“Oh,” said George, and accidentally set the chair rocking and slurped tea into his saucer.
Edith continued, “There isn’t time for all that pussyfooting. Let’s dispense with it, George. Let’s admit that we’re human beings with needs and impulses.”
The digestive snapped. His crotch was covered in crumbs. He moved his hand there to cover his incompetence. He managed to say, “I wouldn’t argue with that, Edith.”
“Good.” She gave him a long, expectant look.
George swallowed hard. Why had she stopped talking? Why did her eyes beg his for a response? Why was a little drop of sweat rolling down his spine? Why hadn’t he met her forty years ago?
“If you’d like to know,” said George, “I really fancy you, Edith.” He jerked his leg and set the chair going again. He was horrified. The statement sounded so crude. Where had it come from?
Edith laughed heartily. “You’re a smooth talker, George, and an old rogue, too. I suspect you’re making fun of me.”
“No, Edith. Absolutely not. I didn’t mean it. I mean I did mean it, in a way, but not in another way, if you know what I mean.” He was no better than a tongue-tied schoolboy on his first date.
Like a lifebelt, Edith’s command rescued George from his sea of embarrassment. “Come with me. You’ve been frank with me, and I don’t mind admitting that you took me by surprise. And now it’s my turn. After what you said, we should definitely hold nothing back. Put down your cup.”
Without a word he got up and followed her ample form through the door beside the stone hearth. They entered her bedroom.
It was all so sudden. George felt a confusing mixture of guilt, elation and panic. Up to now he had always believed in the afterlife. As he stepped onto Edith Plumley’s pink carpet and saw her double bed with its muslin canopy elegantly draped above the pillows, he told himself that atheism might, after all, be more appealing as a philosophy. He didn’t want dear Ivy’s immortal soul watching the witless ease of his seduction — on one glass of Australian sherry and a half-cooked pie.
And he wasn’t entirely confident of satisfying Edith Plumley’s expectations.
She turned and said, “This is the only way to get to it.”
He said manfully, “I’m game for anything.”
She crossed the room and opened another door. The en suite shower-room, he guessed. Fair enough. He, too, would be happier undressing in private.
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Come on, then.”
He hesitated. “Both at once?”
She said, “There’s room. Come on in.” She giggled and disappeared inside.
George took a deep breath like a diver and followed her into the darkened room. It had a curious smell for a shower-room, a dry, musty aroma, vaguely familiar. George couldn’t place it, but he didn’t care much for it.
Edith felt for his hand and gripped it. Then she turned on the light. “Meet my little ones,” she said. “Now everyone say hello to my friend George.”
This wasn’t a bathroom after all. It was a small dressing room, but instead of a wardrobe there were two shelves stacked with glass cages.
“You keep mice?” said George, too obviously in the circumstances.
He knew the smell now. It was that of the local petshop where he bought Nimrod his supply of brawn.
“That’s my secret,” said Edith proudly. “Thirty-nine at the last count. All selectively bred over the last two years.”
“Pedigree mice?”
“Well, of course! Look.” She pointed to the back wall, a mosaic of rosettes and certificates. “One more win and I’ll be a lifetime member of the National Fancy Mouse Society. That’s my ambition, George.”
George discreetly put a handkerchief to his nose and tried breathing through his mouth.
“I may have given you the wrong impression just now,” said Edith, “bringing you through my bedroom, but that’s the only way in, you see. I just loved the expression on your face.”
“I wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted.
“You wondered what the invitation amounted to, didn’t you, and I dare say you’re heartily relieved,” she said. “Heavens, we’re too old to get up to things we shouldn’t. I think I’d die if anyone saw me in bed.”
“I can’t think why,” George gallantly said.
“Well, someone I hardly know.”
“We could remedy that,” said George.
“Given time, perhaps,” said she.
“Not too much time,” he said, feeling bolder now that the immediate challenge had been deferred.
“Any friend of mine would have to get used to the mice,” said Edith. “And the smell. It all comes with me, I’m afraid. I keep them as clean as I can. Come and look at these.” She indicated a cage set apart from the rest.
George peered politely at the two mice inside.
“Long-haired black and white hooded. The classic breeding pair,” whispered Edith, her eyes rooted on the feeding mice. “The final show of the year is in Warminster in September. Only a short-haired silver-hood could possibly beat them. And there haven’t been any shown at Warminster since 1985.”
“You can see they’re special,” said George. He’d told white lies about the steak and kidney pie, so why not about these pesky mice?
Edith turned from the tank to look at George, her eyes shining. “You probably think I’m dotty, but these are my life. Would you really like to be part of it? Would you come with me to the Warminster show? I want someone to share my proudest moment with me. Then, who knows?”
“Edith, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” said George. Confident at last, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Their worlds collided gently amongst the sunflower seeds and sawdust.
He was home before eleven. Nimrod was out, enjoying his night life.
Ten days later, new neighbours moved into the empty cottage next door. George watched from his window in a fatalistic way as an immaculate Land Rover drew up. The place had changed hands several times in the past few years and he’d never got to know the people properly. They had been young couples from suburbia with unreal dreams of living in the country. One winter was usually enough; the familiar red and white ‘For Sale’ board would go up again and the garden would get overgrown until the new owners came in. Mind, the long grass made a happy hunting ground for Nimrod.
This time the young lady seemed friendly, knocking on George’s door to introduce herself before the removal van arrived. In her middle twenties, with what used to be called a ‘county’ accent, but vivacious and attractive, she said she was Hannah from Dorking and her ‘man’ was Keith — which George took to mean that they were not married. He didn’t object. The world had changed, and his own views on morality were changing too. He offered Hannah tea. They worked in television, he learned. She was a freelance researcher (whatever that meant) and Keith was a floor manager, which Hannah seemed to imply was something more exalted than keeping the floor clean, which was George’s first assumption. Hannah said she had travelled on ahead of Keith who was with the removal gang to supervise the handling of some of the more precious items.
The van arrived and Hannah ran out to unlock for them. George settled down to watch the activity from the window. He was rather less obvious about it than Nimrod, who was sitting in the road gazing steadily into the back of the removal van. The Sutton boys from two doors up were out there as well, gaping. George had nothing but contempt for parents who allowed their children to be so blatantly nosy.
Keith, it appeared, was one of the four hefty fellows in T-shirt and jeans unloading the van. George had difficulty guessing which of them was the most likely to be the live-in lover of the elegant Hannah. She looked far too classy for any of them. But in mid-afternoon the van left, taking three in the cab and leaving one sitting on the drystone wall smoking a cigarette. He had cropped hair and a silver ear-ring.