The Switch(30)

I reach for my new project diary. I picked one up at Smith’s yesterday – Leena has mine, in Hamleigh.

Communal area – spruce up is top of my list. I spoke to Martha about it this morning; she got quite excited and starting waving paint-colour charts at me on her way out of the door. I know things are different around here, but I can’t help thinking this building could do with some sense of community.

Below this note, I carefully write, Find Bee a man.

‘Ooh, your silver-haired thespian has replied!’ Bee says. She swivels the laptop towards me.

Todoffstage says: Hi, Eileen. Now I’m more intrigued than ever. What an exciting idea! How is your granddaughter finding life in the country? And how are you getting on in London? Is it a shock to the system?

I smile and start typing.

EileenCotton79 says: My granddaughter has gone very quiet on me, which either means it’s going very well, or she’s burned the house down! And I’m a little overwhelmed by London. It’s hard to know where to start!

‘Oh, Mrs Cotton,’ Bee says. ‘Now that is brilliant.’

Todoffstage says: Well, I’ve lived in London for sixty-five years … so if you’d like a little bit of advice from an old hand, I could show you a few places worth visiting? Starting with a coffee shop, perhaps?

I reach for the keyboard, but Bee waves my hand away. ‘Make him stew!’ she says.

I roll my eyes. ‘That sort of nonsense is for young people,’ I tell her.

EileenCotton79 says: That would be lovely. How about Friday?





11


Leena


Friday afternoon, in the quiet of the house, with Ant and Dec twining their way between my feet, I sit down at Grandma’s computer and log in to my Dropbox. It’s all there. B&L Boutique Consulting. Pricing strategy. Market research. Operations and logistics. I settle in, not touching anything yet, just reading it all through again. In the end I get so deep I lose track of time. It’s the Neighbourhood Watch meeting at five – I have to bomb it down on the bike I dug out of Grandma’s ivy-shed, and I nearly send myself flying when turning into Lower Lane.

It’s only when I’m walking through the door to the village hall that I realise I’m not entirely sure what the Neighbourhood Watch actually is. Are we … fighting crime? Is this a crime-fighting society?

I take one look around at the motley crowd gathered in the centre of the hall and decide that either these guys are in the best superhero disguises ever or this cannot possibly be a crime-fighting society. There’s Roland, the over eager search-party organiser; Betsy, wearing a bright pink scarf, matching lipstick, and a pair of culottes; and Dr Piotr, much portlier than I remember from my childhood, but still clearly the man who stitched up my knee when I was nine and once extricated a dried pea from Carla’s ear.

Then there’s a tiny bird of a woman who looks as if she’s built of matchsticks, a squinty moustached man I recognise as Basil the bigot, and one very harassed-looking young woman with what I think is baby vomit on her sleeve.

‘Oh, bother,’ this woman says, following my gaze to her arm. ‘I really meant to clean that.’

‘Leena,’ I say, holding my hand out for her to shake.

‘Kathleen,’ she tells me. Her hair is streaked with highlights that need re-doing, and there’s a flaking smear of toothpaste on her chin – she has exhausted mum written all over her. I can’t help wondering why on earth she’s bothered to come to this meeting instead of, I don’t know, having a nap?

‘I’m Penelope,’ says the little bird lady. She holds out her hand the way royalty might – top of the hand first, as though I’m meant to kiss it. Unsure what to do, I give it a shake.

Betsy stops short when she sees me. Her smile comes too late to be genuine. ‘Hello, Leena,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Of course!’ I say. ‘I brought the sign, for the door.’

‘Room for one more?’ says a voice from the doorway.

‘Oh, what a treat!’ Betsy trills. ‘Jackson, I didn’t realise you’d be able to make it today!’

I look up and feel myself flush. Jackson lopes in wearing a rugby shirt and a worn-out old cap. I was such a mess when he last saw me; every time I remember myself sweaty and snotty on his doorstep it makes me want to crawl right back to London. I try to meet his eye, but he’s preoccupied: all the elderly ladies have gravitated Jackson’s way, and he’s now wearing a woman on each arm like Hugh Hefner, only with all the relevant people’s ages swapped over. Basil is urging a cup of tea on him. Nobody has offered me one yet, I notice with discomfort. That’s not a good sign, is it?

‘Well, now that Leena’s finally here, shall we begin?’ Betsy asks. I resist the urge to point out that I wasn’t the last to arrive, Jackson was – but everyone is too busy passing him biscuits to notice that. ‘Seats, please!’

It’s hard not to wince as the elderly in the room shuffle themselves in front of their chairs and then – starting slowly at first, then picking up speed – they bend at the knees as best they can until they land somewhere on their seats with a thump.

‘Jackson usually sits there,’ Roland says, just as I bend to sit down.

‘Ah.’ I look around, still in a squat. ‘Jackson, do you mind if …’