The New Neighbours

by Costeloe Diney

  “Yes he was running and his feet went too fast,” Isabelle explained.

  “It is not much, but I think it is best that we come home to wash.”

  “Very sensible,” agreed Jill. “I’ll just take him up to the bathroom andbathe it.” She waved a hand in Ben’s direction and said, “Ben and Iwere having a coffee, the kettle’s still hot if you want to have one.”

  As Isabelle reached for a mug, Ben downed the last of his coffee. “I’ll get back to the shed now, Jill,” he said. Then pausing at the door he enquired innocently, “Did you say you wanted me to take the rubbish down?” For a split second, they both looked at the fliptop bin.

  “Yes,” Jill said levelly, and she pulled out the binbag and handed it to him. “And burn it please, Ben.”

  “Burn it?”

  “Yes, please. We always have far too much for the bins. As the bonfire is still smouldering, you might as well burn some of it. There may be more in the shed, I’ll come and see when I’ve sorted Thomas out.”

  Ben disappeared with the bag and Jill said, “Come on then, Tommy, let’s have a go at this knee.”

  She ran warm water into the basin and dutifully put in a capful of “stuff” as Thomas had asked. As she watched it turn the water milky, she wondered what on earth would have happened if Isabelle and Thomas had come home just five minutes later. Her skin felt suddenly clammy at the thought of it and she found she was shivering. Would they have been caught having it off against the kitchen cabinets, or writhing around on the living room floor? She buried her face in her hands at the horror of the thought, and it was only Thomas, tugging at her, that brought her to her senses in time to turn the water off before it flooded on to the floor.

  “Sorry, darling,” she said laughing awkwardly, “Mummy was thinking about something else. Now let’s have a look at you.”

  When Thomas’s knee had been bathed and cover with a huge pink piece of plaster, she took him back downstairs. Glancing out of the window, she could see Ben poking the bonfire into life with a stick.

  “Keep an eye on Thomas, Isabelle,” she said casually, “it’s his programme in ten minutes, I’m just going down to tell Ben what to burn from the shed.”

  “OK, Mrs Hammond.” Isabelle carried her coffee into the living room and turned on the television, and Jill went down into the garden.

  As soon as he saw her, Ben stepped into the shed. She followed him,but not knowing what she was going to say. Ben didn’t allow her to say anything, he pushed the door shut behind her and pinning her against the wall with one strong arm, he began to kiss her.

  For a moment she responded, then she pushed him away, saying firmly, “No, Ben.”

  He released her but stood in front of her, barring her way from theshed. “Come, on Jill,” he said huskily, “we can’t stop now!”

  “We can, we must,” she said. “If they’d come home just five minutes later…” She let her words trail off and shuddered again at the enormity of what might have been.

  “Yeah, yeah, I see that,” Ben said soothingly, his fingers stroking her cheek and neck, “but I want you Jill… and you want me, you know you do.” His fingers were wandering down her throat, and she stood still and quivering, unable to deny what he said. As his hands moved over her breasts, feeling them moving, unrestrained, beneath the thin wool of her sweater, he lowered his head to kiss her again.

  “No, Ben, no,” she murmured against his lips.

  “Yes, Jill, yes,” he teased, his tongue darting round her mouth. “Ben, for Christ’s sake, not here!” She forced herself to pull away. He looked at her quizzically, “Where then?”

  She tried to slip from his arms, but he held her firmly and repeated his question, “Where then, Jill? If not here?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “You could come to my room,” he suggested. “It’s just across the road.”

  “Oh Ben, don’t be stupid,” she snapped at him, “that’s as bad as ourhouse. Anyone could see us.”

  Ben ignored her burst of temper and said gently, “Then where? Jill, I want you.” He began to caress her again. “You’ve got a fantastic body and I want to… make love to you.” The slight hesitation in his words told Jill that he had altered the words he’d been going to say, but she found she didn’t care. All she could feel was the magic of his fingers as they roved at will, setting every nerve end jangling.

  “What about that place, out by the dunes at Belmouth?” she whispered. “That motel place. Anthony’s away tonight. I could go to the pictures, I often do when he’s out.”

  “I’m working tonight, at the Dutch.”

  “What time do you finish?”

  “I could probably get off about ten if it’s quiet.”

  “I’ll see you there then,” she said. “Come to the chalet with my car parked outside.”

  And he had. She was sitting on the bed in the dingy little roomnervously watching the television, and wondering if she should leave, when the door opened and Ben stood framed in the doorway. She got to her feet, but didn’t move towards him. He closed the door softly behind him and crossing the room placed his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her face. With one hand he zapped the television into silence and then slid both hands down around her back.

  “Ben… I’m not…” she began, but he closed her mouth with his, and they moved together.

  It was sex as she’d never experienced it. At first it was urgent, taking up from where they had been interrupted that morning, and they were soon on the bed, their clothes strewn about the room as they hadscrabbled them off, then suddenly, Ben pulled away, easing his body away from hers and looking down at her.

  “Hey, slow down,” he breathed, one finger tracing a line round her breasts and along her ribcage. “Slowly.” He drew the word out. “Slowly.”

  “Ben,” she heard herself moan, “don’t make me wait!”

  He grinned at her wolfishly, “Yes… wait,” and he began his teasing work again. By the time they finally came together, she was gasping for him, and his need of her was as great. Almost at once, he was asleep, his body half across her so that she was trapped on the bed, but Jill couldn’t sleep; she lay wide-eyed in the semi-darkness.

  Oh God, she thought, What have I done?

  She knew that she wasn’t in love with Ben, and there’d been little tenderness, but there was a chemistry between them, an animal need that had driven her on even as she knew she would regret it later. Lust, she thought, that was then only word for it, lust, and it mustn’t happen again. Her resolve lasted for as long as Ben was asleep, but when he turned over and began to kiss her again, she was lost once more.

  She decided, when she was safely back at home, that he was like a drug. There were times when she didn’t think about him at all, well hardly at all, and then it was as if a fix had worn off and the craving for him returned. Whenever she could slip away, on the pretext of golf, or going to the library, or visiting a friend, they would meet at the Bellevue Motel, if only for an hour. Every time Jill vowed it would be the last, but whenever there was a chance for them to meet, Jill took it.

  Burdened with guilt, Jill transferred it to Anthony’s shoulders. If he hadn’t insisted that she couldn’t have a job, she wouldn’t have had time for any of this; she’d never have looked at Ben if Anthony had had more time for her and the children, and of course she’d been very careful, so that the children wouldn’t suffer—she was always there when they needed her.

  Ben continued to do the odd jobs that she found for him, but she never let him touch her in her own home, and much of the time anyway, Isabelle and the children were there as unwitting chaperones. He painted the conservatory and redecorated the children’s room in colours that they all went together to choose from the DIY shop. Isabelle and the children got used to Ben being about, and though Isabelle might wish he’d pay some attention to her, and often dressed with him in mind, no one gave his continued presence a second thought.

  Thirteen
/>
  Angela Haven tapped on Annabel’s bedroom door and opened it without waiting for a reply. Annabel was sitting at her desk, a half-finished essay in front of her, but she had no pen in her hand and when she turned round as her mother came in, it was clear she hadn’t been working.

  Angela paused in the doorway. “Hi, love. Can I come in?”

  With a slight shrug of her shoulders Annabel said, “Yeah, if you like,” and swivelled her chair away from her desk.

  Angela closed the door carefully and moved over to the bed, where, watched by her daughter, she made herself comfortable. Angela took some time settling herself, plumping up the pillow behind her back and wriggling into the softness of the duvet. Now the moment had come, the moment of confrontation and truth, she didn’t know how to begin. The carefully rehearsed phrases slipped away and she ended up speaking far more abruptly than she had intended.

  “Annabel, darling, what’s the matter?”

  “Matter…?” repeated Annabel, almost indifferently. “Nothing’s the matter, Mum.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, darling, but I don’t believe you.” She held Annabel’s gaze, maintaining the eye contact until it was Annabel who finally looked away.

  “You look exhausted,” Angela resumed. “Pale and washed out. Are you finding the work too much—is that the problem? You’re doing three big subjects, you know—is it all getting on top of you?”

  “No, the work’s OK,” Annabel said.

  For a moment the silence was like an invisible wall between them, neither quite knowing how to scale it. Then Annabel took a deep breath. “There is something, actually… I was going to tell you soon anyway, but since you’re asking now… well I’m pregnant.”

  “What?!” Angela stared at her in horror. Of all the things that she had considered might be causing Annabel’s depressed, lethargic state, pregnancy had never crossed her mind. There had been no sign of a boyfriend, ever, as far as Angela knew. “Oh, Annabel, you’re not!”

  “Yes, I am.” Annabel spoke flatly.

  “But how? I mean who? When? Oh God…” Angela drew a deep breath, trying to control her tumbling reactions and emotions; trying, not to become calm because that was impossible, but at least to become focused on what she had just heard. “Just tell me what happened,” she said lamely.

  “What happened is that I had sex with a guy and now I’m pregnant.”

  “Just like that? What guy?”

  “Just a guy.”

  Clearly Annabel wasn’t going to give the father’s name at present, so Angela said, “When? I mean when is the baby due?”

  Annabel shrugged, absentmindedly swivelling her chair rhythmically from side to side. “End of January some time I suppose.”

  “You suppose… don’t you know? Haven’t you seen anybody—a doctor I mean? Haven’t you been to Dr Fran?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Annabel, why not? I mean… Oh God, why on earth didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I wanted to keep it,” Annabel murmured. The she looked up sharply “I didn’t want an abortion.”

  “An abortion! Oh darling, I wouldn’t have made you have an abortion.” She looked at her daughter in despair. Had they really drifted so far apart over the last few months that Annabel could think that she, Angela, would force her, or even encourage her to destroy a baby?

  “All I’d have insisted on upon would have been a thorough check-up with Dr Fran and proper ante-natal care.” She crossed over to Annabel who still swung her chair, left right, left right, and kneeling beside the chair, Angela put her arms round her, gathering her awkwardly against her and holding her tight. Gradually the swivelling ceased and Angela felt Annabel relax against her, eventually felt her arms slip round her shoulders and tighten convulsively.

  “Oh God,” prayed Angela silently as they clung to each other. “Help me to know what to do and what to say. Don’t let me say the wrong thing. Don’t let me blow it!”

  It seemed to her that now was the time to say nothing, just to be there—so she stayed still, kneeling uncomfortably on the floor, her cheek against Annabel’s, clasping her tightly in her arms.

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” Annabel’s whisper was so low, it was little more than a breath, and then Angela felt Annabel’s tears wetting her cheeks, and her own sprang at once to mingle with them.

  “Come on,” she said, “come on, darling, let’s sit on the bed and be comfortable.” She got up and pulled Annabel over to the bed, then sat down beside her and took her hand. “Now then, start from the beginning,” Angela said.

  There was another silence as Annabel assembled her thoughts and decided exactly what and how much to say. She’d already realised that she couldn’t keep her secret much longer and had been considering how much she would have to reveal. Now the moment had come she was almost ready with her story.

  “There was a guy I was meeting after school… end of April, beginning of May. We only did it once—had sex I mean and then I didn’t see him again.”

  “You mean he dumped you when he heard you were pregnant,” Angela said flatly.

  “No,” Annabel answered sharply, as if in his defence. “No, he doesn’t even know.”

  “So, why isn’t he… about?” Angela finished the question lamely.

  Annabel shrugged. “I don’t know. He just stopped coming round.” She glanced up, trying to assess how her mother was reacting, what she was thinking. Would she accept this rather feeble explanation, “he just stopped coming round”? It sounded feeble in Annabel’s own ears, but nothing would induce her to change it, to give her mother any inkling as to the real reason for Scott not being there, not knowing. Having got the confession of her pregnancy off her chest after so many days of trying to pick the right moment, she felt almost light-headed with the relief of it.

  Angela was still holding her hand, but was staring into the middle distance as all the questions, all the consequences of Annabel’s bombshell, surged through her mind in confusion. What would they do with the baby? Who would look after it? Would Annabel want to keep it herself? What about adoption? What would the school say? What about her exams? What would Ian say? How would they manage with her working full-time? A new baby, time-consuming, demanding. And Annabel must say who the father was. He ought to be told, ought to face up to his responsibility in this and contribute to the care of the baby… his baby for God’s sakes… except they were probably better off without him, whoever he was, using her daughter and dumping her once he’d got what he wanted. She knew she was being a touch melodramatic, but she felt melodramatic, damn the man… whoever he was.

  In the silence that enfolded them, Annabel was equally far away, remembering, re-living yet again, the day it had happened; the day that stood out above all others in her eighteen years.

  It was the Saturday when she had been on her way to admit to Avril that she hadn’t done any of the promised research on their history project. Scott had drawn up beside her in the van, and with relief at putting off the interview with Avril, Annabel happily climbed in beside him.

  Immediately she could tell he was different. All he said was, “Hi Bel,” as she clambered into the passenger seat, and pulled out into the Saturday morning traffic, but there was a tenseness about him. Normally he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow resting on the open window, but today both hands gripped the steering wheel and his eyes were constantly flicking to the mirrors, darting sideways at intersections.

  They cleared the city centre and finally pulled into the car park at Belmouth. He drove to the far end, away from other parked cars and parking looking out across the slate grey expanse of sea, Scot switched off the engine. Keeping his hands on the wheel, he straightened his forearms, pushing back against the seat, staring out through the windscreen. Silence enveloped them, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine.

  At last Bel said tentatively, “Scott…?”

  He turned his head and looked at her. “Got a job to do this morning, Bel?” he said. “
Wanna help?”

  “Sure,” Bel shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Drive,” he replied and got out. Bel slid across to the driving seat and Scott got in the passenger side.

  “I’ve got to collect something. Drive back into town.”

  They headed back into Belcaster and joined the sluggish Saturday morning traffic.

  “Keep in the left-hand lane,” Scott instructed, “and drive right round the one-way system.”

  Bel did as she was told, concentrating on the heavy traffic. Scott was wound up like a coiled spring, and his tension clamped Bel as well, so that her movements felt awkward and stiff.

  “Keep going round until I tell you,” Scott said, glancing quickly at his watch before scanning the traffic yet again. At last, he said, “Turn left here.”Bel turned into a narrow one-way street that served as a twisting short cut from one side of the one-way system to the other. It was called Bells Street, and wound a tortuous route round the back of the cathedral and the Sovereign Shopping Centre, before emerging once again on the Belmouth side of town. Fifty yards down on the left was Bells Yard, a narrow dead-end alley, serving the back entrances of the shops on the main road.

  Scott glanced down the alley and said, “Stop here, back up into the alley.”

  There was no one behind her, and Bel manoeuvred the van expertly into the mouth of the yard.

  Scott looked across at her. “Wait here,” he said. “Just going to collect some stuff. Back up to the door when I wave—and keep the engine running—I shan’t be long.”

  He got out of the van and went round to open the rear doors, then he walked swiftly to one of the service doors. Above it, Bel could see a red and white sign proclaiming it as “Belcaster Computers Ltd”. She watched through the open back of the van as Scott produced a key from his pocket, and, after one more quick glance round the yard, opened the door. He disappeared inside for a moment and then reappeared and signalled to Bel, who eased the van backwards to the door. Even as she put the brake on, he was heaving boxes into the van, boxes of different shapes and sizes, some light and easily handled, others obviously heavy and awkward. The speed at which he worked told Bell all she needed to know. She stopped watching Scott and glued her eyes to the open end of Bells Yard.