The New Neighbours (4 page)

“Dartmouth Circle?” Jane, the landlord's other half, chipped in to the conversation. “Did you say Dartmouth Circle?”

Madeleine grinned across at her. “Yup. Isn't it great? We finally found a house for next year, and my dad exchanged contracts on it this morning.”

“And it's in Dartmouth Circle, you say?”

“Yes. It's in a terrible state, so there's masses of work to be done on it before we move in in September, but Dad says we can get it all done. He says I've got to help with the decorating when the structural work is finished, but I don't mind that. I like painting, and I can't wait to strip off the gundgy wallpaper and to paint over the sludge coloured walls, they're… awful.” Madeleine's voice trailed away as she saw a strange expression flood Jane's face. “Jane,” she said uncertainly, “is there anything wrong?”

Jane shook her head as if trying to clear it and then smiled at her. “Not at all,” she replied. “It all sounds wonderful, I'm sure you'll all be very happy there. Which number have you bought?”

“Number seven,” answered Madeleine cheerfully. “Why? Do you know it?”

“Oh yes,” Jane said, “I used to live there.”

“In Dartmouth Circle?”

“In number seven.”

A moment's stunned silence greeted this revelation as Madeleine reheard the comments she'd just made about the house and its decor, and then it was broken by a cackle of laughter from Jane herself. “Hey, Joe,” she called over her shoulder, “come and hear this.”

Joe came through from the other bar. “What is it, love?” he asked. “What's so funny?”

“Ned's finally sold the house. He's actually sold it, and do you know who to?” She jerked her head across the bar. “Our Mad, here. Our Mad's student house is going to be in Dartmouth Circle.” She gave another shout of laughter. “I'd give anything to see the face of that cow next door when she hears she's going to have students as her neighbours!”

Madeleine and the others were still looking perplexed at Jane's reaction to the news of their house and Joe, seeing they weren't with what was going on said, “Don't worry, Mad, it's just that Jane used to live there before her divorce, at seven Dartmouth Circle. It wasn't a very happy time for her there.”

“Oh, I see,” Madeleine looked awkward. “I'm sorry, Jane, I didn't realise…”

“And why would you, indeed?” Jane said cheerfully. “I'm delighted to hear the place has been sold. Maybe now I'll get some money out of the bastard. And don't worry what you said about the house either,” she went on. “It was in a bad enough state when I left; I imagine it's quite desperate now.” She winked at the amazed students saying, “I wish you joy of it,” and went into the lounge bar to serve a customer.

“She means it, you know,” Joe said, glancing after her. “She's glad it's sold at last, and she hopes you'll all enjoy living there.”

“It'll probably be a mad house,” said Madeleine, “But you can be sure we're going to have great fun.”

Cirelle raised her glass to the others. “Let's drink to it anyway,” she said, “let's drink to Mad's house.”

“To the madhouse?” queried Jane appearing again on the other side of the bar. She gave a bitter laugh. “Seven Dartmouth Circle was certainly always that!”

“Hey,” cried Madeleine in delight. “That's what we'll call it, The Madhouse. I was trying to think of a good name for it, and that's perfect, don't you think? Here's to The Madhouse, everybody. Cheers.”

They all raised their glasses and at that moment Dean came in. He had come straight from the squash courts and was dressed in a disreputable track suit, his straggly hair still wet from the shower.

“Hi guys,” he said, dumping his sports bag down with a thump.

“Where's my pint? Jeez, I'm knackered.”

“Coming up,” said Ben, picking up a glass.

“This round on the house,” Joe Briggs called across. “To celebrate the sale of The Madhouse.”

“Hey, cheers, Joe,” cried Madeleine, raising her glass. “Nice one.”

“The Madhouse?” echoed Dean. “What the hell's that?”

“Mad's house… where we're all going to live next year?” Cirelle laughed.

“Is that what it's called?”

“It is now,” Mad said cheerfully and took another pull at her drink. “Now our only other problem is who is going to take Mandy's place. She's changed her mind,” she explained to Dean. “Ben's suggested a girl on his course called Charlie Murphy, anyone got any other suggestions? Cirelle? Dino?”

They both shook their heads almost indifferently. “No, if Ben's happy about her she's probably OK,” said Dean.

“We ought to meet her and see if we like her,” Cirelle suggested, “I mean, maybe she won't like us. Don't you think?”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “I'll probably see her tomorrow at a lecture, so I'll arrange a meet, OK?”

It was agreed and when Madeleine's boyfriend, Dan, arrived a few moments later, he found them all discussing The Madhouse in happy anticipation. With pint in hand, and his arm draped round Mad's shoulders, he joined cheerfully in the conversation. He was happy enough with Mad's new living arrangements, for although he was regarded by all as her boyfriend, and indeed regarded himself as such, Dan liked his freedom, to come and go as he chose, no questions asked, and he had no wish to live in the Madhouse.

Jill Hammond kissed her children goodnight, switched off the light and leaving them safely cocooned under their duvets in the glow of the night light, went downstairs to get supper for her husband, Anthony.

Anthony was often not home before the children were in bed. Several days a week he commuted to London, and today was one of them. On London days, he normally rang to let Jill know which train he would be on, but so far she'd heard nothing.

Jill went into the kitchen and dialled him on his mobile.

“The vodafone subscriber you have called is unavailable,” intoned the microchip sweetly, “please try later.”

“Damn,” she muttered and then called through to Isabelle the au pair who was laying the table in the dining room. “Did Mr Hammond phone before I got home?”

“Oh yes, Mrs Hammond, I am sorry. He telephone to say he takes the train at six-fifteen.”

“Please, Isabelle,” Jill said with exaggerated patience, “I've asked you before, please write down all telephone messages.”

“Yes, Mrs Hammond. I have written it. The paper is in the hall. There are other telephones as well. I will get it.”

While Isabelle scuttled downstairs to bring up the messages, Jill poured herself a gin and tonic and put the potatoes, peeled earlier by Isabelle, on to the stove. If Anthony had caught the six-fifteen, he should be home in the next half-hour. She was looking forward to a quiet evening alone with him. Isabelle had eaten her evening meal with the children and was going out somewhere with a German au pair, Heidi, whom she had met when collecting Sylvia from nursery school.

Jill and Anthony would be able to have a peaceful dinner, and then when they were settled with their coffee, she would broach the subject that had been simmering in her mind for so long. A job. She longed for a job even though she knew Anthony didn't want her to go out to work.

“There's no need, darling,” he had said when she tentatively suggested that she return to teaching. “We always agreed you should be here for the children. Sylvia needs you to be here when she gets home from nursery, and you know you'd hate someone else to look after Thomas.”

“Isabelle does that now,” Jill pointed out mildly.

“Not really, not all the time,” Anthony countered, “and always under your supervision and guidance. She has no responsibility for the way he develops.”

“It would give me a little money of my own,” Jill said, trying a different tack.

“But you don't need extra money.” Anthony was surprised. “If you need more money you only have to ask.”

“Yes,” agreed Jill bitterly, “that's the problem. I have to ask, and I don't want to have to.” She knew Anthony couldn't understand why that was important to her, but for the moment she had let the matter rest.

Then yesterday evening, after what seemed a pretty routine day, Jill had been confronted with the idea again. Sitting in the bath and scooping bubbles into mountains of foam, Sylvia had suddenly looked across at her mother, perched on the closed loo seat and said, “Zoë Carter's mummy goes to her office every morning and stays all day.

Jill smiled. “Does she, darling?”

“Yes. Why don't you go to your office?”

“I haven't got an office,” Jill pointed out. “Would you want me to go to the office all day?”

Sylvia considered. “No,” she decided. “Zoë goes to her nan's till her mummy fetches her. Our nan lives too far away.”

“Yes, I'm afraid she does,” Jill agreed, “both Granny and Nan do. That's why it's such a treat when we go and see them.”

“Mmm.” Sylvia gave herself a foam beard. “Granny makes chocolate cake and Nan does fudge. Today in news time we were telling what our mummies did, and Zoë said hers went to the office.”

“And what did you say about me?” Jill asked cautiously.

Sylvia beamed at her. “I said you didn't do anything.” She gathered up another dollop of froth and put it on Thomas's head. Thomas, aged two, shrilled his disapproval and splashed her, kicking hard with his feet. Before the bathroom could become totally awash, Jill scooped him out of the bath and snuggled him into a warm towel.

The conversation was over, but it stayed with Jill and she had mulled it over in her mind during the day. She was suddenly sure she needed to do something outside the home. She played golf, and that was good, it got her away to an entirely different environment one afternoon a week, but even with Isabelle's help, she felt bogged down in the daily routine of washing, ironing and shopping and meals.

What I need, she decided, is to do some part-time teaching, just mornings. It would mean relying on Isabelle even more, but Isabelle had let drop the other day that “Heidi works for more time for Mrs Vane, and has more wages. It is a good arrangement I think.”

The more Jill thought about it, the more she agreed that it was, perhaps, a good arrangement. After Sylvia's comment last night, Jill decided to tackle Anthony again. A quiet dinner, a bottle of wine and a tactful approach was what she planned. She wouldn't spoil the meal, she would bide her time until Anthony was quite relaxed.

Isabelle reappeared with the piece of paper and Jill scanned the messages. There were four, timed and neatly written in Isabelle's spiky French handwriting. Jill knew she owed the girl an apology, but perversely she didn't feel like offering one. Two calls were from friends of Jill's who had left only their names and said they would ring again. The fourth was from Anthony about the train, and the other one was a message to phone Sheila Colby.

“Did Mrs Colby say what it was about?” Jill asked Isabelle.

“No, but Mrs Colby did not telephone, she came to the house when the children have tea. She looks for you or Mr Hammond. I say you play golf and come home later. I say Mr Hammond works. She says please to telephone. I write the message.”

“Fine, thanks,” said Jill. “I'll phone her. Are you off now?”

“Yes, if I have ended.”

“Finished,” corrected Jill absently, still wondering what the dreadful Colby woman wanted.

“Finished,” repeated Isabelle dutifully. “I go now. I have my key. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

“Have a good time,” said Jill, and pushing Sheila Colby to the back of her mind, turned her attention to the dinner.

Forty minutes later, when there was still no sign of Anthony, she left the supper in a low oven and poured herself another drink. He must have missed the train, she thought with irritation; but why hadn't he phoned? She thought, too, of Sheila Colby.

“I'm not going to ring her now,” Jill decided. “It can't be that urgent. Tomorrow morning will do.” Putting her feet up, she zapped the television into life and waited for Anthony.

When he finally came in, Anthony looked tired and strained. He shed his coat and briefcase on to a chair and pulled his tie loose.

“They say let the train take the strain,” he complained as he took the drink Jill handed him and dropped into his chair, “but then they have points failure outside Swindon and we sit there for over an hour while they sort it out.”

“Why didn't you ring?” asked Jill. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“I couldn't get off the train,” Anthony replied, “and somewhere along the line today I've lost my mobile. It may even be here at home, though I'm sure I took it this morning.”

“Never mind that now,” soothed Jill, switching off the television and heading for the kitchen. “You finish your drink and I'll put the supper on the table. I've opened some wine.”

Anthony looked at her in mild surprise. “Are we celebrating something?” he asked. “What have I forgotten?”

“Nothing, silly,” Jill laughed. “I just thought it would be nice, that's all.”

They were just finishing the meal when the doorbell rang.

“I'll go,” said Jill. “Were you expecting anyone?”

Anthony shook his head. “Don't think so.”

Jill went down to the front door and found Sheila Colby on the doorstep.

“Mrs Hammond! Good evening,” Sheila gushed. “I'm so glad you are home. I did call earlier, but your French girl said you were playing golf.” There was a faint emphasis on the last two words, implying criticism that a woman might so waste her time, and Jill took the inference with a compressing of her lips. She waited in silence on the doorstep and Sheila hurried on. “I did leave a message for you to phone me when you got in, but I don't expect you got it—these foreign girls…” She finished the sentence with a knowing shake of her head.