‘It isn’t in our garden, Gilbert.’
‘It is. You’ll see.’
‘I saw the plans,’ said Joan.
‘Plans!’ said Crawshaw, spitting into his trench.
Joan looked up at the house next door and noticed Mr and Mrs Stock standing at their bedroom window staring down at them. They didn’t have net curtains. She ran indoors.
Crawshaw didn’t come in from the garden until after eight. By then it was dark, and raining, and the wet mud was gleaming on his clothes and body. He was standing in the kitchen doorway holding out a plug attached to a length of cable. ‘Plug that in, would you?’
‘You’re not carrying on with this?’ said Joan in disbelief.
‘It’s dark. I need a lamp.’
‘You’ll get pneumonia.’
‘Do as I tell you. I haven’t time to stand here talking.’
She sighed, took the plug and pressed it into the socket. ‘Why, Gilbert? At least tell me why.’
He laughed.
It was so unusual for him to laugh that Joan found it no comfort at all.
Crawshaw said smugly, ‘I’ve found it. I’ve found the top edge of his infernal shelter projecting nearly three feet into our garden. I knew I’d find it if I went deep enough. And now I’m going to attack it with a sledge and crowbar. It might withstand a nuclear blast, but it won’t stop me from exercising my rights as the lawful tenant of this land. Do you want to try and stop me?’
Joan answered quietly, ‘You must do as you think fit, Gilbert.’
As soon as he had gone, she went out through the front and knocked on the Stocks’ door. Mr Stock opened it. He said, ‘You look as if you could do with a drink.’
He invited her in. They were very kind to her. They produced a glass of sherry. She was grateful. She explained about the digging and said, ‘Gilbert says he has found something. He’s convinced that it must be your shelter.’
Mr Stock shook his head. ‘Impossible. It stops at least five feet our side of the fence. There’s nothing underground on your side except the conduit for the main electric cable. I saw the plans. God, if he cuts through that...’ He got up and went to the window, but before he reached it, the lights went out.
In the garden next door, the lights had gone out for ever for Gilbert Crawshaw.
And in the darkness of the Stocks’ living room, Joan Crawshaw permitted herself a sigh. No one else could have noticed that it was more a sigh of relief than regret. She was free.
She, too, had taken note of those plans.
Belly Dance
This all happened through the keep-fit class. I had been going for two years and by that time I was the mainstay of the class. I attended mainly for the company. After my divorce from Mike, I lived alone in Kingston, feeling sorry for myself. On Wednesday evenings I slipped into my black leotard and joined the human race again. There is definitely something therapeutic about exercise. I can recommend it to any woman living alone.
I had better confess to you that I enjoyed the classes for another reason too. I have a better than average figure. It used to boost my confidence no end to get envious glances from the other girls. We were all ‘girls’ to each other, by the way — and ‘students’ to the teacher — although not one of us was under twenty-six. Some of the shapes that wobbled out of the changing room at half-past six on Wednesdays had to be seen to be believed, but we all got on together like a bunch of kids. Some of the heavier girls would tell me that they felt encouraged to do the exercises beside a trimmer figure. I’m not the owner of an especially pretty face, but my body is a winner. My legs are long enough to look lovely in the leotard. I have full, firm breasts, a smallish waist and Mike, my ‘ex’, used to say I had the perkiest bottom in the whole of Surrey. From what I later learned, he was qualified to judge.
I was coming to the belly dancing. At seven-thirty, when the class was over, just to have a giggle, our teacher Angela would put on a record of Arabian music and we would all gyrate our hips like harem girls. It happens that I have excellent hip mobility, and the session would regularly end with everyone but me abandoning the attempt. They would form a ring around me and clap hands while I wiggled sensuously to the music. Fabulous. But I had no idea where it would lead.
One evening after I had done my party piece, Angela had a quiet word with me. She was a fine teacher, dignified, not matey, and we all respected her.
‘Have you ever danced in public?’
‘Like this, you mean?’ I laughed. ‘Not likely.’
‘You’re very good. You have the figure and the flexibility. With your dark hair and dreamy eyes, if you were dressed for the part, you could convince anyone you were a proper belly dancer. I’ll tell you why I mentioned it. My fellow Duncan is chairman of the summer fair this year. You know the keep-fit students always give a demonstration. Well, Duncan sometimes meets me after class, and the other week he happened to be outside the window when you did your belly dance.’
‘Oh, how embarrassing!’ I felt myself go crimson.
‘No, he adored it, really. He was so impressed that he came up with this idea of asking you to do a solo dance at the fair. We could dress you up in beads and chiffon and call you Yasmin the Belly Dancer and I guarantee you’d be the sensation of the fair. It’s for charity, of course — the old folk. Would you do it?’
Naturally I made protesting sounds, but in short I allowed myself to be persuaded. I admit it: I was secretly delighted.
I had five weeks to prepare. Angela let me take the Arabian record home, and each night after work, my flat became the Kasbah. At the weekend, I made my costume. By good fortune, I had a peach-coloured bikini that I had worn one holiday with Mike in the Canaries. The pants became the basis of the costume. With a few yards of matching chiffon, I made diaphanous harem trousers fitting from the hips. I bought some satin in a similar shade and ran up the sweetest little bodice with short sleeves and a reckless plunge. Angela had given me a box of hundreds of tiny glass and gold beads, and I strung them together to make a head-dress with a fringe. The rest I used to decorate the pants and bodice. With my black hair combed out and my eyes heavily made up to gaze mysteriously above the yashmak, I was almost ready. All it wanted was a pot of that stuff that gives you an overnight tan. Dusky Bronze.
Two weeks before the fair, Angela invited me to dinner. It was a chance to let her see the costume. Duncan was also there; I got the impression that he lived there, although it wasn’t mentioned. He was some kind of foreman in a wholesale business, I gathered, an animated, vocal, not bad-looking guy, splendid for the chairman of the fair committee and probably just as capable in bed, but far too similar to Mike to interest me. He had the same irritating way of totally ignoring things you said.
While they cleared the table, I went into Angela’s room and changed. They adored the costume. Angela put on a record that was more Spanish than Arabian, and I went through my dance, into which I had introduced some extra and voluptuous movements, and they played besotted sheiks, cooing and shouting encouragement. We all finished helpless with amusement.
‘Sensational! You’re going to be the biggest attraction in the fair,’ said Duncan as he took my hand in his.
‘Prettiest sounds better,’ said Angela. ‘I love the colours. How did you get this marvellous tan? I’ve got a few gold bangles I must give you. Wear them on your wrists and ankles and they’ll show up beautifully against your skin.’
‘Do you know, I’ve had an idea?’ said Duncan.
‘I bet you have,’ said Angela. ‘What man wouldn’t, watching a dance like that?’
‘Seriously, Ange, it’s a way of netting extra profit. After the belly dance, we announce an auction. Yasmin the Belly Dancer will perform in private at the place of the winner’s choice.’