The Perfect Neighbours

by Rachel Sargeant

  Tuesday, 4 May

  The water rippled as Helen lowered herself into it, the misty atmosphere absorbing her splash. She was tempted to float there like the old couple the day before, to clear her mind. But she couldn’t shake off the sticking, spiky thoughts she had about her neighbours. She stretched into a steady crawl, upping the pace after two lengths.

  What the hell was going on last night? Some kind of Stepford Wives’ pantomime? Mel was certainly dressed for comedy. And the blatant way she rifled through Helen’s hall, was that some kind of prank with Helen as the butt of the joke? She jabbed her hand deep below the surface, challenging the water’s resistance. But the water won and broke the rhythm of her stroke.

  Or was Mel the stooge? It was more likely that Louisa rather than Mel wanted to nose around. Was the whole “have you got any ironing” set-piece a scam masterminded by Louisa? Helen rocked from side to side as she tried to get control of her arm pulls. There was something not right about that woman, about both women. She wouldn’t be giving Mel ironing again however well she did it. And it wasn’t any wonder Damian was playing away. Louisa must be hard to live with.

  Creepy Chris must know what Damian was up to. Helen slowed her leg kicks to give her arms time to settle. That would explain Damian’s angry body language by Chris’s car last night. Maybe he’d caught Damian on his phone to Shelly Sweetheart like Helen had. Was he threatening to tell Louisa?

  The lot of them had been in their expat bubble so long they’d forgotten how normal neighbours behaved. She would never become like them. Thank God she had this pool to escape to. She pushed her hand down and this time hit the catch point. The water worked with her and her rhythm came back. She kicked hard and stepped up the pace. She settled into a twenty-length speed swim.

  She was resting when the young man – Sascha – got in beside her. Already flushed from her swim, her face got even hotter.

  “How many laps have you made?” he asked, fixing his goggles on his forehead.

  She knew her distances to within five metres but she couldn’t think. “I’ve … just started.”

  He took off his goggles and fiddled with the strap. “We could make a few laps together.”

  Her gut told her to decline and glide away; to accept would land her in the heat of something she couldn’t control. But, before she answered, he said: “I’ll get the Schwimmbretter. I don’t know the name in English.”

  He pulled his lean body up onto the poolside and headed over to the cage of swimming floats. A baby brother, nothing more.

  She matched him over several lengths but, when they sprinted the final four, she hadn’t raced so hard in months and thought blood would burst through her eardrums. She gulped for breath and put her head down for the last push. When her fingertips reached the wall, he was already standing up.

  “Unentschieden,” he panted. “We both won.”

  “A draw? How chivalrous,” she said, heart racing.

  “Schiffalrus?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s swim.”

  Their last set degenerated into a leisurely breaststroke as they lifted their heads to recapture the air that racing had taken out of them. He told her he’d captained the school swim squad. She played down her own swimming career, saying she’d won the odd race now and again. For the first time in weeks she didn’t feel the need to assert her capabilities. Her companion accepted her as an equal. Condescending Louisa and belittling Chris faded out of her mind and she relaxed.

  ***

  Sascha was waiting by her car when she came out to the car park. They’d said their goodbyes poolside. A chill crossed her shoulders and she fastened her jacket. Why was he still here?

  “Are you going back to school?” he said. “The office needs me in work. It will save much time if you drive me there.”

  A lift to a stranger? She hesitated. She’d enjoyed their swim but it had to end there. She could lie, say it wasn’t her car but Gary’s England footie badge on the windscreen would give her away.

  “I’m not going straight home,” she said.

  “Of course. You don’t know me. I shouldn’t ask.” He tucked a strand of wet hair behind his ear. The gesture was cute, innocent. She reminded herself he was just a boy. And he worked at the school like Gary. He was one of them. There’d be no harm in giving him a lift.

  She climbed in the driver’s seat and leaned over to open the door for him. She immediately regretted her decision. Burnt tobacco invaded the air. Drawn cheekbones, Adam’s apple, zip-up jumper bobbled with age, her passenger looked spare and eager. He didn’t belong in Gary’s car.

  She kept her eyes dead ahead as she set off, feeling like a learner driver on the German highway. She hadn’t driven with a passenger apart from Gary since she arrived. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The pool was beyond the village and there were wheat fields on both sides. She imagined Sascha studying every ear of corn as she crawled past. When the silence grew too awkward she asked him how long he’d worked at the school.

  For a moment he didn’t answer, then he said: “How are you finding it? Living there?”

  Her foot slipped on the pedal. The needle on the speedometer nudged up. She found a sort of answer. “Fine. I’ve cleared the front garden, but there’s competition in our road. One woman’s managed to trail a whopping great wisteria round her door.”

  “Wisteria,” he mouthed.

  “It’s a purple climbing flower that sort of hangs …”

  “I know what it is.” His shoulders stiffened. Then, aware of her looking, he relaxed into his seat.

  She drove the rest of the way in nervous silence.

  They reached the turning for the school and she drove past the community noticeboard. For once not defaced by graffiti, there was a poster for half-term activities. Gary would have a week off school so they could go away. He was always talking about the lakes in Southern Germany. Time for themselves. Away from Dickensweg. She glanced at her passenger. Away from everything.

  She drew up to the traffic lights and signalled right for the school campus.

  “Wait,” Sascha said. “I want to see the garden you told me about, with the wisteria.”

  Offering this man a lift to work was one thing, but driving a complete stranger past her house was something else. As the lights changed, she flicked her indicator to the left and decided she would drop him outside Louisa’s garden. She would remember another errand and ask him to walk to his office. Drive off without him ever finding out which house was hers.

  “So you live at number 5,” he said as they went past the mown lawn and cleared flower bed that betrayed which garden had enjoyed her attention. But he seemed to lose interest in her answer. His eyes fixed on the house at the end. He got out of the car, walked up the path to Number Ten and cupped one of the wisteria blooms in his hand.

  Helen went after him. “I’m not sure the owners would like that.”

  “She will get angry.”

  “She? Do you know her?”

  He let go of the wisteria petals and moved back to join her on the path. He took out a cigarette.

  Louisa’s front door flew open. “What the hell are you doing? Get away from here. Now.”

  Helen gasped. She’d been on the receiving end of Louisa’s bossiness before but this was fury. Then she realized that the woman’s rage was aimed at Sascha.

  “This is my country,” Sascha said. His voice sounded calm but his hands trembled as he brought his lighter up to his cigarette.

  “You’ve got three seconds to get out of here then I’m calling the police. They’ll arrest you for unlawful access,” Louisa said.

  “How is it unlawful?” He aimed a ring of smoke in Louisa’s direction. “Helen brought me here.”

  “You. I welcomed you into our street and this is how you repay me.”

  Helen’s limbs twitched as Louisa’s anger turned on her.

  Sascha blew another smoke ring towards Louisa. The veins in his neck started to bulge. />
  “Get out of here,” she shouted.

  He clenched his fists, and for a moment Helen feared he’d attack Louisa, but he threw the cigarette into one of the shrubs and disappeared up the cut-through.

  “What was that about?” Helen asked, but Louisa, murderous below her make-up, stared her down. She felt hollow and shaky and was relieved when the woman stormed back inside and shut her door, causing the wisteria trellis to quiver.

  11

  Gisela squatted with the dustpan and brush, and overbalanced. She put her hand down and felt a pricking sensation somewhere at the end of her arm. She ignored it and focused on sweeping up the broken glass. Her heart raced when the door opened and, like a child, she braced herself for the reprimand.

  It came quickly. “Verdammt! Schon wieder! And you’ve cut yourself. Come and sit here.” Sascha reached into the First Aid cupboard.

  He grimaced as he tied a bandage around her hand. His mouth was clamped shut and his eyes were angry. Her head thumped with alcohol and shame. It should be her role to tend the family wounds. What a scheiß job she’d made of that. Their seeping scars could never heal.

  She slurred. “How was your swim? Did you see your girl?”

  He tore the end of the bandage. “Leave it alone,” he growled.

  12

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Gary said when Helen broached the subject that evening. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?”

  His coldness shocked her. She thought after a meal and a glass of wine he’d listen. But he sounded as mad as Louisa.

  “He said he worked at the school, in IT.”

  “Come on, Helen. If he’d said he was the deputy head would you have believed him?”

  “I would expect Louisa to say something like that, not you.”

  “I’m just scared for you, Helen.”

  “Scared?”

  He shrank away. “I mean concerned.”

  She folded her arms. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself. And he was harmless.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Helen. You can’t just trust people. He could have done anything. Any man can …” His voice tailed off. “Some men.”

  “Who is he anyway? What’s he done to get you and Louisa so paranoid?”

  Gary looked away again. “I don’t know him.”

  He had replied too quickly. Was he lying?

  Helen turned towards the hall. “I’ll go and ask Louisa.”

  Gary grabbed her arm. “Don’t.” His fingers were digging in. He realized and let go. “Sorry, I didn’t mean … It’s probably best if you give Louisa some space for a while.”

  “So tell me why that man sent her into meltdown?”

  “It sounds like the same man who trashed her garden a few months ago. He pulled up all the plants and smashed the fountain in the pond. He was about to hack down the wisteria in the front when they came home. It cost Damian a fortune to put it right.”

  She thought of the first time Sascha had spoken to her, blunt and accusing when he realized she was English. She could see that anger turned on a British garden. “Did they call the police?”

  “Damian told him to get lost. As far as I know he hasn’t returned until today, although I think I saw him parked up outside school once.”

  The face she saw at the Howards’ fence, was that Sascha? She ought to have told Gary but it seemed a bit late to mention it. “Will they call the police now he’s come back?”

  “No idea.” He looked away.

  He was doing it again, shutting her out. She was sick of him withholding things. “I’ll ask Sascha when I see him at the pool,” she said.

  “God, Helen, you know his name? You need to keep away from him. You can’t go there after this. He might be dangerous.”

  “I was alone in the car with him and he was fine until we got to Number Ten. Whatever his quarrel with the Howards, it doesn’t involve me.”

  “Of course it involves you. You’re part of this community whether you like it or not. We owe it to our neighbours to show some solidarity.”

  He sounded like Louisa again. Helen was surrounded by the neighbourhood mafia and Gary was doing his best to join it. Her resentment boiled over. “Why don’t you show me some solidarity? Don’t you dare take the pool away. I’m bored brainless here. You’ve taken everything else. My career, my house, my swim squad.” She broke down and sobbed.

  Gary rested an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know it’s been hard for you to give up your career. But it’s not forever. Why don’t you ask Damian about the supply list for teachers?”

  She shook off his arm. “How nicely do you want me to ask Damian Howard? How high up the waiting list do you want me to go?” She looked him in the eye. Surely he knew about his head teacher’s extracurricular antics. His face hardened, then he nodded. An unspoken understanding passed between them.

  He pulled her towards him and she felt his lips on her hairline. “I shouldn’t have said that about the pool. It’s up to you.”

  She wanted to stay mad at him despite the warmth of his breath through her hair. She forced herself not to respond.

  He held her at arm’s length. His fingers played on her shoulders, soft and conciliatory. “I want you to be happy.”

  “I want that for both of us,” she said. She kissed him.

  She felt him relax, let out a sigh. He must be as relieved as she was that the squall had passed.

  “I was going to tell you about something that you might like, but it can wait,” he said.

  “What? Tell me.” She suddenly thought of half-term. Perhaps he was going to surprise her with a trip. She still hadn’t mentioned her idea of visiting the German lakes, maybe he’d come up with the same thing.

  But he looked away. He was still bloody doing it.

  “Just tell me, Gary.”

  He sighed again but didn’t look at her. “The Elementary School runs an after-school swim club. They need more volunteer teachers.”

  It wasn’t what she was expecting, but it was still good news. “That’s amazing. How do I sign up?”

  “It’s not coaching and the kids are beginners mostly.”

  It sounded like a lifeline. She’d be teaching again.

  “So you’re interested then? You’ll give them a call? No backing out?”

  “Why would I want to back out?”

  He fetched his briefcase, handed her the school newsletter and studied her face.

  She read the headline: Swim Club Needs Helpers. Below it was a colour photograph. She recognized the perfect chestnut hair before she read the caption: Club Chair Louisa Howard. She threw the newsletter at him.

  Fiona

  I offered to get the first round while Liz and Cheryl hunted down an empty table.

  I hovered at the back of the bar scrum, reckoning on a fifteen-minute wait and wishing I had sharper elbows. When someone got served, a gap opened and the crowd regrouped. My arm bumped against the tall man next to me.

  He smiled down. “Is it always like this?” he said.

  “I’ve only been once before so I don’t know.”

  “It’s my first time,” he said, taking a £20 note out of his pocket and waving it at the bar staff. He must have landed in this undergraduate watering hole by mistake. I concluded it would be his last visit too.

  “Hello, can you serve me, please?” he called out when a harassed-looking barmaid came within range.

  It was worth a try but all the staff were feigning deafness and not catching anyone’s eye. But to my surprise the girl looked up and took the money from his outstretched hand.

  He turned to me. “What’s your order?” It was kind of him to save me queuing longer.

  When the barmaid passed over the tray of drinks, she giggled and gave him a broad smile. He thanked her and refused to let me pay him back. “Where are you sitting?”

  I pointed to where Cheryl and Liz had found the last free booth. When he put the drinks on our table, the girls sh
uffled along to make room for both of us. They must have thought I’d picked him up. I stayed standing and thanked him for the drinks. A blush grew on my neck and face. What must he think of three little girls assuming he’d be interested in one of them? But it was the second surprise of the evening: he sat down next to Cheryl and asked her name.

  When I sat opposite him, he turned to me. “Where do you usually drink, then, if not here?”

  “Union bar,” I said quickly. I didn’t want him to know this was a rare outing for me.

  “I’m glad you came here tonight,” he said.

  I smiled and happily melted into my drink. He liked me, didn’t he? I asked him his name.

  He grinned. “You can call me Shep.” But then he leant over to Liz and asked her about her course.

  A bubble of disappointment rose and popped inside me but I made a show of flicking my hair behind my ear, telling myself there were plenty more postgraduates in the sea. He had to be a postgraduate; he was definitely older than us.

  When Liz told him we were on the same course, he turned to me. “Have you done a sandwich year in France yet?”

  I told him about Lyons, but it was like playing ping-pong. His attention moved back and forth between Liz and me. Then he looked at Cheryl, and she launched into a monologue about her set books. His eyes flicked to me. I waited. It was as if he had an invisible thread that could draw me wherever he wanted.

  My patience was rewarded. “Do you miss Lyons?” he asked. When had any boy asked Liz or Cheryl an intelligent question like that? Shep was treating me like a grown-up.

  I paused, deliberating on how to be intelligent back. “On the one hand, I miss the opportunity to speak French. But, on the other, it’s time to finish my degree and go out into the wider world,” I said, sounding like a GCSE essay.

  “You’re wise,” he said, nodding. “You’ve got your head screwed on.” He picked up his glass, and I admired his hands. He was the only drinker with well-manicured nails, and an ironed shirt. I asked him about his course.

  His expression grew serious. “I’m not a student.”

  Had I blown it? Miskeyed the conversation? What would a grown-up do now? “What’s your job?” I asked.