She would give Mr Hibbert something to take home, an unexpected souvenir — the passion-killers, those unbecoming thermal knickers of her mother’s. At some point Mr Hibbert would become conscious of something unfamiliar in his overcoat pocket and take it out. His immediate reaction on discovering such a revolting garment could only be guessed at, but he would surely think back and work out with distaste who the passion killers belonged to and try to interpret the message they were meant to convey, just as her mother would at first be mystified at mislaying her thermals and then mortified by the only possible conclusion — that her new friend Mr Hibbert was a secret collector of women’s underwear.
Blushing or glowing, she was not sure which, Gloria tiptoed to the kitchen and lifted the thermals off the rack, this time actually grinning at their unspeakable shape and colour. She folded them neatly so as not to make too obvious a lump. Then she went back to the hall and slipped them into the left pocket of Mr Hibbert’s beautiful coat: the left because the right already contained his leather gloves. She pushed them well down. In doing so, her fingertips came into contact with a set of keys. His car keys.
Now an even better idea dawned on Gloria.
How much more suggestive if the knickers were to turn up in Mr Hibbert’s car, say in the glove compartment on the passenger side, where his wife would very likely discover them for herself. The prospect was delicious: Mrs Hibbert reaching in for a sweet, or something with which to dust the window, and pulling out another woman’s drawers. Her wayward husband would really have some explaining to do.
It wouldn’t be difficult. There were no garages in King George Avenue. The cars were parked in the street, and Mr Hibbert’s was the only silver BMW.
Gloria fished out the thermals and the keys.
She held the thermals at arm’s length. The passion killers. Would anyone believe they belonged to her mother? she wondered. Better leave them in no doubt. There was a way to do it.
One of the drawers in the antique hallstand was full of wrapping paper and padded bags people had sent that might be used again. Mother, being economical, kept everything that might be used a second time. When she needed to send a padded bag, she would carefully tear the stamps off one of her collection and cover the old labels with new sticky labels for readdressing. Gloria selected one of appropriate size, folded the pants and slipped them inside. She removed the stamps, but did nothing about the label, which still had her mother’s name and address typed on the front. Just perfect. She didn’t seal it, either.
As a precaution, just in case some nosy neighbour might see her in the street, she unpinned and unfastened her plaits. Nobody ever caught her with her hair loose. Like this, she suddenly felt a different person, not the high-minded young lady she liked to be known as usually, but a free agent.
She slammed the front door as she went out. The lovers could relax now, believing she was gone for at least two hours and a half. Sheep may safely graze.
The rain had stopped. Darkness had set in some time ago. The street-lamps in King George Avenue were more decorative than effective, but she spotted Mr Hibbert’s BMW parked opposite number 31. There could be no question that it was his car because it was well known that he’d paid for a registration with his initials, HPH — a clear sign of vanity, in Gloria’s opinion. Nobody seemed to be about, so she went straight across and tried the key on the passenger’s side. It was a central locking system and she heard all the doors unlock. When she pulled open the door an interior light came on, so she got in quickly and shut the door and the light went out.
Simple.
The glove compartment opened at the press of a button. Inside were a couple of maps, a roll of peppermints, a half-eaten bar of chocolate and some petrol tokens. She stuffed the bulky envelope inside and closed it.
Now what? There was a sense of anticlimax. Gloria hadn’t thought how she would spend the evening now that she wasn’t going to choir practice. To go back to the house was out of the question. She’d be a prime suspect if she did. It was a chilly evening. She’d sit here a moment and think.
She’d never been into a pub unaccompanied and she wasn’t going to start tonight. She wouldn’t feel very safe walking the streets for long. And there was no one she could visit.
The best plan was to go to a film. She’d walk down to the Cannon and find out what was showing.
She was on the point of leaving the car when she heard footsteps close behind. She glanced into the mirror mounted on the side, but saw nobody on the pavement, so she turned her head.
A figure was walking slowly along the centre of the road between the rows of cars. She couldn’t see too well, but she was fairly certain that it was a male wearing some sort of crested headgear, a fireman’s helmet, perhaps, or a policeman’s.
Panic-stricken, she ducked right down with her head over her knees hoping he’d walk past without looking in.
She could feel her heart thumping against her thigh.
Please, please go by.
The footsteps had the heavy tread of boots. They were agonizingly slow.
They stopped right next to the car.
She nearly died of shock when he opened the door on the driver’s side and got in. The light came on in the car.
“Bloody hell!”
She remained quite still.
“Are you ill, or somefink?”
If he was really a policeman, he ought to have sounded more assertive, more in control, but she dared not check.
“You just give me a nasty turn, any road.”
She was petrified. He took a grip on the hair at the back of her head and pulled her upright.
She had another shock when she turned to face him. The crested helmet was in reality a punk hair-style, a bright green Mohican tuft presently being squashed against the roof of the car. He was a youth of about sixteen. There were three silver rings through his left ear and a glittery stud through his nose.
He asked her, “This motor — is it yours?”
She shook her head.
“Your old man’s? What you doing, then? Nicking stuff? You deaf, or somefink?”
She succeeded in saying, “Who are you?”
He said, “I asked you a question.”
“You asked about five questions.” She was beginning to feel safer with him. She was close enough to see that he was just a boy.
“I don’t know you,” he said, as if the fault were Gloria’s. “I don’t know you, do I?”
She said, “If you pulled the door properly shut, this light would go out.” Immediately she’d said it, she realized that she might be misinterpreted. She was only anxious that nobody should see her sitting in Mr Hibbert’s car, with or without a boy with green hair.
He closed the door and said, in the darkness, “Want a smoke?”
She said, “Look, this is someone else’s car.”
“He won’t come out. He’s watching telly in one of them houses, I bet. Long time since I tried a BMW.” He put his hands on the wheel and it clicked. The steering column must have locked. “Bleedin’ hell.”
Gloria said, “Mind your language.”
“Sod off.”
At least she’d registered disapproval.
“If it ain’t yours,” he said, “how did you get in?”
“With the key. I, em, nicked it,” she added, to forestall the next question.