herself out, I see,’ Karen Warner said. ‘Too much trouble to take your guests to the door to say goodbye. Manners.’
‘Terrible,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said. ‘Would you have said that she enjoyed herself, meeting the Glovers?’
‘Well,’ Mrs Warner said, observing Alice treading, very gently, down the path, as if trying to escape without being noticed, casting a glance upwards at the house. ‘I expect it was very nice for her, really.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said. ‘Very nice. All the same, I think I might pop over there when they’re a little settled. You don’t want them to be thinking that we’re all like that, do you?’
‘Like what?’ Mrs Warner said, rather sharply; she didn’t altogether approve of being superior about your neighbours, even if they probably deserved it, particularly two days after you’d drunk their wine and ate their food and admired their furniture.
Mrs Arbuthnot, who would have said exactly the same thing, hastened to qualify her point. ‘Not all the same,’ she said. ‘People, they aren’t all the same, are they?, even if they all live in the same road, and it’s nice to meet – well, anyway. It was a nice party she gave.’
‘Very nice,’ Mrs Warner said. ‘Of course,’ she went on, offering Anthea a little concession in return, ‘I’m not sure about letting those children stay up, cluttering up the party. A little out of control.’
‘The boy,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said, enjoying this part of the conversation. ‘The girl, of course, she’s not so bad, but I agree, I wouldn’t have them around, any kind of children, particularly when they’re at that difficult age. I notice you didn’t think of bringing your John along.’
‘No, I certainly didn’t,’ Mrs Warner said. ‘If you ask me, it’s nice to have an evening without your great lump hanging around and embarrassing you, and it’s not as if he needs a babysitter. They are a worry, though.’
‘A worry?’ Mrs Arbuthnot said. She remembered Mrs Warner’s John, hopeless. Mrs Warner explained.
‘Well,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said finally. ‘I’m sure it’ll all come right in the end. Now – goodness – what—’
Opposite, the front door of the Glovers’ had opened again. The removal men at the new people’s house, the new family, the husband, the girl and the elongated boy, as well as their mother, were all standing outside in an awkwardly arranged group, and had an excellent view. Through the door of the Glovers’ came Katherine. In her hands she was holding a – what was it – something limp but flexible, like—
‘That’s never a snake she’s got there,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said. ‘It is, it’s a snake. Goodness me.’
‘Where’s that from?’ Mrs Warner said. ‘Not the garden, surely.’
‘I never heard of—’ Mrs Arbuthnot said, but she dried up at what was happening. Behind Katherine and her snake came her younger boy, screaming and crying, tugging at her ineffectually, and the two others standing by. The windows were shut, but the boy was screaming, ‘You fucking, fucking mother,’ as Katherine marched down the path.
‘Disgraceful,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said. ‘He can’t be more than –’
‘Eight,’ Mrs Warner supplied. ‘Imagine. Look, here’s Caroline—’
But the nursery nurse, just heaving herself down the road, coming into view, stopped dead at Arbuthnot’s gate, and, like the new family and the removers and, inside, Anthea and Karen, watched Katherine and the children.
‘Don’t you ever—’ Katherine was screaming at her son, who was screaming back. ‘And if you ever do anything like that again – this is what happens when you do something as naughty as—’
She ran out of words. She didn’t seem to see anyone else around her; the snake, held between her two hands, she raised above her head in a bold, a dancer’s gesture, and flung it down on the pavement. ‘Stop it, stop it!’ Tim was screaming, over and over, but she raised her foot and brought the heel of her black shoe down on the snake’s head, crushing it in one. It flailed behind her like a whip. The screaming rose, went beyond words, and the little boy’s face purpled with terror and violence. His limbs flailed away from him in undecided, unformed gestures, as if some invisible force was plucking at them, and he screamed and screamed. Behind him, his sister turned away and, with a gesture too theatrical to be anything but instinctive, covered her eyes. Over the road, the new people, the Sellerses, stood and stared, and you couldn’t blame them.
‘My God,’ Mrs Arbuthnot said in her house, and Mrs Warner’s mouth moved, and it formed the words without being able to say them. Only Katherine, across the road, seemed composed: she had done what she had meant to do, and now it was all done, all over, and she stood up straight, paying no attention to her screaming son. But had it been enough? There was, surely, a little uncertainty in the way she scanned the houses, at whoever might be watching what she had so publicly done. The doorbell rang.
‘My God,’ Anthea said, hurrying to let Caroline in. ‘Did you see—’ she said, opening the door.
But the nursery nurse, enlisting the doorjamb to support her bulk, was muddily pale, grey to the point of greenness in the face; she had seen it. And it had been all too much for her, the sight of a woman, a mother, flinging down a snake almost in her path and then stamping on it, the snake’s head making a vile porridge on the pavement, and then the screaming – Caroline leant forward, as if in a swoon, and Anthea came forward with her arms open to catch her. But she leant forward in a single shy apologetic motion and, for the first time in several months now, vomited over Anthea, vomited copiously over the small glass coffee-table, the hallway rug, the art-deco figurine of a Greek dancer Anthea had always meant to have valued, everywhere.
‘My God!’ Anthea said – it was all too much and, with a little scream, she ran upstairs, plucking at her puked-over bosom as Caroline, still bubbling over, tried to raise herself up and start apologizing.
‘It could have been worse,’ Mrs Warner said, coming out gingerly, and trying not to look, guiding the poor girl into the downstairs clockroom, trying to help her without actually touching her. Because if there was one thing she hated—
The van was quite unloaded, and the removers gone, and Bernie had fetched thirty lightbulbs, half bayonets, half screw-ins, a mix of sixty and hundred-watt bulbs, and Alice, Sandra and Francis were sitting in their new sitting room, the furniture somehow arranged. They were surrounded by sealed boxes in the evening light, eating a kind of scratch supper off their knees, just for tonight.
‘Sounds like she’s not all there,’ Bernie said.
‘No,’ Alice said. ‘She’d had a shock.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ Bernie said.
‘Who? Oh, her husband,’ Alice said. ‘That’s an awful thing to say, love.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Bernie said. ‘I’m worried at the idea of living opposite someone like that.’
‘She must be mental,’ Sandra said.
‘Imagine what it’d be like being married to her,’ Bernie went on. ‘You wouldn’t be blamed by anyone, really, for leaving her. Mentally unbalanced.’
‘We
