Dover cleared a space for himself, unceremoniously dumping piles of nappies, toys, dirty bibs and a large hammer on to the floor, and prepared to listen. Once Mrs Carruthers had established the identity of her early-morning callers she needed little further stimulus.
‘Oh yes, we’ve heard what happened all right. Dreadful, isn’t it? And right next door, too. My brother once knew a fellow who committed suicide but I’ve never been mixed up in anything like this before. It’s awful, isn’t it? They do say her head was beaten in something terrible — brains splashed all round the walls so somebody told my hubbie in the pub last night. Shocking, isn’t it? Poor girl!’ She grabbed a passing infant, hoisted its knickers up for it and sent it on its way with a resounding slap on its bottom without pausing for more than the shortest of breaths. ‘And, of course, as I said to my hubbie, it’s only natural that I should be more upset than the other ladies in the road. I mean, we were quite good pals. My hubbie didn’t like that, you know — me calling her Cynthia and her calling me Elsie. It’s his job, you see. He works at Wibbley’s and naturally he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Mr Wibbley. Well, you can understand that, can’t you? He said he didn’t want to get mixed up in the family’s private affairs and I said, well you’re not, are you? And he said, no, but you are and we had quite a row about it. But I didn’t let it make any difference. I take people as I find them, I do. I always have and I always will and I got on all right with Cynthia. She was a damned sight better company than some of the other old cats living on this estate, that I can tell you. And, as I said to my hubbie, the trouble with you is, I said, you’re like all the rest of them. You can’t see further than the nose on your face. All right, I said, so she’s quarrelled with her father and he’s cut her off with the proverbial shilling so you and all the other people who work at Wibbley’s shun her as though she’s got the proverbial plague. But Mr Wibbley isn’t going to live for ever, is he, I said. One day he’ll pass on and who’ll own Wibbley’s then, I asked. My friend Cynthia will, I said, and maybe she’ll remember them that passed the time of day with her when she was down on her luck. And maybe she won’t, he said. He’s one of that sort, you know. There’s no arguing with him. Marleen! Put that down, darling, it’s too heavy for you and . . . Well, I did tell you, didn’t I, darling? Never mind, I’ll clean it up later. You can’t keep the place decent two minutes together with kids around so you might just as well learn to live with it. Of course I was half joking, really. About Cynthia, I mean. I quite liked her and she was always all right with me. No side or anything, you know. Didn’t try to make you feel inferior like most of the old cats round here do. Talk about keeping up with the Joneses —believe me, that started in Birdsfoot-Trefoil Close! No, funnily enough, it was the other way round, really. Well, I mean, he couldn’t have been bringing home more than about twelve quid a week from that travel agency and she’d about as much idea of managing as flying to the moon. Extravagant? You wouldn’t believe some of the things she used to throw her money away on when she first came here. And as for cooking—well, she all but needed a recipe book to boil an egg with at the beginning. That’s really how we started to get friendly, you see. We used to say good morning, over-the-garden-wall stuff, you know, and then she got to asking my advice about bits of things and before you knew where you were she was popping in here most mornings for a cup of coffee and a bit of a chat. Mind you, she’d do a bit of shopping for me to save me going out and things like that, so there was benefits on both sides. Well, at first we used to talk about cooking and washing and all that sort of thing and what we’d seen on the telly the night before. She was a terror for the telly, she really was! Some of these serial things she used to watch real religiously. She wouldn’t miss them for anything. Of course, they hardly ever went out at all —couldn’t really afford it, poor things—and when you haven’t got a pack of kids under your feet all day you can whip through your housework in no time. And, of course, that was the next thing she started asking my advice about: kids. John-Paul! Give that hat back to the kind gentleman, there’s a good boy! Go on, give it back this minute! Hurry up, I shan’t tell you again, John-Paul! Oh well, yes —it would be better if you kept it on your knees, p’raps. He hasn’t damaged it, has he? Oh? Well, that’ll straighten out all right, I expect. And just stop making that row, John-Paul, and go and play with your sister. He’s got a thing about hats, that kid has. And bowler hats he just can’t resist. The never-never man came round last week and while I was getting the money he gave John-Paul his bowler to play with. Ever such a kind man, he is, and very fond of kiddies. Well, I should hate to tell you what John-Paul did! Quick as a flash he was. Of course, I felt awful but, really, I could hardly keep a straight face. Of course, this chap couldn’t
