innocence and getting nowhere – used to stalk this place like a nosy little goblin, so it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’d pitched up there just to have a look see. He came to Bill’s and all, cheeky swine. Didn’t get past the door for the wake though, I saw to that. We didn’t see much of him after that, I heard he joined the army or something. Not sure I’d even know him now.’
Of course! The different sections of Edie’s memory clicked into place like a combination lock set to the right sequence and released. She did remember him, Matthew Bastin, son of a killer and bully bait for the whole square. Skinny, scruffy and always hanging around as if he was waiting to be picked on. It was a fleeting thing, but Edie recalled a sense of pity for the boy which had been knocked out of her eleven-year-old self by Rose’s remonstration and a Chinese burn painfully administered by a young and spiteful Sam. All because she had offered Matt a sweet once. Was it Sam who had told her to stay away from Matt because he would chop her to little pieces and stuff her down the drain? She couldn’t recall, but someone had. It seemed that Matt Bastin was still a glutton for punishment if he had chosen to come back to the square.
Lena’s attention had drifted back to the TV where another soap with its familiar themes had begun to insinuate its immorality onto the supper eating viewers. Edie couldn’t stand it. She pushed her unfinished food away and reached for Lena’s empty plate. ‘I’ll wash these up and make some more tea.’ she said, waiting for Lena’s absentminded nod of approval. All those characters could remain faceless and unnamed to Edie; life already had more than enough drama for her.
Lena’s kitchen was cluttered but clean, full of the paraphernalia that marked out a busy and productive existence. Edie was surprised at the quality of some of the equipment and assumed that Sam was the culprit, treating his mother to labour-saving devices and goods that would make her life a little easier. It must be nice to have a son who dropped in frequently and who cared about your day. Edie thought of Will and felt a pang of longing as she considered the distance between herself and her son. It wasn’t only the gulf of the Pacific that separated them, but his dogged loyalty to his father. She had always felt that Will though of her as a loving fool, just a doting, laundry-doing, food-cooking mum who needed no nurture and who could survive on that role alone. Edie sighed, whichever vantage point she chose to stand at and look at her life, the view always appeared to be half-baked and wanting. She plunged her hands into the scalding water and let the heat seep into her skin and creep into her bones in the vain hope that it would travel to her heart and start a thaw.
When she returned to the sitting room Lena was dozing in her chair, slack jawed and snoring. Edie considered fetching a blanket to cover the old lady, but something told her not to, that the intervention would not be welcome. The way that Lena was clutching at the arms of the chair in her sleep was jarring and it made Edie want to look away. She walked softly into the front room and, like many before her, peered out through the net curtains. This side of the square seemed quiet at night, all the activity took place in the communal garden and outside the pub where the smokers were gathered. Edie watched as they downed their drinks and laughed, then she turned her attention to the garden, where a group of kids, or what looked like kids to Edie, were busy clambering on a bench with the apparent intent of dismantling it. Was this what had caused Dolly to shut the world out?
The unexpected clatter of a skateboard on the paving slabs and the sudden appearance of a boy whizzing by sent her scurrying back into the dimly lit room, her heart pounding. The noise had shocked her and had seemed to come from nowhere. The grating rattle of loose wheels faded and her heart slowed as her senses came off red alert. All that she could hear now was the ticking of the clock and Lena’s gentle snores. The clock told her that it was five past nine, too early to go to bed and too late to do any more work in Number 17. She thought of ringing Rose and asking her about Matthew Bastin, but decided against it – if she rang after nine Rose would think something was wrong and what could Edie say, everything is wrong and I don’t know how to put it right?
With another sigh she headed for the stairs, a long bath and an early night seemed like her only option. While the hot tap thundered water into the tub she opened the window to release the steam and peered down into Lena’s yard. None of the houses had gardens as such, just a yard that used to house an outside toilet and a coal shed. Each yard backed on to an access lane where modern residents squeezed their cars to load and unload. Someone, Sam she supposed, had knocked down the old structures in Lena’s yard and had created a little seating area with a few pots and a small barbecue. Edie smiled at the thought of Lena’s huge family crammed into the tiny space, eating chargrilled burgers amidst the busy lizzies. The smile was wiped from her face when she spied a movement in the shadows of Number 17’s yard. Something was moving about down there. Her first instinct was to assume that an urban fox was rummaging about amongst the mountain of Dolly’s uncollected bin bags, but whatever it might be seemed too large to be a fox, and too noisy to be a burglar. Not that any burglar would find much, except maybe a bad dose of e coli poisoning and a fit of asthma. Nevertheless, Edie felt obliged to investigate, especially as she had a sneaking feeling that she hadn’t locked the back door. She thought of the kids in the square and their bid to vandalise the bench. Number 17 was in enough of a state, without the addition of graffiti and saboteurs.
Abandoning her half run bath, she made her way quietly down the stairs and was relieved to find Lena still sleeping. Logic suggested that Edie should ring the police, but knowledge equally suggested that by the time they arrived the house might be wrecked – though it would be hard to tell the difference. In Lena’s kitchen she cast about for a weapon in case she needed to indulge in a little self-defence, knives were definitely out, although brandishing a meat cleaver might look dramatic and terrifying Edie felt she’d be more likely to damage herself with such a thing than menace anyone else. In the end she settled for a hefty rolling pin and a weighty Maglite that had been conveniently left on the windowsill. Armed and ready she made her way through the back door and out into the alley at the back of the house. Her first shock was the discovery that Lena’s house had been fitted with outside lights, which were triggered by motion. Having her progress suddenly illuminated for all to see was almost more unnerving than the fear of facing a roomful of teenagers hell bent on wanton destruction. For a moment she froze, unsure of the wisdom of her mission and feeling faintly ridiculous, armed as she was with baking equipment and a torch. The prospect of facing a vandalised house drove her on while the security light projected her shadow on the yard wall, where it loomed like some monstrous parody of a Victorian villain.
The yard of number seventeen was littered with junk and did not benefit from security lighting. Even in the weak beam of Lena’s torch Edie had to pick her way through the detritus and fight the smell of rotting rubbish. As she had suspected, the back door had been left open and her heart sank and floundered like a landed fish.
Whoever was inside hadn’t turned on the lights so she paused and strained her ears in a bid to pick up auditory evidence of a wrecking party. There was nothing, only the distant wail of a siren and the muffled hum of the square. Feeling increasingly apprehensive she stole through the door and found the kitchen empty of vandals and the same as she had left it, except for the presence of a back pack that had been placed on the kitchen table. Edie shone the torch beam on it. The bag was old and worn and emitted a pungent smell of old dirt and rotting daffodils – why the prospect of facing one of the great unwashed was less fear provoking than a houseful of rampant teenagers was beyond Edie, but for some reason she felt less tense about the anticipated encounter. Until a loud, house-shaking thud from upstairs caused her to drop the torch and cling onto the rolling pin with both hands in a primal stance of abject terror. The torch rolled on the floor, its thin beam making a kaleidoscope of shadows dance across the walls, to the extent that she felt surrounded and assailed by the ghosts of her own fears. Taking a deep breath she moved into the hallway and crept towards the stairs. Her heart was beating so loudly that she became convinced that the intruder would hear it, consider it a war drum and consequently see it as a call to arms.
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