We All Fall Down (41 page)

At that moment a car, in low gear, laboured up the hill and slowed to enter the gravelled driveway. It parked nose through the gate, the rear across the pavement. He watched, fascinated. It was almost like being at the cinema. There was the same distance between him and the scene, the same feeling of being an observer, separate from what was happening. A young woman climbed out from the driver's seat, followed by a child from the rear of the car. The boy was about three or four, and he was carrying a gift in bright wrapping paper. He was excited, talking nonsense in a fast, breathless way, and although Hugh couldn't hear what he was saying, it was as if he was talking more to himself than his mother. The woman glanced at Hugh as she closed the driver's door, then walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. A woman of about the same age appeared from the interior of the house, greetings were exchanged and the young boy rushed inside. The women chatted on the doorstep. At one stage they both turned and looked at him standing below them on the road, and the scene became disjointed, as if the actors on the screen had suddenly chosen to address the audience. In the distance, a dog barked. The visitor returned to her car. She reversed out onto the street and, as she drove past him, stared pointedly. Remaining perfectly still, Hugh listened to the silence follow the vehicle down the hill. He gazed at the woman still standing in the front doorway. He moved forward, but hesitated, unsure what he should say. He wanted to call up to her, across the front garden, to ask the woman if he could come in. Only for a short while. He wanted to tell her that he used to live in the house that she and her family now lived in, that he had once had a nice wife and a lovely boy, and that his family had been very similar to her own. They just hadn't had a swimming pool. Would she mind, therefore, as he just happened to be passing by and didn't wish this opportunity to go to waste, if he had a look around the house, because it wouldn't take long and he'd so welcome the chance to relive his memories, to see the home where he and his wife and son had all been so happy once upon a time, the home which still very much had a place in his heart? But he knew, almost without any doubt whatsoever, that she would take one look at his frayed clothes, his battered sandals and his careworn face – that would be the real giveaway, the fact his face was prematurely lined, his hair flecked with grey, and his skin pasty and unhealthy – and not believe a word of what he was saying. She certainly wouldn't trust him.

He could hear a woman singing with children inside the house. The boys and girls voices were high and breathless; they were almost shouting with excitement.

Ring a-ring o' roses,

A pocketful of posies …

His face was the face of someone in a nightmare, the haunted face of someone being chased. And at that moment he did in fact look over his shoulder, back down the steep road, startled, as if the other woman had returned unexpectedly or a neighbour was advancing on him from across the road. There was no one there, however, no one to be seen. But that didn't mean they weren't on their way. He hesitated, unsure …

A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

We all fall down!

The woman hurriedly closed her front door. She closed it against him, and probably went off to fetch her husband, or possibly to call the police. ‘There's a person standing outside my house, officer … No, he's not from round here. I've never seen him before ….'

Hugh did, finally, turn away from the house. And as he went down the hill, back towards the recreation area where hang-gliders landed after their miraculous flight from the clifftop, as he walked slowly through the emptiness of the suburb, he could hear the faint sound of the children still singing behind him.

Ring a-ring o' roses,

A pocketful of posies …

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Paul, Charlotte and Richard, who have never wavered and always shown faith. I also gratefully acknowledge the advice and encouragement of Nicola and Alastair Murray, especially Nicola who has unfailingly supported my dreams of writing for more decades than I care to count. Thank you also to Jennifer Compton for her helpful criticisms and suggestions regarding this book, and to Michael Parker who is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to the King's English – even though he comes from South Africa! I am, as always, eternally indebted to Barry Scott of Transit Lounge for his kindness, wisdom and steadfast belief in my abilities. Thanks also to my editor, Charlotte Brown, for her painstaking and patient help. Finally, and especially, a huge (but still inadequate) thank you to my favourite and most loyal reader, my wife Elizabeth, for her love and support, and for her endlessly perceptive, if frequently painful, criticisms.