The Visitors(4)

The heat inside is for myself. Sometimes I wish I could just self-combust.





Chapter Three





David





Mother shakes me out of my melancholy.

‘Fancy a cup of tea and a biscuit, love?’ Her voice floats upstairs.

I don’t answer. If I stay quiet, she’ll go away; she always does.

At that moment, I hear a scraping noise outside. I move over to the window and press my face close to the glass to get the right angle.

I can see a young woman down there. In Mrs Barrett’s yard.

She potters around, staying close to the back door, which makes it quite difficult to see her from my current position. I twist the handle and push the side window slightly ajar.

I take a step back, in case she suddenly looks up at the glass, but then relax a little when I see she seems fully absorbed in her task. She’s stuffing clothes, or something similar, into a large black garbage bag.

Mother and I have lived adjacent to Mrs Barrett for more years than I care to mention. To my knowledge, she doesn’t have any adult children, and in all the years I’ve known her, she has never so much as had guests to stay over for a night or two.

Keeping slightly back from the glass, I focus in on the visitor. I am pleasantly surprised.

It is unusual, these days, to find a young woman with a preference for plain, modest clothing and minimal make-up. She is of slim build, with shoulder-length brown hair, and seems purposeful, with a pleasing economy of movement. I can’t help noticing she has dainty hands, which appear to like keeping busy.

At least that’s the impression she gives as I watch her through my binoculars.

So far, I’ve only seen her from behind and in profile. It proves difficult to study all her features in detail when her hair keeps falling over her face like a dark caramel-coloured curtain.

Something about her reminds me of someone.

Quite unexpectedly, she straightens up, pushes flat palms into the bottom of her back and shakes the hair from her face. A pert nose, full lips and astonishingly dark eyes and brows reveal themselves.

Using the back of her hand, she briskly wipes her forehead and looks down the long, narrow yard. She sighs, her small breasts rising and falling beneath a silky biscuit-coloured blouse.

I swallow hard and lower the binoculars, stepping back into the room until I’m well away from the window.

I take a couple of deep breaths and close my eyes.

I don’t have to feel bad about this, I tell myself calmly. I’m doing absolutely nothing wrong.

I lay down the binoculars and walk slowly downstairs.

Strains of a televised football match emanate from the lounge as I enter the kitchen. Mother stands washing dishes at the sink.

‘Ah, there you are, David.’ She lifts out her sud-covered fingers for a moment or two and looks at me, her sharp, avian eyes narrowing at my expression. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say faintly.

‘I called up earlier and asked if you’d like a cup of tea. I’ve bought your favourite arrowroot biscuits from—’

‘Have you spoken to Mrs Barrett lately?’ I cut in.

‘Mrs Barrett? I’m afraid not.’ She turns back to the sink. ‘I really ought to pop round there at some point. Perhaps you might come with me, David.’ And then her hands stop moving in the sink and she turns round again to face me. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It looks like she might have a visitor. She hasn’t got any grown-up children, has she?’

To avoid Mother’s incisive glare I pick up Brian’s tabloid newspaper from the counter and stare blindly at the front page.

Mother coughs.

‘No. No, she hasn’t got any family, though I don’t think it was through choice. She once told me it was a regret of hers but something she had just learned to accept.’

‘It might be her niece, then,’ I offer.

‘The visitor is a girl?’

‘A young woman.’ I nod. ‘Quite a bit younger than me by the looks of it.’

‘I see.’ Mother swallows hard. ‘There’s… not going to be a problem, is there, David?’

I feel a rush of heat in my face but I say nothing.

‘It wouldn’t do for her to think you’ve been…’

‘I was looking out of my window and she came outside, into the yard,’ I say quickly. ‘I was already looking. I didn’t…’

‘That’s all right, then.’ Mother is relieved. She pulls her hands out of the sink and flicks off the soapy bubbles. ‘Well, perhaps Mrs Barrett’s taken in a lodger. That house is far too much for her to manage now.’

‘Yes. Perhaps that’s it.’ I step back into the gloom of the hallway. ‘I thought I might go round there now and ask Mrs Barrett if she needs any help… ask her if there are any odd jobs that need doing. It’s been a while.’

Mother opens her mouth as if to comment, but then closes it again.



* * *



In the event, I don’t go to Mrs Barrett’s house. Instead, I go back up to my bedroom and stand at the edge of the window.

It’s important to consider the situation logically.

I don’t know who this person, this visitor of Mrs Barrett’s, might be. I can hardly go blustering round there offering my help. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.