This joined up with a narrow lane that ran along behind the row of houses. She followed it upwards, studying the rear elevations of the houses. There was no mistaking which was number 23.
The fence had all but disintegrated. All that remained were a few mouldy posts and an untidy pile of rotten planks. Beyond them was the garden. Or rather, what had once been a garden. All that remained now was a confused landscape of soil, weeds, rocks and rubbish. Probably, she thought to herself, not dissimilar to the battlefields of the First World War. The only good news was that there didn’t appear to be any poo out there. Maybe the council people had cleared it up, or the loony lady had preferred soiling other people’s gardens. She sighed deeply. At that moment her phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket.
‘Hi Alice, it’s me.’ Sally had decided to check that she was OK. Alice sat down on the edge of an old cast iron bath and gave her the sordid details.
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Sally sounded appalled. ‘So what are you going to do?’
Alice was on the point of telling her about Peter the surveyor and the industrial cleaning company he’d recommended when she spotted something moving by her foot. She glanced down. At first she saw nothing but then, suddenly, there was another movement. To her horror, a large rat emerged from underneath a broken flower pot, scrambled over a pile of broken crockery and set off in the direction of the house. She squealed, jumped to her feet and ran back down the lane as fast as she could. Only when she was by the river did she stop. She was still holding the phone. She raised it to her ear and could hear Sally’s frantic voice.
‘Alice, Alice. Oh my God, what’s happened?’ Sally’s voice sounded as terror-stricken as Alice felt. She cleared her throat and replied.
‘It’s all right, Sally. I’m all right. It was just a rat.’
‘Just a rat?’ Sally, while relieved to hear her friend’s voice once more, was far from reassured. ‘What the hell kind of place is it that you’ve bought?’
Alice spotted a bench by the water. The morning sun had already reached it and it looked dry. She sat down and took a few deep breaths. Then she told Sally the second half of her tale, up to and including the man in the church. Predictably, Sally was far more interested in Daniel Tremayne than the surveyor and the industrial cleaners.
‘That’s my girl, Al. That’s just what you need.’ A thought struck her. ‘What is it about you and men called Danny? Isn’t that the name of the tall boy I quite fancy, even if you don’t?’
Until that moment, Alice hadn’t associated the first name of Daniel Tremayne, the vicar, and Danny. She had been concentrating on his surname, because of the gravestones. Now it seemed really strange. ‘What you don’t know, Sal, is that there are now four males in my life called Danny. The one you know in London, the vicar of Woodcombe, a little boy of six months, and a four-legged one.’ She thought about Sally’s question. Yes, what is it about me and the name Danny?
The doorbell rang at seven-thirty sharp. Alice cast a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror as she went through to the hall. I’ll do, she thought to herself, glad that she had decided to go with the grey mohair top.
Danny gave her a big smile as the door opened. She looked stunning. ‘Hi, Alice. Good evening. So you are still talking to me then?’
‘Hi Danny. Come in. Don’t be so silly. There’s only one person responsible for my buying a house full of poo, and that’s me.’ She ushered him into the sitting room. ‘So what’s the plan? Have we got time for a glass of something here first?’
‘That sounds good. I’ve booked us a table on the top floor of the Tate Modern. I booked for eight-thirty, I hope that’s all right. The view won’t be quite as good as you were used to at G&B, but you’ll see stuff from a different angle.’ Suddenly worried, lest his reference to the company upset her, he hurried on. ‘Not that you want to talk about G&B, I’m sure.’ He was relieved to see her look unperturbed.
‘I really don’t mind what we talk about, as long as it’s not industrial cleaners and poo. What will you have to drink? White wine?’
He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she took a bottle from the fridge. He was surprised to see the fridge almost empty otherwise.
‘Yours has got even less in it than mine. Do you live on air, or takeaways?’
She poured two glasses of wine and handed him one.
‘I just got back from Devon this afternoon. I’ll go shopping in the morning.’ She led him back into the sitting room and took a seat on the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up underneath her. She held up her glass in his direction. ‘A toast; to you here in Greenwich and to me in Beauchamp.’ He was pleased to hear that she now pronounced it the way the locals did, “Beecham”.
He leant down and clinked his glass against hers before taking a seat opposite her. He noticed that the grey jumper perfectly matched the colour of her eyes. She was looking a good deal happier than the last time he had seen her. He thought he should tell her so.
‘I’m really pleased to see you looking so chirpy. Does this mean your career change is beginning to look like a good idea?’
‘Do you know, Danny, I think it is.’ She gave him a broad smile. ‘Give or take a house full of poo.’
‘So, tell me all about it. It isn’t really full of poo, is it?’
She filled him in on the true state of the house, including the rat. She then went on to tell him about Mrs Tinker and the providential arrival of her nephew, Peter. ‘The house I’m renting is in a lovely little village not far from the sea. The surveyor is wonderful. He’s already fixed up with the cleaners for them to come down next week. If all goes well, he may be able to get in to do his survey as soon as Monday week.’
They chatted easily until past eight, at which time he suggested they head for the restaurant.
Their table was right beside the window, looking out across the Thames towards St Paul’s cathedral. The meal was excellent and they continued to talk. Although they had known each other at work for almost five years, there was an awful lot to find out for both of them. Alice was the first to get personal.
‘So, how is it that a handsome young man like you is still single?’
He smiled. ‘I’m not totally sure what the correct way of describing my present state is. I am almost single.’ Seeing the look on her face, he explained. ‘I’m forty-two.’ She looked up in genuine surprise. ‘I got married when I was still quite young. It lasted for just over eighteen years. We split up almost two years ago and the divorce is going through. Some time soon I should get the news that I am once again single.’ In spite of the smile, she could hear the regret in his voice.
She was still digesting the fact that he was three years older than she was. With his mop of blond hair and boyish good looks, she had always thought of him as a youngster. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it isn’t one of those grim divorces.’
‘I don’t think there’s any other kind.’ He was looking more serious than she had ever seen him. ‘How Joan Collins managed to survive ten divorces, I’ll never know.’
‘I
