‘Huh? Oh! No, a nautilus is very different from a jellyfish. Though in the grand scheme of things, they’re both in the sea, so … hey!’ She shrugs. ‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m high on drugs. I’m really not. I’m just kind of excited. I don’t normally … wow, I mean,shut up,Tilly, stop blathering on at these poor people!’
‘Hi, Tilly. I’m Beth Leeson. This is my daughter, Zannah.’ I hold out my hand. She shakes it. ‘Please don’t stop blathering on our account. We came here to blather, as a matter of fact, so … if you blather first, I’ll feel less guilty about my own blathering!’
I can feel disapproval radiating from Zannah. As soon as we’re alone, she’s going to list all the ways I handled this wrong.
Tilly from number 3 appreciates my act, anyway. She’s laughing like a drain. ‘Okay, well, do you wanna come in?’ she says. ‘Assuming you’re not serial killers, or canvassers from an evil political party? They’re all evil these days, let’s face it. I’d vote Lib Dem but there are only about three of them left and one’s a golden retriever.’ She throws back her head and cackles again.
‘We’re neither murderous nor political,’ I tell her.
‘Fantastic. Come in, then.’ We can’t. She’s blocking the doorway. ‘I’ll tell you what I meant. So. For months, I’ve not been answering the door when the bell rings. Justin and the kids are out all day during the week, and I’ve got those hours andonly those hoursto do all my work – I work from home – and clean, and cook, and the rest, you know how it is. So, my New Year’s resolution was: no more rushing to the door when the bell rings. I stuck to it, too. Religiously. Unlike my other resolution, which was to cut out sugar and flour and alcohol, but hey! And at first it wasso liberating. Understanding for the first time in my life that my doorbell – like my phone, like my email inbox – is thereto serve me. Not the other way round! You know? And it’s been amazing, I’ve been so productive since January, but … lately, I’ve started to think it’s a shame. Who knows what those doorbell rings might be, you know? What if I’m too willingly closing myself off to new, fantastic experiences? So today, on an impulse, I thought to myself – I needed a break, to be honest – “Get off your arse and open that door.” And immediately panicked in case it was something dull like a survey about shopping habits. I never shop, anyway. Hate it. Waste of a day.’
‘If you want the opposite of dull, you’re in luck,’ I tell her. ‘I rang your bell in the hope that you’d answer a whole load of … unusual questions that no one else will answer honestly – about Wyddial Lane.’
‘What kind of unusual?’
‘It’s a long story. The short version is, I had some friends who used to live at number 16, and—’
‘Number 16. That’s the Caters, right? And before that …’ She stops. Her eyes widen. ‘Lewis Braid? Is he your friend?’
‘Not any more, no. Not for twelve years.’
‘But you’re here to ask unusual questions about him? Please say you are! That man iscrying outto have unusual questions asked about him. Well, the opposite actually – he’s not crying out for it, he’d hate it, but the world is, or at least, I am.’
‘I am too,’ I say.
She moves to one side and waves us in. ‘I’m so glad I opened the door,’ she says as we follow her across a wide entrance hall and into a messy kitchen with a red Aga and many blobby children’s paintings stuck up on the walls. ‘This was meant to be – I truly believe that. Time to rethink that resolution!’
I try not to stare at the most eye-catching thing in the room: an enormous and scary-looking wall-chart calendar with boxes for all the days of the year, and black and white drawings of branches and leaves wrapped around them. There’s tiny, spidery handwriting in many of the boxes in four different colours: red, green, purple and orange. It’s weirdly beautiful, as long as you don’t need to read the writing.
On a battered pine table at the centre of the room, papers and forms are spread out. They look confusing and boring. Tilly’s work, presumably. She sweeps them to one side, saying, ‘Fuck off, boring company tax returns!’
Does that mean she’s an accountant?
‘Okay, let’s get this kettle on,’ she says. ‘Tea? Coffee? Rubis? And feel free to fire questions at me while I make drinks.’
‘What’s Rubis?’ I ask.
‘You’ve not discovered Rubis? Oh, my good God! I’m about to become your favourite person. Oh.’ She frowns. ‘You’re driving, probably. It’s alcoholic.’
‘Tea for me, thanks,’ I say.
‘Rubis isheaven. Imagine the most yummy chocolate that’salsoa delicious velvety red wine.’
‘I’ll have some,’ Zannah says sweetly.
‘You do right – as we Yorkshire folk like to say!’ Tilly beams at her.
‘Just a tiny bit,’ says Zannah’s killjoy mother. Yorkshire? Tilly’s accent couldn’t be less northern if it tried.
She hands Zannah a bottle and glass, then puts the kettle on. I tell her a much-curtailed version of the story so far: that I saw Flora at number 16 and in Huntingdon, and that, despite this, the Caters and Lewis have all insisted that Flora’s in America.
‘Huh. Interesting,’ says Tilly. ‘As far as I know, they live in America now. Is it possible Flora was back, or is back, to visit the Caters?’
‘Yes, but then why would everyone lie? On the phone, Lewis didn’t say, “Yeah, you might well have seen Flora, she’s in England at the moment.” Flora herself rang me and said she was in Florida – no mention of any trip to Hemingford Abbots. And when I told her I was sure I’d seen her outside her old house, she said, no, no way, impossible. She ended the phone call after about ten seconds, having promised to ring me back, which she didn’t. And then the next day, I bump into her in a car park in Huntingdon.’
‘That is deeply, deeply peculiar,’ Tilly says, handing me my tea. ‘Lewis is, though. Or was when I knew him. Maybe his wife is too. Maybe she was back, and didn’t want to see you. Nothing against you, just a case of “This particular trip is aboutthisand I don’t want to use any of it to dothat.”’
‘That’d explain her saying, “How’s things? Hope all’s well! Gotta dash.” But lying about what country she’s in when she knows I’ve seen her? And Lewis lying, and the Caters lying?’
