The Bursar's Wife by E.G. Rodford Page B

have,” he said, dead serious, which took me aback. He took another drink and looked down at his notebook.
    “Didn’t catch who the first call was to ’cause the woman opposite decided it would be a good time to phone her husband and have a loud conversation about who would pick up the dry cleaning. Anyway, he gave them a reference number from the letter and was asking them about margins of error.”
    “Margins of error?” A waitress walked towards us with two steaming plates but passed us for another table.
    “Yep. He kept asking them how accurate the result was but he was very cagey on the phone, so I didn’t get to know the result of what. Anyway, he seemed happy enough at what they said. Maybe it was the STD clinic.” He ripped out a sheet from his notebook. “Here’s the reference number.”
    “You said he made a second call,” I said, tucking the piece of paper into my own notebook and looking longingly at the door to the kitchen.
    “Yeah, boss. To someone called Judith.”
    “Judith?”
    “Yeah, Judith. He told her – she wasn’t a girlfriend, the way he was talking to her – he told her that he’d got the result and it confirmed what he’d always suspected from day one. Then he asked her if she’d sorted the other thing.” Jason looked at his notes. “Then he listened for a bit and said,” – and here he put on a drawling American accent – “‘You’re asking me what I’m going to do, Judith? Why, I’ve already done it.’ Then he laughed and hung up.”
    * * *
    I spent Saturday night alone, reading Olivia’s email about how their restoration plans were going, and slightly envious of her and the weather in Greece. I did feel pleased for her, and that she’d found someone who was suited to her. Perhaps I was maturing as a person? After finishing with my emails I looked up some other women online. Claims of maturity were too soon as I longed for a faster Internet connection.
    * * *
    Sunday morning I inspected the fence in the garden, just to make sure I wasn’t being over-charged. I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay for it, unless I could get more money out of Sylvia. There was also my father’s decrepit shed at the bottom of the garden that needed replacing or removing; I’d never been in it and couldn’t think what I would use it for. That afternoon I fell asleep in front of Formula One racing – the only thing it’s good for as far as I’m concerned. This led to a dream where I was struggling to change gears on the Golf (it has a sticky third) so I could keep up with Sylvia Booker in her Mini. She had a passenger with her, a man, and I was trying to pull alongside to see who it was, but she looked at me and laughed then pulled away. Then something was ringing in the car and I woke up. It was dark and I had a dry mouth. The black and white TV showed people singing in a church. The ringing was still there; it was the phone in the hall. I reluctantly got up to answer it.
    “George, it’s Sandra.”
    “Sandra, hi. What’s happening?”
    “You OK? You sound weird.”
    “I was napping, you woke me up.” She didn’t bother to apologise.
    “The police have charged Al Greene with the murder of his dogging wife. It was on the local news.”
    “Well, they needed to charge him or let him go.”
    “Suppose so. I still don’t think he did it.”
    “Neither do I, but there’s fuck all we can do about it.” It went quiet and the sound of people singing a hymn started coming from the TV.
    “Jason tells me you’re doing a rubbish collection tonight.”
    “Jason needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”
    “What has the Bookers’ rubbish got to do with Quintin Boyd?”
    “I don’t know, Sandra, that’s why I’m going up there. Listen, do me a favour tomorrow, I know you’re not in the office but could you find out what years Sylvia was at Morley?”
    “Will do. You think she was there with Quintin?”
    “That’s what I want to find out; they’re about the same