Hartsend by Janice Brown

water tunnel.’
    She waited and waited where she was, ears straining to hear the sounds of their visitor leaving. She needed to eat. The rich smell of Chicken Forestière and roast potatoes had spread through the entire house. The parsnips were probably overdone by now, but she wasn’t going down till she was sure he was gone.
    Why had Kerr given him shoes? Where had they met? A thud from below told her the front door had been opened and shut. Well, thank goodness for that. Her head was beginning to hurt. She shrugged off a miniscule feeling of guilt. She hadn’t actually said anything nasty. And she’d been nice at the door. More than he deserved, really.

Chocolate
    Walter was taken aback to find Lesley on his front door step offering him an empty Pyrex dish.
    â€˜â€˜Ruby’s having a bath,’’ he said.
    â€˜â€˜I just wanted to hand this back. It was very kind of you, thank you.’’
    She looked cold, despite being wrapped up sensibly.
    â€˜â€˜Please tell Mrs Robertson it was very good.’’
    â€˜â€˜Oh, she does a good beef stew,’’ he said. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to ask Lesley in, this being the season of goodwill. In or out of the bath, Ruby won’t like it warned a voice in his head. Neither Lesley nor her late mother had ever crossed the door. Moreover he was aware that Ruby’s attitude to their neighbour had undergone a subtle shift at New Year. He could hear the faint sound of the radio upstairs in the bathroom.
    None of our business, he told himself again.
    â€˜â€˜Come in for a minute,’’ he said.
    â€˜â€˜No, I mustn’t keep you back.’’
    â€˜â€˜Oh, you’re not keeping anyone back. Just for five minutes.’’
    He put the dish on the hall table, then led her into the front room, where he switched off the television. The silence seemed louder than the newsreader’s voice had been. He sat down in the opposite armchair, only then noticing a red stain on the cuff of his fawn pullover. Bolognese sauce from teatime. ‘‘Would you …’’ he stopped. He wasn’t sure whether to offer her alcohol or not, and it was such a long time since he’d made his own tea or coffee that he doubted his competence.
    â€˜â€˜Nothing for me, please,’’ Lesley said. She had unwrapped her scarf, folding it into a neat square, but her coat remained buttoned, and she sat forward on the edge of the chair, as if ready for flight.
    â€˜â€˜A chocolate then?’’ There was a large tin of Cadbury’s Roses on the coffee table. One of the reps had brought it into the office. He wrestled the lid off and slid it over to her. ‘‘Take more than one. Take some for later. Ruby’s only letting me have one a day. They’ll last till Easter.’’ He chose an orange cream for himself, and slipped a toffee into his pocket.
    Her quick smile was like a young girl’s, not a middle-aged woman’s. He wondered what age she actually was. She looked younger, close up. The old mother had been eighty two, according to the funeral eulogy, but Lesley was the only child, so she might have been a late surprise.
    She was looking at their wedding photograph. Thirty years next year, he thought.
    â€˜â€˜I like what you’ve done with the fireplace, Mr Robertson.’’
    â€˜â€˜Walter, please. Yes, I’m happy enough with it. Took me longer than I thought it would though.’’
    â€˜â€˜You did it yourself?’’
    The admiration in her voice was nice to hear. ‘‘Oh, there’s nothing much to it,’’ he stretched his arms and folded them, turning the stained cuff over. ‘‘When you’re in one trade, you have a fair grasp of the rest.’’ He unwrapped his chocolate, making two bites of it. In his boyhood days he had played with chocolate creams, tonguing the soft centres out