rather than Neville’s intellectual handicap; his cognitive learning difficulties and his very poor school grades. Neville got no special treatment; “Why should he have special treatment, he’s a normal little boy, just a bit slow, that’s all.” His parents belief that his teachers were interfering, and ignorant of their situation - Think of the cost! - left those at his school, who thought they had a responsibility to say something, nowhere to go. Neville will probably always live with his parents and pass his time obsessively occupied with anything and everything to do with Lego and the movie Grease. That is, when he wasn’t butchering Veronica’s front garden in Newtown where she lived again with her mother Sally - in the back shed (she tried calling it a granny flat but it had entered the lexicon of the household as the back shed because that’s, well, what it was), keeping Jack’s room free for his increasingly infrequent weekend visits.
3
As Veronica drove back to Newtown again her phone buzzed and at a set of traffic lights she surreptitiously checked her screen: it was Diane. Her best friend since University days was becoming a bit of a chore. Diane was the mistress of a man called Max Swan, who everyone, except Diane, knew was a widower. Diane still believed that Max’s wife was alive and giving him hell which was why he needed Diane. Max encouraged this; it was an arrangement of his own making. Diane liked being needed, but being needed, being a mistress also meant being kept in the dark, out of sight, as most mistresses are. This had always been the situation with Max and Diane; it’s what Max said he wanted, and it was therefore what Diane wanted. She liked being the antidote to a distant, hard, and uncaring wife, which was how Max had painted his wife and continued to paint her even though she had been dead for over six years; but to Veronica Diane was becoming rather too needy. Veronica had kept up her friendship with Diane while at the same time keeping her distance from Max, who for years now had been trying to get closer to Veronica. She had to admit, but only to herself, that she liked Max, but she wasn’t prepared to think anymore about it. She was well aware of the human capacity for self-delusion, which applied to her as well as everybody else.
She had only checked the screen of her phone to see who the caller was; she hadn’t checked the message. She should’ve.
As she walked through her small, and heavily pruned front garden - Neville had been over yesterday - she could hear raised voices from inside the house and she recognised both of them: her mother Sally and Diane. She was instantly aware of the sudden social annoyance in the pit of her stomach of an unannounced guest. This was a social stumble in this city at this time. An unheralded visitor was either a debt collector or the police but was never a friend; but then she reasoned that maybe Diane had warned her, via the SMS she hadn’t read. She stopped at the front door, put her bag down, opened her phone and checked Diane’s message. A groan escaped her lips: “Got to speak to you. Coming over.” What had she done now?
As she opened the front door and stepped inside she trod on the mail, bills and advertising blurbs that should be on the hall-stand and not lying on the floor.
“Veronica! Is that you?” called out Sally, and Veronica had to smile at the desperate expectation in her mother’s voice: Sally was obviously not enjoying entertaining Diane on her own.
“Yes,” called back Veronica, “It’s me,” as she walked down the narrow hall and into the kitchen to see the two women sitting at the island bench with a pot of tea for Sally and a glass of wine for Diane. I hope you’ve bought your own wine, she thought and at the same time understanding the unkindness of it.
“So, there you are,” said Diane like an annoyed parent. She sat on a stool very erect, her ubiquitous ponytail, tied high on her head ah-la-1958, bobbing as she spoke.
“How was your day, dear?” said Sally with a grateful look on her face.
“Fine thanks. What was all that mail doing on the floor?”
“Don’t look at me dear, I rarely go down that end of the house,” said Sally, taking her teacup and saucer to the sink.
“Oh, that was me, I suppose,” said Diane. “My shoulder bag gets in the way sometimes.”
“You could’ve picked it up.”
“I’m not a person who goes through other people’s mail, Veronica.”
“I said ‘pick it up’ not ‘open it’.”
“Well, ladies, please excuse me, I’ve got things to do in the back shed,” said Sally with a tone in her voice that told Veronica she couldn’t wait to get away.
“Oh, Veronica, have you still got your mother stuck out in the back shed?” said Diane accusingly and sipping on her chardonnay.
“It’s the most luxurious back shed you have ever seen,” said Veronica paging through the mail and opening one.
“And it does me just fine. Bye now,” and Sally headed for the back door.
“But don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“You’ve told me enough for one sitting, dear. My head’s still spinning. I’m sure Veronica is dying to hear all about it. I’ll come back to say goodbye,” and she was out through the back sliding doors before Diane could protest.
“Here’s the receipt for the rent on Ben’s place. Always on time. I hope they never leave. Those people are angels,” she said as she put the stack of mail down. She looked up at Diane who was looking at her with a curious face as if to say ‘I have a juicy story to tell you and you’re going on about rent payments?’ and Veronica knew she had to comply. “So, what’s happened?”
“If I didn’t know you better I’d think sometimes you were deliberately trying to put me off.”
“What do you mean?” said Veronica with as much ‘hurt’ in her voice as she could muster to cover up the truth.
“Never mind.”
“Well?” Veronica was forced to say.
“I’m being stalked!” said Diane deliciously.
“What?”
“You heard. I’m being stalked.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Someone is following me.”
“And who would do that?”
“Jessica Dunnant.”
“Who?”
“Oh, Veronica,” said Diane as if Veronica was being deliberately perverse. “You know. Jessica Dunnant; from first year Uni; that American girl who talked as if she had a hole in the top of her nose. You know, like a chipmunk. Oh, come on! You must remember Jessica Dunnant. ‘Who stole my notes? Who was sick in my handbag? Who screwed Tom’s boyfriend? Jessica Done it! Jessica Done it? Come on! You remember!”
“OK! OK! Yes, yes, I remember. But that was decades ago. Why should Jessica Dunnant be stalking you now?”
“I don’t know! That’s the mystery. That’s what Sally and I have been trying to work out.” Diane’s eyes were as big as saucers: she was loving being the centre of a conundrum; loving the importance it gave her.
“But
