been ridiculous, and fortunately, and without too much harm being done, had been ended by the Haverstock Hill attack. Both Dot and Lizzie were now putting their minds to some alternative hobby for him and already had ideas: golf, for instance, though Willesden was a long way from a golf course; the Willesden cycling club, though Tom didn’t possess a bicycle, and anyway, look how many cyclists got knocked down by lorries; dog-walking, which considering they had no dog was never taken seriously. None of these options was mentioned to Tom.
Up to now, Tom Milsom had led a calm, steady, peaceable life. His job had been largely trouble-free. His wife loved and respected him, or seemed to. His daughter – well, she took his money, he thought bitterly, and for a flat she no longer even lived in. What did they think of him, the pair of them, for giving up an interest he had plainly enjoyed because two boys had hit him? Part of him never wanted to get on a bus again, even though it was not the buses’ fault. In fact he had not even been
on
a bus when the boys had attacked him. This line of reasoning sent him out of the house – though perhaps it was more the result of Dorothy plying the vacuum cleaner round the armchair he was sitting in.
He walked about a mile, thinking it was good for him, then got on the number 139 bus. It was only then that it occurred to him he should have looked at London Bus Routes online. Perhaps when he got to Baker Street he could find a number 1. There was something fascinating, intriguing, about a bus numbered 1. It ought to be the best of all London buses. He asked the driver, who told him to stay on till Waterloo and pick up the number 1 there, which would take him to Bermondsey and Canada Water. Relaxing in the back of the 139 once more – there were several empty seats – Tom felt enormously better. He had always wondered what Canada Water was like, what Canada Water
was,
and now he would find out.
The sun was shining; it would be light for hours. Nothing was going to happen today or on the days to come. The trouble with those two boys had been no more than a nasty incident. Luckily he hadn’t been much hurt and all was going to be well.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NICOLA WANTED TO protect Carl from Dermot, but she didn’t tell Carl this. No matter how far emancipation had progressed towards equality, a woman might tell a man she wanted to care for him but she could not admit to him that she wanted to defend him from another man. Anyway, she seldom saw Dermot. If she heard him on the stairs, she kept inside the living room until the front door closed. They had met only once recently, in the hallway, she going out and he coming in, he from the pet clinic and carrying shopping, she on her way to buy something for an evening meal.
‘You’re living here full time again now, are you?’ he had asked. There were several ways of putting that enquiry, and Dermot’s phrasing was rather accusatory, the implication being that she shouldn’t have been. She would have liked to ask him if he had any objection, but Carl’s fear of Dermot was beginning to affect her too.
‘I am, yes,’ she said.
He shook his head, the kind of gesture that implied wonder more than disapproval. ‘As I always say,’ he said, ‘it takes all sorts to make a world.’
She said nothing about it to Carl. When she got back with the two ready meals and a bottle of rosé, her anger, which was considerable, had died down. Dermot was upstairs but silent apart from a burst of ‘Amazing Grace’ when he briefly opened his front door.
Next day was Saturday, the weather improved, and he was out in the garden with the two deckchairs, though only one was occupied. He must have sneaked – as Carl put it – through the kitchen with them while Carl and Nicola were out.
‘You’ll have to tell him you don’t want him in the garden,’ said Nicola. They were in the bedroom, looking down on the top of Dermot’s head.
Carl
Up to now, Tom Milsom had led a calm, steady, peaceable life. His job had been largely trouble-free. His wife loved and respected him, or seemed to. His daughter – well, she took his money, he thought bitterly, and for a flat she no longer even lived in. What did they think of him, the pair of them, for giving up an interest he had plainly enjoyed because two boys had hit him? Part of him never wanted to get on a bus again, even though it was not the buses’ fault. In fact he had not even been
on
a bus when the boys had attacked him. This line of reasoning sent him out of the house – though perhaps it was more the result of Dorothy plying the vacuum cleaner round the armchair he was sitting in.
He walked about a mile, thinking it was good for him, then got on the number 139 bus. It was only then that it occurred to him he should have looked at London Bus Routes online. Perhaps when he got to Baker Street he could find a number 1. There was something fascinating, intriguing, about a bus numbered 1. It ought to be the best of all London buses. He asked the driver, who told him to stay on till Waterloo and pick up the number 1 there, which would take him to Bermondsey and Canada Water. Relaxing in the back of the 139 once more – there were several empty seats – Tom felt enormously better. He had always wondered what Canada Water was like, what Canada Water
was,
and now he would find out.
The sun was shining; it would be light for hours. Nothing was going to happen today or on the days to come. The trouble with those two boys had been no more than a nasty incident. Luckily he hadn’t been much hurt and all was going to be well.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NICOLA WANTED TO protect Carl from Dermot, but she didn’t tell Carl this. No matter how far emancipation had progressed towards equality, a woman might tell a man she wanted to care for him but she could not admit to him that she wanted to defend him from another man. Anyway, she seldom saw Dermot. If she heard him on the stairs, she kept inside the living room until the front door closed. They had met only once recently, in the hallway, she going out and he coming in, he from the pet clinic and carrying shopping, she on her way to buy something for an evening meal.
‘You’re living here full time again now, are you?’ he had asked. There were several ways of putting that enquiry, and Dermot’s phrasing was rather accusatory, the implication being that she shouldn’t have been. She would have liked to ask him if he had any objection, but Carl’s fear of Dermot was beginning to affect her too.
‘I am, yes,’ she said.
He shook his head, the kind of gesture that implied wonder more than disapproval. ‘As I always say,’ he said, ‘it takes all sorts to make a world.’
She said nothing about it to Carl. When she got back with the two ready meals and a bottle of rosé, her anger, which was considerable, had died down. Dermot was upstairs but silent apart from a burst of ‘Amazing Grace’ when he briefly opened his front door.
Next day was Saturday, the weather improved, and he was out in the garden with the two deckchairs, though only one was occupied. He must have sneaked – as Carl put it – through the kitchen with them while Carl and Nicola were out.
‘You’ll have to tell him you don’t want him in the garden,’ said Nicola. They were in the bedroom, looking down on the top of Dermot’s head.
Carl
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