Norman attended some of the parties, observed, had a couple of glasses of wine and then returned home. He thought he kept himself to himself, but he knew what they said about him: Nosy Norman, the kvetch. Except he wasn’t nosy, he just looked, noticed, and carried on with his life.
At first when he’d overheard a few of them talking about him, their voices catching on the breeze, reaching him in his back garden, he’d been stung. He wanted to tell them that wasn’t who he was, that they were being unfair, he was just being a good neighbour, but something stopped him. Deep down, he was scared of revealing too much of himself, letting anyone in again. He’d had enough of losing people he loved – his poor heart probably wouldn’t be able to take it again – so, like a porcupine raising its quills, he used prickly words to keep everyone at bay. Occasionally he might suggest something to someone, like maybe they shouldn’t park their car with the wheels on his share of the drive. And could people please remember that bin day means you have to wheel your own bin to the edge of the pavement the night before, not forget so that two more weeks of detritus spills out onto the ground and blows around the Mews like tumbleweed. And please stop parking across people’s drives when you have a space that is yours in front of your house. It’s not meant to be for pot plants and garden furniture, it’s for a car.
Norman turned away from the rain-splattered window and walked up the stairs to the airing cupboard to retrieve a clean towel for his morning bath. As he opened the door, he steeled himself for the stench that had been lingering now for a good year. Sometimes it was worse than others, and sometimes is disappeared completely. Today, it was most definitely there, the strongest it had been since the month before. He had noticed it was cyclical, and he had mentioned it to Nick, his standoffish neighbour. He reached into the warmth and pulled out a fluffy black towel, like one from a spa embossed with his initials, a Christmas gift from Lucas many years before.
Norman knew what the smell was, but he could hardly go around pointing the finger and accusing neighbours of criminal activity. Nick hadn’t the appearance of a convincing criminal either. He was slightly dishevelled when he wasn’t in a suit for work, and looked like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He also kept his head down, which Norman liked, never played loud music, didn’t join in with the Mews, and went away twice a year, once in the summer and once in the winter, usually February time. All in all, he was a good neighbour, but then the smell had started. Norman looked online about making formal complaints, getting things in writing, putting the fear of God into people, and to his horror, it said in all the chat rooms, don’t complain. Apparently it all gets chalked up somewhere and when you come to selling your property, all disputes are made public and potential buyers have to be made aware of any feuds with neighbours. He felt trapped – not that he was going to move; they would be taking him out of here in a box – but he liked to have the option just in case.
Several times he had tried to invite himself into Nick’s house during the Christmas season, uncharacteristically bringing round a card and a bottle of wine, but Nick resolutely held him on the doorstep, thanked him for the unnecessary gift and wished him a happy holiday. Norman had started spotting an older lady there overnight once a week, whom he assumed (hoped) was Nick’s mum, and not that Nick had a predilection for kinky granny sex. Norman shivered. The thought of that carrying on next door…
Norman lay in the bath, the mirror steamed up above his head. Even though he wasn’t a party animal, he would go to Jo’s this evening. She had hurriedly arranged it last week once they all knew about the new person moving in. Norman thought it was Jo’s way of showing she was the leader of the Mews ecosystem. Every time a new neighbour moved in, Jo threw a party, like a test, to see if they would come for a drink, to say hello, to sniff them over, like one of her ratty little dogs.
There wasn’t a massive turnover of new neighbours – these days the Mews was pretty solid – but he remembered when Nick moved in, he had poked his head round the door at one of Jo’s dos, stayed for one drink, then buggered off. And he’d been like that ever since.
Norman wondered what the new woman, or women, would be like. Her little girl looked sweet. His breath caught in his throat every time he thought of little ones, the twist of a knife in his gut. Lucas’s face swam before his eyes, ravaged by his impending departure. ‘Don’t mourn me, don’t mourn what you chose, life is shit and then you die. So roll in the shit, make it count, don’t hide, be a part of something. Promise me that.’ But Norman sometimes wondered whether he was meant to be part of something. Living here was like his half-hearted attempt at fulfilling his promise. He was part of something yet, at the same time, he wasn’t. The grief had robbed him of the things he loved and so he’d gradually let them go. He was someone else now; someone he didn’t always recognise. Someone he didn’t always like.
He got out of the bath and wrapped himself in the towel. The bloody towel smelled of the smell. He was going to have to say something again…
5
The Mews
‘Good old cosmic ordering,’ Amanda had laughed when I’d originally told her about the shaman in the health food shop. ‘Who owns it?’
‘A private landlord, friends with everyone in the Mews. He prefers to rent it to someone they like and trust, hence the low rent.’
‘So you’ll be OK with money for a bit?’
‘That’s the idea. Alice owes me so many pay cheques that I had to put the deposit on a card, but I can clear it as soon as she coughs up.’ Alice was my agent and also by huge coincidence, Jim’s wife, Hattie’s, best friend. Fact was certainly stranger than fiction.
‘Oh, wow, it’s like a proper house only cut in half!’ Amanda cried in surprise when we eventually stumbled inside the communal front door on moving day, her decrepit Volvo parked on the driveway rammed to the roof with boxes and bin bags. Chris was following behind the Man and the Van in my Golf.
‘Thanks, now I know why they’re called half-houses.’ I rolled my eyes. It was essentially a wider-than-average terrace house with the shared front door slap bang in the middle, a joint hallway and then separate inside front doors leading to the two halves of the overall building.
‘It’s so much bigger than your flat,’ Amanda marvelled once we were inside my new front door. ‘I like the stairs leading up from the living room and the open-plan kitchen at the back. It’s so light and airy. And you finally have a little garden you can walk straight into.’
I was ecstatic about having the Holy Grail of kitchen appliances: a dishwasher. Upstairs housed the master bedroom linked to a little ensuite, plus a white tiled family bathroom and Grace’s marginally smaller bedroom. The landlord had redecorated it all from top to bottom in a neutral light grey and had even laid down new wooden flooring.
My interior styling definitely erred on the side of clutter; I didn’t understand minimalism. I loved being surrounded by memories, pictures, candles, obscure ornaments I’d picked up on my travels and all my books. The collection of things made me feel safe, their familiarity a constant presence in my life. I liked curating everything together to add meaning to different rooms, making them feel snug and lived in, adding splashes of vivid colour with cushions and throws and framed posters. I was champing at the bit to transform this blank canvas into Grace’s and my new home, something that the flat in Minge had never felt like.
‘People rarely leave the Mews,’ I said once we started emptying the car. ‘Most of the residents have been here since it was built fourteen years ago. If someone does sell, the houses get snapped up like the free samples during Clinique Bonus time. There’s the flats above Terry’s Tool Hire and the tile place too – they’re all part of the development. Apparently my landlord owns half of them.’
The magnificent main wrought-iron gate, reminiscent of Southfork Ranch from Dallas, was set back from Underhill Road, with less impressive pedestrian entrances either side. Straddling the triptych of gates stood two imposing redbrick Victorian mansions. I’d
walked and driven past it a million times and always wondered what lay at the end of the long stretch of curved tarmac between the sentry post mansions. Now I knew. The rounded drive split into a two-pronged fork once you reached Francesca’s house on the left corner plot. She owned a whole beige-bricked town house within a set of two stretching down to two further blocks of half-houses. Mine was in the centre with neighbours on either side. I had already met one when I came initially to view the house, an endearing posh lady called Elinor, in her late sixties. I had yet to meet the one on my immediate right, who was a photographer.
The car park for the flats above Terry’s Tool Hire was at the end of our row behind a low box hedge. Opposite me was another stretch of four town houses, winding past the fork in the road to a tiny cul-de-sac where a stand-alone larger house stood backing onto the gardens of one of the stately mansions on Underhill Road. There was a secret coded gate down the side of the flats that led onto Lordship Lane and a string of handy shops. There was no traffic, so kids could safely play out in the street and every property had identical black mock-Victorian front doors and a bricked driveway on which to park a car. Most people had arranged pots or plants by their doors, and some palm and olive trees were dotted in front of other houses. The street had an uncanny stillness about it, rather how I imagined the EastEnders set looked without lights, camera, action.
April wasn’t long off, but it felt more like January, the wind slicing through my chunky cream cable-knit jumper and skinny jeans as we cleared out the car. I looked up as I pulled the main door to and noticed a blind twitch in the house opposite. Someone was checking me out.
‘What if the Mews is actually like The Stepford Wives? That’s why no one leaves and why only friends of friends can live here.’ Amanda arched her eyebrows at me, a smirk dancing round her mouth.
‘Shut up! It isn’t. The few people I have met have been really nice.’ But I couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed my mind. It was so different from when I moved into the flat in Minge. I only ever met Mr Watson, who had lived above me, because he complained about every single noise I ever made: ‘Your voice is so penetrating, Alison!’
‘Hellooooooo!’ Francesca called through the open door later on as Chris and Nigel, the man who had come with the van, shifted my pink sofa to the back of the living room up against the breakfast bar to make way for all the other stuff. In the movie of my life, Nigel would be called Jonnie and he would be fit as fuck and flirt outrageously with me, and after everyone had left, we would have wild animalistic sex up against the freshly painted living-room wall. In reality he was about thirty-five, six foot five and super skinny in a Where’s Wally? kind of way. Just the thought of my entire weight on him would no doubt snap his sapling legs in half.
‘Come in!’ Amanda was in the kitchen making tea for everyone after emptying ten boxes to find some mugs.
‘I’ve brought you this, and Elinor’s here, too.’
‘Hello,’ Elinor called softly from behind Francesca. ‘We’re just dropping off a welcome pack and then we’ll leave you to it.’ Francesca was wearing a red cotton kaftan with navy blanket-stitch edging over black jeans and massive gold hoop earrings. She looked like an archetypal Beardy Weirdy. Elinor, in contrast, was in a demure cream sweater and cargo pants with navy court shoes, and her blonde-grey hair was immaculately coiffured into a halo around her head. She looked so well turned out for a lady of her age and she reminded me of my own mum.
‘Amanda’s just making tea, if you want one?’
‘No, you’re busy, but have these with your tea,’ Francesca said, and handed me two Cadbury’s Celebrations tins. ‘It’s not chocolate, we made one each. Open them when we’ve gone. Just to let you know also, we’re having drinks at Jo’s opposite you later on, if you want to come.’
‘Oh, wow, thanks so much. I might, depending on how much I get done here. What time?’
‘From about seven. It might be a good way to meet everyone. Good luck with the unpacking!’
After they left I took the tins out to the kitchen.
‘Open them!’ Amanda insisted eagerly. Chris wandered in to inspect while Nigel hefted a final few boxes inside. I put both tins down on the kitchen breakfast bar and prised the lids off. Inside one was what looked and smelled like a delectably moist banana loaf cake and in the other were some golden, sticky-looking flapjacks. I reached in to grab one.
‘What if it’s made of breast milk or something weird?’ Chris said cautiously. ‘Are you sure you trust them?’
‘Oh my God!’ Amanda laughed. ‘You’ve obviously never made a flapjack in your life.’
‘No, but I saw something on Reddit about this couple who moved into a village in the middle of nowhere and their neighbours gave them a rice pudding as a welcome gift and told them after they’d eaten it that it was made from the wife’s breast milk.’
‘Chris! You’re just trying to put me off. There won’t be breast milk in a flapjack.’
‘But there might be in the cake… That woman is a shaman. You’ve no idea what’s in there. You might start hallucinating and turn into your spirit animal.’
‘I’m having one!’ Amanda said, snatched a flapjack from the tin and started eating it. ‘Oh God, yuk!’ She spat it out into her hand.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ I cried, an image of a whirring breast pump flitting across my mind.
‘Nothing, it’s fine! Just thought I would wind you up!’
When everyone had left, I lay down on Grace’s bed after I had made it up with her pink stripy duvet, the pile of fluffy cushions acting like a headboard. I hoped she would be happy, and that together we could make a fresh start. I needed to stop feeling like I was living the wrong life. I missed her and wanted a cuddle, suddenly feeling alone in the house, not yet knowing what our future here was going to be like, me and her against the world. She always knew when I was putting on a brave face and would ask, ‘Do you need a hug, Mummy?’
‘Please let this be a happy home,’ I asked the house, and squeezed one of Grace’s teddies to my chest. ‘We need to be OK. I can’t move again.’
At half-past eight that evening, surrounded by boxes, Black Beauty humming in the background, I fiddled with the TV remote. Chris had set everything up for me as well as building my and Grace’s beds. I could hear doors banging and people chatting in the street outside. I switched the lights off before peering out of the window. There were thick cream curtains already hanging up in the house and I laughed at myself, twitching them like a prim nosy neighbour. I spotted two people smoking outside Jo’s house, if it was her house. I didn’t know who she was and I wasn’t sure I was in the mood to go to the drinks, but every time the door opened, cheesy pop music blared out, and it sounded like they were having fun. I was exhausted and really wanted to go to bed. Just then my phone pinged; it was Ifan.
I turned up at your flat and you’ve moved. They wouldn’t give me your forwarding address. I really need to talk. Xx
Right, that was it, I had to go out or I knew I would text him. Fucking twat! I ignored the traitorous fleeting flame of hope that ignited at the thought of us being together again, and for once I listened to Mini Amanda in my ear and deleted his text and number. This was a new start, a new me and it wasn’t even Monday. No more being a doormat. I jumped up from the sofa and headed into the kitchen to seek out the wine Amanda had given me as a moving-in present. Before I could change my mind, I bolted out of the house, strode purposefully across the road and banged loudly on the door, my heart beating in time with my humming. The door swung open and a short stocky woman of indeterminate age with long black hair stood there smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Like Francesca, she was wearing a kaftan but hers was canary yellow with red poppies embroidered round the V-shaped neckline. She looked like something out of a Beatles documentary with her centre parting and John Lennon glasses. I glanced down at her feet and almost laughed out loud at her leopard-print Crocs with brown fake-fur trim. I’d obviously missed the memo about the fancy
dress.
‘Ah, welcome! You must be our new neighbour, Alison,’ she growled in a Carry On film manner while lasciviously eyeing me up and down, setting off my gaydar. ‘Come this way, everyone’s dying to meet you!’
I followed her into the back of the house where a whole crowd was gathered, disco lights flashed and the Spice Girls blasted out of some massive speakers on the floor next to a life-size model gorilla wearing a white trilby. One wall was covered with a monochrome pattern of pole-dancing girls and the other walls were splattered with gilt-framed art works of various naked women. Had I gatecrashed the Moulin Rouge? If this was just ‘drinks’, I was interested to know what lengths of madness a proper party stretched to. The rumours on the East Dulwich Forum weren’t exaggerated after all…
‘Everyone, this is Alison! Alison, this is everyone!’
*
I woke face down in bed, my lips stuck together with dried spit. Pulling them apart was like ripping off a two-day-old plaster. I had no idea where I was but a pneumatic drill was pounding in my temples. What had happened? I turned to face the ceiling, still clueless about my surroundings. Then I remembered I’d just moved; no wonder I was confused… though I didn’t recognise any of the black lacquered bedroom furniture, or the purple satin duvet cover. I peeped to my right and almost had a heart attack. Also face down on the bed was Jo, still in her garish kaftan, her hair all over the place, one Croc on, one Croc off. Oh, Cunty Mcfuckflaps. Bad Ali must have escaped from her box…
6
Welcome to the Jungle
I was too scared to move in case Sleeping Beauty woke up – I could hear her softly snoring. I swiftly hatched an escape plan to creep out before anyone saw me and to dive into my own house undetected. Unfortunately, before I could move, something licked my foot and I started to scream… Jo forcefully jumped up sideways and fell awkwardly off the bed, her kaftan riding up, exposing her pasty bare bum as she landed in a heap on the floor.
The Single Mums Move On Page 4