Green Grass by Raffaella Barker Page B

isn’t still the boy next door whom she left behind when she went to America. Perhaps she should call Directory Enquiries now, so she can get the whole thing over with? No. She shouldn’t be thinking so much about someone else’s husband. What if Celia answers? She must remember to ask for the business number. And she’s got her own family to consider, too. She must do it when they’re all out, but there’s no harm in getting the number now, is there?
    Inigo and Fred have gone down to the computer to make a diagram for the
Paper in the Park
show; Laura can hear their voices rising and falling in bursts of animation as they draw it up on the screen. They will be hours. Laura goes in search of the telephone and finds it on the floor in the sitting room next to Dolly, who is lying flat on the carpet as usual, propped on her elbows, gazing glassily at the silent television. Suppressing an urge to kick the television screen or even Dolly to create some animation, Laura picks up the phone and dials, leaving the room. She bends forward and does a small and unchallenging yoga stretch, focusing on her breathing to try and eradicate the neck tension she is feeling due to her continued belief that what she is doing is illicit. It doesn’t work.
    â€˜Hello, Directory Enquiries, this is Nicola speaking. What name is it?’
    There is something about Directory Enquiries which maddens Laura. Provoked, she replies, ‘“What name is it” simply doesn’t make sense. Do you mean “Whose number would I like?”’
    A pause, signifying that Nicola is registering her as a nutter, before her flat nasal voice tries again. ‘What name is it?’
    Laura sighs. ‘Harvey, Guy Harvey. Maybe Guy Harvey Organic actually.’
    â€˜How are you spelling that?’
    â€˜T.H.A.T.’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜I’m spelling “that” T.H.A.T. but if you want to know how to spell Harvey, it’s H.A.R.V.E.Y.’
    â€˜OK,’ says Nicola listlessly. ‘What street name have you got?’
    Laura speaks through tight lips. ‘I haven’t
got
a street name, I expect it’s in the middle of fields. It’s an organic vegetable farm. They supply lots of restaurants, you know. They’re big news—’
    Nicola cuts in, bored with this promotional aside. ‘What town have you got then, madam?’
    â€˜I haven’t got any town, it’s in Norfolk. It’s near the sea. I told you, it’s an organic vegetable farm. You must have lots of them.’
    â€˜Sorry, I can only go by the name, and there’s nothing listed unless you can give me a town.’ Nicola is becoming more animated as the possibility of giving Laura the number recedes.
    Laura thinks for a moment, remembering the different stations the local train stopped at, wondering which is Guy’s station now. ‘Sheringham,’ she announces at last.
    Nicola sighs with faux regret. ‘Sorry, we’ve nothing listed for that name anywhere in the Sheringham area. Goodbye.’
    Before Laura can suggest another name from the branch line Nicola’s nasal voice has gone. Cursing, she slams the telephone down in its cradle, resolving to find out the number from Hedley tomorrow.
    The doorbell rings. Dolly sweeps past her to open it, muttering, ‘It’s for me, Mum. Don’t touch it – I said it’s for me.’ Her transformation is staggering. A few moments ago she was supine with dull, empty eyes, now she is prancing through the hall, swishing her hair, and opening the door to coo, ‘Hi, Rebecca, I’m ready, let’s go.’ She leans back into the house to grab her jacket off the bottom bannister and is gone, rippling laughter following her and the equally animated friend. Dolly waves and shouts back to Laura on the doorstep, ‘I’ll be at Rebecca’s, and I’ll be home at eight-thirty. Byeeee.’
    Laura waves back,