A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon

rules of human conversation and suddenly there was a motorway pileup in your head.
    He steeled himself. “Perhaps we should just talk about football.”
    “Football?” asked Ray.
    “Man stuff.” The bizarre idea came to him that they could be friends. Maybe not friends. But people who could rub along together. Christmas in the trenches and all that.
    “Are you taking the piss?” asked Ray.
    Jamie breathed deeply. “Katie’s lovely. But she’s hard work. You couldn’t give her a biscuit against her will. If she’s marrying you it’s because she wants to marry you.”
    The drill slid off the counter and hit the stone floor tiles and it sounded like a mortar shell going off.

25
    Something had happened to George.
    It started that evening when she came back into the living room to find him scrabbling about under the armchair looking for the TV remote. He got to his feet and asked what she’d been up to.
    “Writing a letter.”
    “Who to?”
    “Anna. In Melbourne.”
    “So what have you been telling her?” asked George.
    “About the wedding. About your studio. About the extension the Khans have added to her old house.”
    George didn’t talk about her family, or the books she was reading, or whether they should get a new sofa. But for the rest of the evening he wanted to know what she thought about all these things. When he finally fell asleep it was probably due to exhaustion. He hadn’t sustained a conversation this long in twenty years.
    The following day continued in much the same fashion. When he wasn’t working at the bottom of the garden or listening to Tony Bennett at double the usual volume he was following her from room to room.
    When she asked if he was OK he insisted that it was good to talk and that they didn’t do it enough. He was right, of course. And perhaps she should have been a little more appreciative of the attention. But it was scary.
    Dear God, there were times when she’d prayed for him to open up a little. But not overnight. Not like he’d suffered a blow to the head.
    There was a practical problem, too. Seeing David when George had no interest in what she was doing was one thing. Seeing David when George was following her every move was another.
    Except that he wasn’t very good at it. The listening, the taking an interest. He reminded her of Jamie at four.
Froggy wants to talk to you on the phone…Get on the sofa train, it’s about to start!
Anything to hold her attention.
    Just before they climbed into bed he’d wandered out of the bathroom holding a soiled Q-tip to ask whether she thought it was normal to have that much wax in one’s ear.
    David could do it. The listening, the taking an interest.
    The following afternoon they were sitting in his living room with the French windows open. He was talking about stamps.
    “Jersey World War Two occupation issues. The 1888 dull green Zululand one shilling. Perforates. Imperforates. Inverted watermarks…Lord knows what I thought I was going to achieve. Easier than growing up, I guess. I’ve still got them somewhere.”
    Most men wanted to tell you what they knew. The route to Wisbech. How to get a log fire going. David made her feel she was the one who knew things.
    He lit a cigar and they sat quietly watching the sparrows on the bird table and the mackerel sky moving slowly from right to left behind the poplars. And it felt good. Because he could do silence, too. And in her experience there were very few men who could do silence.
    She left late and found herself in a traffic jam by the roadworks outside B & Q. She was worrying about what to say to George to explain her lateness when it occurred to her that he knew about David. That his attentiveness was a way of making amends, or competing, or making her feel guilty.
    But when she manhandled the bags into the kitchen he was sitting at the table with two mugs of hot coffee, waving a folded newspaper.
    “You were talking about the Underwood boys. Well, apparently, these