back entrance either: the yard at the rear ended in a wall with a similar yard on the other side. Trying to get into her house that way would mean walking round to the parallel terrace and asking the owners if she could climb over their wall. Even then, she’d have to break a window, though the kitchen had a small one which would be easier to smash. Still she stood there, thinking.
Nancy, watching, waiting, understood at once.
III
‘ DON’T TELL HIM ,’ Nancy said, ‘never tell him. It might be against the law.’
Tara started to say that she didn’t think having a neighbour’s house key could possibly be against any law, but Mrs Armstrong (not yet known by her Christian name) said you couldn’t be certain. He, the nephew, the landlord, was a nasty bit of work. No examples of nastiness need be given. Her word should be taken for it. So Tara took it.
It turned out that this key had been in Mrs Armstrong’s possession for years and years.
‘I was never asked for it back so I never gave it,’ she said. ‘Nothing wrong with that. That nephew of hers never knew I had it, and she used to have mine. But I saw ahead. Minute Amy fell ill, I got it back. I could see what was coming. Now, don’t you touch it. It might be aiding and abetting. I’ll do it.’
So the key was produced and fitted into the lock and the door creaked open. It went straight back into Nancy’s pocket. Nancy patted it.
‘Safe,’ she said, ‘no harm done.’ After that, refreshment most definitely had to be offered.
‘Please,’ said Tara, ‘let me make you a cup of tea. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I’d have done. Broken a window, I suppose.’
She led the way into the kitchen and put the kettle on, wishing there was somewhere to sit down, but it wasn’t that sort of kitchen. It was for cooking and washing dishes and that was all. Mrs Armstrong stood in the doorway, seeming as uncertain as Tara herself.
‘Not much change,’ she said. ‘It’s how Amy had it.’
Tara wasn’t sure whether this was a criticism or praise. When the tea was made, she said, ‘Shall we go and sit down?’
Mrs Armstrong seemed surprised. ‘No need for any ceremony,’ she said, but followed when the way was led to the living room.
The electric fire was switched on, both bars, but it hardly made any difference to the freezing atmosphere. Gulping her tea, Tara thought longingly of her electric blanket.
Mrs Armstrong didn’t appear to be drinking her tea at all. She perched on the edge of her chair, clutching the cup with both hands and looking into its contents as though she were seeing something other than tea there.
‘You’ve been very kind,’ Tara said. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘He’s been in,’ Mrs Armstrong said. ‘Upstairs too.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Tara said.
‘The nephew, him, the landlord. He came and poked around.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Tara said, ‘last week. He said he would. He left a note.’
‘Did he now?’ Mrs Armstrong said, with a strange kind of emphasis on the ‘did’.
‘Everything was satisfactory apparently,’ Tara said.
‘Oh, I’m sure it was,’ Mrs Armstrong said, nodding in a significant way, though Tara couldn’t begin to understand what this significance was.
The fire was beginning to take the worst of the chill off the room, though not enough completely to clear the dull mist on the inside of the window.
‘You could write your name on that,’ Mrs Armstrong said, pointing to the window. ‘No proper heating, in this day and age. The cold killed Amy, that’s what I believe. He could’ve put central heating in, or them storage heaters, but did he bother? No.’
Tara couldn’t think of a response, but her silence didn’t halt her visitor.
‘It’ll cost you a fortune,’ she went on, ‘having to use the electric. The bills! You’d be better off with gas. Have you thought about gas? Getting him to put gas in?’
Tara shook her head.
‘Well, you should. I’ve
Nancy, watching, waiting, understood at once.
III
‘ DON’T TELL HIM ,’ Nancy said, ‘never tell him. It might be against the law.’
Tara started to say that she didn’t think having a neighbour’s house key could possibly be against any law, but Mrs Armstrong (not yet known by her Christian name) said you couldn’t be certain. He, the nephew, the landlord, was a nasty bit of work. No examples of nastiness need be given. Her word should be taken for it. So Tara took it.
It turned out that this key had been in Mrs Armstrong’s possession for years and years.
‘I was never asked for it back so I never gave it,’ she said. ‘Nothing wrong with that. That nephew of hers never knew I had it, and she used to have mine. But I saw ahead. Minute Amy fell ill, I got it back. I could see what was coming. Now, don’t you touch it. It might be aiding and abetting. I’ll do it.’
So the key was produced and fitted into the lock and the door creaked open. It went straight back into Nancy’s pocket. Nancy patted it.
‘Safe,’ she said, ‘no harm done.’ After that, refreshment most definitely had to be offered.
‘Please,’ said Tara, ‘let me make you a cup of tea. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I’d have done. Broken a window, I suppose.’
She led the way into the kitchen and put the kettle on, wishing there was somewhere to sit down, but it wasn’t that sort of kitchen. It was for cooking and washing dishes and that was all. Mrs Armstrong stood in the doorway, seeming as uncertain as Tara herself.
‘Not much change,’ she said. ‘It’s how Amy had it.’
Tara wasn’t sure whether this was a criticism or praise. When the tea was made, she said, ‘Shall we go and sit down?’
Mrs Armstrong seemed surprised. ‘No need for any ceremony,’ she said, but followed when the way was led to the living room.
The electric fire was switched on, both bars, but it hardly made any difference to the freezing atmosphere. Gulping her tea, Tara thought longingly of her electric blanket.
Mrs Armstrong didn’t appear to be drinking her tea at all. She perched on the edge of her chair, clutching the cup with both hands and looking into its contents as though she were seeing something other than tea there.
‘You’ve been very kind,’ Tara said. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘He’s been in,’ Mrs Armstrong said. ‘Upstairs too.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Tara said.
‘The nephew, him, the landlord. He came and poked around.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Tara said, ‘last week. He said he would. He left a note.’
‘Did he now?’ Mrs Armstrong said, with a strange kind of emphasis on the ‘did’.
‘Everything was satisfactory apparently,’ Tara said.
‘Oh, I’m sure it was,’ Mrs Armstrong said, nodding in a significant way, though Tara couldn’t begin to understand what this significance was.
The fire was beginning to take the worst of the chill off the room, though not enough completely to clear the dull mist on the inside of the window.
‘You could write your name on that,’ Mrs Armstrong said, pointing to the window. ‘No proper heating, in this day and age. The cold killed Amy, that’s what I believe. He could’ve put central heating in, or them storage heaters, but did he bother? No.’
Tara couldn’t think of a response, but her silence didn’t halt her visitor.
‘It’ll cost you a fortune,’ she went on, ‘having to use the electric. The bills! You’d be better off with gas. Have you thought about gas? Getting him to put gas in?’
Tara shook her head.
‘Well, you should. I’ve
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