Fly in the Ointment by Anne Fine Page A

other stuff that was there when we opened.’
    â€˜Oh, right.’
    The other Lois would have left the matter there – felt a bit irritated as she walked away, and forgotten before she reached the corner. But there was a new Lois now – a bold, uncaring Lois who could be conjured out of me as easily as a wig can be lifted from a box. I drove straight home, and changed out of my blouse and skirt into a pair of slacks and a smart sweater. I tugged on the wig, put on the glasses that I’d worn to the funeral, and drove straight back.
    Here was a test. This time I wasn’t sneaking into a shadowy chapel at the last minute. I stood in the full light of the charity-shop window facing a woman I’d talked to less than an hour before.
    She didn’t blink.
    Neither did I. ‘I am so sorry!’ I gushed. ‘You see, this morning, by mistake, my husband left our grandchild’s car seat with a heap of stuff I’d asked him to drop off on his way to—’
    I didn’t even finish. Already she’d interrupted, expressing her delight that the car seat had found its way home. She threaded her way between the overstuffed racks towards the storeroom at the back, stillcheerfully chatting. ‘We couldn’t have sold it anyhow. And it’s not as if the things are cheap. My daughter-in-law recently had to buy one, and I was shocked at how much she had to pay.’
    She handed it over, not looking in the least bit puzzled by anything about me. Clearly, once I was in the wig, even my voice became some unobtrusive part of me that wasn’t noticed. From sheer relief (not to mention a stab of guilt at getting a perfectly good car seat for nothing) I pressed some money into the donation box and walked out, glowing with triumph.
    It was so
easy
, I had realized. Nobody ever looked twice. Curly red hair worked like a mask. It was the only thing that people saw, so you could be a whole new self without a tremor. Is that what gave me the confidence to make the first little visit? For that is how I thought of it: ‘the little visit’. That’s even what I called it as I prepared. On the drive to and from work, and in the shower, and wiping down the surfaces after my supper, I would run practice conversations through my head, imagine all sorts of scenarios. I faced the fact that Janie Gay might be in any sort of mood from indifferent to virulent. (I somehow couldn’t imagine her being
nice
.) I tried to think how I would deal with any line she took. I worked out all the lies I might be pushed to tell. And,bearing in mind the temper that caused her to lash out at Malachy under the bridge all that long time ago, I even warned myself over and over to make sure that, whatever happened, I had the sense to stay between her and the door.
    And then I took an afternoon off work. (‘Good on you, Lois. Doing something nice?’) I drove halfway, pulled on the wig in the privacy of a church car park, then drove on to the estate and walked with confidence up the short pitted path to Janie Gay’s front door.
    I pressed the doorbell. There was a shuffling noise. I pictured Janie Gay burying her feet into a pair of furry high-heeled mules and scowling (‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! What is it
now
?’), and nearly lost my nerve. But it was too late to turn back.
    The door was opened by the very same floppy-haired lad who’d led the way to this same house after the funeral.
    â€˜Sssh! Don’t wake Larry.’
    At last! If I did nothing more than turn and flee I would have managed something. I would have learned the baby’s name. Larry.
    The boy was eyeing me rather as if he too might be remembering that we’d seen one another before. I felt a stab of nerves, but even before I had the time to say another word he’d opened the door wider. ‘JanieGay’s not here. But I suppose you’d better come in.’
    It sounded a good deal more fatalistic than