Breakdown

 

    ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Usually starts first touch.’ He turned the ignition key again. He had been doing this for the better part of a minute.

    ‘This is a good start,’ his wife said. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ It was eight minutes past three. The afternoon was warm, sunny. They had been married for five hours and eight minutes. 

    ‘I don’t know,’ he said, through the driver’s side window, which was open. He knew very well what was wrong, why the engine was turning over but wouldn’t start. ‘But if I keep on like this, I’ll drain the battery. Then we’ll be really stuck.’

    ‘Marooned,’ his wife’s sister said. ‘Miles from a garage.’

    ‘Garage workshops close on Saturdays. Usually,’ he said. He got out of the car and stood looking at it. His wife of five hours and eight minutes, and her sister – his sister-in-law now - stood close to each other, a few paces from the car; his wife in her going-away suit, two piece, canary yellow; the sister still in her matron-of-honour’s outfit. She was the elder by seven years.

    ‘Cars,’ he said. ‘Just when you need them most.’ The car, a modest four door saloon, white with a black roof, seven years old, was parked in an outbuilding, a property of the farm that the sister-in-law worked with her husband. The car had been in the building overnight. ‘Secure,’ his soon-to-be wife had said the previous day. ‘You know what people are like with vehicles at weddings.’ He didn’t know, but did wonder.

    Sunlight beamed in through the building’s small, high, barred windows. The floor towards the rear was covered in straw, which was clean. Stacked against the back wall were straw bales. On the farmhouse courtyard a tractor, not large, was parked. It had been driven out of the building so that the car could be driven in, and the door, a substantial door, locked. His sister-in-law had followed them out to the farm the previous evening in her Land Rover, and, after securing their car, had taken them back to the village. Today she had brought them from the reception, with their going-away suitcases, to retrieve the car. She had drawn up in the Land Rover next to the tractor.

    ‘It started alright last evening. When we brought it here,’ his wife said.

    ‘Remind me why we had to do that. Rather, why you insisted we should do that.’

    ‘You agreed. The car would be safer if we -’

    ‘ - brought it to this remote and secret location, to imprison it overnight.’

    ‘ - because of what people do to vehicles at weddings.’ She hesitated, then, ‘I didn’t want anything to spoil my day.’ Her sister, his sister-in-law, suppressed a smile. 

    ‘Didn’t work too well, did it?’ he said.

    ‘What does that mean?’ His wife, his bride, in her vivid yellow trouser suit, tightened her mouth. Her clutch handbag, shoes and gloves were very white. There were shreds of confetti on her hair and shoulders. The car not starting was a setback that had in no way dimmed her radiance.

    ‘Well . . .’ he said, ‘Could be that one of those malign people who do things at weddings, heard on the village grapevine that the happy couple’s . . . vehicle . . .was to be be locked away overnight. So they abandoned their plan for scrawling ‘Just Married’ in lipstick on the back windscreen. That the sort of thing that would have spoiled your day?’

    ‘Exactly,’ his wife said. ‘You see -’

   ‘ - and instead, they drove out here, to the middle of nowhere, sneaked into this . . . motor vehicle secure unit in the middle of the night . . . and sabotaged our going-away transport, which would really spoil your day. Our day, actually. For a wedding day prank?’ 

    ‘It’s possible.’

    ‘You’ve a culprit in mind?’

    His sister-in-law said this was neither the time nor the place for sarcasm or squabbling and they should think what should be done to resolve the situation. Her husband could look at the car. He was really good with the tractors and other farm machinery.

    ‘But he’s not here,’ he said. ‘He’s at the reception with the families and guests in their suits and outlandish hats. Or maybe he has moved on to the ‘Blue Bell’ or the ‘Three Tuns’ and is carousing with vagrants and layabouts – you know – the delinquents who do things to vehicles at weddings, and who now – outsmarted and confused by their target disappearing into cold-storage, so to speak - are drowning their disappointment.’ His wife glared, made as if to say something, stopped. His sister-in-law made a ‘let’s cool-it’ gesture and said she would call her husband anyway. He would drive back and do what he could. But when she concluded the call, she reported that, ‘You were right. He’s in the ‘Blue Bell.’ Totally hammered. Wants me to drive back to the village to rescue him.’

    His wife approached the car. She said ‘If you invested in a vehicle that started reliably -’

    ‘It does. Usually. You know it does.’

    ‘- a newer model to replace this antique . . .’ For an instant he thought she really was going to kick the tyres ‘ . . . that’s ruining my day. Our day.’

    ‘Not the car’s – sorry, the vehicle’s - fault. Blame whoever snuck out here last night and jinxed the electrics . . . if in fact someone did.’

    ‘We must phone for help,’ his sister-in-law said. ‘Are you in a roadside rescue? The AA or something?’

    ‘No. All they can do at the roadside, usually, is change a wheel if you’ve punctured or give you a jump-start if your battery is flat. Any problem worse than that, they’ll take you and . . .’ - he looked at his wife       ‘. . . your vehicle, to your home or to a garage. You get a ride on a flatbed.’

    His sister-in-law turned away, an abrupt movement. Her shoulders shook. It took him a second or two to see why, and when he did, disguised an explosive laugh as a cough. His wife looked on, straight faced.              ‘What’s funny?’ she said. ‘Did I miss something?’    

    ‘Nothing that would make a bride blush,’ the sister-in-law said, then. ‘Well, I’ve been given my marching orders. I must away to the village to retrieve my husband; you know what husbands can be like at weddings.’ He caught his sister-in-law’s eye as she said this, registered her prim smile. She climbed into the Land Rover. ‘Be as quick as I can,’ she said. She started the engine, but stopped it after a moment or two and lowered her window. ‘The . . . um . . . How to say this? Just a suggestion, both, but . . . um . . . the house is empty. And. Well. You know. It being, well, the day it is, I sort of thought you could . . .’

    ‘Absolutely not,’ his wife shrieked. But he could not tell where her outrage was directed; at what her sister was suggesting or at her sister for suggesting it. ‘We’re going to Scotland. We were going to Scotland.’ Her sister made a ‘My bad’ face that overrode another smile, then, quietly through her open window as he came close to the Land Rover, ‘She’ll be alright. I think she gets she’s been silly - all that ‘what people do at weddings’ stuff.’

    ‘Agreed. But then . . . if her ‘no mischief at my wedding’ was a front, what was her ‘hiding the car’ nonsense all about in the first place?’

    ‘Your guess,’ she said. She started the engine, reversed into a turn and headed out to collect a tipsy husband who might be able to fix their car. Or not. In which case . . . how would the show get back on the road? He joined his bride close to the immobile car.

    ‘Who could have done it?’ he said, ‘And why?’

    ‘My parents are not highly regarded in the village.’ 

    ‘Do you seriously - ?’ He stopped. ‘It’s not their wedding day. You think this is a wedding prank by proxy played on your parents?’

    ‘Now what are you talking about?’

    ‘Never mind. Look at it another way. Clearly the barn, storeroom, whatever you call it - ’ He gestured to the outbuilding, ‘ - wasn’t broken into. No damage to the doors. So who had access? Who had a key? Other than your sister and her husband, who would surely be the last persons to do things to our vehicle at our wedding.’

    ‘Will you stop this.’

    As the silence between them stretched, the space between them seemed to grow wider, until at last he said, ‘Look, love. I understand you didn’t want anything to spoil the day, but this – hiding the car - was nothing to do with protecting it from the Just Married Lipstick Brigade, was it?’

    ‘Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about. If the car had been left in the village last night . . . just think . . . they could have slashed the tyres. Smashed the headlights. Anything.’

    ‘Are your serious! That’s not a bit of wedding day fun. That’s vandalism. Criminal damage.’ 

    ‘It happens. Could happen,’ she protested.

    ‘And who exactly is this they who could have done it?’ When she made no answer beyond a huffed breath he went on, ‘Is there something I don’t know about? Neighbourhood feud? One of your exes looking to settle a score? Someone or ones bearing a grudge? Something you haven’t told me?’

    She said nothing for several beats during which her face showed anger, then, ‘Why are you doing this?’ The hand not holding her bag was clenched, as was her voice now.

    ‘Doing what?’

    ‘Subjecting me to this third degree. I’m beginning to think you don’t believe me. All I wanted to do was to ensure our vehicle was safe so that nothing spoiled my day. Our day. Now it feels as if you’re doing just that - spoiling things with these stupid questions. No. Not stupid. Suspicious.’

    He held her gaze.‘OK. OK. I take your point.’ He slapped the back of his left wrist with his right hand. ‘Bridegroom! Go stand on the naughty step.’ 

    ‘That’s better.’ Her stance softened, almost palpably.

    ‘Tell you what, dearest. Why don’t you go in the house and make us our first cup of something as man and wife and I’ll give Bertha here -’ He gestured at the car, ‘- another chance to prove her worth.’ He dangled the key fob, gave it a shake. ‘Maybe she was sulking just now. Letting us know she didn’t relish the idea of two hundred miles under a hot sun. Or of being locked in a shed all night where she couldn’t see the stars.’

    She came two paces nearer, laid her gloved hand on his arm. ‘You’re lovely when you act silly like that.’

    ‘Yeah. Right. Go put the kettle on.’

    As she went towards the farmhouse front door he slipped into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, turned it to unlock the steering, turned it another quarter turn. The engine started. He revved it, watching his wife turn at the door of the farmhouse and step back to the car, moving fast. She stopped, leaning down so that her face was level with his open window.

    ‘They never cease, do they, wonders?’ he said. 

    She gripped the edge of his door. ‘Come in the house with me. We’ll have coffee together. Wait for my sister to come back. Come on!’ She opened his door. ‘We mustn’t set off without saying goodbye to them.’

He sat where he was. She held the door open. He turned the engine off. ‘Come on,’ she said again.

    ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to run off without you while you were making the coffee. Any more than I was planning to make my escape if the vehicle had been parked at your parents’ front gate tlast night. That might have really spoiled your day.’

    ‘Very funny,’ she said, voice charged with anger. She walked – no, she stalked – back to the farmhouse, went in and slammed the door. 

    He got out of the car and followed his wife, asking himself sotto voce if it was a good idea to marry someone you didn’t trust and, were that the case, which of them mistrusted the other most and whichever it was, what did their future now hold?

A Piece Of Cake

A TV chef is chattering about icing when Harvey Tillotson hears the letterbox rattle, hears post landing on the door mat – no thud, just a soft, papery splash. Charity stuff. Nothing exciting, nothing heavy, Nothing for him - Harvey, Factotum Designate to Mrs. Tillotson, Constance, aka Lady Dracula. In social gatherings she makes his name sound silly. ‘Harvey this’ and ‘Harvey that’ and ‘Harvey says’, she says. Colleagues and friends call him Harv, which makes him sound American. 

      ‘If there's anything for me, bring it.' Constance from her bedroom. Awake then. Alert then. Listening. Lis-ten-ing. Sotto voce he says, ‘Would a “please” now and then damage the organs of speech?’ 

   He gets up, goes into the hall, picks up the post. Flyers - from tradesmen, oriental takeaways, supermarkets. Charity circulars from the Lifeboats, Red Cross, Cats’ Protection League. And two letters. One is for him. Its Canadian stamp surprises him. The letter is addressed in a hand he recognises but has not seen for, what - four years? It has been redirected from the address where he lived those four years ago.

   ‘Kitty,’ he says, puzzled. He stuffs the letter into his pocket. He bins the flyers, puts the charity envelopes on the hall table. The other letter -

     'One for you, Beloved.'   He takes the letter that’s for his wife to her room. She is sitting up in bed, her hand held out in anticipation.

    'What kept you? Give.'

    'Apologies. I mislaid the silver tray.'

    She glares. 'Don't talk rubbish.' She points. 'Knife. There. On my bureau,' - the word dressed in a French accent, predictably.

    He picks up the knife - a paper-knife - from the bureau. It is not sharp. Even so, his glance goes from it to Constance’s neck. He hands her the knife, with the letter. 'Anything else, Beloved?'

    'Try leaving.' Not looking at him, she slits the envelope, takes out flimsy sheets and reads and smiles and stops and glares and tells him not to look at her when she’s reading. He bows repeatedly and plays the game of walking backwards – her flunkey - from the bedroom. She takes no notice.

   In the lounge again he examines the envelope. No mistaking the handwriting. 'Kitty,' he says. 'In Montreal. What can the little lady possibly want?’

   Kitty. A pert, pretty face with a talent for pulling silly ones. She moved in with him – 'to see how it goes.' It stopped going after some few months when she stormed out yelling 'You! I was doing fine before I met you! I was serene!' He remembers her small, mobile body and the chasm of missing her after they parted. Constance found him at the bottom of the chasm. ‘I rescued you,’ she said. ‘Kitty. What sort of a name is that? A shop-girl. A shelf-stacker. You deserve a real woman.’

    So here's she comes again, Kitty. Twenty-six now, he figures, to his twenty-nine, writing – he supposes - to congratulate him, however belatedly, on his marriage, though the letter is addressed to him alone, to Mr. Harvey Tillotson, not to Mr. and Mrs. The marriage is heading for its second anniversary and the rocks.

    There’s a brief account of her life in Montreal; the city, the cold, her duties as warden of the nurses' residence in the General Hospital, how her French has improved. About him, what he’s doing, where he is, how he is – nothing. Curious. There’s her email address. And curiouser.

   He sits. The TV chef is piping icing onto a cake. 'A wedding cake!' he says, 'How numbingly appropriate.' Then he looks at the envelope addressed to him and says ‘Cake?’ and stands up, frowning, and says ‘Wedding cake!’ and then - ‘Of course. The pieces of cake.’ He gets up, goes to the study that is also his bedroom. He switches on the printer. He copies the letter, hides the copy. He puts the original, in its envelope, alongside the charity stuff on the hall table. Back in the lounge the chef is now preparing to slice the cake. He seats himself. ‘Game on,’ he breathes. He waits.

    Twenty minutes later his wife comes into the lounge dressed for outdoors. She is holding Kitty's letter as if it had an unpleasant smell. 

    'Who is Kitty?' she demands. 'Another of your tatty little tarts?'

    'Another? I could be so lucky.' He clicks the TV off.

   'Don't try to be clever. It doesn’t suit you. Who is this female illiterate with nothing to say for herself that's worth the words?' 

    Kitty illiterate? Hardly. Nothing to say? True, but why nothing? 

   'Kitty? I did tell you about her, Beloved. We - ' He stops. Has she forgotten he and Kitty lived together, or is she pretending she’s forgotten? 

    'We were an item for a while,’ he reminds her. ‘But we were too young. At least, I was. Still am.'

   'Kitty? I don't remember. I'm not interested in your adolescent fantasies, only why this one is writing to you now. Are you corresponding with her behind my back? Is she your secret pen-friend?’ 

  ‘Secret? I let you see her letter. I fronted up. No secrets, remember. All open and above board. Pen friend? A minute ago she was my . . .’

   ‘ . . . tatty little tart,’ Constance says, blazing. ‘I told you to stop being clever.’ She makes a scornful sound.  ‘Is this twaddle . . .’ - she waves the letter, an abrupt gesture - ‘. . . her first?’

    ‘It is.’ 

    ‘Then how does she know where you live?'

    'She doesn't. It's redirected. Check the envelope.'

    Constance glances at the envelope, then scowls at him. 'I'm waiting for an explanation.'

    'Of what? How the letter found me? Slice of luck, I guess. Who Kitty is? You know who she is. Was. Or why this . . . um . . . blast from the past?’

   ‘Yes. That.’

   ‘I can’t begin to guess. I take it you don't think much of what she says?'

   'I do not. Drivel. A twelve year old writing to a maiden aunt.' 

   He pauses, then, ‘Am I delaying you, Beloved?’

   ‘What? What d’you mean . . . delaying me?’

   ‘You’re dressed for the great outdoors. The letter, and subsequent cross-examination . . . I wondered if they were keeping you from your excursion. Appointment. Assignation. Whatever.’

   ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t change the subject.’

   ‘Ah, yes, The subject. The letter. You were saying you think little of what Kitty says . . .’

   Constance heaves a sigh. ‘An understatement.’

   He steps closer, takes the letter from her, makes a show of reading it. Finished, he offers it back, holds her gaze until she takes it.

   ‘And what d’you make of what she doesn't say?’

    Constance hesitates, then ‘Don’t be silly. How can I possibly know what she doesn't say?’

    ‘Well – for starters, she doesn't offer congratulations on the marriage.’

   ‘If you can call it that.’ She has a point. He doesn’t pursue it and Constance goes on. 'Since she doesn't know you’re married, she can’t know congratulations were in order.’ She pauses and something like a smile visits her face. ‘Unless you told her.’ 

    When he stays silent, she scoffs. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Behind my back. Like I said.’

    He holds up his hands in the peace gesture. ‘On my oath, Beloved. No. Previous. Correspondence.’

   Though her stare still carries suspicion, she goes on. ‘Accepting that this pathetic -’ she brandishes the letter ‘- missive is out of the blue, you surely don’t imagine she woke up in . . . in . . . wherever she is . . . some Saturday morning and saw her diary for the weekend was blank and thought “What shall I do? I know! I’ll write to Harvey.” Of course not. She has an agenda.’

   ‘Ah! Now that’s interesting. An agenda. Who doesn’t have an agenda. What was hers, I wonder?’

  ‘You don’t know women, do you, Harvey? She knows you’ll be intrigued. She’s hoping you’ll write back. She’s revealing nothing of her heart whilst hoping to test yours. She wants to try again. Only a fool would fail to see it. But then . . .’ She interrupts herself with a harsh laugh.

    He allows his face to light up. ‘I get it. I get it. By writing this totally neutral letter . . .’ He reaches out so that they are both holding it. ‘. . . she prepares herself for the let-down of my not replying, or of being told something she might not want to know even though it’s something she should know already but clearly hasn’t been told and would have written a very different letter if she had been told.’

    ‘Now you're being cryptic. What hasn’t she been . . .’ She falters. ‘Told?’

     He waits. He can see she knows she’s in a hole, but he knows it’s not like Constance to stop digging.

    'Keep going,' he says. 'I think you're catching up.'

   She does not reply. He guesses she has sensed shallow water ahead.  He inhales deeply, holds the breath, pauses. ‘You took Kitty off the list.’

    She turns her gaze from him. ‘What list?’

    'The list of people your mother asked me for – you know - to post little boxes of wedding cake to with a card announcing we are joined in Holy Deadlock. You following this?' 

    Constance says nothing. 

   'Maybe you asked to see the list I gave your mother and struck Kitty off because, "You see, Mother, Kitty is one of Harvey's adolescent fantasies and it's high time he stopped obsessing about her." Possibly adding, "She'll never know if we simply take her off Harvey’s list. Neither will Harvey." Is that what happened?'

   His wife's body language communicates controlled fury. ‘What utter unfathomable nonsense. How dare you!’ She waves the letter at him. 'In case you intend responding to this twaddle - ' she tears the letter in half, and again, twice - 'it’s going to the one place it’s fit for.' She leaves the room and a moment later he hears the lavatory flush, hears her quick step in the hall, and then the front door slams. 'No one flushes quite like you, Beloved,’ he says. 'Or flounces.'

    He turns the TV on. The chef is making Eton Mess. 

   'It’s a mess all right, mate. Bet Kitty would like it, though.' Kitty would poke a finger into whipped cream, or curry sauce or garlic dip, and offer him the finger-tip. He remembers her, eager and impatient in their bed. He thinks of Lady Dracula summoning him at four weekly intervals, turning back her duvet, patting the mattress, a sure sign she is ovulating, whereupon he spends himself while she lies joyless and rigid. 'This marriage,' he told her, 'reminds me of 'Brief Encounter,.’ Classic forties cinema, screened once a month in darkened British bedrooms.' She replied that she has settled into marriage quicker than he, that's all. He expects too much. Most husbands do. After twenty months, her strategy – he calls it Dracula's Statute of Limitations - has not resulted in a foetus. 

    He clicks the TV back on. Wedding cakes have given way to a countryside program. Two anglers wearing waders stand in a stream, reeling in, casting, their floats bobbing, sunlight catching the drops on their lines. The camera zooms closer and he sees one of the anglers is a woman.

    'She’s right,' he says. 'Kitty – you’re fishing.’

    There’s a close-up of the anglers’ keep-net where two sleek brown trout twist and gobble and gaze and fruitlessly seek a way out. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘We've all got problems.’

    His wife’s key sounds in the lock and she comes in and in seconds the front door slams and he hears her I-will-not-be-bested voice informing him that she will be in her room until he is ready to apologise.

   Would a little contrition help? Does he want it to? ‘Of course, Beloved. Give me a minute.’ 

   He has an email to send, but he cannot be sure what he will say to Kitty or will want to say until he has a clear idea of what he and Constance will say to each other, if indeed there is anything left to say.

The Digger

    Miss Peacock, who lived alone, took little notice of her new neighbour, Mr.Green, who also lived alone, until the day a digger arrived. On her television set, Miss Peacock had seen diggers the size of houses digging goodness knows what in enormous mouthfuls and dumping it into enormous yellow trucks. The digger delivered to Mr.Green was red, and small - small enough to trundle up the path between Mr.Green's house and his garage. What on earth could Mr.Green's possibly want it for?  It looked extremely dangerous.

    'How much damage will your apparatus do,' Miss Peacock asked. She was in conversation with Mr. Green over the fence between their back gardens. 

    'My dear Miss Peacock. It is not my digger. It is on hire, merely.'

    'It will no doubt be noisy,’ Miss Peacock said. ‘It will disturb Vinegar and Mustard. They will seek refuge in the cupboard under the sink, poor dears.'

    'Vinegar and Mustard?'

    'My pussy cats. They are Abyssinian. They are valuable. They have sharp ears. The noise from your digger will disconcert them. Why do you want it?'

    'To dig a pond.'

    'A pond! Why do you want a pond?' 

    'A pond will be the main feature of my water feature.

    'But a pond is a danger to cats,' Miss peacock protested.

    'Cats can swim if they have to.  If one were to throw a cat into a pond, one would find the cat would swim.'

    'Don't be ridiculous, Mr.Green. A pond indeed! I shall telephone to the Council. This digging of ponds must be nipped in the bud. There are many cats in the neighbourhood. And small children. A child drowning, though welcome to some, would be a tragedy to others. To the parents, for instance.'

    'I do not need the Council's permission for a pond less than two feet high. And in my experience, Miss Peacock, ponds are not high, they are deep.'

    'Exactly.' Miss Peacock stared at Mr.Green, then asked who would drive the digger. 'Rough men with hard hats and tattoos, I expect. Always wanting cups of tea and bringing in mud and asking to use my lavatory. I shall not oblige them.'

    'I will drive the digger myself.'

    'You, Mr.Green? You are not a licensed digger driver, I'll be bound. I shall telephone to the police.'

    'I do not need a license to drive a digger on my own land.'

    'Do you know how to drive a digger?

    'It is not difficult. There is an exhaustive instruction manual, and a tutorial on a DVD.'

    'That's all very well, Mr. Green. But what, pray, will you do with the soil?'

    'What soil?'

    'The soil that was in the hole where the pond will be.'

    For a moment Mr.Green did not understand, and when he did he said, 'I shall dig another hole and bury it.'

    Miss Peacock turned away and went back indoors, calling for Vinegar and Mustard to get their treaty-weeties. Mr.Green stuck out his tongue at her retreating back and muttered 'Stupid cow.'

    Mr.Green spent the next day mastering the digger. At five o’clock, after much practise, he said ‘I can turn it round on a five-pence piece. I can raise and lower the arm and operate the digger bucket. I am really getting to know its ropes.' He said this to Miss Peacock who was watching him from her side of the fence, noting the times at which Mr.Green started and stopped the digger, how loud was the noise it made, and how much blue smoke, and the way Vinegar and Mustard reacted to the kerfuffle. Mr. Green drove the digger to where Miss Peacock stood by the fence and stopped but did not turn off the engine. He called to her from the throbbing cab. 

    'I shall start the dig tomorrow. It will take only one day. Unless I encounter boulders.'    

    'Do not dare to put your boulders over my side,' Miss Peacock said. 'I will not be contaminated. Good gracious no. I shall make a note of any transgressions and telephone to the Social Work, stating that you are an undesirable.'

    At this point two things happened. The digger lurched forward and at the same time the arm swung forward and the digger bucket smashed into the fence. Planks splintered. Miss Peacock skipped back in alarm. Mr.Green reclaimed control of his digger. He backed up a couple of feet and rested the bucket on the ground. 

    'Missed,' he said, sotto voce.

    'Outrageous,' declared Miss Peacock with hauteur. 'Incompetent. I shall telephone to my solicitor. Mr. Plumb will seek a restraining order. And damages for damage to the fence. You'll see.' She made a note in her notebook and went indoors, calling to Vinegar and Mustard.

    'This is war,' Mr.Green said. 

    Mr.Green laid aside the collection of objects his digging had unearthed:        

    A flint-lock pistol, last used in a duel, perhaps, or at a military engagement during the English Civil War.  The brass barrel was covered in verdigris. The firing mechanism was intact but in need of a good clean.

    A length of plastic hosepipe. Just the thing when the time came to fill the pond.

    A length of rope, the sort climbers used to hitch themselves to cliffs, to judge by its red, white and blue colours. 

    A tradesman's lunch-box, empty except for a tube of Polo mints.

    Some lengths of lead piping. Mr.Green concluded that his house had been re-plumbed and the old pipes, along with offcuts of copper and plastic tubing had been disposed of in his garden - by the plumber who abandoned the lunch-box, perhaps?

    And a butcher's boning knife, well rusted.

    Miss Peacock had been monitoring Mr. Green’s activity from her side of the damaged fence.

    'Look at that lot,' Mr. Green said. 'I should hire a metal-detector and sweep my garden and yours, Miss Peacock’s. There could be enough treasure-trove to pay for the hire of the digger. There could be Roman coins and amulets, Viking helmets, a hoard of Victorian sovereigns. You'll have made a note of these items, Miss Peacock?'

    'I have. Little escapes my notice, Mr. Green.'

    'A fine collection,’ Mr. Green said. 'Would you care for a Polo mint, Miss Peacock?'

    'I would not. What will you do with your bric-a-brac?'

    'Not bric-a-brac, dear lady. That pistol, for example, could be worth real money.'

    'Oh? Do you think so? How much?'

    'Hundreds. Maybe more. It is seventeenth century.'

    'Really? How very interesting.' Miss Peacock considered Mr. Green's items, and said, 'I tell you what, Mr.Green. While you complete the excavation for your ridiculous pond, I will give everything a good clean in return for my keeping that wicked-looking boning knife.'

    Mr.Green climbed down from the digger. 'It's a deal, Miss Peacock.' He gathered up the items, handed them across the broken fence and as Miss Peacock took them away, muttered 'Why would the old bat want a boning knife?’

    

    The manager of the equipment hire shop was suspicious enough to phone the police when an elderly lady drove a digger into the yard to return it. A favour to my neighbour Mr. Green, she told him. The manager explained they usually sent a truck to retrieve large equipment such as diggers at the end of the hire period. Miss Peacock said had she known that she would have telephoned. But she had found the DVD most helpful and driving a digger was much easier than she had imagined. 

    When the police asked why Mr. Green had wanted the digger, Miss Peacock grew flustered, saying something about finding items of interest in his garden, but she had made a list of everything in her notebook along with her conversations with Mr.Green. The police examined the notebook and soon extended their investigation to Miss Peacock's house and the two gardens, hers and Mr.Green's. They found  the rope, the lead (and other) pipes in Miss Peacock's kitchen and a lunch-box. They had been carefully cleaned. More significant was an ancient flint-lock pistol and a boning knife hidden in a cat's bed-basket. Though both items had also been carefully cleaned, the traces of blood residues on the knife were shown to be human, not feline.

    'There's something missing,' Detective Inspector Brenda Scarlett said.

    'What's that, guv?'

    'Mr.Green, that's what.'

   D.I Scarlett poked with her toe where there were signs of recently disturbed soil in Mr.Green's garden.

    'I think we need a digger,' she said.

CRY HAVOC

(4720 words)

“Havoc has slain the Marmalade Cat!”

My first  meeting with Zoe’s family has got off to a poor start.  The bringer of bad tidings is Sarah,  Zoe’s niece.  She is nine. Havoc is Zoe’s dog. The Marmalade Cat is – was  -  Sarah’s pet. It is the first time Zoe’s family has met Havoc.  Zoe is my not-quite partner.  We are not quite an item.

“The Marmalade Cat is all over the back path,” Sarah wails. No one comforts her,  not her mother,  not Zoe, who does not even look at her.

We are gathered in the kitchen of the converted farmhouse where Zoe’s sister, brother-in-law and Sarah, their daughter,  live.  Zoe’s mother and father are also here to meet me. We had driven up – Zoe and I - in my van from Leeds and had disembarked, only minutes before, with Havoc, when furious barking outside silenced the introductions, and Sarah rushed in, distraught.

 “Who left a door open?” Zoe asks, shrill and clearly angry. “Surely you know better than to leave doors open when the Hound is around.”  Still she does not apologise. No one asks Zoe why they should know better.

 Sarah glares at Zoe. “Havoc’s a horrible dog,” she says, still wailing, “and you’re a horrible auntie.”

Zoe’s reply is astonishing. “I’m your aunt, Sarah. Auntie is a silly baby word.”

The family look anywhere but at Zoe or Sarah who turns, rushes from the kitchen.  Moments later a door slams somewhere upstairs.

Havoc, down from his adrenaline high, trots into the kitchen and sprawls. His tail thumps the tiled floor. His black-lipped grin drips blood and shreds of Marmalade’s intestines.

I notice that no one remonstrates with Zoe: father, mother, sister, brother-in-law, and I wonder why. They react as if dogs slaying the family pet was just one of those things. Perhaps they are reluctant to make a scene in front of me.  I am after all the reason for this visit. I am Zoe’s  friend.  Would her family prefer her ‘young man’ or even her ‘intended’?  Zoe would love to introduce me as her fiancé.  Her agenda this visit is to plant my feet under her family’s table.

 She makes one concession to the dog’s misdemeanor.  Immediately after lunch she makes excuses and we leave.  Sarah has not reappeared. The Marmalade cat is not mentioned on the journey back.

* * * *

Sixteen years later Zoe and I still send greetings at birthdays and Christmas. Is it really that long?  That’s quite a few cards when you reckon it.  Always Funnies, sometimes via Moonpig.  No flowers or balloons printed “Hi!” and certainly no dogs.  She’s heading for her Big Four Zero now, and I’m, well - older.  We advise changes of address, likewise phone numbers, landline and mobiles, though we never talk.  We don’t swap family news. We don’t talk about job prospects, career progress, that sort of thing.  We put - Regards; How’s things with you; If you’re ever in this neck of the woods; You use email? and so on, but these scrawls always side-step the uncomfortable events in our past and we never follow them up, although I sometimes think I one day will. Or she might.  Havoc demolishing the Marmalade Cat turned out to be a straw in the wind and when the storm broke we left things unfinished; actions, mine as well as hers, unexplained and unjustified. 

It’s strange, sure, but it is a relationship of sorts, even though neither knows such basic things as whether the other married, had kids.  Well, I don’t.  Maybe the grapevine has told Zoe about  the women – no names, no pack-drill – who waltzed into my life and mostly waltzed out again.  Zoe had made me wary.  She  had a sharp tongue as well as a short fuse but she never told me I was a dead loss.   Rather the opposite in fact, sixteen years ago.

* * * *

“Goodness gracious me, Collier,” she said at the conclusion of one of our irregular couplings. “You’re must rank amongst the five best sex athletes in the north of England.”  She’d uttered no sounds, nor called upon any gods during the process, but at its conclusion, fanned her face with her open hand.

“Amongst?” I said. “Is that experience talking? Or surmise?” She ignored this. 

Ask me why she always used my surname – I’m Kenneth, Ken - and I’ll tell you I don’t know. I mean I’m not sure.  An affectation, perhaps? She told me surnames were de rigeur in the up-market school where she taught English, so maybe using my surname was just habit. But Kenneth is her brother’s name – he’s older than her - and her father’s. Draw your own conclusions. Even now, after so many years, her cards come addressed to “Mr. K. Collier,” never  “Kenneth.” Something else – I never heard her speak of her Mum or Dad; always ‘my mother’ or ‘my father.’ 

At the time she had a one room flat in the Roundhay district, north Leeds.  She referred to it as her apartment.  A ground floor bedsit roughly five paces by five. The room’s wide window looked across to Roundhay Park – quite a pleasant aspect.  Off the main room was a cramped kitchen, bathroom with WC. There was rudimentary heating. Access was by a private side door that opened directly from the yard into the main room.  A yard gate opened onto the street. This gate of solid planks was tall enough to stop folk peering into the yard.

So there she lived with Havoc. He was a cross.  He had the long, pale coat of a golden retriever and the upright ears of a German shepherd – to be fair, a handsome dog. He’d come from a Rescue Centre or Dog Pound or some such and besides being handsome he was a psychopath, a homicidal maniac, an uncultured canine lout, take your pick.  The Centre warned her - if he spots another dog, or any other four-legged friend smaller than a Shetland pony - there will be no social niceties, no polite bottom-sniffing, no hail-puppy-well-met gamboling. Head down, snarling, Havoc will attack. Lord knows what treatment in early life had brought him to this pass, condemning him to restraint and incarceration. And Lord knows why Zoe wanted to rescue and control such a beast. Dogs don’t answer back, maybe?

She said “I told the Rescue Centre he needs a firm hand, that’s all. Leave him to me.”  And again, let’s be fair.  Pretty soon she was taking him walkies, always muzzled, and on a tough lead of plaited leather strands, and a choke-chain.

"He protects me, Collier,” she would say.  “And my property.  He’s my security. With little me living alone it’s woe betide intruders.  So don’t let him see you move as if you had ideas of taking advantage of me.”  This as she reclined in a low armchair, her knees spread wide, Havoc between them, head in her lap, drooling while she fondled his ears.  “One word from me,” she said, “and he’ll have your naughty bits for breakfast.”  I judged them safe: for if I did move on her, her two hands would go up in a defensive gesture and I would be ticked off about there being a time and a place for everything.  Here and now were neither, mostly.

  Throughout that Spring she had been setting her cap at me – I believe that’s the expression – with a subtlety, never very great, that diminished as the season wore on, from “Just think what we could be doing for the next thirty, forty, fifty years,” via “You really should be married, Collier, you know that?” to “I want lots of kids and lots of laughter!”

“These days lots of couples get married when the kids are old enough to be pages and bridesmaids,” I said,

“My parents would never accept such an arrangement.  They are old fashioned, a generation out of step, maybe two.”

“Most of our generation seem prepared to jump into the sack with anyone who’ll keep still long enough and who cares what the parents think.  Why are you so defensive?” 

“You want to share my bed three-sixty-five and twenty-four-seven at weekends. I know you do.  I can tell by the way you trail around after me with a permanent erection.  So - make me a proposal.  Then I can put the other fellow out of his misery. And you too in a different way, you poor hungry lad.”   

Other fellow?  This was a new one. She’d never before spoken of another fellow or mentioned his other fellow’s name.

“You like two strings to your bow, eh?  Who is he, this other fellow?”

“You don’t need to know, Collier, but be warned - he’s lurking in the undergrowth. Marry me – then I can exile him to his couch of thorns and you, darling, will be admitted to my bed of roses.”

“You mean he’s your first reserve if I don’t make an honest something of you, and vice-versa? Neither of us the favourite, it would seem? Nice to be spoiled for choice.”  She ignored this, but her tightened smile suggested I’d touched a nerve.

I did not make a proposal. Her inducements made me wary.  I suspected she thought I was simply swivel eyed with thwarted lust. Or maybe she just didn’t tolerate disobedience, being a school teacher,

“Some women have style,” she once said, standing at her full length mirror, smoothing a sheath dress over her hips, green stilletos flattering her calves. “I go one better. I’ve got oomph, don’t you think? I flutter my lashes and the lads go down like ninepins.”  If you say so, I thought.

The last time she entertained me in her bedsit-flat-apartment, the ornamental cherry trees in the park were at their best.  That would be early May, not long after the uncomfortable meeting with the family, when Havoc breakfasted off the Marmalade Cat.

* * * *

At the time I was driving from Carlisle most weekends to visit her. I would reach her place during the evening of Friday, leave late on Sunday evening.  These times in her company were entertaining, side-stepping her guile; deflecting her frontal assaults which varied from brisk but infrequent sessions under the duvet to straightforward bribes -  “You can keep your other girl friends, Collier. I wouldn’t mind. I’m relaxed about these things, you know.”

“That sounds like a nihil obstat?”  She didn’t ask what that was.  If Zoe didn’t know something she behaved as if it was not worth knowing – a bizarre attitude in a school teacher with a Master’s from the University.

The other shadow under the candle was her insistent ‘love me, love my dog.’  She argued that Havoc must have been badly treated as a puppy, maybe even trained as a fighting dog and wasn’t to blame for his criminal tendencies and so his attacks on other dogs and house pets should be excused.  I argued that I didn’t fancy taking joint responsibility for the Hound of the Baskervilles II.  Had she public liability insurance, I wanted to know.

“I’ve thought about it. “

“Get some. Before it’s too late.”

“Meaning?”

“The Rescue Centre did warn you. So far he’s been happy enough eating cats.  Who’s next?”

“My sister soon replaced Marmalade.  Anyway, they should have kept the cat shut in. They knew what Havoc was like.”

“How could they know? When he bounced out of the van it was the first time they’d set eyes on him.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Collier. And don’t try to be clever.  Neither suits you. I’d called my sister and my mother to tell them what to expect. Lot of fuss over a cat.  You know cats are ‘free spirits’ in law?  They have no legal identity so in the circumstances my sister knew better than to make a fuss. Particularly in front of you.” 

“A dog owner could sue,” I said.

“And this dog owner will sue any dog that attacks Havoc.”  There was a smirk in this remark  that didn’t reach her face.   Zoe has to win, I thought, or thinks she does.

We were having coffee al fresco in the small paved yard – the patio, she called it – outside the flat. It was Whitsun week, her half-term break from school she said.  A breeze that couldn’t make up its mind brought cherry blossom and scattered it around. Havoc lay stretched under the table, gnawing one of its legs.   She leaned down and scratched his head.  “You hear that, Hound?  The bad man wants to put you in prison for biting the pussy cat.”

“It was kill, Zoe, not bite.  You could get a hefty fine.  And Hound would get a Destruction Order.”

“Nonsense!” She said that in that event she would tell her father to engage Counsel, reducing me to open mouthed silence when several things happened at once.  Or almost at once.

The yard gate opened and the postman came in, a short, solid chap, in his fifties, a weathered outdoors face, and on this warm Spring morning he was doing his walk in shorts.  Havoc looked up, bristled and barked.  The postman held up envelopes.

“Don’t approach me!” said Zoe. “Shut the gate.  Now!”

The door to the flat had a letter slot. The postman stepped towards the door.  “I’ll just pop them through . .”

In the same moment a schoolgirl in maroon blazer and grey skirt passed the open gate.  She had a dog, a fox terrier, brown and white, on a red training lead.  Why did I notice the colours?  The lead had enough slack to let the terrier a little way through the gate to investigate the barking, its perky head cocked.

“Gate! Now!” Zoe yelled as Havoc streaked from under the table before she could grab his collar.  On his way to the terrier’s execution, he collided with the postman’s legs. The postman dropped his bag as he staggered back. The shoulder strap tangled his ankle and he went down on hands and knees and I thought “Havoc attacks anything on four legs . .”

Havoc turned on the postman who lifted an arm to his face when the dog stood over him, an ominous growl punctuating each bark.  But the postman was a distraction.  Havoc turned back to his first quarry, the terrier.   The delay had given the girl time to scoop her little dog into her arms. I crossed the patio in three strides. I grabbed Havoc’s tail and pulled, hard.  Havoc’s barks turned to yelps but still he tried to get at the terrier, his forelegs off the ground,  scrabbling for  the other dog, now out of reach.

“Go!” I said to the girl. “I’ve got the dog.”  She mouthed something – thank you, I think, before she turned and bolted, the terrier clasped to her chest.

The postman was on his feet again.

“I saw all that,” he said.

“I told you to close the gate!”  Zoe, furious.

To me the postman said “Could have been bloodshed there, squire.”

“Didn’t you hear me tell you to close the gate?  I blame you for this.”  Zoe was shouting, her face livid.

He said nothing for two or three beats, then, “Blame on, lady. I’ve to report  incidents like this.”

“Don’t you dare!  I’ll shred you.”

“Rather you than the dog, lady. Yours, is it?  You know something?  That lassie’s home is on my walk.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Be careful, Zo,” I said. “I rather think he is. “

“Don’t you dare side with him, Collier. Anyway, my word against his. And let go Havoc’s tail.  You’re hurting him.”  Havoc was still straining towards the gate.  I hung on.

“Not until someone shuts the gate.  There’s a dog out there and Havoc knows it.”  The postman shouldered his bag.

“A postman’s word’s nowt against a posh bird like you, eh?” he said to Zoe.  “What about your fellow here?  He saw it all.  So did the girl.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Zoe. “I told you to shut the gate. But no.  So the stupid child let her dog onto my patio through the gate you left open.  Then she let her dog annoy my dog.  No one will believe a child’s word against mine. You know I’m a teacher?”  - which, though pathetic, was a step down from asking Daddy to engage counsel.

The postman spoke only to me. “I can’t speak for the attack-dog, squire, but sounds like you’ve a right bitch to cope with here.”

Now Zoe blazed.  “Take your insolence off my patio! At once!”

The postman had recovered from his fright. “Patio’s not yours, lady,” he said.  “You rent it from a nice old chap called Cohen, a real gentleman.  Just up the road. He’s on my walk too.  Does he know one of his tenants keeps a wild animal?  You’ll have heard of the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991.  Protects  schoolkids and your friendly neighbourhood postman.” He handed her the letters.

It struck me Zoe wasn’t used to being spoken to like this.  It also struck me that she sensed shallow waters ahead, very shallow indeed.  She said nothing more, took the offered letters without looking at them, or him.

I shifted my grip from Havoc’s tail to his collar as the postman withdrew,  edging past the dog, closing the gate behind him. 

We went into the flat and surprisingly she opened a bottle of white and sat on the edge of the bed and patted the duvet for me to join her.  This was so unlike her there had to be a hidden agenda.

“What shall I do with my time off?” she said,  an unexpected even surreal gambit.

“Don’t you think we should talk  about, er, what just happened?”

“No. That’s boring.  These things blow over.”

“I see why you call him Havoc. It suits the hound better than it suited Julius Caesar.”

“Meaning?”

“ ‘Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of war’  Quote from Julius Caesar.”

“Exactly,” she said.  “That’s why I gave him his name. But I think you’ll find the line is from Henry the Fifth’s soliloquy before Agincourt, not Julius Caesar.”

“No. Henry’s dogs are ‘greyhounds straining in the slips.’ ”  I should have known better.  She stood up, whirled to face me, nostrils flaring, shouting.

“How dare you? How dare you pretend to a deeper knowledge of Shakespeare than  . .”

“An English teacher?  Sorry I spoke. Many a slip forgive the pun twixt cup and lip,”  A growl from Havoc and I held up my hands in apology.

 ‘I should think so.”  She sat down again, mollified. “Now – if there should be any trouble from the dimwit and her pathetic dog - just you remember to stick to my version of events.” 

She rested her hand on my thigh. “You’ll do that for me, if the need arises, won’t you, Collier?”  Her other hand, fingers round the stem of her glass, was shaking and she drank in small,  rapid sips.

 “What do you think the other fellow would do?” I said  “Would he – what did you say – stick to your version of events when the police come round to ask Havoc to assist them with their enquiries?” 

She bridled again. “If you want to go down that road, I’ll share my holiday plans with the other fellow instead.  He’s Danny, by the way.  You did ask.”   It was obvious. It was crude.  And she was scared.  Well, no way out but forward.

“Holiday plans?  They would be the plans you were just getting round to telling me about when the postman burst in on us?”

“Yes, now you mention it, yes.  I was going to suggest you take me to Carlisle with you for the rest of the week.”

“Would that include Havoc?”

“Naturally.”

I couldn’t resist it.  “And Danny?”

“Danny,” she said, glancing at me. “Who’s . . ?” She checked herself. “Of course not.  I’ll have to tell him.  So he’ll know not to call mid-week when you’re not here.”

“Ah, right. See it. Danny will have to make do with one of his other girl friends while the star attraction, the Lady with the Oomph, is away with her other fellow.”

Her sideways look told me she wasn’t sure I was pulling her leg.  I went on before she could say anything. 

“So what will you do in Carlisle all week while I’m at work.”

“Can’t you take time off to be with me?”

I made ‘maybe’ gestures.  “And if I can’t, you could tramp the Lakeland fells and train Havoc to kill sheep.” I laughed, patted the hand on my thigh.  “Woof!” 

“That’s more like the Collier I know and love,” she said.  “Let’s make a start then.”   Before the blue lights and sirens surround you, I thought.  Oh, Zoe, Zoe.

She bundled underwear, tops and jeans haphazardly into a hold-all, followed by items of make-up, hair brush, mobile, coin purse and such like. Tins of dog food and an opened bag of dog biscuits went into a cardboard box, all this done in under five minutes.  The week-end bag I’d brought had hardly been opened.  She stowed it with her own stuff, the dog food and Havoc, in the back of the van, parked on the street.

“Get in.  I’ll lock up.”   While she did this I googled the quote. Julius Caesar! Yay! But I wasn’t intending to resume the Shakespeare tutorial. In another half minute she was buckling herself into the passenger seat.  “Right! Let’s hit the road.”  So we set off, and as we drove north I wondered whether the postman had finished his round; what the girl walking her little dog had told her parents; how long would it be before the police got to her landlord, Mr. Cohen; how long before they had her landline and mobile phone records and found me in her directories.  I let a good few miles pass - Harrogate, Ripon, heading for the A66 - before I suggested she should maybe have brought her lap-top with my email address, and Danny’s.  Then I paused before -

     “Did you call him, by the way, Danny?  You were going to.”  This time she was answer-ready.

     “Jealous, are we, Collier? I didn’t call. Let him sweat wondering where I am.’’  O.K. I thought, so she never gives up.

We left the A66 for Barnard Castle, then up through Teesdale, past High Force, over the Penines, and down into Alston, Brampton – a magic drive on a fine spring afternoon - and to my shame I was hugging myself, wondering whether the police would get to my flat in Carlisle even before I delivered the fugitive.

* * * *

As it turned out, nothing happened.  No blue and yellow cars screeched to a stop outside. All week no calls came asking me would I mind loping down to the station to bark answers to a few questions.  So the week went by and the weather stayed fine and I did take some due holiday and Zoe relaxed, but Havoc’s attack still weighed on her, I could tell because her ‘Marry Me, Why Don’t You?’ campaign seemed to be on hold. 

On the Thursday evening, the day before we’d planned to go back to Leeds, I said “You won’t mind, Zoe, I’m sure.  Thursday.  My night for Polly.”

We were slumming with pizzas and Coke in front of the TV. She stiffened. She rose. She stood over me.  She harangued me using the same shrill tones that told the postman to get off her patio, that told her family the Marmalade cat should have been shut in, that argued about Shakespeare, that told me not to be clever, it didn’t suit me.  Of course she hadn’t really meant I could keep my girlfriends, of course not.  And what sort of a tatty little tart was this Polly anyway?  “Some shop girl or bank cashier, I suppose?” she shrieked.  “Hardly a good swap for an English teacher in a fee-paying Girls School.”

“You mean I can keep my girl friends as long as there are no English teachers watching?”

Her fists clenched but any reply was cut short by Havoc. He sensed her anger, looked interested, growled, a low rumble in his throat.  I held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay!  Polly will have to make do with her other fellow for once.”  If Zoe noticed this jab she didn’t show it.

“Let me just call her.”  I scrolled my mobile screen and called my desk number at work.  It rang out, of course, then went to voicemail.  “Oh, hi, Pol,” I said. “Look, love, can’t make it this week.  Held up in the deep south.  Call you again when I’m back.  Take care. Kiss kiss.”  I thumbed my phone off. All’s fair in love and in the war that love can turn into.

“Happy now?” I asked Zoe.

 “Don’t imagine you get to sleep with me just because it’s our last night here.”  She stalked out. Havoc stirred himself, got to his feet and padded after her.

* * * *

We didn’t say much on the way back, or when we got to her flat, late Friday afternoon. No ominous notes through the door – just letters delivered during the week. She picked them up, put them on a small side table where she kept her landline phone along with the ones the postman had brought the previous week. It seemed the Havoc incident had blown over but while she made tea I read the envelopes looking for summonses, eviction notices, whatever.  Two of the envelopes – brown manilla - were from the Department of Work and Pensions in Belfast, and another from the Council’s Housing Benefits office. I left them on the table. I sat down as she came from the kitchen with tea in mugs.  Mugs! Mugged!  I was being mugged by a Lady with Oomph who couldn’t remember her own lies.  OK, time for a little test.

“Lovely,” I said. “Builders tea.  Then I’ll be going.”

“So soon?  I had plans for us for the evening.”

 “But you’ll be wanting to get ready for school starting.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“School. Starts Monday, no? Back to the grind. Chocolate digestives in the staff room. Piles of marking.  Refereeing hockey matches. Standing in for colleagues on sick leave.”

“What? Oh!  Yes. That’s right. Monday.” For once she couldn’t look me in the eye while she made her life up on the hoof.

“Well, enjoy Day One, Zo. And don’t get Henry and Julius mixed up. Children’s futures could be at stake.”

So I finished up my tea, took my leave with the briefest hug and an assurance that I’d see her next weekend, knowing that those seven days would last for ever,  and wondering if she knew it too.  

* * * *

All very well, but sixteen years later these events still bother me.  There were many things I could have done at the time, I suppose. Checked with her local Education Authority; or the Department of Welfare and Pensions; the Housing Benefits people; even the Social Work.  Or I could have contacted her sister, pretending I wanted to apologise for Havoc’s behaviour.  But why?  Her family surely knew she needed help. Maybe they said nothing at the time because they feared her incendiary temper? Maybe they’d hoped that somehow help would come from me, and when it didn’t told themselves that I, or love, or something,  had failed her, and them.

It was a month, maybe more, before I stopped hoping the text alerts on my mobile would be from Zoe asking “Where the hell are you? What have I done . . ?” etc, etc. The texts never pinged in, and then at Christmas the cards started.

There it is then.  Year by year the laconic cards are posted and are delivered.  The cord stretches but never snaps and I wonder if the silences in between are a sort of punishment, and if so, who is punishing whom and for what exactly.

.