‘Birmingham?’ said Mr Kapoor.
‘Is there a Birmingham in Pakistan as well?’ said Mrs Forbes.
Mr Forbes looked at his wife and frowned, and turned back to Mr Kapoor. ‘It’s in the genes, though, isn’t it? They can withstand the heat, the Indians. Hardy race. Put up with a lot.’
‘Well, we can agree on that much,’ said Mr Kapoor. He was still rubbing very hard at the bird poo, although I couldn’t see that there was any left.
‘Not that I’m racist.’ Mr Forbes’ feet rocked backwards and forwards in his sandals. ‘Not at all.’
‘Not in the slightest,’ said Mrs Forbes.
‘Not one little bit,’ said May Roper.
‘I’m just patriotic.’ He said the word very slowly. ‘I want to keep Britain great. It’s like an exclusive club, isn’t it? You can’t go letting any old Tom, Dick or Harry in.’
‘Quite right, Harold,’ said Mrs Forbes.
Mr Kapoor crouched down and began cleaning the number plate. The heat had brought with it a layer of dust. It was everywhere. It settled on the cars and the pavements and the houses. It even found its way into your skin and your hair. You couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how much you washed and cleaned and tried to scrub it away. It made everything seem grubby and disguised.
‘In fact, I’m quite multicultural,’ Mr Forbes was saying.
Mr Kapoor looked up from his number plate. ‘Multicultural?’
‘Oh yes.’ Mr Forbes feet did some more rocking. ‘Definitely multicultural. I’m a big fan of Sidney Poitier, for example.’
‘He is,’ said Mrs Forbes.
‘And Louis Armstrong. Coloured people have got such a good sense of rhythm, haven’t they?’
I thought I heard Mr Kapoor say something, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was.
‘Being patriotic doesn’t mean you’re not open to new ideas, though. We just need to remember that Britannia rules the waves.’ Mr Forbes smiled and agreed with himself.
‘You’ll be celebrating the Jubilee next year, then?’ said Mr Kapoor.
‘Celebrating?’ Mr Forbes’ toes did excited tapping. ‘We’re going to have the best street party on the estate. I’ve formed a committee, haven’t I, Dorothy?’
‘You have, dear,’ said Mrs Forbes. She smiled at Mr Kapoor. ‘I’m secretary.’
‘Well, we’ve still got to finalize a few things.’ Mr Forbes tapped the side of his head, and winked at Mr Kapoor. ‘But we’re going to put all the other streets to shame.’
‘I’ve heard Pine Crescent are hiring a bouncy castle,’ said May Roper, ‘a red, white and blue one.’ The fence began to creak. ‘And Poplar Drive has a conjuror.’
‘Do they?’ Mr Forbes spun around to look at Mrs Roper. There were little beads of spit in the corners of his mouth. ‘Where do they get the money from? We’ve only got a certain budget, you know.’
Mrs Roper and the fence shrugged their shoulders.
Mr Kapoor stood up and shook the dust from his cloth. ‘Perhaps I could help?’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Mr Forbes turned back. ‘I’m not sure it’s your sort of thing.’
‘But I have a friend,’ said Mr Kapoor, ‘in catering. He’d provide a banquet for you for a very small fee if I had a word with him.’
‘He would?’ said Mr Forbes.
‘Oh yes. Show all the other streets how it’s done.’
‘Well,’ Mr Forbes smiled, and the little beads of spit stretched across his gums, ‘that would be very decent of you, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Very decent,’ said Mrs Forbes.
‘Considering it’s for our queen,’ said Mrs Roper.
‘I’ll get on to him right away.’ Mr Kapoor opened his front door. ‘He makes the best curries this side of Bradford. Very multicultural. You’ll love them, Harold.’
The front door closed.
Mrs Kapoor must have said something funny, because as soon as Mr Kapoor disappeared, I heard him start to laugh.
I looked down at Mr Forbes’ feet.
His toes were doing a little dance in his sandals. Like piano keys.
Number Four, The Avenue
26 July 1976
I decided that Detective Inspector Hislop must be a much more important policeman than PC Green or PC Hay, because he always travelled in the back of a car, and they allowed him to wear his own clothes.
‘He must be from the Serious Crimes Squad,’ said Mrs Morton.
‘Aren’t all crimes serious?’ said Tilly, but none of us answered her.
He didn’t talk about Tiswas, or smell of material, or creak at the knees. Instead, he had long, quiet conversations behind tightly shut doors, and when people finished these conversations, they always looked shiny and slightly bewildered. When it was my father’s turn to have a conversation, my mother paced around the house with her arms folded across her chest, and she made three cups of tea, which still sat on the draining board two hours later. Tilly and I stood on the landing, hanging over the banister, watching the top of my mother’s head travel up and down the hall.
When my father emerged from his conversation, my mother opened her mouth to let all the questions out, but before they could appear my father held his hand up and shook his head, and disappeared into the front room. He was still in there when I went to bed. For a long time, my mother sat at the bottom of the stairs, her arms wrapped around her knees and her head pressed into her chest. I was beginning to wonder if she’d ever move again, but then she tightened her arms even more, lifted her head and shouted, I don’t know about you, Derek, but I can’t stand much more of this bloody heat.
The words seemed to swing around in the air afterwards, as if they really didn’t want to leave. I turned to Tilly, because I felt as though I needed a smile. But Tilly didn’t smile back. Instead, she put her head down and bit her lip, and didn’t meet my eyes.
*
On the Monday morning, Detective Inspector Hislop decided to ask the television to bring Mrs Creasy back.
This was to be in the form of an Outside Broadcast, or an Oh Bee, according to Mrs Morton (who, all of a sudden, had become very knowledgeable about these things). Tilly and I decided to wear our best outfits for the Oh Bee, because you never know when you might be called upon to appear on the local news at the very last minute. Sheila Dakin dragged her deckchair to the front end of the lawn for a better view, and Mrs Forbes took off her apron and put on an extra layer of lipstick. Everyone came out into the avenue, including my parents (even though they did stand at different ends of a wall). The only person missing was Mr Creasy. He had just had another conversation with Detective Inspector Hislop and it made him come over all funny, so he was lying on Sheila Dakin’s settee, with the curtains drawn and a cold flannel.
The avenue was filled with vans and cables, and people walking about with clipboards and their hands on their hips. There were two reporters from the local newspapers, and they watched Detective Inspector Hislop whilst he paced around in front of Mr Creasy’s house with a piece of paper, learning his lines.
‘I think I should quite like to be in the local newspaper,’ said Tilly.
We were sitting on Mrs Forbes’ wall. Normally, Mrs Forbes would have had something to say about this, but she was too busy trying to persuade information out of one of the clipboards.
‘Why do you want to be in the local paper?’ I said.
Tilly was sitting on her hands. She stretched her legs out and bounced them into the sunshine. ‘People would see me,’ she said.
I waited.
She bounced her legs a little more.
‘Anyone in particular?’ I said.
‘Well,’ she continued to bounce, ‘if I was in the local paper, my dad might see. And he might be so proud, he’d get in touch, because he’d want to talk to me about it.’
‘Your dad lives in Bournemouth,’ I said. ‘I don’t think they have our local paper in Bournemouth.’
She stopped bouncing and looked at
me. ‘You just never know, though, do you?’ she said.
And I realized she was giving me the words. So I took them and held on for a moment, and then I handed them back. ‘No,’ I said, ‘you just never know.’
And she smiled and went back to her bouncing.
*
When Detective Hislop was ready, PC Green and PC Hay made sure everyone was quiet and well behaved, and knew not to run in front of the camera or bump into the man with the big fluffy microphone. They didn’t turn back to Detective Hislop, but stayed watching us all instead, like the policemen at a football match.
The man behind the camera made numbers with his fingers and then pointed at Detective Inspector Hislop, who began to speak.
We all listened.
Concerns are growing for the welfare of a local woman, he said. Mrs Margaret Creasy was last seen on the night of the 20th of June at her home address.
He pointed behind, to Mr Creasy’s house, and we all stared, as if we had never noticed it was there before.
Mrs Creasy’s family and friends state that her disappearance is completely out of character.
He looked down at his notes. When he looked up again, he started to frown very hard, and his face became even more unhappy.
In addition to this, a recent discovery has caused us to become very keen to locate Mrs Creasy and, indeed, to speak to anyone who might have knowledge of her whereabouts.
Everyone on the avenue seemed to lift themselves up a few inches.
Mrs Forbes put down her knitting and strained her neck to listen. Sheila Dakin edged forwards in her deckchair. My father stood up a little straighter, and my mother laced her fingers behind her head. Even Tilly stopped bouncing.
Detective Hislop carried on. At approximately eleven o’clock yesterday morning, a vigilant member of the public found a pair of shoes which have now been identified as belonging to Mrs Margaret Creasy.
There was a single breath. It was drawn into our lungs from a thick mask of heat, suspending each of us in the turn of a moment. Sometimes life gave you these moments, I thought. And it always happens when you least expect it.
The shoes, he said, were found by the side of the canal.
It was just a tick of silence before the avenue began to unravel.
Mrs Forbes’ was the first voice. ‘I knew it. Someone’s done her in. I knew it. I knew it.’ She began pacing up and down the pavement, like a metronome. Even Mr Forbes taking hold of her shoulders couldn’t stop the beat of her anxiety on the concrete. He was hissing words at his wife, trying to pull her into a silence, but anyone watching could see that he was completely wasting his time.
Sheila Dakin launched herself from the deckchair. ‘It’s Bishop,’ she said. ‘It’s got to be. Who else would do something like that?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Sheila, we don’t even know that she’s dead.’ It was my father.
Since Detective Hislop had finished speaking, my father had continued to lean against the wall with his palms pressed into his face. Now he shouted across the avenue, and he shouted with such force, my mother laced her fingers even more tightly at the back of her neck and started breathing very quickly through her mouth.
‘Of course she’s dead.’ Sheila had reached the pavement. She was trying to march across the road, but her legs didn’t seem to want to do as they were told and she stumbled against the kerb. ‘What else would she be?’
‘She might have jumped.’ May Roper was waddling across her lawn. Brian tried to stop her, but he tangled himself up in the washing line and his attempt was foiled by three tea towels and an extra-long vest. ‘She could have thrown herself in. They’ll have to dredge it if we’re going to have a funeral.’
‘For God’s sake, May, don’t be so bloody morbid,’ my father said.
‘She’s right, though.’ Mr Forbes had abandoned Mrs Forbes to her metronoming and was staring into the pavement. ‘They’ll have to send the divers down.’
‘That’s what you get,’ said Mrs Forbes, as she brushed past him, ‘that’s what you get for knowing too much about other people’s business.’
Everyone began shouting at the same time. Their voices all crowded into one big noise, and it was impossible to hear what anyone was saying. I watched Detective Hislop, who was still standing in front of the camera, his notes folded and pressed into his pocket, and a look of deep satisfaction on his face. I saw him nod very slowly at PC Green and PC Hay, and I saw them nod very slowly back again.
I turned to Tilly, to see if she’d noticed too, but she was staring at Sheila Dakin’s lawn. I stared as well, but it took me a moment to see him.
Mr Creasy was lying in the grass. It seemed as though he was curled up asleep, but his eyes were open and his arms were folded around his chest. It looked very much as though he was counting something.
‘I don’t like this any more,’ said Tilly. ‘Shall we go inside?’
I said I didn’t like it either (even though I did). Quite a bit of me would like to have stayed to see what happened next, but I slid off Mrs Forbes’ wall and on to the pavement.
Before I went inside, I turned back to look at number eleven. The curtains in one of the bedrooms were open just a fraction, and Walter Bishop’s face was pressed against the glass.
I couldn’t be absolutely certain, but I was almost sure I saw him smiling.
*
After Detective Hislop had told us about the shoes, the avenue became very quiet. It was as though everyone had got all their shouting out in one go, and there was nothing left for the rest of the week. Even my parents became quiet, and instead of slamming and screaming and marching, they just slid around the house trying to avoid each other.
I asked several different people if Mrs Creasy was dead now, but no one seemed able to give me a proper answer. My mother switched the television on, my father said well, now, well, and suddenly found something important to do in the front room, and Mrs Morton just said nobody really knows and stared into space.
For people who didn’t really know, everyone was acting very strangely.
Number Four, The Avenue
30 July 1976
It was a Friday morning. Tilly and I sat in the front room with the Kays catalogue and a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock. The curtains were drawn to keep the heat out, but it still managed to get in somehow, and every time I turned a page, the shiny paper stuck to my fingers and didn’t want to let go.
‘I like this,’ I said and pointed to a denim jacket.
Tilly just put her chin into her hands. I knew she was waiting for me to get to the Whimsies.
‘Or these,’ I said and pointed to a pair of mules.
I circled both of them in green felt tip. I had planned to leave the catalogue and all my circles in a helpful place for people to be interested in them.
‘They’re very expensive.’ Tilly peered at the page in the semi-darkness.
‘Only twenty-five pence a week in forty-eight easy instalments,’ I said. I underlined easy.
‘How will you get twenty-five pence a week?’
‘I can get a paper round. Lisa Dakin has one.’
‘Lisa Dakin is a lot older than us, Gracie. We’re too young to do a paper round.’
I circled a tartan scarf. Sometimes, I could hear Tilly say something before she even let the words go.
‘She’s not that much older,’ I said.
‘Do you want a game of Monopoly?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you want to go round to Mrs Morton’s?’
‘Not really.’
We sat in silence while I circled.
‘Why are you circling all of Lisa Dakin’s clothes?’
I stopped circling Lisa Dakin’s clothes. ‘I’m not,’ I said.
‘Yes you are. Why do you want her to like you so much?’
I looked at all my circles. Sometimes Tilly said questions that were already in your head, but you didn’t especially want them to be asked.
‘If Lisa Dakin lik
es me, then the rest of the school might like me as well,’ I said.
Tilly took her chin out of her hands. ‘I don’t think people like that really matter, Gracie. We’ve got each other, haven’t we?’
‘Of course they matter. Everyone wants to be popular. Everyone needs people to like them, don’t they?’ I turned the catalogue pages over and stared at pictures of models with their hands on their hips, laughing at each other. ‘It’s normal, isn’t it?’
‘I only want you and Mrs Morton, and my mum and dad to like me,’ said Tilly. ‘Anyone else is a bonus.’
‘Then you’re not really normal, are you?’ I picked up my felt tip again. ‘Not like Lisa Dakin.’
I knew Tilly was staring at me, but I didn’t look. If I looked, it would mean I’d see her face, and if I saw her face, I knew I would have to say sorry.
‘I might go home for a bit,’ she said.
I heard her standing up and leaving the room, but I kept my eyes on the circles.
‘Bye then,’ I shouted.
But she had already gone.
*
The house was very quiet. I could hear my felt tip sliding over the catalogue pages, but there wasn’t anything else I really wanted to circle.
I went into the sitting room, but that was very quiet as well, and the only sound in the kitchen was Remington, snoring under the table. It was strange, but the only thing I really felt like doing right at that moment was having a game of Monopoly.
I needed Tilly to come back.
I knew she’d come back eventually. Perhaps that was half the problem.
I put my head in the fridge to cool down.
*
They were a few minutes later than I thought they would be, but I caught them above the whirr of the refrigerator – Tilly’s sandals, slapping on the path that reached around the side of the house.
The sandals were very fast and very loud, and before I had a chance to take my head out of the ice box, she was flinging the back door open with such force, the glass rattled against the wood.
The Trouble with Goats and Sheep Page 22