Vivvi slowed almost to a standstill, as if to give him room to pass, but since he was on the opposite side of the road, this was not a very convincing disguise for her curiosity.
“Why are we stopping, Mummy?” asked her six-year-old son from the back of the car.
“Just slowing down, Tom,” Vivvi replied, peering at the doorway towards which the departing chauffeur waved. An ample white-haired woman was waving back. She must have been in her sixties, but was carefully and expensively preserved. Bright silk print dress, fur coat draped over shoulders, gleams of substantial jewellery, surprisingly high heels accentuating fine legs. There was about her a quality which, while not extreme enough to be dubbed ‘flashy’ or ‘vulgar’, would still have disqualified her from being called ‘self-effacing’.
“Is that the lady who’s going to live in Auntie Treezer’s house?” asked Tom.
“Don’t say Auntie Treezer.” The reproof was automatic. Calling people who weren’t relations ‘Auntie’ was another usage Nigel had condemned as common.
Reluctantly, Vivvi swung the Peugeot 205 into the drive of ‘Haymakers’. While she made much of letting Tom and his sister Emily out of the child-locked back, she could see the new resident still framed in her doorway, as if scenting the afternoon air.
The woman looked confident and peaceful, but alert. The feeling of slight uneasiness came back to Vivvi.
♦
Tom and Emily had been given their tea and settled in front of children’s programmes, which would keep them quiet until six o’clock. Vivvi hesitated by the window of her front room, about to close the curtains. It was nearly dark, seemingly darker than it had been only two days before when Theresa Cotton had come to say goodbye. But then of course it had been after six when Theresa Cotton had paid her visit.
Vivvi again looked down the close towards ‘Acapulco’. Orangeish light spilled through the dimpled glass of the front door, but in the rest of the house the tightly drawn curtains gave no indication of which rooms were being used.
Vivvi felt she ought to do something, make some gesture, offer assistance to the new resident. But she wasn’t sure what form her gesture should take. Her instinct was to go across and knock on the door, but she didn’t think Nigel would approve of that. He frequently reverted to the point that people in the South don’t wander in and out of each other’s houses as much as in the North where Vivvi had been brought up.
So perhaps going across in person wouldn’t be right. Anyway, she shouldn’t really leave the children alone in the house, even just for a few minutes. One did hear of such terrible things happening.
No, maybe the answer was to do something more sedate. An official invitation. Yes, that would be more in keeping with Smithy’s Loam.
Her mind made up, Vivvi drew the curtains and went to the telephone in the hall.
Some of the numbers were programmed into the memory and some weren’t. In strict rotation she set the phone ringing in each of the other executive homes in Smithy’s Loam. Number One (“High Bushes”), Number Two (“Perigord”), Number Four (“Hibiscus”), Number Five (“Cromarty”). In each case she invited the woman who answered to coffee on the Friday morning. All but one accepted.
♦
Theresa’s number was still on the memory. But of course it wasn’t Theresa’s number now. It belonged, together with the rest of ‘Acapulco’, Smithy’s Loam, to the new resident. The well-preserved lady who was providing so much new fuel for Vivvi’s restless curiosity.
She punched up the number. It would be strange, she reflected, Smithy’s Loam without Theresa…Well, she thought with a slight blush, without Theresa and Rod. But Rod had been away so much in recent months…And, anyway, Vivvi told herself, all the husbands remained shadowy figures in the life of Smithy’s Loam.
The phone rang for a long time. She must be there. Vivvi was sure she would have noticed if the newcomer had left. Anyway, you wouldn’t go out immediately after arriving in your new home, would you? Again, Vivvi felt that tweak of uncertainty, the fear that the new resident might not conform to accepted behaviour patterns.
What was her name? Theresa had said, Vivvi felt sure. An unusual name, she knew that much. But she couldn’t for the life of her remember what.
At last the phone was answered, with a cheerful “Hello?”
“Oh, hello. My name’s Vivvi Sprake. I live at Number Three, ‘Haymakers’, up the top of the…” She just managed to stop herself saying ‘close’. “…up at the top.”
“Ah.”
“I was really ringing just to welcome you to Smithy’s Loam.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“I knew Theresa and Rod Cotton very well. I just wanted to say that I hope you’ll be as happy here as they were.”
“Thank you. Much appreciated.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come across for coffee one of these mornings, to meet a few of the other people in the…” Oh dear, she’d nearly said ‘close’ again. Mustn’t say ‘estate’, either. And ‘development’ sounded so bald and functional. “Um…in Smithy’s Loam,” Vivvi concluded.
“Yes, I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”
“How about Friday?”
“Ah. Friday might be a bit difficult.”
“Oh dear.” Stupid. She should really have checked on the guest of honour’s availability before setting up the others. It had just never occurred to her that someone moving to a new area might have other commitments.
“No, don’t worry, Vivvi. I can juggle things round. Yes, Friday’d be fine. What sort of time?”
“Eleven?”
“Right. I’ll look forward to meeting you then.”
“And I’ll look forward to meeting you. Oh, one thing…”
“Yes?”
“Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Pargeter.”
“Mrs Pargeter?”
“That’s right. Mrs Melita Pargeter.”
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Three
Mrs Pargeter slept well her first night in ‘Acapulco’, Smithy’s Loam. Better than she had expected to. First nights in strange rooms, she had found in the past, could prove restless and uncomfortable, so the deepness of her sleep seemed a good omen for her future in the new home.
The next day she was kept busy around the house, rearranging her furniture. She had some good pieces, and wanted to show them to their best advantage. The late Mr Pargeter had left her well provided for in many ways, and each piece of furniture was like a little cassette of memory, which brought back vividly the circumstances of its purchase (or, when that was not the appropriate word, of its arrival in their marital home).
Some widows might have found these memories a cause for tears, but all they prompted in Mrs Pargeter was a grateful melancholy. She was not given to self-pity; when she looked back on her marriage, she did so with regret that it could not have continued longer, but also with appreciation of how good it had been while it lasted.
Much of the furniture had been in store for some time. Since her husband’s death, Mrs Pargeter had lived chiefly in hotels and rented accommodation. It had taken a few years until she felt ready to make another home, and ‘Acapulco’, Smithy’s Loam, was her first attempt in that direction.
She was still not certain that her choice of location had been right, but she was a philosophical woman, prepared to give the experiment six months and then, if it had not worked, concede failure and move on elsewhere. Thanks to the generosity and impeccably astute management of the late Mr Pargeter, money was not a problem.