The Switch(11)

‘I think it’s very wise of you to call it a day on the driving, Eileen,’ Betsy says.

‘I’m still driving,’ I say, sitting up straighter. ‘I’m just sharing Marian’s car.’

‘Oh, you are still driving?’ Betsy says. ‘Gosh. Aren’t you brave, after that mishap on Sniddle Road!’

Betsy is a kind soul, and a very dear friend, but she is also excellent at saying rude things in a tone of voice that means you can’t object to them. As for my ‘mishap’ on Sniddle Road, it’s hardly worth mentioning. I’ll admit it wasn’t my best attempt at parking, but who would’ve thought that man’s four-by-four would dent so easily? The thing looked like a ruddy tank.

‘Given up on your latest project, then, have you?’ Basil asks, rubbing biscuit crumbs out of his moustache. ‘Weren’t you ferrying lost dogs around in that car?’

‘I was helping the kind folks at the Daredale dog rescue centre,’ I say, with dignity. ‘But they have their own transportation, now.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be on to something else soon enough!’ Basil says with a chuckle.

I narrow my eyes.

‘Have you given up on getting us a sponsor for May Day yet?’ he goes on. ‘No big businesses willing to lend their name to a little village fete?’

I grit my teeth. As it happens, I have struggled to find a sponsor for the May Day festival. I’d hoped we could use any funds raised for the cancer charity that did so much for Carla, rather than for covering the costs, as we usually do. But these days it’s hard to even get somebody to speak to you at the big companies in Leeds, and the local businesses I tried are all tightening their belts and don’t have any money to spare.

‘Funny that!’ Basil chortles.

‘I shan’t apologise for wanting to make a difference in this world, Basil,’ I say icily.

‘Quite right, quite right,’ Basil says. ‘And it’s very brave of you to keep at it against the odds, I say.’

Conversation shifts, mercifully; Penelope turns to Piotr, discussing Roland’s latest ailment, and I take the opportunity to snatch a word with Betsy.

‘Have you spoken to your daughter again, love?’ I ask her in a low voice. ‘About visiting?’

Betsy purses her lips. ‘I tried,’ she says. ‘No luck.’

It’s Betsy’s husband who’s the issue. Her daughter won’t be in a room with him any more. I understand – Cliff’s a nasty piece of work, and I don’t know how Betsy’s borne it over all these years. Even Wade couldn’t stand the man. But cutting Betsy off from her family is surely only going to make everything worse. Still, it’s not my place to interfere; I give her hand a squeeze.

‘She’ll come when she’s ready,’ I say.

‘Well, she better not leave it too long,’ Betsy says. ‘I am eighty!’

I smile at that. Betsy’s eighty-five. Even when she’s trying to make the point that she is old, she can’t help lying about her age.

‘… Knargill buses are down to one a day,’ Basil’s saying to Roland on the other side of me. ‘Can’t help thinking that’s part of the problem.’

Basil’s favourite things to complain about are, in this order: squirrels, transport links, weather conditions, and the state of the nation. You shouldn’t get him started on any of these topics, but it is particularly worth avoiding the last one, as it becomes very hard to like Basil once he starts talking about immigration.

‘And there she was,’ Basil’s saying, ‘drowned in her leek and potato soup! Ghoulish sight, I expect. Poor young lady who found her had just come round to see if she wanted new double glazing, found the door unlocked, and there she was – dead a week and nobody knew it!’

‘What’s this, Basil?’ I ask. ‘Are you telling horror stories again?’

‘Lady over in Knargill,’ Basil says, sipping his tea complacently. ‘Drowned in her bowl of soup.’

‘That’s awful!’ says Betsy.

‘Were there flies and maggots by the time they found her?’ asks Penelope, with interest.

‘Penelope!’ everybody choruses, then we all immediately turn to Basil for the answer.

‘Likely,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘Very likely. Poor lady was only seventy-nine. Husband died the year before. Didn’t have a soul in the world to care for her. The neighbours said she’d go months without speaking to anyone but the birds.’

I suddenly feel peculiar, a little light-headed, maybe, and as I reach for another ginger snap I notice my hand is trembling more than usual.

I suppose I’m thinking this poor lady was the same age as me. But that’s where the similarity ends, I tell myself firmly. I’d never choose leek and potato soup, for starters – so bland.

I swallow. Yesterday’s incident with the jar was an unpleasant reminder of exactly how easy it can be to stop coping. And not coping can turn drastic quickly when you’re on your own.

‘We should do more for people like that,’ I say suddenly. ‘With all the bus timetables getting cut down and the Dales Senior Transport lot having funding trouble, it’s hard for them to get anywhere even if they want to.’

Everyone looks rather surprised. Usually if the inhabitants of Knargill are mentioned in a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, it’s followed by some mischievous cackling from Betsy, who will then declare ‘it serves them right for living in Knargill’.