It was a Sunday and it was raining in Clapham. The branches of the cherry trees in Mandalay Road were bare, their leaves long ago dropped damply onto the windscreens of the cars parked on either side of the street. Rain bounced off the slate roofs like heavy artillery fire and swilled down drainpipes, startling flat-eared cats who skittered off to their catflaps. At intervals, passing cars shooshed through the deep puddles ploughing up sheets of water to drench already bedraggled pedestrians. It was a road of good neighbours and occasional street parties. The Queen’s Jubilee and the Royal Wedding were still fresh in the residents’ memories. Now, Christmas trees were already appearing in bay windows, their lights flashing and twinkling brightly.
No 47, Mandalay Road was identical in design to all the others in the terrace: an early Edwardian, two-up two-down with a small front garden. Its front door and window frames were painted in a delicate lilac, complementing the pale blues, pinks and yellows of its neighbours.
Inside, Ella was lolling on a sofa that was strewn with shawls to hide the decades of wear and tear. There was little spring left in its base but it had been Ella’s grandmother’s and was therefore treasured. She looked contentedly at the Christmas tree she had put up that afternoon.
A pot of tea, now stewed, and a half-empty mug sat on a tray by her side. On the television Julie Andrews was yodelling. All was well with the world.
She heard the creak of the floorboards above and the tread on the stairs before the door to the sitting room opened. Her brother came in, rubbing his stubbly chin and yawning.
‘What you watching?’ he said. ‘Shift yourself.’
She moved her legs and he sat in the space she’d created. She said, ‘What do you think of the tree?’
He looked at it. ‘Oh yeah. Nice.’
‘One of Granny’s baubles had broken.’
‘Inevitable after all these years.’
‘I know, but it upsets me. Each year a little more of our history gone.’
‘What’s made you so cheerful?’ he asked, prodding her with his elbow.
‘Christmas is a time for reflection,’ she said primly.
He grunted and watched as Julie Andrews and the von Trapp children worked the little puppets. ‘So, you hungry?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I’ve got fish fingers and waffles in the freezer.’
‘I fancy an Indian.’
‘Have we got enough money?’
‘Bollocks to that. I’ll put it on my credit card.’
‘Are you going to eat that bhaji?’ Henry reached with his fork to spear it but Ella got there first. ‘Mine! I’m starving.’
Henry mopped up the last of his tarka dahl with his peshwari naan and sat back, contentedly munching. ‘God, that was good.’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full; you’re spitting desiccated coconut on the rug.’
He grinned at her. ‘Don’t care. Want a beer?’
‘We’ve only got one can left.’
‘Share?’
She nodded and he got up to get it from the fridge.
They were sitting on the threadbare Aubusson rug – another of Granny’s hand-me-downs – backs against the sofa, watching a rerun of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries on a satellite channel.
Henry reappeared with the last tin of beer and settled himself back down. ‘I rather fancy old Nancy,’ he said.
‘She’s very glam,’ agreed Ella. ‘But then Mr Tibbs is very handsome too.’
‘I read somewhere that in real life he’s a bit of a goer,’ Henry said.
‘Really? He looks like the perfect gentleman.’ They watched as Mr Tibbs climbed in through an open window at the suspect’s house. He was closely followed by his secretary and sleuthing sidekick, Nancy Trumpet, who revealed a lacy stocking top as she slid over the casement.
‘Phwoar!’ murmured Henry.
Ella tutted.
‘What?’ her brother said.
‘You know what.’
‘What do you expect me to do when I see a lacy stocking top and a glimpse of suspender? My generation are sold short on all that stuff. You girls and your tights and big pants and boring bras! I was born too late.’
Ella laughed. ‘So Jools has blown you out, has she?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see her then?’
‘The other day.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She blew me out.’
‘Ha. Why?’
‘She said she liked me and all that, but …’ Henry pitched his voice higher and posher, ‘she couldn’t see a future for us and anyway, she wanted to be free to see other people.’
‘Like who?’
‘Justin.’
‘Justin no socks and loafers?’
‘Yeah.’
Ella was offended on her brother’s behalf.
‘Well, she’s welcome to that total prick.’
‘He is a prick, isn’t he?’
‘Total.’
They sat quietly thinking about Justin and Jools and watching the television screen as Mr Tibbs slipped his penknife into the lock of the desk drawer and revealed the stolen diary he’d been searching for. The camera cut to Nancy, a lock of hair falling alluringly over one eye and a button or two of her silk blouse undone more than was strictly necessary. Henry was rapt.
‘Stop looking at her cleavage.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘If you must know, I was looking at the gorgeous scenery.’ The screen was now on a wide shot of a Cornish beach, the wind whipping white horses off the crests of the waves. Henry sighed. ‘I miss Cornwall.’
Ella sighed too. ‘Yep. We haven’t been back for a long time, have we?’ She poked him with her foot. ‘If you ever get a girlfriend you can take her down. Give her the
