poor night. She might get her tea and bring it back here with the new
Woman & Home
she had not yet looked at in the flurry of moving. Why not? What else was there to do? Muriel boasted of being up at seven in all seasons and weathers, but when she was up, what did she do? Clean the house that was already so clean it was in danger of being rubbed away. And when did she ever have tea with a friend, read a book, window-shop, go on an outing, take a proper holiday, play cards? It was clean, clean, clean.
Elinor got up and put on her dressing gown. She would fetch tea, toast, the magazine and the new book of needlepoint she’d treated herself to for her birthday, and get back to bed to relax, a word Muriel did not understand.
It had obviously gone on snowing for some hours, though now it had stopped and the sky was blue and cloudless. The lawn and the paths were pillowed in snow.
Beautiful, it seemed to her. Beautiful, and untouched.
But not untouched. Footprints, clear and deeply trodden, came diagonally across from the corner where the paths met, to her bungalow.
Just footprints.
Fifteen
‘ CAN YOU DROP me in town?’
‘Of course I can’t, Sam, what are you thinking? How would that would go down at home? You’ve been away for a week.’
Sam hunched into his seat and did not reply. He had spent much of the journey from Norfolk sending and receiving text messages. Once, a call had come through but he had said, ‘Text, I told you,’ and clicked off. Otherwise, he had said little. They had stopped for lunch, and again in mid-afternoon at a service station which doubled as a shopping arcade, and Simon bought some groceries. Sam sat over a Coke and a banana, alternately texting and watching the people coming in and out through the swing doors, as if he were expecting to see someone.
The mobile signal in Norfolk had never been good, so perhaps he was catching up with his friends now. Simon remembered his own adolescence, albeit without the text facility, when he had closed the door before taking a phone call at home, though the call had usually been about nothing much. Cat had monopolised the phone every evening, so much so that their father banned its use except within strict time limits. The age of fourteen had caught up with Sam. His old talkativeness had died to long silences and occasional grunts, though he had been better on their week away than he was at home. They had talked about plenty of things, including police work, music of all kinds, Sam’s future, cricket, seabirds, books and films. Chris had not been mentioned. It seemed to be the only no-go area, one of which Simon was keenly aware.
Brown earth showed through the snow in the fields of the Midlands but by the time they headed towards the M5 it had scarcely thawed at all and towards late afternoon a freezing fog descended, slowing them down to a crawl.
‘Ring your mum, will you? Tell her we’ll be later than I thought.’
‘She won’t worry.’
‘All the same . . .’
Sam sighed and started to text.
‘Can’t you call her?’
‘She picks up texts OK.’
‘I know. Just thought she might appreciate a voice.’
‘I hate talking on the phone.’
Simon focused on the fog warning signs and the queue of traffic ahead. He knew what Sam meant. He spent a lot of his working day talking on the phone. When he was off duty he liked the silence of his flat, sometimes music, and messages left so that he could reply when he felt like it – often by text.
The only person he always wanted to talk to, always wanted to hear, was Rachel.
Rachel. He felt delight that she was no more than fifty miles away and that surely, surely, he would see her, tonight even, certainly tomorrow.
The traffic queue shunted on for a couple of dozen yards, then stopped again. Sam had his iPod on. He listened to a strange mixture of sound and words –
Just William
and
Sherlock Holmes
audiobooks, classical trumpet and oboe music, obscure new rock bands. And bagpipes. He
Woman & Home
she had not yet looked at in the flurry of moving. Why not? What else was there to do? Muriel boasted of being up at seven in all seasons and weathers, but when she was up, what did she do? Clean the house that was already so clean it was in danger of being rubbed away. And when did she ever have tea with a friend, read a book, window-shop, go on an outing, take a proper holiday, play cards? It was clean, clean, clean.
Elinor got up and put on her dressing gown. She would fetch tea, toast, the magazine and the new book of needlepoint she’d treated herself to for her birthday, and get back to bed to relax, a word Muriel did not understand.
It had obviously gone on snowing for some hours, though now it had stopped and the sky was blue and cloudless. The lawn and the paths were pillowed in snow.
Beautiful, it seemed to her. Beautiful, and untouched.
But not untouched. Footprints, clear and deeply trodden, came diagonally across from the corner where the paths met, to her bungalow.
Just footprints.
Fifteen
‘ CAN YOU DROP me in town?’
‘Of course I can’t, Sam, what are you thinking? How would that would go down at home? You’ve been away for a week.’
Sam hunched into his seat and did not reply. He had spent much of the journey from Norfolk sending and receiving text messages. Once, a call had come through but he had said, ‘Text, I told you,’ and clicked off. Otherwise, he had said little. They had stopped for lunch, and again in mid-afternoon at a service station which doubled as a shopping arcade, and Simon bought some groceries. Sam sat over a Coke and a banana, alternately texting and watching the people coming in and out through the swing doors, as if he were expecting to see someone.
The mobile signal in Norfolk had never been good, so perhaps he was catching up with his friends now. Simon remembered his own adolescence, albeit without the text facility, when he had closed the door before taking a phone call at home, though the call had usually been about nothing much. Cat had monopolised the phone every evening, so much so that their father banned its use except within strict time limits. The age of fourteen had caught up with Sam. His old talkativeness had died to long silences and occasional grunts, though he had been better on their week away than he was at home. They had talked about plenty of things, including police work, music of all kinds, Sam’s future, cricket, seabirds, books and films. Chris had not been mentioned. It seemed to be the only no-go area, one of which Simon was keenly aware.
Brown earth showed through the snow in the fields of the Midlands but by the time they headed towards the M5 it had scarcely thawed at all and towards late afternoon a freezing fog descended, slowing them down to a crawl.
‘Ring your mum, will you? Tell her we’ll be later than I thought.’
‘She won’t worry.’
‘All the same . . .’
Sam sighed and started to text.
‘Can’t you call her?’
‘She picks up texts OK.’
‘I know. Just thought she might appreciate a voice.’
‘I hate talking on the phone.’
Simon focused on the fog warning signs and the queue of traffic ahead. He knew what Sam meant. He spent a lot of his working day talking on the phone. When he was off duty he liked the silence of his flat, sometimes music, and messages left so that he could reply when he felt like it – often by text.
The only person he always wanted to talk to, always wanted to hear, was Rachel.
Rachel. He felt delight that she was no more than fifty miles away and that surely, surely, he would see her, tonight even, certainly tomorrow.
The traffic queue shunted on for a couple of dozen yards, then stopped again. Sam had his iPod on. He listened to a strange mixture of sound and words –
Just William
and
Sherlock Holmes
audiobooks, classical trumpet and oboe music, obscure new rock bands. And bagpipes. He
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