by Beth O'Leary
More tinny rattling.
“Well, I just put the mayonnaise on one side, and … Yes. I’m sure you—all right, Cliff, love, I’ll come home. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I wince. Has he actually just summoned her home to make him a sandwich? That feels so ridiculous—if Ethan tried to do that, I’d … I’d probably laugh, actually, because it would be so absurd I’d know he would have to be joking. Presumably it’s different for Betsy’s generation, though—it wouldn’t be strange for a woman to make all her husband’s meals fifty years ago, I suppose.
Betsy puts her phone back into her handbag, then tries to get up too quickly and doesn’t quite have the momentum for it. She rocks back into the chair, helpless, like one of those dolls with a weight in the bottom.
“Do stay,” I say, conscious I’ve said all the wrong things. “I’m sure your husband can wait, if you want to have a—”
“My husband cannot wait,” Betsy says sharply. “I have to be off.”
I move to help her up.
“No, no, I’m quite all right,” she says. Once standing, she fixes me with another very serious look. “I hope you understand what you’re taking on here in Hamleigh, Leena.”
I can’t help it—my lip twitches. Betsy’s frown deepens.
“I’m sure it all looks very easy for someone like you, but Eileen does an awful lot around here, and we need you to step up. You’ll be taking on her responsibilities for the May Day Planning Committee, I gather?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I say, managing to look serious this time.
“Good. Well. I’ll drop around your task list in due course. Goodbye, Leena,” she says, and then, with what I would genuinely describe as a flounce, she heads for the door.
8
Eileen
It’s a miracle that I’m still here, quite honestly. So far, since arriving in London, I have brushed with death five times.
1) I was nearly crushed by what I have now learned to be a “pedibus”: a strange vehicle propelled by a lot of whooping young men cycling and drinking beer at the same time. I had to really dash across the road to avoid them. I’m a little concerned about how my knees will feel tomorrow, but at least they’re still attached to the rest of me.
2) I stood on the left on an escalator (not the done thing, I’ve learned).
3) I ate a “stir fry” cooked by Fitz. (Dreadful cook. Awful. I’ll try and teach him a thing or two while I’m here.)
4) I changed trains at Monument station. (The map says it’s the same station as Bank, but I’m not convinced. The walk from one train to the next seemed to go on for yonks. My legs were already jiggered after my run-in with the pedibus; I had to have a sit-down next to a busker playing a ukulele. He was very understanding. He gave me his amp to sit on.)
5) I met the cat that lives next door, a feral tabby with half an ear missing. It launched itself down the stairs at me, hissing, and then immediately conked itself out on the banister. Small mercies.
I’m loath to admit it, but I’m exhausted, and more than a little shaken. London is all so fast, and everybody is so miserable. One man on the underground swore at me for getting on too slowly; when I stopped to get a map out in Oxford Street a lady bashed right into me and didn’t even say sorry. Then once I was back at Leena’s building, I ran into the neighbors from downstairs, a young, arty couple wearing socks and sandals, and when I tried to make conversation, I saw the woman roll her eyes at her husband.
I’m very out of place here. I’ve only seen three other people who looked over the age of seventy all day, and one of them turned out to be a street artist wearing an Einstein costume.
I must say it’s crossed my mind that it would be a little easier if I weren’t on my own—if I had Wade with me, say—but Wade would never have come to Oxford Street. I don’t miss him, but I sometimes miss the idea of a husband, someone whose arm I could lean on for a tricky step down off the bus, who might take hold of my umbrella while I paid for my cup of tea.
I must stay positive, though. My adventure is only just starting, and it was bound to feel difficult at first. I just need to keep busy. Tomorrow night, Leena’s friend Bee is coming to the flat to help me with my “online dating.” Leena says Bee is a real expert. Who knows, perhaps by Thursday I’ll have myself a date.
The milk in Leena’s fridge has begun to coagulate; I pour it down the sink with a sigh, and get my handbag for another trip out. This time, without the distraction of rude neighbors in socks and sandals, I take a proper look as I get to the bottom of the stairs. There’s a large open area between the stairway and the door to the building; it’s got three sofas at strange angles, one stained with something suspiciously dark, the others with something suspiciously light. The carpet is worn, but there are two lovely big windows sending sunlight streaming in. It was designed as a communal area, I expect— what a shame nobody’s done anything with it.
When I get back from the shops, the feral tabby hops off the dark-stained sofa and pads over to rub its head against my legs. It’s not quite walking straight. I hope it didn’t give itself some sort of brain injury with that banister incident. I spotted the cat’s owner this morning, heading out of the building with her trolley bag. She’s a hunched old lady, going bald. I hesitate, watching the cat meander its way to the stairs.
If it was Ant or Dec, I’d want someone to tell me. Things may be done differently around here, but a good neighbor is a good neighbor, wherever you are.
I head up the stairs and knock on the cat-owner’s door, setting my shopping bag down between my feet.
“Yes?” comes a voice.
“Hello!” I say. “I’m Leena’s grandmother.”
“Who?”
“Leena’s grandmother.”
“Whose grandmother?”
“Leena. Your next-door neighbor,” I say patiently. Perhaps the lady is losing her marbles a little. It’s started happening to Penelope—terribly sad, though on the plus side she seems to have forgotten that she can’t stand Roland. It’s been something of a second honeymoon for the two of them.
“Which one’s that?” the woman asks. Her voice grates as if her throat needs clearing. “The lesbian or the natty dresser or the other one?”
I blink. Martha’s definitely the lesbian—she told me all about her girlfriend after I rather put my foot in it asking who the baby’s father was. And, as much as I love my granddaughter, if she’s not wearing a suit, she seems to be wearing something with an iron-on picture of a television star on the front. Not exactly a natty dresser. Which leaves …
“The other one?” I hazard.
“The woman with all that mousey scraped-back hair? Short, runs everywhere, always frowning?”
“Leena’s hair is lovely,” I say sharply, and then bite my tongue. “But … yes. That’d be the one.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you, but I’m not interested,” says the lady, and I hear her shuffling away from the door.
“In what?” I ask, startled.
“Whatever it is you want,” the lady says.
I frown. “I don’t want anything.” I’m beginning to understand why Arnold gets so cross when I don’t let him in the house. This is not a comfortable way to have a conversation. “I came to talk to you about your cat.”
“Oh.” She sounds warier than ever, but I hear her shuffle back to the door, and then it clicks open by an inch or two. Two large brown eyes blink at me through the gap.
“I’m afraid she had a run-in with the banister,” I say apologetically. “That’s to say, well, she ran into it.”
The eyes narrow.
“Kick her, did you?” the woman asks.
“What? No! I’d never kick a cat!” I say, aghast. “I have two of my own, you know. Two black cats called Ant and Dec.”
The eyes fly open, and the door inches wider. “I love black cats,” the lady says.
I smile. “Well then, I’m sure we’ll be the best
of friends,” I say, sticking my hand through the gap in the door to shake hers. “I’m Eileen.”
She takes such a long time to take my outstretched hand that I almost drop it, but then, at last, her fingers close around mine. “Letitia,” she says. “Would you … I don’t suppose…” She clears her throat. “I don’t suppose you want to come in? Just to tell me about the cat,” she adds hurriedly.
“I’d love to,” I say, and step inside.
* * *
Letitia’s home is just as peculiar-looking as Letitia, but not at all as you’d expect. She has a rather … homeless look about her, but inside her flat is an altogether different story. The place is full of antiques and curiosities. Old coins, arranged in spiraling patterns on the tops of oak tables; feathers in glittering gold and peacock blue, hanging from pegs along a washing line; delicate china bowls stacked carefully inside cabinets with spindly legs and wrought-iron handles. It’s quite extraordinary. A cross between an antique shop and a very cramped museum—and, perhaps, a child’s bedroom.
I nurse the third cup of tea I’ve had since walking through Letitia’s door and beam at her across the collection of pots and vases occupying most of her dining table. I’m feeling better than I have all day. What a fascinating woman to have found living just next door! It’s a real wonder Leena never mentioned her—though it seems the two of them didn’t cross paths very often. I find that hard to believe, given that there’s only a very thin wall dividing their lives, but from what I can gather, Letitia doesn’t speak to any of the neighbors. Or rather, none of the neighbors speak to Letitia.
“Nobody?” I ask. “Not a single person came to introduce themselves when they moved into the building?”
Letitia shakes her head, sending her long earrings rattling. They drag at the lobes of her ears; it makes her look rather mystical. “Nobody talks to me,” she says, without particular rancor. “I think you’re the first person I’ve said a word to since…” she pauses, “last Friday, when I got my Iceland delivery.”
“Oh, love. What about that communal area downstairs? Have you tried setting yourself up down there? Then people will say hello as they come by.”
“I tried, once,” Letitia says. “But someone complained. They said it was bad for the building’s image. So I just sit up here, now, where I can’t bother anyone.”
“That’s awful! Don’t you get lonely?” I ask, then catch myself. “I’m sorry, that’s ever so personal of me.”
“I do get lonely,” Letitia says after a moment. “But I’ve got Solstice. The cat. Who always walks a bit funny, by the way,” she adds. We did start by talking about her cat, but then got talking about other things, and now three hours have passed.
“Well. I’m very sorry our Leena didn’t ever pop by.”
Letitia shrugs her shoulders. I notice the stains on her tunic dress and wince a little.
“She’s hardly in, from what I can gather, and when she is, she’s with that man of hers. The one with the shiny hair. I don’t like him. I think he’s…” Letitia waves a hand, sending a dreamcatcher spinning above her head, which in turn sends a purple and silver wind chime tinkling. “I think he’s wet.”
Ooh, I do like Letitia.
She looks into my cup. We’re drinking loose leaf tea; there’s a collection of black tea leaves in the bottom of my cup. “Would you like me to read them for you?” she asks.
“You read tea leaves?”
“I was a fortune teller,” Letitia says. “I used to sit in Trafalgar Square and read palms, once.”
Letitia might be the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. And to think of her stuck in here, day in, day out, with not a soul coming to speak to her! How many more fascinating people are pocketed away in these little flats around the city, I wonder?
“How exciting! Please, read away,” I say, pushing the teacup toward her.
She waves it back to me. “Lift it with your left hand and swirl, three times at least,” she says.
I do as I’m told, watching the leaves shift in the last mouthful of tea at the bottom of the cup. “Like that?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She reaches for the teacup and then carefully tips the remaining liquid into the saucer, leaving just the leaves in the cup. She turns it back and forth very slowly, breathing deeply, absorbed, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I’m not sure I quite believe in reading the future in somebody’s teacup, but then, what do I know? I wonder fleetingly what Wade would say—he’d be very scathing about this—and then push the thought away. Bother what that old sod would think.
“Hmm,” says Letitia.
“Yes?” I say hopefully.
Letitia presses her lips together, hmms again, and then glances up at me rather apologetically.
“Are you not … getting anything?” I say, trying to peer into the cup.
“Oh, I’m getting something,” Letitia says, rubbing her chin. “It’s quite … clear.”
She pushes the cup back toward me, turning it so the handle points toward her.
I look down into the tea leaves. Letitia’s shoulders start shaking before I see what she sees; by the time I start laughing, she’s whooping, really going for it, tears in the corners of her eyes, stained tunic bouncing with each gulp of laughter.
The tea leaves look like … genitals. Male genitals. It couldn’t be more distinct if I’d tried to arrange it that way on purpose.
“And what does that mean, eh?” I say, when I’ve finally got my breath back.
“I think it means good things are coming your way,” Letitia says, wiping her eyes. “That, or it’s telling me the tea-leaves game is a load of cock and balls.”
I put my hand to my mouth at her language, then burst out laughing again. This is the best I’ve felt in … well, I can’t remember how long.
“Will you come around again?” Letitia says.
I reach across the table for her hand, dodging between vases. “As often as you’ll have me.” I nod toward the teacup. “I expect you’ll want to stick around and find out what comes of that little prediction, won’t you?”
“There’s nothing little about it,” Letitia says, and sets us both off again.
9
Leena
It’s six twenty-two, and I’m awake. This seems to be my new pattern. I nip to the loo, then attempt to go back to sleep, but I left the bedroom door ajar and it takes Ant the cat approximately twenty seconds to find his way in and locate my face for sitting on.
I shove him off with a growl and get up. Oh, that was Dec, not Ant. Naming her indistinguishable cats Ant and Dec is just the sort of long-term, mischievous joke my grandmother enjoys, though I suspect, if questioned, she will feign innocence and insist it was Grandpa Wade’s idea.
Downstairs, after feeding Ant/Dec—who chain-meows all the way down the stairs, barely pausing for breath between plaintive yowls—I blink sleepily at the array of teas behind the kettle, all stored in carefully labeled old biscuit tins. God, I miss Fitz’s coffee machine. There’s a particular itch that tea and even instant coffee just cannot scratch.
It’s Wednesday today, which means I’ll be walking Jackson Greenwood’s dog; I was up late last night baking homemade dog treats out of whatever I could find in Grandma’s fridge. I did a bit of research on dog-walking, and apparently treats are a crucial part of the process. By the time I realized that, the shops—or rather the shop, singular, was closed, so I had to hustle a bit and figure something out. Now there are some squishy cubes of mince, egg, and crushed-up Weetabix sitting in a sandwich bag on the sideboard. They look disgusting.
While the kettle boils, I stare at the dog treats and take a brief moment to wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life right now, and then—because those thoughts rarely lead to anything fruitful, and it’s a bit late to change this plan—I make a cup of tea.
I wander into the hall with my tea and spot a letter on the doormat. It’s addressed to Leena Cotton in large, wobbly writing. Inside is a handwritten lis
t, headed:
May Day Planning Committee responsibilities, to be passed to Leena Cotton while Eileen Cotton, long-standing co-chairperson of the Committee, is on leave.
On leave! I nearly choke on my tea.
1) Glitter
2) Lanterns
3) Trees cutting back—arrange
4) Food stalls
5) Get sponsor
6) Garlands
7) Portaloos
8) Signs
9) Parking
10) Parade costumes
My interest is officially piqued. This actually sounds like quite a fun project—I’ve never managed an event before, and by the looks of this list, Grandma handles lots of the logistics for this one: parking, signs, food stalls. And … glitter. Whatever that involves. I’ll have to ask Betsy.
That buzz alights in my belly, the flicker of excitement that used to spark whenever a new project was coming my way at work, and I think suddenly of my beautiful, color-coordinated business plan for B&L Boutique Consulting. The files are on Dropbox; I could get them up on Grandma’s computer later. The buzz brightens, and I finish my tea with one gulp, scanning the list again.
Get sponsor is crossed through. I remember Grandma mentioning that she was hoping to get sponsorship for the May Day festival, so that profits from tickets could be given to the cancer charity that gave us so much support when Carla was sick. Had she given up? I frown, grab a pen from the hall table, and asterisk it on Betsy’s list.
One more cup of tea, and I’m out the door. I’m quite curious to see Jackson Greenwood again. When I visited my grandparents as a kid, I saw him a fair bit, as he lived with Arnold—he was this quiet, sullen boy, always loping around the garden with their old dog at his heel. Jackson was the sort of child who everyone regarded as a “problem,” but who hadn’t actually ever done anything wrong, specifically. He was just peevish.
Apparently Jackson is now a teacher at the local primary school. It just … doesn’t compute. In my head, primary school teachers are smiley and bouncy and say things like “What a good try!,” whereas Jackson just used to glower, mostly.