Читать книгу Heading Over the Hill - Judy Leigh - Страница 12

‘She has a northern accent, dear. She’s certainly not from these parts.’

‘Outsiders? Well, of course they are.’

‘Then she said she’d give me some recipes, Malcolm.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Lancashire hotpot, I think, and spotted dick.’

‘I mean why did she offer to give you recipes? Your cooking is quite adequate normally. And you know I don’t like hotpot. The woman must be raving mad.’

‘She did apologise to me, though.’

‘I wish I’d been here, Gillian. I wouldn’t have accepted an apology. Oh no, no apology, not without conditions attached.’

‘She seemed very friendly.’

Malcolm rested his chin on his chest. ‘It’s not her I’m worried about, it’s him. I mean, she told me about his history of aggression, and we can see he’s a thug from the way he walks about with that leather jacket on.’

‘Oh, and she promised he wouldn’t play the drums again. And he’s moved the Transit van to give you more room.’

‘I noticed that. What else did she say?’

‘Not a lot, dear. Oh, there was one thing. She said he’s a good cook but he wasn’t used to cooking very often because he’d been away a lot.’

Malcolm’s jaw became slack. ‘Away? As in away, inside, in prison?’

Gillian turned away and moved to the table, lifting up the can of polish and the duster. ‘I don’t know. I suppose so, yes.’

‘For GBH, no doubt. And dealing in stolen goods. Drugs even.’ He turned to his wife, his eyes glassy behind the frames. ‘Gillian, we’re living next door to a criminal. This is terrible. We have to warn people, make sure everyone in the street knows the dangers. It’s our duty.’

It was Friday morning and a beam of sunshine soft and yellow as melting butter illuminated the freshly painted walls in the lounge. Dawnie had found a leopard print throw and some matching cushions to cover the dull blue sofabed. The room seemed warmer, more homely. Billy and Dawnie stood together, arms around each other’s waists, surveying the space, now tidy, clear of all boxes and with one of Billy’s framed pictures on the wall. Beneath his leather jacket, Billy wore his clean Foo Fighters t-shirt and his best jeans. Dawnie’s red curls framed her face and she sported leather trousers and a sparkling gold vest. She patted the red wig, teasing a curl from her eyes. ‘How do I look, Billy?’

‘Ah, you’re a vision,’ he sighed, kissing the tip of her nose.

She waved a hand around the room. ‘The walls are lovely now, and your photo is the centrepiece.’

‘It’s the curlew I photographed a few years back.’

‘I’m glad you found the picture, Billy – it looks nice against the saffron yellow wall.’

‘I think Lester would appreciate it.’

‘He’s an entomologist, love – they only like worms and bugs…’

‘He’s fascinated by all wildlife and nature. He’s a good fella. We’ll have to pop round there again soon or invite them round here.’

‘I liked Ursula too. I think she’s a bit, you know, lonely, Billy. I’ll maybe drag her out with me one night. We could go dancing.’

He squeezed her arm. ‘Whatever you fancy doing, darlin’, is fine by me. But we have an appointment at one o’clock. Shall we get going? It’s a beautiful day to be out on the bike, for sure, and we’ve a house to view.’

The estate agent was standing by his BMW outside Chestnut House, a majestic building with a brick frontage, as Billy and Dawnie rode up the gravel drive. He glanced up from his clipboard and back again. When Billy and Dawnie dismounted, the estate agent came over and extended his hand to Billy. ‘Simon Mountjoy.’

‘Billy Murphy.’ Billy shook the estate agent’s hand energetically. ‘And this is Dawnie Smith.’

Simon Mountjoy glanced at Dawnie as she tugged off her helmet, his eyes flicking over the curly red hair and the gold vest beneath her jacket, then he turned back to Billy. ‘Well, I think you’re going to be impressed by Chestnut House. The Myttons have decorated it tastefully in the five years they’ve been here. They are looking to go back to South Africa, where they have family. Shall we go inside? Follow me, please.’

The estate agent pivoted on his heel and forged ahead towards the house, his walk brisk. Dawnie noticed that Simon Mountjoy had a very narrow bottom and slim legs as he strode along in his navy suit. His smartly cut dark hair lifted a little in the light breeze. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old. He reached the oak front door and turned to Billy with a practised smile.

‘This place has been on the market for just over a week but you’re the third people to view. Shall we go round the side of the house and start with the boot room?’

They followed the estate agent along a little path and waited as he pushed a long key into a lock. They entered into a narrow room, where coats hung on pegs and wellingtons and shoes were inverted on racks, the soles spotless. Two huge metal bowls were empty on a plastic mat, bags of dried dog food neatly stacked to one side. Simon Mountjoy nodded towards Billy. ‘The owners are out currently. Shall we go and see the kitchen? It certainly is the heart of this home.’

Dawnie followed Simon and Billy into a square room with three large windows with gingham curtains. A long quartz worktop occupied one wall, with scarlet and cream tiles. Dawnie glanced around at a Belfast sink, several pristine food-processing machines of various sizes in chrome and cherry red, a gleaming kettle and, just behind them, a spotless cream Aga cooker. In the centre of the room were a square oak table and four chairs. Dawnie glanced at Billy. ‘This is lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, it is. We could live here, darlin’.’

‘Is the cooker gas or electric, Simon? Or wood or solid fuel?’ she asked but the estate agent had already turned towards the door. Simon led them into a hallway with cream floor tiles and into a dining room, where there was a long formal table with a chandelier above it. The window contained two identically-framed photographs, one of a couple smiling for the camera in their wedding clothes and another of a bespectacled young man in a gown and mortar board, holding a rolled certificate tied with purple ribbon, his face beaming with pride.

They crossed another hallway into a lounge with an open fireplace, a wood burning stove and a neat stack of logs. There was a cream three-piece suite and a large rug on the oak floor. There were oak beams above their heads and on the wall a stag’s head gaped, its glassy eyes focused ahead. Dawnie muttered, ‘I don’t like that, Billy.’ He took her hand and they followed the estate agent into a vast hallway.

‘Shall we look at the bedrooms, Mr Murphy?’ Simon suggested, leading the way up a winding carpeted staircase, the white walls displaying wedding photographs of the couple and several more framed snaps showing their son in various poses from childhood to adolescence. At the top of the stairs, Simon indicated a large blue bathroom with a free-standing bath with gold taps and a spacious shower cubicle at the end, and the fourth bedroom, currently a spare, with white walls and a cream duvet. Simon turned to Billy. ‘You aren’t local?’

‘Ah, we’re renting locally,’ Billy grinned. ‘While we find the perfect place. We’re cash buyers.’

‘Our other home is up in Bolton,’ Dawnie added chirpily. ‘It’s a big Victorian semi. It has four bedrooms and an attic and a cellar. Our children and granddaughter and great-grandchildren are living there.’

Simon didn’t seem to hear: he gave Billy his full attention. ‘I don’t expect Chestnut House to be on the market for very long, Mr Murphy. As I say, there has been a lot of interest. If you look through the window in the master suite…’ He moved expertly to the largest bedroom and pointed to the double-glazed frames. ‘You can see the sea from here.’ He held back the curtains and Billy nodded. Dawnie eased her husband to one side, peering beneath his arm.

‘Oh yes, I can see: it’s just a thin line at the moment. Very nice view, though.’

‘I expect the tide is out, darlin’. But it’s not far away: we’d be on the beach in minutes from here. And there’s plenty of room for my bike and the Transit.’

Simon offered Billy his practised smile. ‘The garden is three quarters of an acre. Shall we go outside, Mr Murphy?’

‘That’d be deadly.’ Billy beamed at his wife. ‘Let’s go and see the garage, shall we? And I think there are fruit trees outside, an orchard. I might even be able to make my own cider.’

Dawnie turned and followed the men who were in conversation together, one small bottom in a navy suit and one larger backside in jeans, walking down the stairs towards the front door. She felt her fingers clenching into fists.

‘He didn’t speak to me at all, Billy.’ Dawnie clung to Billy as he manoeuvred the Harley through evening traffic, skilfully passing a black Audi that was taking up far too much of the road. ‘I mean, it didn’t matter what I said to him – he totally ignored me. He wouldn’t even look in my direction.’

Billy shrugged huge shoulders. She heard his raised voice drift back. ‘It was a nice house, though, Dawnie. I could live there. All those apple trees in the garden. And three good-sized sheds and a double garage.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ She made her hand into a fist and resisted the urge to tap him hard on the back: he was driving, and she loved him too much to hurt him, even through the thick leather of his jacket. Instead, she raised her voice against the wind. ‘I mean, Simon Mountjoy was so rude. I tried to get involved with the conversation but he acted like I wasn’t there and spoke directly to you, as if what I thought didn’t matter.’

Billy said nothing for a while. He was looking around himself, negotiating a roundabout. Then Dawnie heard him mumble. ‘He was all right, the Simon one. He was only the estate agent – you don’t need to pay mind to him. The house was grand, though.’

‘He put me right off the place.’ Dawnie squeezed her eyes closed. ‘It’s happened to me before, being ignored. It’s just typical. Because I’m an older woman, these men think I’m invisible or not important at all.’ Her fingers caught the red threads of her wig as the hair blew into her eyes. ‘Invisible, me? I mean, I may not be seventeen but I’m hardly dowdy… it’s not as if I’m not noticeable, is it?’ She leaned her face against the leather of his back and felt Billy chuckle. He muttered something about his beautiful wife being hard to ignore and how she was the loveliest woman on the planet.

Dawnie gritted her teeth. She loved Billy but sometimes he could be exasperating: he just didn’t understand how it felt to be a woman of a certain age. She would have liked him to have stood up for her, to have said something like, ‘This is my wife Dawnie, Mr Mountjoy. We’re buying the house together and she’s just spoken to you but you ignored her. I won’t have it.’

But he hadn’t noticed. And she, Dawnie, in her tight leggings and gold sparkly top and curly red wig had been sidelined, ignored and treated as some has-been woman who had nothing to offer any more, just a mere bystander to the transactions of an estate agent and the big man who held the purse strings. Dawnie blew air through her mouth, exasperated. She wouldn’t be ignored. She would fight back.

‘Billy. Are you listening to me? I won’t put up with it.’

‘Right, darlin’. Of course you won’t.’

Dawnie clutched her arms tightly around his waist. He was strong and immovable, as solid as ever. But he didn’t understand how she was feeling right now. Being unnoticed smarted, an open wound. She’d rushed through her life so far, an impatient adolescent and bride, a busy mother, at times a lone parent, then a doting grandmother. She’d spent all her adult life being a good wife and mother, but just as soon as she’d slowed down to take notice of what was going on around her, it became clear how others viewed her: she was merely someone’s wife, someone’s mother, an older woman who didn’t count for anything. Dawnie suddenly felt the surge of determination that always followed injustice. Her good looks may have faded, but her appearance didn’t define her: she was still the same woman, a woman of substance with a good heart, so how dare someone assume she was of no importance any more? It made her fume. There was no way she would drift into old age and become as decayed and dust-laden and worn out and rickety as the old furniture in the house they were renting. Dawnie was determined she would not be overlooked. There was still plenty of life left in her yet. An idea filled her head and she thrust out her chin.

‘Billy, I’ve decided. I’m going to organise something nice for our neighbours, something that will bring the residents of Maggot Street together and show them how to have fun.’ A wide grin spread across her face. ‘Yes, I know exactly what I’ll do. It’s time to give all our neighbours a properly good time and get them to sit up and take notice.’