A Clear Conscience by Frances Fyfield Page B

and gifts upon her head, said, come in, come in! and seemed to mean it, whereas she knew she couldn’t come in. Not ever. Not even close.
    T wentyminutes north from Helen’s, forty minutes from Emily’s, accelerating as if scenting home territory, the 59 bus lurched level with the leisure centre. It could have been a million miles from Harrods. This was where she lived, in the maisonette with attics which Joe had wangled from some army connection, next to the park where Damien had died. She was now in the land of the ‘us’, where never a ‘them’ was seen, but the local community had forged a similar version. ‘Them’ was those with houses worth burglary; ‘us’ was those who did it. She felt light hearted, almost light headed, as she took the longer route to the late-night supermarket, avoiding the leisure centre grounds. She had found another place to love, if not a person. Another set of keys, belonging to a voice which did not have the same high, light tone of enquiry that Emily’s did. And a place to clean which was, to Cath’s mind, safer than houses.
    Dark and secret and safe, with a cat and a garden. Down there, without a view, where she could make everything shine, and Joe would never know where she was.
    W hen Emily phoned Alistair in a slight state of panic at seven to say, darling, could you possibly remember exactly who the hell is coming to supper, he consulted his diary and said he did not know.
    â€˜Where did they come from?’ Emily asked, wildly.
    â€˜I really don’t know. Are they friends of mine, or friends of yours?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Listen, darling, are you ready to come home?’
    â€˜Not quite. Need to talk to the other junior in Monday’s thing. Matter of fact, I’d arranged to meet him for a drink. Is that all right with you?’ he added, anxiously.
    Emily was glad to have a husband as uxorious as this, but there were times when his delays irritated, even though she did not really want him home yet. She did not care whether he met a colleague in a pub or a playground. It was a different sense of anger, fuelled by the fact that although Cath had been there, labouring all day, the house remained doggedly out of control, with Emily, as usual, inexplicably relieved to be rid of her. Emily stood on the first-floor landing and yelled, her voice drowning the racket of a fight below.
    â€˜Quiet,you downstairs, just bloody shut it, will you?’ Then on a lower scale, no less authoritative, in a voice sounding more like a growl she abandoned the subtle approach.
    â€˜Help required here, you bunch of little sods! All hands to the mast! Those who do as they’re told get to stay up watching this perfectly wonderful video I’ve got. Loads of sex and violence. Those who don’t, go to bed. And that means you, Jane. Mark, your surfboard is going out of the window, now. Jane, do you hear me?’
    It was a long, skinny house where voices echoed. Three children, fifteen, twelve and nine, stood in the hall looking up as their mother came down.
    â€˜Ah, there you all are,’ she said in mock surprise. ‘Dad’s in the pub,’ she announced, casually. They looked at her, wide-eyed, expectant, suspicious, trusting.
    â€˜So will someone lay the tables, please. For eight. I want the knives and forks, one big knife, one little one, not from the kitchen drawer, all in straight lines. Two wine glasses each. And I want both bathrooms tidy. If you please. Oh, and while we’re at it, can anyone remember if I wrote down the names of the people who are coming?’ There was the sound of a small stampede as they disappeared. She had, after all, taught them everything they knew about bribes. She had not really needed the help; simply needed to look at them, check they were still there.
    T he oh-so-busy Lizzies and the vivid, purple lobelia, balm to the spirit, bloomed on a preternaturally hot July