But then, at exactly the right moment, Jon Emin announced that he was relocating his family to Suffolk. He had made a fortune out of his business, arranging private and business loans, and wanted somewhere bigger to bring up his children, preferably in the countryside. May Winslow was particularly sorry to see the family go. Like them, she had a pet – a French bulldog – and they’d often met walking along the river. However, their departure brought an unexpected bonus. Adam spoke to Jon Emin and the two men agreed a private sale. The week the Emins left, Adam and Teri Strauss moved across to The Stables, keeping the Riverview community intact.
The only question was, who would be the new owner of Riverview Lodge – and more importantly, would they fit in?
‘Did you hear him last night?’ Phyllis asked, as she sliced the top off her egg with a decisive swing of the knife. She was the smaller of the two women, with tightly permed white hair and a thin frame. Her face had folded itself into so many creases that if she had been mummified, no one would have noticed. Certainly, it was almost impossible to imagine her as a young woman. Her seventy-nine years had her in their grip and she had long ago given up caring. Even her clothes could have been deliberately chosen to date her. Today she was wearing a floral-patterned dress that hung as loosely on her as if it had still been in the wardrobe and brown derby shoes that took her all the way back to World War Two.
‘Do you mean, Mr Kenworthy?’ May asked.
‘He got home at twenty past four. I saw the time on my alarm clock. And he had the music playing full on in his motor car.’
‘I wonder where he’d been?’
‘At a party, from the sound of it.’ Phyllis pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘He was blasting out music as if he wanted the whole world to hear it. I’m sure everyone will have been woken up!’
The two elderly women seemed to fit together perfectly. They were seldom apart and had known each other so long they had the awareness and the timing of a comedy double act, although without the jokes. They did everything in sync. The hoovering and the dusting. The cooking and the laying of the table. While one reached for the tea leaves, the other would be warming the pot. They watched the same programmes on television and went upstairs to bed at the same time. They never argued. People assumed they were sisters, which quite amused them because, as they explained, for almost thirty years they had been nuns, living together in the same convent in Leeds.
In fact, May very much controlled the relationship. For a start, the house belonged entirely to her. She had bought The Gables off-plan, without even visiting it, using money she had inherited. Phyllis lived with her rent-free as a sort of unpaid companion. May came from the south of England, enunciating her words with the care and exactitude of a Norland nanny, whereas Phyllis had never lost her Birmingham accent. May’s large physique also gave her the edge. She had recently put on weight, which made her breathless and inclined to become red in the face if she did anything too quickly, although this somehow suited her. With her bright clothes, her chunky jewellery and the glasses hanging on a cord around her neck, she had the optimistic look of old age – the round, satisfied, homely cheerfulness of a fairy godmother.
‘Well, I didn’t hear him.’ May spread a pat of Cornish butter onto a triangle of toast and then bit into it with very white teeth that were, perhaps surprisingly, her own. ‘Did he wake you up?’ she asked.
‘No. I wasn’t asleep. I never sleep well any more. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Maybe you should talk to Dr Beresford.’
‘I think Dr Beresford should see a doctor himself. I bumped into him yesterday in the High Street.’
‘You told me, dear.’ May quickly became irritated when Phyllis repeated herself.
Phyllis blinked apologetically. ‘He didn’t look at all well, poor man.’
There was a whine from underneath the table and a brown face with bulging eyes, oversized ears and a look of permanent dissatisfaction peered up at the two women. This was Ellery, the French bulldog they had bought a few years after they had moved into Riverview Close. Ellery was a small, bulky creature who only took on the shape of a dog when he was walking. Lying on the bed or in his basket, he was more like an overfilled sack of potatoes.
‘Little Ellery!’ Without even thinking, May leaned down and fed the animal a corner of her toast. The dog wasn’t hungry, but he liked to be included. ‘Who’s a good boy, then? Who’s a good boy?’
This cooing might have gone on for several minutes more, but just then the doorbell rang. May glanced at Phyllis and something flashed in her eyes: nervousness, perhaps, or annoyance. It couldn’t be the postman. It was only half past eight and he wouldn’t come until mid-morning – not that either of them received very much mail. Nor were they expecting any deliveries. Somehow, they both knew who it was. At this time of the day, who else could it be?
‘I’ll go,’ Phyllis said.
‘No.’ May had taken charge. ‘I’ll see to it.’
Wiping her hands on a tea towel (printed with the slogan Stolen from Bertram’s Hotel), she walked stiffly out into the hall and over to the front door. She didn’t have far to go. She could make out a figure on the other side of the smoked glass, and two pinpricks of red appeared in her cheeks as she reached down, slid the security lock to one side and opened the door.
A woman was standing on the doorstep, wearing designer jeans that hugged her a little too tightly, a loose blouse and no make-up. Her hair, ash blonde with an undertone of silver, tumbled down her neck. In one hand, she was pinching a small plastic bag between her index finger and thumb, emphasising the fact that it had something unpleasant inside. She held it out.
‘I think this is yours,’ she said in a voice that was at once cultivated and coarse, as if she had spent years with an elocution teacher but one who had let her down badly.
‘Good morning, Mrs Kenworthy,’ May replied, standing her ground and refusing to play along.
‘I found this on our lawn this morning,’ Lynda Kenworthy continued. She was struggling to keep her temper. ‘It’s the second one I’ve had to pick up this week.’
‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand . . .’
‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Mrs Winslow. Your bleeding dog is completely out of control. It comes in under the fence and digs up the grass around our magnolia tree. You should see the damage! And then if that isn’t enough, it does its poops in the flower beds. It’s disgusting!’
‘Please can I ask you not to use that language with me, Mrs Kenworthy? And I’ve said this to you many times. The fence belongs to Mr Browne. It’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘But your dog goes into Mr Browne’s garden and then comes through the fence into ours.’
‘I think you need to talk to Mr Browne.’
‘No, Mrs Winslow. I’m talking to you. I really don’t think I’m being unreasonable, asking you to keep your animal under control.’
Lynda Kenworthy was still holding out the green plastic bag, but May was reluctant to take it. ‘Did you see Ellery do that?’ she enquired.
‘I didn’t need to see him, did I? There’s only one dog in these houses.’
‘It could have been a dog from outside. How do you know it’s even a dog?’