The Second-last Woman in England by Maggie Joel

forth. The bench on the far side of the lawn was occupied by a young man in a linen suit and hat. Even from a distance one could see how tall he was. He leaned back, an arm resting along the back of the bench in a posture that seemed to want you to believe he was relaxed and unconcerned, but the arm in its pressed linen sleeve was stiff and awkward, the fingers of the hand beat a rapid tattoo on the spotted wood of the bench.
    Her footsteps made a sound on the path and he looked up at once and met her eyes. His was a handsome face, clean-shaven, dark hair cut short, dark eyes and a light tan—a face she had never expected to see again, and for a moment her footsteps faltered. But only for a moment. She smiled. Moisture stood out on his forehead and upper lip and, as though aware of her gaze, he reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his face. He looked like someone who had been sitting here a while.
    ‘Well, finally!’ he said by way of greeting, uncrossing his legs and standing up. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been sitting here?’
    They were not the words she had anticipated and Harriet felt her smile dissolve into a frown but she embraced him anyway, clinging to him, her fingers digging into his arm, then abruptly releasing him.
    ‘I’ve no idea, Freddie. I didn’t tell you to come at a certain time. In fact, as I recall, I didn’t tell you to come at all.’
    ‘One o’clock I got here, one o’-bloody-clock!’ he complained, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘ And I was here all yesterday afternoon too. I’ve had to suffer the gaze of every child and old biddy in the district, not to mention the faecal matter of every pigeon in this part of London. It’s a wonder I haven’t been moved on or arrested. One charming young lady took her children away, obviously under the impression I was just waiting for the opportunity to expose some part of my anatomy to her young charges. Really, I’m quite fed up.’
    ‘Things came up expectedly yesterday. And you did just ring up out of the blue! I warned you it would be difficult—’
    She could hear her voicing rising and she made herself stop. She would not cry; she had told herself she would not cry. Freddie didn’t need tears. What did he need? She couldn’t imagine. She took a deep breath.
    ‘—and today we went out to lunch and, really, what do you expect me to do? Invite you along?’
    She sat down beside him and as Freddie made no reply to this they sat in silence and stared at the pigeons. She laughed suddenly. ‘Do you know, you sound just like Julius. That same petulant schoolboy manner.’
    Freddie stirred and she regretted at once saying that.
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? Haven’t seen the little blighter since he was five.’
    They fell silent again.
    It’s no good blaming me, Harriet thought bitterly. Wasn’t she taking enough of a risk just being seen out with him? She allowed herself a quick glance to left and right, but cautiously, not wanting Freddie to notice. At the far end of the garden the Pashkints hadn’t stirred. Just then Mr Pashkint lifted a mournful head and said something, holding his right hand out before him, palm upwards in a gesture that said, What can you do?
    What could you do? Freddie was back. He had rung up out of the blue on Thursday. They had spoken briefly on the telephone, but nothing had been resolved. They had spoken about the past. And what could be resolved? Freddie couldn’t stay here.
    ‘You didn’t tell Cecil?’ he said suddenly and Harriet shook her head irritably.
    ‘No, of course not. Why on earth do you think I would tell him? Besides, there’s something going on with him. A police matter—’
    Beside her Freddie stiffened.
    ‘No, it’s something at work. One of Cecil’s employees stole from the company and disappeared. That’s all he’s concerned about at the moment.’
    Freddie settled back down again. ‘But will you tell him?’
    ‘I don’t see what can be gained from