his account. I stretched my fingers out and picked up a pen. I would write and sign the cheque in Graham’s handwriting. His handwriting was distinctive, with funny loops on the ‘l’s and the ‘t’s, but for me it was easy to copy. I had been doing it for years. Graham knew usually, it didn’t bother him too much . He was happy for me to take care of the domestic administration, it meant less paperwork for him at home. More time left for him to spend screwing Nikki, maybe.
Pieter shook my hand as he left. ‘Thank you, lady, you need anything else to fix, washerdisher maybe, or even television, you call me, yes. Bye bye.’
***
The local newspaper landed on the mat with a light flutter . I picked it up and headed for the lounge, clutching a glass of wine. The soft cream leather of the sofa murmured as I sat down. I leaned back and closed my eyes. An i mage rushed in - unwelcome - of the girl , Jadie-Lee, her studded nose being pushed into the leather with Daniel grinding atop her and I opened my eyes again quickly.
I took a large swig of wine and reached for the paper. I breathed deeply, and savoured the silence . N o background noise at all . Daniel had gone out in a huf f. I scratched my cheek pensively, heard the scrape of my rough nails down my dry skin . I knew it wasn’t easy for Daniel; he wanted his independence, he didn’t want to be living with his parents, but he was stuck. He couldn’t afford to move out, get a place of his own. Not with the price of property rental in Jersey. He didn’t even have a proper full-time job. He worked as an apprentice plumber, but his boss employed him on an hour-by-hour basis, and those hours were becoming increasingly infrequent. I had suggested to Graham that we should help him out in some way, but Graham had been adamant. ‘ I don’t mind not charging him rent for living at home, I’ll let him off the board, but I’m not paying for him to live in some bachelor pad. He has to learn to stand on his own two feet .’
I flicked to the back pages then stopped. Something on the front page had caught my eye . I turned the newspaper over.
TRAGEDY AT CORBIERE
A man has died in what is believed to be a tragic accident near Corbi è re lighthouse. The man has been identified as Ronald Silber, a holidaymaker from Birmingham . Mr. Silber, a keen ornithologist, was in the island alone, and it is believed that he fell from the rocks on the west side of Corbi è re during the recent bout of stormy weather. His body was found by a local fisherman who spotted Mr. Silber’s hire car parked on the hill nearby. Next of kin have been informed.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, these bloody tourists really need to be careful on the coast, they’re always underestimating our tides, and those rocks can be awfully dangerous,’ I muttered to myself and then began to giggle. I forced myself to stop, it was not right to laugh at another’s tragic misfortune. Then I noticed another article, much smaller, tucked at the corner of the page.
Witnesses sought
The cyclist whose body was found in La Rue de Ma rtie on Wednesday morning has been identified as John Rosslet. The police have not yet disclosed the details of Mr. Rosslet’s death, but they are urging any witnesses to come forward . I n particular, they wish to speak to the driver of a dark four-by-four type vehicle that was seen in the vicinity of La Rue de Ma rtie on Tuesday night at approximately 9 p.m.
Mr. Rosslet was a widower and is survived by a son.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Graham’s voice jolted me harshly from my thoughts .
‘Oh, ummm, well, I’m not too hungry, I was out for lunch. And I’ve only just had the cooker fixed, it was broken. A man came to fix, but it was, well, it wasn’t that long ago, I didn’t have time to prepare anything. But i f you want, I can do you a baked potato or some soup or – ’
‘Great, a bloody baked potato,’ Graham
Pieter shook my hand as he left. ‘Thank you, lady, you need anything else to fix, washerdisher maybe, or even television, you call me, yes. Bye bye.’
***
The local newspaper landed on the mat with a light flutter . I picked it up and headed for the lounge, clutching a glass of wine. The soft cream leather of the sofa murmured as I sat down. I leaned back and closed my eyes. An i mage rushed in - unwelcome - of the girl , Jadie-Lee, her studded nose being pushed into the leather with Daniel grinding atop her and I opened my eyes again quickly.
I took a large swig of wine and reached for the paper. I breathed deeply, and savoured the silence . N o background noise at all . Daniel had gone out in a huf f. I scratched my cheek pensively, heard the scrape of my rough nails down my dry skin . I knew it wasn’t easy for Daniel; he wanted his independence, he didn’t want to be living with his parents, but he was stuck. He couldn’t afford to move out, get a place of his own. Not with the price of property rental in Jersey. He didn’t even have a proper full-time job. He worked as an apprentice plumber, but his boss employed him on an hour-by-hour basis, and those hours were becoming increasingly infrequent. I had suggested to Graham that we should help him out in some way, but Graham had been adamant. ‘ I don’t mind not charging him rent for living at home, I’ll let him off the board, but I’m not paying for him to live in some bachelor pad. He has to learn to stand on his own two feet .’
I flicked to the back pages then stopped. Something on the front page had caught my eye . I turned the newspaper over.
TRAGEDY AT CORBIERE
A man has died in what is believed to be a tragic accident near Corbi è re lighthouse. The man has been identified as Ronald Silber, a holidaymaker from Birmingham . Mr. Silber, a keen ornithologist, was in the island alone, and it is believed that he fell from the rocks on the west side of Corbi è re during the recent bout of stormy weather. His body was found by a local fisherman who spotted Mr. Silber’s hire car parked on the hill nearby. Next of kin have been informed.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, these bloody tourists really need to be careful on the coast, they’re always underestimating our tides, and those rocks can be awfully dangerous,’ I muttered to myself and then began to giggle. I forced myself to stop, it was not right to laugh at another’s tragic misfortune. Then I noticed another article, much smaller, tucked at the corner of the page.
Witnesses sought
The cyclist whose body was found in La Rue de Ma rtie on Wednesday morning has been identified as John Rosslet. The police have not yet disclosed the details of Mr. Rosslet’s death, but they are urging any witnesses to come forward . I n particular, they wish to speak to the driver of a dark four-by-four type vehicle that was seen in the vicinity of La Rue de Ma rtie on Tuesday night at approximately 9 p.m.
Mr. Rosslet was a widower and is survived by a son.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Graham’s voice jolted me harshly from my thoughts .
‘Oh, ummm, well, I’m not too hungry, I was out for lunch. And I’ve only just had the cooker fixed, it was broken. A man came to fix, but it was, well, it wasn’t that long ago, I didn’t have time to prepare anything. But i f you want, I can do you a baked potato or some soup or – ’
‘Great, a bloody baked potato,’ Graham
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