Janette Turner Hospital Collected Stories by Janette Turner Hospital

students. An elderly couple.
    An elderly couple! Wonderful!
    â€œAnyone we know?”
    The Hamiltons didn’t think so.
    â€œMoving here from somewhere else? Retiring?”
    Yes, probably retiring. The Hamiltons were not sure.
    â€œI’m so glad for the rhubarb. And your roses. Such a relief, only two people moving in. We were rather worried, you know, Arthur and I.”
    Well, actually … more than two, perhaps. The agent had said something about a married son and a married daughter …
    â€œGood gracious! All in the same house? Very odd, isn’t it?”
    Yes, a bit unusual perhaps.
    â€œUniversity people?”
    No. The Hamiltons thought not. A restaurant, they believed. Family business. Something like that.
    Well, at least a family. Six people. It could have been so much worse.
    Not six exactly, the Hamiltons confessed. The young couples had some children.
    â€œHow many children?”
    Five in all, they believed.
    Mrs Phillips concentrated on her tea, swallowing hot sweet comfort. Ada Watts leaned forward and jabbed the air with one of her canes. “What is the name of these people?”
    Mrs Hamilton looked mournfully at her husband who looked at his hands. “We couldn’t help it,” he said apologetically. “We haven’t even met them, you know. Agent arranged everything. Property taxes due on both places, you know. We had to have the money. They met our price. There was nothing we could do.”
    Mrs Phillips proffered her teapot. “You mustn’t think anyone is blaming you. These things happen.”
    The cane rapped out the question again: “What is the name?”
    â€œThe name is Wong.”
    â€œI knew it! I knew it!” Ada Watts gave a snort, part triumph at being undeceivable, part battle cry. “The Wongs, I suppose? Own half the real estate in town!”
    Yes, the Hamiltons admitted forlornly. Those Wongs.
    Ada Watts gyrated between her canes into an upright position. “First the Frisbees, now the soy sauce!” She stumped toward the front door and turned to admonish them all with one of her canes. “They’ll tack on dormers and annexes, you know. They’ll turn your house into a jigsaw puzzle. We won’t see the block for boarders and parked cars.” She pounded the hallway carpet with her cane. “They are trying to buy us all out, of course. First they’ll drive us crazy, then they’ll drive us out. Well, we shall see who gives in first! We shall see who the survivors are! Lovely seedcake, Mrs Phillips. We must do this again.”
    The crocuses came and went, and then the moving vans, and then the lilacs. The summer annuals would last for months and so would the Frisbees and footballs. And so would the music. Forever, it seemed. If you could call it music. A cacophony of stereo decibels and drums and shrieking voices and bass vibrations that invaded the house even through the storm windows, setting the delicate nerves of the harpsichord on edge. Of course, Mrs Phillips reminded herself, with students it would have been exactly the same. Their kind of music. She simply had not had to deal with it stuttering up through the floorboards before, attacking the very ground she walked on. Thump, thump, vibrate. She would rather share her stairwell.
    She spoke to the Cotters over the back fence as they both clipped off the last of the wilting peony blossoms and staked their tomatoes.
    â€œI think I am going to buy a condominium after all.”
    â€œWhat’s that you say?” Arthur Cotter asked, his hands full of mulch.
    â€œA condominium. It’s their radio. I simply cannot live with it. I’ve sealed up all the windows and I can shut out the sound, but I can still feel it.”
    â€œThey’re in our tomatoes too, you know. I’ve got something for it.”
    â€œNo, no. The radio. I’m going to move, I think.”
    Arthur Cotter cupped his ear toward her.