Homecoming by Susie Steiner

installed and he knows how much it annoys Ann, because she trips over it every time she comes out of the bathroom.
    She’s in the bathroom now, and Joe casts a look at the door as he gingerly pulls the chair out from its sentry position against the wall. He’s anxious for it not to clatter or scrape and he keeps an eye on the bathroom door while he sets it in front of the video entryphone, his knees knocking awkwardly against the chest of drawers. He can hear the water in Ann’s bath and feels a vague heat through the bathroom door as it hits the arctic microclimate of the Hartle landing.
    Initially, the video entryphone had been nothing more than a bit of fun for Joe and Ann. Well, less for Ann, more for Joe, who found it amusing to loiter at the top of the stairs when the doorbell rang and wait for Ann to be within outstretched arms’ reach of the front door. He would then pick up the phone and press the buzzer, releasing the door mechanism. Something in the lie of the land and the looseness of the latch caused the door to swing out in front of Ann’s startled face and her to exclaim ‘For God’s sake Joe, grow up.’
    Ann got some pleasure from it though. That first weekend they’d had it, the winter sun had streamed into their bedroom. She’d sat up in bed with the tea Joe had brought her, the bedroom door flung wide and him on his rickety chair, reporting on the comings and goings of the village.
    ‘Alan Tench has moved his van.’
    ‘At last!’ she’d said, sipping her tea.
    ‘Here comes Daredevil Dawson.’
    ‘Lord help us. Clear the roads!’ Ann said.
    ‘Looks like the Hardakers ’ave gone on holiday. Gate’s shut.’
    ‘Ooh, I wonder where. Must ask Lauren.’
    He hears her now, turning the handle on the bathroom door. He silently dashes to the back bedroom where he pretends to be flicking through some paperwork. He hears Ann cursing as she knocks into the chair – ‘blasted thing’. She is hopping and shivering through the cold, racing to the bedroom where she closes the door to get ready for her pottery class with Lauren. Joe re-emerges from the back bedroom, back to his chair now enveloped in warm, lavender-scented steam from the bathroom.
    Joe had begun to nip upstairs of a lunchtime for a quick peek at the green-glowing miniature picture of Marpleton. And then in the evening, if Ann was at darts or flower-arranging or some such with the WI, he allowed himself a rich, unfettered evening’s closed-circuit observation. Marpleton at 8 p.m., 9 p.m., 10 p.m., lit by the lights of the Fox and Feathers – five of them, which hung over its sign like seasick passengers. (Lights that caused no end of village tutting when Sheryl and Tony Crowther first installed them. ‘So vulgar,’ Ann had said.)
    He was grateful to those lights now – they cast a glow that pooled across half the green and illuminated the footpath. They allowed him to see Eric Blakely walking his dog; the late crowd spilling out of the Fox; Dennis Lunn stumbling past his front door on his way home – always the last.
    Ann emerges from the bedroom. She’s wearing her navy trousers and a blouse with a polo neck underneath, tight-fitting. She is curvy – wide-hipped and a little rotund after the children. Lively and homely at the same time. She has on a streak of lipstick, which is unusual for her. It is a bright red colour and it animates her whole face. Her skin is still glowing from her bath.
    She gives him a suspicious look. ‘Don’t spend all evening on that blasted thing.’
    ‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘I’ve plenty to do.’
    ‘Right, well, I’m not taking the car – Lauren’s giving me a lift. Won’t be late.’
    She kisses him on the cheek.
    ‘You look nice,’ he says, and he’s made jealous by it.
    ‘Well, you have to make an effort for pottery!’
    She’s at the bottom of the stairs now, putting on her coat. ‘I got an email from Bartholomew by the way. He’s booked his ticket. He’s coming on