he up to?’ My father nodded at the lace in the kitchen window. Mr Creasy was wandering the pavement in his shirtsleeves. Every few minutes, he stopped wandering and stood quite still, peering around his Hillman Hunter and leaning into the air as though he were listening.
‘He’s lost his wife.’ I took another slice of toast, because everyone was distracted. ‘Although she’s probably just finally buggered off.’
‘Grace Elizabeth!’ My mother turned from the stove so quickly, flecks of porridge turned with her and escaped on to the floor.
‘I’m only quoting Mr Forbes,’ I said, ‘Margaret Creasy never came home last night. Perhaps she’s finally buggered off.’
We all watched Mr Creasy. He stared into people’s gardens, as though Mrs Creasy might be camping out in someone else’s herbaceous border.
My father lost interest and spoke into his newspaper. ‘Do you listen in on all our neighbours?’ he said.
‘Mr Forbes was in his garden, talking to his wife. My window was open. It was accidental listening, which is allowed.’ I spoke to my father, but addressed Harold Wilson and his pipe, who stared back at me from the front page.
‘He won’t find a woman wandering up and down the avenue,’ my father said, ‘although he might have more luck if he tried at number twelve.’
I watched my mother’s face argue with a smile. They assumed I didn’t understand the conversation, and it was much easier to let them think it. My mother said I was at an awkward age. I didn’t feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant that it was awkward for them.
‘Perhaps she’s been abducted,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s not safe for me to go to school today.’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ my mother said, ‘nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it.’
‘How can someone just disappear?’ I watched Mr Creasy, who was marching up and down the pavement. He had heavy shoulders and stared at his shoes as he walked.
‘Sometimes people need their own space,’ my mother spoke to the stove, ‘they get confused.’
‘Margaret Creasy was confused all right.’ My father turned to the sports section and snapped at the pages until they were straight. ‘She asked far too many questions. You couldn’t get away for her rabbiting on.’
‘She was just interested in people, Derek. You can feel lonely, even if you’re married. And they had no children.’
My mother looked over at me as though she were considering whether the last bit made any difference at all, and then she spooned porridge into a large bowl that had purple hearts all around the rim.
‘Why are you talking about Mrs Creasy in the past tense?’ I said. ‘Is she dead?’
‘No, of course not.’ My mother put the bowl on the floor. ‘Remington,’ she shouted, ‘Mummy’s made your breakfast.’
Remington padded into the kitchen. He used to be a Labrador, but he’d become so fat, it was difficult to tell.
‘She’ll turn up,’ said my father.
He’d said the same thing about next door’s cat. It disappeared years ago, and no one has seen it since.
*
Tilly was waiting by the front gate, in a jumper which had been hand-washed and stretched to her knees. She’d taken the bobbles out of her hair, but it stayed in exactly the same position as if they were still there.
‘The lady from number eight has been murdered,’ I said.
We walked in silence down the avenue, until we reached the main road. We were side by side, although Tilly had to take more steps to keep up.
‘Who lives at number eight?’ she said, as we waited for the traffic.
‘Mrs Creasy.’
I whispered, in case Mr Creasy had extended his search.
‘I liked Mrs Creasy. She was teaching me to knit. We did like her, Grace, didn’t we?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘very much.’
We crossed the road opposite the alley next to Woolworth’s. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but the pavements were dusty hot, and I could feel material stick to the bones in my back. People drove their cars with the windows down, and fragments of music littered the street. When Tilly stopped to change her school bag to the other shoulder, I stared into the shop window. It was filled with stainless-steel pans.
‘Who murdered her?’ A hundred Tillys spoke to me from the display.
‘No one knows.’
‘Where were the police?’
I watched Tilly speak through the saucepans. ‘I expect they’ll be along later,’ I said, ‘they’re probably very busy.’
We climbed the cobbles in sandals which flapped on the stones and made us sound like an army of feet. In winter ice, we clung to the rail and to each other, but now the alley stretched before us, a riverbed of crisp packets and thirsty weeds, and floury soil which dirtied our toes.
‘Why are you wearing a jumper?’ I said.
Tilly always wore a jumper. Even in scorched heat, she would pull it over her fists and make gloves from the sleeves. Her face was magnolia, like the walls in our living room, and sweat had pulled slippery, brown curls on to her forehead.
‘My mother says I can’t afford to catch anything.’
‘When is she going to stop worrying?’ It made me angry, and I didn’t know why, which made me even angrier, and my sandals became very loud.
‘I doubt she ever will,’ said Tilly, ‘I think it’s because there’s only one of her. She has to do twice the worrying, to keep up with everyone else.’
‘It’s not going to happen again.’ I stopped and lifted the bag from her shoulder. ‘You can take your jumper off. It’s safe now.’
She stared at me. It was difficult to see Tilly’s thoughts. Her eyes hid behind thick, dark-rimmed glasses and the rest of her gave very little away.
‘Okay,’ she said, and took off her glasses. She pulled the jumper over her head, and when she appeared on the other side of the wool, her face was red and blotchy. She handed me the jumper, and I turned it the right way, like my mother did, and folded it over my arm.
‘See,’ I said, ‘it’s perfectly safe. Nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it.’
The jumper smelt of linctus and unfamiliar soap. I carried it all the way to school, where we dissolved into a spill of other children.
*
I have known Tilly Albert for a fifth of my life.
She arrived two summers ago in the back of a large, white van, and they unloaded her
