her shoulder as she opened the fridge, 'Would this be her mother's brother or her father's that passed away?'
'Her mother's youngest brother, not much older than Margaret, in fact,' Kincaid said glibly. 'They were very close.'
Mrs. Wilson spoke with her back to Kincaid, slicing something he couldn't see. 'No family's ever had anything to do with her since she came here. Might as well be an orphan.'
'Well, at least she's had her boyfriend to look after her,' Kincaid threw out.
'Him!' Mrs. Wilson turned around and fixed Kincaid with a beady stare. 'That one never looked after anything but himself, I can tell you. Sponging, more like it.' She turned back to her slicing. 'Too pretty for his own good, and oily with it. What he sees in her,' she lifted her head toward the ceiling, 'I don't know.' She wiped her hands on her apron and presented Kincaid with a plate of squashy, if edible looking, ham and tomato sandwiches. 'That do?'
'Admirably, thanks.'
Having finished her task, Mrs. Wilson seemed disinclined to let him go. She lit another cigarette and propped her hip up on the edge of the table. Kincaid looked away from the sight of her spreading thigh and settled his weight back into the chair.
Mrs. Wilson took up her train of thought again. 'I've told her I don't want him hanging around here, nor spending the night. Gives my house a bad name, don't it?'
Kincaid assumed the question was rhetorical, but answered it placatingly anyway. 'I'm sure no one would think such a thing, Mrs. Wilson.'
Mrs. Wilson preened a bit at this, and leaned toward him conspiratorially. 'She thinks I don't know what's going on, but I do. I hear him come padding down the stairs at all hours of the night, like a thief. And I hear the rows, too,' a pause while she inhaled and sent a cloud of smoke in the direction of Kincaid's face, 'mostly him shouting and her wailing like a lamb led to slaughter. Silly cow,' Mrs. Wilson finished with a snort. 'I imagine she puts up with it 'cause she thinks she won't do any better.'
Charitable old bitch, Kincaid thought, and smiled at her. 'Then I don't suppose he's much comfort to her, at a time like this?'
'Not been here to comfort, or for anything else. Not since…' Mrs. Wilson squinted and drew on the last of her cigarette, then ground it out in the cheap tin ashtray. 'Oh, must have been Thursday tea-time. He stormed out of here in a terrible temper. Near ripped the door off its hinges. But then,' she shifted her weight as she thought and the table creaked in protest, 'Thursday night is Ladies' Night down at the pub and I was out till closing. If he came back later they were quiet enough making it up.'
Kincaid decided he'd exhausted Mrs. Wilson's information for the time being, as well as his patience. He stood up and retrieved the sandwiches. 'I don't want these to go stale, and I'd better be seeing about Margaret. I'm sure she'll appreciate your help, Mrs. Wilson. You've been very kind.'
'Ta,' she said, and wiggled her fingers at him coquettishly.
'Success,' Kincaid said when Margaret let him in again. In his absence she had tidied the bed and the scattered clothing, brushed her hair, and put on some pale pink lipstick. Her smile was less tentative, and he thought the time spent alone had brought her some composure.
Margaret's eyes widened as she saw the plate of sandwiches. 'I can't believe it! She's never so much as loaned me a tea bag.'
'I appealed to her better instincts.'
'Didn't know she had any,' Margaret snorted, taking the plate from Kincaid. Then she froze, her face crumpling with distress. 'You didn't tell her-'
'No.' Kincaid rescued the tilting plate and set it on the table. 'I told a pack of lies. You've just lost your favorite uncle, your mother's youngest brother, in case Mrs. W. asks.'
'But she doesn't have-' Margaret's face cleared. 'Oh. Sorry.' She smiled at Kincaid. 'I guess I'm a little dense today. Thanks.'
'Partly hunger, I imagine. Let's get you fed.' The electric kettle whistled. Two mugs with tea bags sat ready be-side it. Kincaid poured the tea and settled Margaret in the armchair, then pulled up the sash of the single window and leaned against the sill. As Margaret started on a sandwich, he said, 'You'd better tell me about your family, after all the terrible things I made up.'
'Woking,' said Margaret, through a mouthful of ham and tomato. She swallowed and tried again. 'Dorking. Sorry. I didn't realize I was so hungry.' She took a smaller bite and chewed a moment before continuing. 'I'm from Dorking. My dad owns a garage. I kept his books for him, looked after things.'
Kincaid could easily imagine her managing a smaller, more familiar world, where here in London she seemed so vulnerable. 'What happened?'
Margaret shrugged and wiped the corner of her mouth with a finger. 'Nothing ever changed. I could see myself doing the same thing in twenty years, living bits and pieces of other people's lives. My dad's business, my sister's kids-'
'How did they take it?'
Margaret smiled, mocking herself. 'I'm the plain one, so they never expected me to want anything different. I should have been content to have Dad's customers pat me and pay me stupid compliments, to be Aunt Meg and look after Kath's kids whenever she had something better to do.'
'They were furious.' Kincaid grinned and Margaret smiled back a little unwillingly.
'Yes.'
'How long has it been?'
Margaret finished the last sandwich and licked the tips of her fingers, then rubbed them dry on her sweatpants. 'Eighteen months now.'
'And no one's been to see you in all that time?'
She flushed and said hotly, 'That malicious old biddy. I'd swear she keeps a list of anyone who-' Margaret dropped her head into her hands and leaned forward. 'Oh Christ, what difference does it make? I feel sick.'
Too much food, thought Kincaid, eaten too quickly on an empty stomach. 'Keep your head down. It'll pass.' He spied a worn face flannel and towel, folded on a shelf above the bed. 'Where's the loo?' he asked Margaret.
'Next landing,' she said indistinctly, her face now pressed against her knees.
Kincaid took the flannel downstairs and soaked it in cold water, and when he returned Margaret raised her head just long enough to press the cloth against her face. He moved restlessly to the window, wishing he had Gemma's skill at offering practical comfort.
The view-a small, weedy garden with an enormous pair of overalls swinging on the line-didn't hold his attention for long. Turning back to the room, Kincaid took note of Margaret's few possessions. The table held a handful of cheap jewelry in a dish, and a few cosmetic and lotion bottles. Next to the gas ring were a chipped plate and bowl, a saucepan and some cutlery. All the utensils were jumble sale quality, the cheapest necessities for a first move from home. The shelf above the bed held a radio, some dogeared paperbacks, and a framed photograph.
Kincaid stepped closer to study it. An older man, balding and hearty-looking in a tweed jacket, arm around his wife's slender shoulders, the three grown children grouped before them. A brother and sister, blond, good-looking, both radiating assurance, and between them Margaret, hair askew, smile lopsided.
'Mum and Dad, Kathleen, and my brother, Tommy.'
Kincaid made an effort to wipe any sympathy from his face before he turned. Margaret watched him, waiting, he sensed, for some expected comment. Instead, he sat down on the bed and said, 'It must have been tough, those first few months on your own.'
'It was.' Margaret looked down at the damp flannel in her hands and began folding it into smaller and smaller squares. 'There wasn't anyone until I met Jasmine. I got a job in the typing pool in the Planning Office. When I did work for her she was always kind to me, but not'-a pause while she thought-'familiar, if you know what I mean.' She looked up at Kincaid for assent, and he nodded. 'A little distant. But then she got ill. She took leave for treatment, and when she came back you could tell she'd gone down, but no one spoke to her about it. They all acted like her illness didn't exist.' Margaret looked up at him through her pale lashes and smiled a little at her own nerve. 'So I asked her. Every day I'd say 'How are you?' or 'What are they giving you now?' and after a while she
