowar would get off on hearing her pee. She heard a cough, a gasping, empty-out-the-lungs noise, and sloshing sounds. She pressed the flush; Chris was making too much noise next door to hear her.
Sunday, 2 May
Mel’s heart raced when the Barton couple at number 1 stepped out of their front door with their pack of yapping spaniels. But they turned left onto the main street, the dogs pulling against their leads to sniff the grass verge. Mel sighed with relief and knelt by Chris’s car to continue cleaning the tyres.
“Guten Tag,” a voice said, hard and guttural.
The young man was gaunt, scruffy-looking. He must have come from the copse that ran between their cul-de-sac and the one behind. She’d seen him once before, hanging around the edge of the wood, and she’d stayed indoors until he’d walked off. Now he squatted beside her and said something in German.
She didn’t know what he said, but she could smell him, taste him, tobacco. She leapt to her feet and felt her skin draw bone-white. Black dots floated in front of her eyes.
He stood up and put his hand in his jacket. She flinched. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, opened it and offered her one. She stepped further away, her eyes darting between the man and the packet. She wished Chris was here; he’d know what to do.
The man shrugged, lit a cigarette for himself and pocketed the pack.
What now? She was working a cotton bud between her fingers. Her fists were tensed in front of her although she knew she’d be no match if he got nasty.
He pointed at the cotton bud. “You British won’t get your wheels dirty.”
A deep heat rose up her throat and she felt dizzy. Hearing him speak English made him more threatening.
He ran his fingernails over the bonnet, not quite hard enough to leave a scratch. “Expensive car,” he said. “You like driving it?”
He stared at her. The cold intensity of his eyes pushed her into answering. “It’s my husband’s car.”
But she wished she hadn’t; her response only made him ask something else. “Where does he drive you?” He drummed his fingers on the bonnet and turned them into a fist when she didn’t answer. “To the Rhineland?”
She watched his fist and shook her head.
“Or the Mosel or the Sauerland? Or the Black Forest or the Ahr Valley?” He fired off the place names like bullets.
She carried on shaking her head. When would this end?
“You must go somewhere.”
“I …” she faltered.
His eyes narrowed and he snarled: “Or is only England good enough?”
She flushed crimson, panic rising. The man looked unstable; she’d have to say something. How was she going to get away? She couldn’t run into the house; he’d see where she lived. Maybe if she’d accepted the cigarette, he’d have stalked back to the copse and left her alone. Her refusal had made him angry.
“We go to Austria, to the Grossglockner, in spring. The Whitsun holidays.” She held her breath. Why had she said all that?
His eyes pierced her, made her shake. It was better when he spoke. Why was he silent?
“The neighbours. We go with the neighbours,” she blurted out.
A dog barked up the street, the couple returning with the spaniels. The man darted into the trees and disappeared.
Helen and Gary sprawled on the sofa, replete after the roast pork they’d prepared and eaten together. She’d phoned her parents before lunch. It turned out to have been an easy, excited call. They’d booked a cruise to celebrate Dad’s sixtieth in December.
She moved onto Gary’s knee and kissed him. They snuggled together. He still had the soapy clean fragrance from his morning shower but some of the Sunday cooking smells had seeped into his T-shirt.
He returned the kiss and said: “I’ve worked out why you’re in a good mood: the outdoor pool opens tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait. With all the free time I’ve got now, I can set myself a proper training schedule. I could aim for a decent time over 100 m crawl. What do you think?”
“I love it when you talk athletic.” He pulled her down and manoeuvred himself on top. Contentment came over her as he unbuttoned her shirt. Things were great; she adored Gary, Germany was fine.
The doorbell chimed, and Gary dropped to the floor, struggling with his zip, “bugger” coming loud through clenched teeth.
“I’ll go.” She could guess who it was. She fastened her shirt but resisted the urge to scoop stray hairs into her ponytail.
Louisa. “It’s the wives’ breakfast at my house tomorrow. I’ve put you down for a dozen cookies. Aldi ones will do if you can’t bake.”
“I’ve arranged to go swimming tomorrow.”
Louisa paused, and Helen savoured her hesitation. She felt like she had when her squad had won the Midlands swim championships. Triumphant.
But her victory didn’t last.
“I hope you’re going to the village pool. I managed to get 400 people to sign my petition and I convinced the town hall officials to open it for us.”
As