Flying Under Bridges (25 page)

It was
probably a quote but, original or not, it was hardly an easy statement for Adam
to find a comeback for. Tom picked up his hedgehog and went back to the woods.

‘It’s
only a hydrangea!’ Adam called after him. ‘That boy’s much too serious,’ he
said to no one in particular. Eve pulled out of the garage while Adam slapped
his hand against the new security measure with pleasure. As she jerked the car
out of the garage she could see that the wisteria on the wall behind her was
going to be nice this year. Eve rolled down her window. She needed the air. She
needed the escape route.

‘Take a
tank to get through this,’ Adam shouted as Eve pulled off. She had just turned
into the street when he started and yelled, ‘Eve, where are the keys for the
new gate?’

‘You
left them on the hall table,’ she called and drove off. Eve gave a little
laugh. Adam was locked out of his own home. She had a sudden image of him
driving a tank to get in. It was naughty but it was just a little thing.

Eve
went into town to go to the butcher’s and then on to the charity shop. Since
the incident with the squirrel, she no longer trusted anything that was in the
freezer. The car lurched along, seeming to change gears at whim. Now that Simon
the postman had delivered her free socket set and she had her book on fixing
the car, she thought she might have a go at it that afternoon. This was what
Eve was thinking about when she went to the big meeting at the charity shop.

Edenford
was a rather average town. Some big-name shops plus everything that the average
Home Counties shopper needed — butcher, chemist, newsagent, the Fireplace Shop,
the Good-As-New Dress Agency, the Knick Knack Nookery with ‘candles for any
occasion’, Ozbal’s Grocery Shop, the fish-and-chip shop — Bernie’s Plaice — and
the charity shop.

Britain
is full of charity shops and it is hard to say what actual good they do.
Certainly they raise some money for a few noble causes but that may not be the
actual point. More than 80 per cent of RSPCA volunteers are women and that’s
probably low across the charity board. It may be that the shops are there to
give rudderless women a sense of purpose. That their actual function is not to
shift old ball-gowns but to be a place where women can endlessly knit and sort
in order to make themselves feel useful.

There
were several charity shops in Edenford, of course, but Susan Lithgood was the
most prestigious. Well, obviously she wasn’t the charity shop. It was named
after her. She was not anything now. She was dead. It had been the Susan
Lithgood Shop for Lepers when it first opened but there was a big storm in ‘86
and the leprosy part of the sign fell off. Which seemed appropriate somehow.
Susan Lithgood was a local woman who had made leprosy her life. She had never
actually met anyone with the disease, as she never left Edenford, but she
raised thousands for the afflicted in Africa. Eve had only met her when she was
very old and not the woman she once was. By then leprosy had lost its focus for
Susan and her main preoccupation became incontinence, which can be a terrible
trial.

Mrs
Hoddle, wife of Horace Hoddle of Hogart, Hoddle and Hooper, gave the address at
her funeral: ‘I know that we are all indebted to the vision of Susan Lithgood
and I know she would have said “Rejoice Rejoice”, and we can rejoice for how
glad she would have been to have died in one piece and not in dribs and drabs
with bits falling off like those poor black people in the hot countries.’ Then
everyone shook collecting tins from the shop in time to ‘Abide With Me’.

For any
self-respecting member of the community, the Lithgood shop was the only one to
work in. Started by a local woman and run by local women ever since. No men.
Not ever. Just women. It’s what women do. Eve was very aware that not all the
women did it just to be nice. It was more like every hour spent there deposited
a bit more in their ‘good member of the community’ account. Emma Milton was
typical of the shop staff volunteers. She was at least fifty-five, the mainstay
of the shop and devoted to knitting blanket squares. She had never married. She
had too much selfless giving to do with her needles. Maybe all the women were
gathering up points for the afterlife but it was also in the back of everyone’s
minds that Mrs Lithgood had received an OBE just before she died. That was an
ambition. Such a reward would make life worthwhile. Eve didn’t know why she
needed the shop but she did. She didn’t particularly want an OBE but the shop
was what she did on a Wednesday. She always knew that she would never die on a
Wednesday because she had too much to do.

That
morning, while Adam limped and moaned around the kitchen, Eve had been watching
the news. They kept showing some terrible war that was raging in Africa. Children
with guns. Then there was a man, a foreign man, one of those Romanians, who’d
been arrested in Glasgow for begging or something and he was looking so cross
and upset and his wife was crying.

Eve
kept thinking, Why does all that news come into our houses unless we’re
supposed to do something about it?

She
arrived at the shop carrying a stuffed stoat that Tom had made for the window
display. He had donated quite a lot of animals over the years. Eve didn’t like
to tell him that they never sold but they did make a nice display for the
scarves and necklaces.

The
meeting had been called to determine the future. Now that Mrs Lithgood was
gone, no one was quite sure what to do with the shop.

It was
an odd collection of women. They were mostly older than Eve and it suddenly
occurred to her that she didn’t belong. Didn’t really belong anywhere. She was
too old for the speculumshoving women of Martha’s classes and too young for
the do-gooders of the High Street. Most of the charity-shop women were well
into their fifties and beyond. Old women, used souls with bodies worn at the
edges. It was as if several families had dropped them off in black bin liners,
no longer wanted. There was Emma Milton, knitting as usual, Doris Turton,
representing the Women’s Institute (an organisation it was hard to fathom still
existed), Helen Richler, wearing something from a long-out-of-print catalogue,
Betty Hoddle, who always wore a hat, and Eve.

Doris
had WI business. She came straight up to Eve and said, ‘Eve! We’re having a
competition and you must enter.’ She said it as if Eve had some remote chance
of winning, which, of course, she knew she hadn’t. ‘It’s for the best flower
arrangement involving a candlestick.’ Immediately lots of possible designs
flashed through Eve’s mind but none of them were really suitable. Perhaps
another use for the abandoned speculum? Betty Hoddle called the charity shop
meeting to order.

‘Ladies,
we are gathered to determine the future.’ This seemed unlikely but ever since
the funeral Betty had enjoyed speeches. ‘The Susan Lithgood Shop for Lepers has
been a vital part of this community for over twenty years but it is time to
move on. The fact is that there isn’t the call for leper work that there once
was.

Emma
Milton looked up from a row of plain knitting. ‘Really?’ The idea that they
might have actually raised enough money to have solved the problem had never
occurred to her.

‘Really,’
replied Mrs Hoddle. ‘We may be doing fine work collecting for the lepers but
there are no longer the lepers in the world who need our assistance.’

‘I don’t
know if that’s true,’ Eve began. ‘I was reading about—’

The
intervention went unheeded. Mrs Hoddle was on a roll. ‘The charity shop must
move forward. Find a new cause that we can sustain.’

There
was a long silence while everyone thought about this. The truth was that no one
had ever really been comfortable about lepers and now that Susan was gone they
fancied a change. Maybe something a bit more.., well, endearing.

‘What
about the Kurds?’ said Doris. ‘Aren’t they having a horrid time? I’ve seen it
on the television.’

Television
or not, Mrs Hoddle was adamant. ‘I’m afraid not. We couldn’t possibly do the
Kurds. We don’t want to upset Mr Ozbal.’

‘Mr
Ozbal?’ Eve said, confused.

‘Yes.
We don’t want to upset him.’

Emma
Milton was also confused. ‘Why would collecting for the Kurds upset Mr Ozbal?’

‘He’s
Turkish,’ explained Helen.

Doris
looked shocked. ‘Oh, I thought he was Greek.’ There was a moment’s pause.

‘It
could be Greek,’ conceded Mrs Hoddle.

‘I don’t
think we should take the risk,’ declared Emma. Everyone agreed. Mr Ozbal ran
the little grocery shop on Church Street. Greek or Turkish, he didn’t mind what
time he stayed open and no one wanted to annoy him.

‘He’s
so useful,’ said Doris.

‘What
about Aids?’ suggested Helen but no one took it seriously. She was only saying
it to get at Emma whose brother had become HIV positive on holiday in Goa but
absolutely refused to discuss it. Helen was something of a stirrer. She tried
once more with, ‘Leprosy was the Aids of Jesus’s time, you know,’ but she was
on a hiding to nothing. Then Betty Hoddle asked if Eve had an opinion and she
was rather surprised to find that she did. Have an opinion.

‘We
ought to collect for all those poor people from Romania we keep hearing about,’
Eve said straight out and possibly rather too loud. ‘The refugees with nowhere
to go. We could get clothes and books and toys for the children and then…’
she paused for effect… ‘we could bring them here to Edenford.’

The
Milton needles went mad. The potential for blankets had never seemed so
enormous.

‘Where
would we put them?’ asked Doris, who did have a spare room but liked to use it
for her ironing.

Eve was
ready. ‘The old swimming baths. They’re for sale. We shall put them in the old
swimming baths.’

Everyone
seemed really excited by the end of the meeting. Eve was thrilled. The old
swimming baths were perfect. They were unoccupied, they had plenty of shower
and toilet facilities and the empty pool itself would make a wonderful big
dormitory. All the women loved children, or at least the idea of children. The
thought of saving grateful little wretches with big eyes was very appealing.
Mrs Hoddle and Eve were nominated to do the logistics and find out how much
money they needed to raise.

Martha’s
next class for women was on the following Tuesday evening. It was the same
crowd — Theresa Baker, Mrs Batik (who turned out to be called Fran), ferret
woman, two women in matching tracksuits and the woman from the fish shop. Eve
went partly because she wanted to find out if everyone had done the speculum
thing and partly because Martha had asked if she could do some light snacks.
Everyone had decided to make the whole thing more social, so each woman was to
provide some snack or drink for the class. Martha didn’t cook so it was left
to Eve. Martha was in a temper when her older sister got there.

‘Have
you seen this?’ She slapped one of Adam’s leaflets down on the table. The
terrified woman in the black and white photograph looked up at the assembled study
group.

Don’t
let Eden ford become a nightmare.

Vote
Marshall. Sleep safe at night.

‘It’s
not right. It’s just not right,’ muttered ferret woman.

‘Pandering,’
snorted Fran Batik. ‘It’s just pandering to women’s fears.’

‘Women
shouldn’t have to live in fear all the time,’ declared a tracksuit.

Martha
was very clear. ‘This, ladies, is a clever plot to keep women off the streets
of Edenford.’

Eve
thought it unlikely. It was only Adam trying to get back on Radio 4. It wasn’t
that clever.

‘But we
won’t submit to it,’ declaimed Theresa.

‘No,’
said Martha quietly, ‘we won’t, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be ready. Right,
let’s get started. Now, this appalling leaflet is just part of a calculated
campaign in the media to tell all women that you can’t walk safely anywhere any
more.’

This
seemed a bit rich. It had only been the one mugging on a Saturday night. ‘I don’t
know, Martha. This is Edenford not Bangkok.’

Martha
looked at her sister, suddenly sorry she had asked for the snacks.

‘All
right, Eve, let’s start with you. Could you defend yourself?’

‘Well,
it would depend what someone said about me.’

Martha
sighed. ‘In the street, Eve. Come on, I can help protect you.’

Eve
giggled. ‘You used to say that when we were kids but at least you had a Captain
Marvel ring then.’ Martha turned away in disgust.

‘Fran,
let’s imagine — if someone came at you what would you do?’

Fran
looked apprehensive. Everyone in the room was a little unsure where this was
heading.

‘How
good-looking is this person?’ giggled Fran.

Martha
ignored this. ‘Come on, Fran, have a go at being attacked by me. Don’t worry
about me. I’m trained so I know what to do. I’ll come at you and you defend
yourself.’

‘Now,
Martha, be careful,’ warned ferret woman, who had brought the punch bowl and
didn’t want an accident.

Martha
stood up and planted her feet firmly on the hearthrug. ‘Right, Fran, you
pretend you’re just walking down the street.’