have to sit at the back. It's jam-packed.'
As if released by his push on the door, there came a sudden burst of voices. He hesitated but then went in with the door lady behind him, nudging him in the small of the back. He sat on a chair immediately inside and looked over the heads towards the platform at the far end. The choir was ranged in a semi-circle: men in bow ties, ladies in long black dresses. At one side was a small orchestra with a stumpy conductor standing on a box. Davies looked about him. Who wanted to meet him here? On e of the singers stepped forward and with a full, lovely contralto began to sing:
He shall feed His flock Like a shepherd ...
It was Jemma.
Davies felt his mouth fall open and he sat back, his eyes riveted. She looked so magnificent in her long black dress, her neck and face warm in the lights. A deep smile snaked across his tired face.
'So. You were surprised?'
'As much as I've ever been.'
She put her thickly coated arm in his as they walked towards the bus stop. 'It's so angelic,' she said. Softly she began to sing again: 'He shall feed His flock ...'
Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum ’ mumbled Davies.
'You didn't bring your car. Dangerous? Mine wouldn't start.'
'Nor mine. Kitty wouldn't let me get in,' admitted Davies. 'He's in a bad mood. I took him down by the canal this afternoon and he's tired.'
They had reached the bus stop. It had begun to rain gently and darkly. No one else was at the stop. They stood below the shelter. 'You're still on the trail then?' she said. 'Lofty.'
He shrugged. 'It niggles me. I talk to people, like I did this afternoon in those industrial units ... I just wanted to know if anybody had seen anything ... I talk to them and I know sometimes they're lying. I can see they are. But about what? Anything almost. People are always lying, especially to the police.' Traffic was sizzling by. The yellow lights of a bus materialized in the distant drizzle.
'Everyone's got a past ’ she pointed out. 'Lofty was no different.' She still had her warm arm in his. The bus splashed alongside the kerb. They boarded it and went to the seats at the front, on the top deck. Apart from two chewing girls in the rear seat, there was no one else.
The conductor appeared, an Indian, not pleased at having to traipse to the front of the bus. 'Sorry, mate ’ said Davies. 'I like pretending I'm the driver.' He made a mime of turning a steering wheel. The man smiled dispiritedly.
When he had gone, Davies said: 'There's one basic thing that doesn't make sense. How that old man came to go into the canal, at the particular place he did, and take the ruddy pram with him.'
'Where's the pram now?' she asked.
'In my garage.'
She stood up. 'Next stop,' she said. 'D'you want to come home? I'll make some coffee.' He was still sitting.
'Is Edie still with you?' he inquired defensively as they went down the bus stairs.
'She's gone ’ said Jemma. 'Poor woman. You should try some compassion. It doesn't cost anything.'
Edie had certainly gone but her place had, to Davies's deep disappointment, been taken by an old man who sat in the same chair and scratched.
'I didn't realize he was coming here tonight ’ Jemma explained. Her eyes came up with a suspicion of an apology. 'Betty, one of the other social workers, must have brought him around after I'd left. I understood he wasn't going to be homeless until tomorrow.'
'Why,' asked Davies moodily, 'didn't Betty take him home with her?'
'Betty's got problems at home,' said Jemma, going into the kitchen. 'Social workers frequently have problems.'
Davies followed her to the kitchen door. It was a small space and he stood close to her. 'I can believe that ’ he said. He turned to study the old man who was busy scratching his chest but then changed his attack to his legs and after that, with a reach like a spider, over his shoulder to his back. 'He's quiet anyway,' he observed. 'Just the sound of his fingernails.'
'You're a very hard man,' she said
As if released by his push on the door, there came a sudden burst of voices. He hesitated but then went in with the door lady behind him, nudging him in the small of the back. He sat on a chair immediately inside and looked over the heads towards the platform at the far end. The choir was ranged in a semi-circle: men in bow ties, ladies in long black dresses. At one side was a small orchestra with a stumpy conductor standing on a box. Davies looked about him. Who wanted to meet him here? On e of the singers stepped forward and with a full, lovely contralto began to sing:
He shall feed His flock Like a shepherd ...
It was Jemma.
Davies felt his mouth fall open and he sat back, his eyes riveted. She looked so magnificent in her long black dress, her neck and face warm in the lights. A deep smile snaked across his tired face.
'So. You were surprised?'
'As much as I've ever been.'
She put her thickly coated arm in his as they walked towards the bus stop. 'It's so angelic,' she said. Softly she began to sing again: 'He shall feed His flock ...'
Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum ’ mumbled Davies.
'You didn't bring your car. Dangerous? Mine wouldn't start.'
'Nor mine. Kitty wouldn't let me get in,' admitted Davies. 'He's in a bad mood. I took him down by the canal this afternoon and he's tired.'
They had reached the bus stop. It had begun to rain gently and darkly. No one else was at the stop. They stood below the shelter. 'You're still on the trail then?' she said. 'Lofty.'
He shrugged. 'It niggles me. I talk to people, like I did this afternoon in those industrial units ... I just wanted to know if anybody had seen anything ... I talk to them and I know sometimes they're lying. I can see they are. But about what? Anything almost. People are always lying, especially to the police.' Traffic was sizzling by. The yellow lights of a bus materialized in the distant drizzle.
'Everyone's got a past ’ she pointed out. 'Lofty was no different.' She still had her warm arm in his. The bus splashed alongside the kerb. They boarded it and went to the seats at the front, on the top deck. Apart from two chewing girls in the rear seat, there was no one else.
The conductor appeared, an Indian, not pleased at having to traipse to the front of the bus. 'Sorry, mate ’ said Davies. 'I like pretending I'm the driver.' He made a mime of turning a steering wheel. The man smiled dispiritedly.
When he had gone, Davies said: 'There's one basic thing that doesn't make sense. How that old man came to go into the canal, at the particular place he did, and take the ruddy pram with him.'
'Where's the pram now?' she asked.
'In my garage.'
She stood up. 'Next stop,' she said. 'D'you want to come home? I'll make some coffee.' He was still sitting.
'Is Edie still with you?' he inquired defensively as they went down the bus stairs.
'She's gone ’ said Jemma. 'Poor woman. You should try some compassion. It doesn't cost anything.'
Edie had certainly gone but her place had, to Davies's deep disappointment, been taken by an old man who sat in the same chair and scratched.
'I didn't realize he was coming here tonight ’ Jemma explained. Her eyes came up with a suspicion of an apology. 'Betty, one of the other social workers, must have brought him around after I'd left. I understood he wasn't going to be homeless until tomorrow.'
'Why,' asked Davies moodily, 'didn't Betty take him home with her?'
'Betty's got problems at home,' said Jemma, going into the kitchen. 'Social workers frequently have problems.'
Davies followed her to the kitchen door. It was a small space and he stood close to her. 'I can believe that ’ he said. He turned to study the old man who was busy scratching his chest but then changed his attack to his legs and after that, with a reach like a spider, over his shoulder to his back. 'He's quiet anyway,' he observed. 'Just the sound of his fingernails.'
'You're a very hard man,' she said
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