A handle turned a few feet away and someone stepped on to the patio. From the weight of the footsteps, Reg guessed it must be Alan. Although present first, Reg immediately cast himself in the role of invisible eavesdropper. He stood very still, breathing silently through his mouth and hoping he wouldn’t need to swallow.
Hollingsworth started to call Nelson, the cat, in a voice that struck Reg as rather strange and croaky. As if he had a cold.
Reg tiptoed back into the house to pass this snippet of information on to Iris. She was as intrigued as he, for it was well known that Alan had paid the creature no mind since the day it arrived. It was Simone who had taken pity on the tabby kitten, found abandoned nearly a year ago. She who fed and brushed it, who cooed and whistled softly to persuade it home at the end of the day. The Brockleys were still discussing this unusual state of affairs when Brenda arrived.
As the dark brown Mini Metro slid past the kitchen window to park beneath the car port roof of corrugated plastic, Iris donned her frilly apron, got an M & S Welsh rarebit out of the freezer and switched on the microwave.
Iris and pre-prepared meals had been made for each other. Acutely aware of her duty as a wife and mother to put hot, appetising food on the table at regular intervals, she had struggled throughout her married life to do so. She washed superior cuts of meat (never offal) and gutted fish until the water ran clear. She forced herself to make pastry even though the fat got under her nails and no amount of scrubbing ever convinced her they did not always remain ever so slightly greasy.
Now, as she slid the little aluminium tray from its temptingly illustrated sleeve, she thought how very reassuring frozen comestibles were. Constrained beneath a glittery crust of sterile crystals, they did not leak or smell or ask to be in any way humanly dealt with but were quickly transformed, as if by magic, into comforting, tasty nourishment. Iris sliced a tomato for freshness and put the kettle on.
Brenda entered the house and ran swiftly upstairs. Her routine never varied. She would hang her coat in the wardrobe, tidy her hair then wash her hands. Shona, a white poodle tucked away in a wicker basket between the washing machine and the fridge, started to whine with happiness the moment this recognisable procedure began. As the toilet flushed, Iris warmed the pot and by the time her daughter came into the kitchen everything was ready.
Brenda ate very daintily. Small portions chewed with her lips closed as she had been taught from early childhood. Mr. Brockley regarded his offspring’s neat maroon skirt and jacket and white blouse with pride and thought how smart she looked. Her short brown hair was brushed neatly away from her face and a red and gold pin in her left lapel displayed her full name. Reg, who had never flown, thought she looked like an air hostess.
He and his wife often discussed their daughter’s future with respectful seriousness. A business career was all well and good but they were full of hopes that she would, fairly soon, marry a nice, respectable man. Living nearby she could then, at judiciously spaced intervals, present them with two nice, well-behaved grandchildren. They called it settling down though a disinterested observer might have got the impression that Brenda was already so firmly settled it would take a ton of dynamite to move her.
She was sitting now, little finger eloquently crooked, sipping tea and answering the customary questions about her day in copious detail. Brenda knew how much her mother—and father, too, now that he had retired—anticipated this daily exposure to the hurly burly of high finance.
“Then to top it all Hazel Grantley, from Accounts, chimed in. As she always does, given half a chance. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘that interest was miscalculated. Machines don’t make mistakes.’ ” Brenda licked the tip of her finger and dotted up a final crumb of toast. “No one gets on with her.”
“You said.”
“Including her husband.” Brenda spoke with some satisfaction. Like many unhappy single people she relished tales of marital discord. “Then Janine, who was really upset by this time, came back with ‘Why not? They’re only human.’ Of course everyone laughed, upon which what should she do but burst into tears? And all this with a customer at the counter. I don’t know what Mr. Marchbanks would have said.”
“Wasn’t he there then?” inquired Iris.
“Dentist. Then no sooner had all this blown over when Jacqui Willing’s pen walked.”
“As per usual,” said Iris knowledgeably.
“Trish Travers from Personnel said she’d seen it in the toilet. Jacqui said she wasn’t so old she had to keep running in there every five minutes. Unlike some.” Brenda, having wrung every possible drop of drama from her day at the Coalport and National Building Society, now dabbed at the corners of her small mouth with an embroidered napkin.
Reg and Iris exchanged glances of arch complicity. Without conferring on the matter, neither had mentioned the unusual state of affairs next door, both believing the most toothsome morsel should be left till last. Now, as Brenda checked the time on her diamanté cocktail watch against the gingham plate on the kitchen wall, Reg cleared his throat and Iris underlined the importance of the moment by taking her pinny off. Brenda looked surprised when they both sat down at the table.
“Something’s happened next door, dear.”
“Next door?” Brenda was stacking her cup and saucer and plate together ready to take to the sink. There was a sudden clatter as they all rattled on the Formica.
Iris said, “Careful.”
“What sort of thing?” Brenda’s voice was dry. She gave a scrapy little cough before continuing, “Everything looked as usual when I drove by.”
“Mrs. Hollingsworth’s not there.”
“Simone?” Brenda started looking round the room. Darting glances accompanied by quick jerky movements of the head, like a bird looking for food. “Who told you that?”
To the Brockleys’ surprise their daughter got up, crossed over to the sink and turned on the hot tap. Brenda never washed up or even helped to clear away. It was not expected. There was the unspoken assumption that her contribution to the household’s expenses, or “keep” as Iris put it, not only covered her food but relieved her of all domestic duties. Apart from cleaning her room which no one could get into as it was permanently locked.
“I’ll do those, dear.”
“It’s all right.”
“At least put some gloves on.”
“So ...” Brenda plunged her hands into a pyramid of iridescent bubbles and started clashing cutlery about before rephrasing her question. “Where did you hear that?”
“No one actually told us,” said Iris. Catching her husband’s eye, she was unable to conceal her anxiety. Brenda had gone very pale except for a bright flush across her cheekbones and was now sloshing about in the sink so vigorously that the sudsy water was splashing over the edge. “It was just something Daddy ... um ...”
“Deduced.”
“Yes, deduced.”
“You see, Brenda ...” Reg frowned at the rigidly upright back and furiously working elbows. “Couldn’t you stop that for a second?”
“I’m listening.”
“There was a bell-ringing practice late this afternoon—and very unusual chimes they were too—but Simone couldn’t have turned up because I happened to be in the front garden when they finished and she didn’t come home.”
“Then the vicar—”