distressingly uncontrollable smile spread across her face, along with the certainty that she was blushing. In an attempt to keep her face straight, she looked down at the women and the childrenâs class on the tennis courts, all dressed in similar regulation little white outfits, with the latest Air-Wear tennis shoes, none of them the sort to challenge the club rules by breaking the dress code. A bunch of Serenas, all of them, she thought, opting to tell the truth, and be damned.
âIt was good fun. Just like being young and free again,â she said decisively, giving Sue a smile of pleased radiance. âExtremely free,â she added, feeling the happy blush coming on â white was too dazzling a colour for tennis, she thought, reaching down into her bag for a disguise of sunglasses. Something else was dazzling her, too, little flashes of sunlight as if someone was using a mirror to catch the light and was shining it in her direction. Perhaps a magpie in a tree with a stolen piece of jewellery, she wondered, maybe the dinky kind of slim gold bangle she imagined a Serena would wear.
Carol was dusting Paulâs attic study, spraying jets of polish and rubbing firmly at the veneered surfaces. Mrs MacNee did the rest of the house, but Carol always told her firmly that Paul wouldnât have anyone touch his study, no-one but her. She didnât trust anyone not to peek into the box containing his sacred Masonic kit, or go investigating the files relating to his honorary treasury of the sailing club, or poke about among the drying prints hanging in his darkroom. Radio Two trilled beside her as she worked, and every now and then she glanced out of the high window to check who was coming and going in the Close below. Paulâs telescope, with which he studied the movements of the planets, kept getting in her way as she polished and tidied, banging her on the shoulder and prodding her neck as she moved briskly round the room, sorting Paulâs crisp new Neighbourhood Watch files (one for each household) into street-number order on the new Ikea shelving unit. She took a quick look into the one marked âNumber 14, Collinsâ, found no entries yet, and wondered if she should make a note of the rather attractive hobbling man who had called on Jenny several days before. Perhaps he was just reading a meter or something, she decided, Paulâs Parker pen poised in her hand. Or perhaps he was from the insurance company, calling about the ruined wall. She rather hoped heâd call on her next time too, she thought, as she wrote
blond handsome visitor (male â early 40s?), purpose unknown, 1.45 p.m. on 21st
â in the folder. She filed it away with the rest and looked down into the road. Mrs Fingell was putting a newspaper-wrapped parcel into one of her many dustbins. Whatever was in that, Carol wondered, knowing in reality that it was probably nothing more sinister than potato peelings.
That was the trouble with taking on responsibility for the neighbourhood, it made you exceptionally suspicious about other peopleâs behaviour. But then, she reasoned, someone had to be, crime figures were rising all the time, and some people werenât even bothering to report domestic burglaries any more, as the police were so unlikely to catch the culprits. Every night, police sirens wailed past the end of the Close, heading for some thieving villain gone to earth in the depths of the estate. Every week she scanned the local paper, counting up the number of charges brought against the crooks who lived so near, propping up her firm belief that a whole criminal culture was born and not made. Reading, she gave a little sigh of grateful relief every time she saw the words âremanded in custodyâ. That was what they deserved. She didnât for a moment believe what Jenny had once told her, that many people, innocent or not, spent home-destroying months in remand centres simply because, unlike perhaps
âIt was good fun. Just like being young and free again,â she said decisively, giving Sue a smile of pleased radiance. âExtremely free,â she added, feeling the happy blush coming on â white was too dazzling a colour for tennis, she thought, reaching down into her bag for a disguise of sunglasses. Something else was dazzling her, too, little flashes of sunlight as if someone was using a mirror to catch the light and was shining it in her direction. Perhaps a magpie in a tree with a stolen piece of jewellery, she wondered, maybe the dinky kind of slim gold bangle she imagined a Serena would wear.
Carol was dusting Paulâs attic study, spraying jets of polish and rubbing firmly at the veneered surfaces. Mrs MacNee did the rest of the house, but Carol always told her firmly that Paul wouldnât have anyone touch his study, no-one but her. She didnât trust anyone not to peek into the box containing his sacred Masonic kit, or go investigating the files relating to his honorary treasury of the sailing club, or poke about among the drying prints hanging in his darkroom. Radio Two trilled beside her as she worked, and every now and then she glanced out of the high window to check who was coming and going in the Close below. Paulâs telescope, with which he studied the movements of the planets, kept getting in her way as she polished and tidied, banging her on the shoulder and prodding her neck as she moved briskly round the room, sorting Paulâs crisp new Neighbourhood Watch files (one for each household) into street-number order on the new Ikea shelving unit. She took a quick look into the one marked âNumber 14, Collinsâ, found no entries yet, and wondered if she should make a note of the rather attractive hobbling man who had called on Jenny several days before. Perhaps he was just reading a meter or something, she decided, Paulâs Parker pen poised in her hand. Or perhaps he was from the insurance company, calling about the ruined wall. She rather hoped heâd call on her next time too, she thought, as she wrote
blond handsome visitor (male â early 40s?), purpose unknown, 1.45 p.m. on 21st
â in the folder. She filed it away with the rest and looked down into the road. Mrs Fingell was putting a newspaper-wrapped parcel into one of her many dustbins. Whatever was in that, Carol wondered, knowing in reality that it was probably nothing more sinister than potato peelings.
That was the trouble with taking on responsibility for the neighbourhood, it made you exceptionally suspicious about other peopleâs behaviour. But then, she reasoned, someone had to be, crime figures were rising all the time, and some people werenât even bothering to report domestic burglaries any more, as the police were so unlikely to catch the culprits. Every night, police sirens wailed past the end of the Close, heading for some thieving villain gone to earth in the depths of the estate. Every week she scanned the local paper, counting up the number of charges brought against the crooks who lived so near, propping up her firm belief that a whole criminal culture was born and not made. Reading, she gave a little sigh of grateful relief every time she saw the words âremanded in custodyâ. That was what they deserved. She didnât for a moment believe what Jenny had once told her, that many people, innocent or not, spent home-destroying months in remand centres simply because, unlike perhaps
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