got gas. Warms the room lovely. Used to the warm, were you?’
‘Sorry?’ said Tara.
‘Where you were, before, you were used to the warm.’
It was said as a statement, not a question. She wondered for a second how to reply to it. Yes, she’d been warm. Nobody suffered from cold temperatures even if from many other things about the conditions. Funny, she hadn’t appreciated the warmth,how civilised it was always to be comfortably warm even in the depths of winter. She had a quick flash of the snow falling outside the high, narrow skylight, how pretty it had looked, how it made her long to be outside in the cold and not inside, in the warm. But Mrs Armstrong was waiting, watching her. What had the question, no, the non-question been?
‘Yes,’ Tara said, ‘I was used to rooms being quite warm, but I manage, I don’t mind.’
‘Thermal underwear,’ Mrs Armstrong said, ‘that’s the way to deal with it. It’s pricey, but there’s nothing like it, November to May, April if we’re lucky. You should get yourself some.’
‘Thank you,’ Tara said.
How many times had she already thanked this woman? It was so feeble to go on saying it. She should show some interest in Mrs Armstrong, be friendly. Be friendly … How was it done? She’d forgotten.
‘Have you lived in your house long?’ she found herself asking, sounding like the Queen. Hearing herself saying it, feeling quite pleased with how interested it sounded, without being too inquisitive, she repeated a variation. ‘I was just wondering if you’d lived in this street a long time.’
‘Forty-eight years,’ Mrs Armstrong said, with obvious pride.
‘Goodness,’ Tara said.
A sense of achievement glowed in Mrs Armstrong’s face. ‘Forty-eight years. 1966, May second. It was raining.’
‘Goodness,’ Tara said, again, ‘that
is
a long time.’
‘I’ll only leave feet first, in a box.’
Neither ‘wow’ nor ‘goodness’ would do in answer to that.
‘Not for a long time – years, I hope,’ Tara said.
To which Mrs Armstrong replied, ‘There’s no telling.’
Her tea had only been sipped. Tara could see the cup was still almost full. Oh God, how could she carry on, trying for small talk, exhausted already with the strain. But Mrs Armstrong showed no sign of moving. She sat with her legs slightly apart, her coat buttoned up, her headscarf tightly tied under her chin, staring at Tara. It was, Tara decided, a challenging stare, daring her, but daring her to do what? Come up with another banal query? What? Then she realised that quite likely Mrs Armstrong was waiting for her to tell her something about herself. There should be some sort of exchange, surely. Something to match the revelation that Mrs Armstrong had lived in her house for forty-eight years. She wasn’t going to ask directly, but she would be wanting to know why she, Tara – no, Sarah – had come to live here, and how long she was going to stay.
Maybe there was something wrong with the tea.
‘Would you like more milk, more sugar?’ Tara asked, indicating the undrunk tea.
Mrs Armstrong shook her head. ‘You’ve put a blind up, in the bedroom,’ she said.
Did she say it accusingly? Tara wasn’t sure.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I prefer a blind. It lets in more light.’
‘They were good-quality curtains,’ Mrs Armstrong said. ‘Kept the cold out.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Tara said.
This could not go on. At the rate the tea was being sipped there would be another half-hour of this torment. Then, suddenly, in a tremendous gulp, the tea vanished down Mrs Armstrong’s strong throat.
‘I’ll have to go, I can’t stop,’ she said.
Tara was on her feet instantly, full of more thank-yous, endlessly expressing her gratitude, and they were at the front door, and it was over.
She went straight to bed, curling up under the duvet, weak with the effort of trying to be friendly.
Nancy had made sure that she brought the key for Amy’s house back with her. She put
‘Sorry?’ said Tara.
‘Where you were, before, you were used to the warm.’
It was said as a statement, not a question. She wondered for a second how to reply to it. Yes, she’d been warm. Nobody suffered from cold temperatures even if from many other things about the conditions. Funny, she hadn’t appreciated the warmth,how civilised it was always to be comfortably warm even in the depths of winter. She had a quick flash of the snow falling outside the high, narrow skylight, how pretty it had looked, how it made her long to be outside in the cold and not inside, in the warm. But Mrs Armstrong was waiting, watching her. What had the question, no, the non-question been?
‘Yes,’ Tara said, ‘I was used to rooms being quite warm, but I manage, I don’t mind.’
‘Thermal underwear,’ Mrs Armstrong said, ‘that’s the way to deal with it. It’s pricey, but there’s nothing like it, November to May, April if we’re lucky. You should get yourself some.’
‘Thank you,’ Tara said.
How many times had she already thanked this woman? It was so feeble to go on saying it. She should show some interest in Mrs Armstrong, be friendly. Be friendly … How was it done? She’d forgotten.
‘Have you lived in your house long?’ she found herself asking, sounding like the Queen. Hearing herself saying it, feeling quite pleased with how interested it sounded, without being too inquisitive, she repeated a variation. ‘I was just wondering if you’d lived in this street a long time.’
‘Forty-eight years,’ Mrs Armstrong said, with obvious pride.
‘Goodness,’ Tara said.
A sense of achievement glowed in Mrs Armstrong’s face. ‘Forty-eight years. 1966, May second. It was raining.’
‘Goodness,’ Tara said, again, ‘that
is
a long time.’
‘I’ll only leave feet first, in a box.’
Neither ‘wow’ nor ‘goodness’ would do in answer to that.
‘Not for a long time – years, I hope,’ Tara said.
To which Mrs Armstrong replied, ‘There’s no telling.’
Her tea had only been sipped. Tara could see the cup was still almost full. Oh God, how could she carry on, trying for small talk, exhausted already with the strain. But Mrs Armstrong showed no sign of moving. She sat with her legs slightly apart, her coat buttoned up, her headscarf tightly tied under her chin, staring at Tara. It was, Tara decided, a challenging stare, daring her, but daring her to do what? Come up with another banal query? What? Then she realised that quite likely Mrs Armstrong was waiting for her to tell her something about herself. There should be some sort of exchange, surely. Something to match the revelation that Mrs Armstrong had lived in her house for forty-eight years. She wasn’t going to ask directly, but she would be wanting to know why she, Tara – no, Sarah – had come to live here, and how long she was going to stay.
Maybe there was something wrong with the tea.
‘Would you like more milk, more sugar?’ Tara asked, indicating the undrunk tea.
Mrs Armstrong shook her head. ‘You’ve put a blind up, in the bedroom,’ she said.
Did she say it accusingly? Tara wasn’t sure.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I prefer a blind. It lets in more light.’
‘They were good-quality curtains,’ Mrs Armstrong said. ‘Kept the cold out.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Tara said.
This could not go on. At the rate the tea was being sipped there would be another half-hour of this torment. Then, suddenly, in a tremendous gulp, the tea vanished down Mrs Armstrong’s strong throat.
‘I’ll have to go, I can’t stop,’ she said.
Tara was on her feet instantly, full of more thank-yous, endlessly expressing her gratitude, and they were at the front door, and it was over.
She went straight to bed, curling up under the duvet, weak with the effort of trying to be friendly.
Nancy had made sure that she brought the key for Amy’s house back with her. She put
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