Chapter 15 Every Day’s a School Day
Every Day’s a School Day
She runs a hand through her glossy silver hair and beams at me. I can tell from the sympathetic look around her eyes that this is not about Blue. It is about my song-and-dance last night with the police.
A sharp slosh of anxiety splashes up inside me.
Although clearly in her late sixties or early seventies, she is spry and athletic, dressed in joggers, a swimsuit visible beneath a half-mast, zip-up top. On her shoulder rests a large, battered gym bag, goggles and a towel peeking out.
“Hello there, finally,” she says. “Only three days late. Pam, from across the street,” she tells me, pointing behind her, the creases around her eyes deepening in welcome.
There’s a brusque twinkle in her eye that for some intangible reason makes me think she must have lived most of her life in the countryside.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I bluster. I can’t imagine anything else having motivated this face-to-face. “I put an apology on the group; I don’t know if you saw it earlier?”
“Yes, of course. No, listen, don’t be silly.
We’ve all been there. It’s just reassuring to know the police show up when an alarm goes off, isn’t it?
No, no complaints here. I’m purely motivated by my own guilt at not dropping by sooner.
As long as you’re all right?” she asks. It takes me too long to realize this is not a rhetorical question. “Are you all right?” she repeats.
Strangers aren’t allowed to ask that, in any serious sense, are they?
“Oh, ha, yes!” I say finally. “I am, thank you, that’s very kind of you to ask.” My cheeks are on fire. “I’m fine. It was just me being stupid. The alarm is a new thing for me and…I panicked.”
“Ah, betrayed by the very technology we employ to protect us, eh? Yes, I’m there, all too frequently,” she sighs. “So many passwords and codes, and remembering to charge all the various gadgets, it’s ludicrous. And don’t get me started on the hideous cables. You can never find the right one.”
She laughs and something inside me relaxes, a brief release from the underlying tension I realize that I’ve been holding so close.
“I’m so glad you’re not furious,” I confess. “I thought I might have alienated half the street last night. People did not look happy.”
Pam wafts a hand.
“Oh, sod ’em. I’ve lived here ten years now and there’s a precious few I’d pull from a fire.”
Her forehead creases deeply and she adds, “A theoretical fire, obviously; I’m not a monster.” She barks out another youthful laugh, and I feel myself relax for the first time in days.
“Well, it’s good to know that no one was too put out. I thought I might have made myself a local nuisance already. You’re only the third person I’ve spoken to since I moved in.”
Pam leans in, her voice lowered.
“I have to say, as much as I’d thrive with it, we rarely mix. But that’s London for you, isn’t it? Everyone busy, compartmentalized, anonymous—the rat race and such.”
She’s right—it’s what I used to love about the city when I was young.
“Was that you, a few nights ago, at the window?” I ask her. She seems unfazed.
“Yes,” she says, then adds, “I’m just glad he got back in.”
“Who got back in?” I demand, panic spiking.
“The lost cat. I was watching him go along the rooftops. I was so worried for you when I saw the message. I have a white Persian, Mouse. Don’t know what I’d do without the little handful.
So I was so glad to see Blue back. He was making quite a racket up there, on the rooftop, that night.
Thank goodness for the scaffolding, though.
He’s very vocal, isn’t he?” she concludes.
“He is, yep,” I admit, cheeks burning again.
“Who else have you met?” she asks.
“Um, Arabella, and Matt…and you,” I ramble. “Oh, and Matt’s baby, of course,” I add gingerly.
She frowns and clears her throat.
“Matt’s baby?” she repeats, sounding like she’s testing the idea. “Well, there you go. Every day’s a school day.”
Either she has no idea who Matt is, which seems strange given how friendly he is, or she isn’t aware Matt’s wife, girlfriend, or whatever she is, has given birth?
“Ah, but the lovely Arabella—she’s a trouper, isn’t she?” she continues. “No Greg, though?”
It’s my turn to frown. Which one is Greg?
“I don’t think so,” I say, then ask, keeping dread from my voice, “should I be expecting him?”
“He bid on your house, too,” she confesses, a gleeful smile on her face. “He’s a very sore loser.”
Ah, the mysterious other bidder. I can’t help but think of the man in running gear who clearly wanted to knock on my door the day I arrived. I have a feeling that was Greg.
“Number Twelve. He’s in property, owns the ones either side of yours, here.
” Pam points to the houses beside us, the one to our left recently renovated, the one to our right clearly a work in progress.
The scaffolding wasn’t there when I first viewed the house.
Greg must’ve rushed to put it up before I arrived, to avoid any objections.
“Ah, I see. He sounds industrious,” I comment and am rewarded with Pam’s chuckle.
“Oh, that he is. Well, I’m glad you’re here. Last thing we need is more empty houses.”
Both of the houses that flank me are vacant: echoing rooms, bare floors gathering dust, something about it unnerving.
Pam notes my concern. “Don’t let anything worry you,” she interjects quickly.
“It’s a wonderful neighborhood. And I hear the company who renovated yours worked wonders.
If you’re ever concerned about anything, or merely at a loose end, my house is right opposite, and I’m in most days.
Only really out for the shops or the theater and my wild swimming.
And even then, I’m never gone long. God bless retirement.
I hope you don’t mind me asking: Am I right in thinking you’re living here alone? ”
It’s the first time anyone has actually asked me this in real life—most people have just inferred it—and now it hits me like falling masonry.
“Yes,” I answer with pitch-perfect joviality, in spite of the gut-punch. “Just me, I’m afraid.”
Pam scoffs. “Afraid, my arse. Me, too, yes. I tried having a man in the house—total waste of time. Let’s be honest, it’s extra laundry and terrible television, isn’t it?”
I laugh, the sound, as much as the impulse, surprising me.
“Yes, I had a narrow escape, too,” I confide.
“Good for you, dear. It takes a lot to change everything, to go it alone. And we single ladies have to look out for each other, yes?” she says, more statement than question.
“That’s the reason I’ve popped by,” she continues, aware she has my full attention now.
“You see, I had a similar police situation a few years back: locked myself out of the house, had to break the side window and crawl back in. Rather mortifyingly the police arrived mid-maneuver, and laid it on thick, the full nine yards. Utterly shaming.”
I want to grab her, hug her.
“Pam, it was awful.”
“Don’t I know it. Now,” she begins, another handbrake topic change as she pulls a bulky envelope from her bag, its contents jangling inside, as she hands it to me, “here are my spare keys. I’d like to trust you with them.
Just in case I get locked out again, or, God forbid, lose my set.
I thought it might be useful if we exchanged keys.
Us both flying solo, so to speak. Marina and Chris, at Number Fifteen, had mine before; but I thought us exchanging might be more mutually beneficial,” she says, throwing me an inquiring glance.
I look down at the package already in my hands, my mind scrambling for a polite way to decline the questionable privilege being offered.
What-ifs are careening through my mind: What if she gets robbed and blames me?
What if I somehow manage to sleepwalk directly into her house?
What if she’s absolutely insane and these aren’t her keys and she just wants mine so she can sneak in here and murder me?
But what slipped in past all the other noise in my head: Chris. The name of the man who made Marina cry.
Pam is staring at me as my thoughts flash back over what she’s just said.
“Sorry. You want me to give you a set of my house keys now, too?” I clarify.
“That’s the idea, dear,” Pam answers, then, after another silence: “Trust me, it only takes one locked-out experience to change your mind about spare-key swaps. And in case you’re worried, I’m not going to use them to snoop around your house.
All due respect, I couldn’t care less. Have a think, put them in a sealed envelope if you want to, and drop them round. Only if it’s something you want to do.”