Shadow Play by Frances Fyfield Page A

Sylvie into you with him hanging around the place, can I?’
    â€˜Why ever not?’ Margaret asked, stupidly.
    â€˜Don’t you know? You must know, surely?’
    But the look on Margaret’s face confirmed an incredible level of ignorance of anything to Logo’s detriment. She clearly did not understand that there was anything more than the merely indistinct vibrations of embarrassment which Logo attracted from his neighbours. For pinching the odd spade out of a garden, Margaret thought defensively; for looking through their rubbish bags like the scavenger he was. He was only a little bit crazy, poor Logo, and nobody likes anybody who carries a black Bible around with them, the reverse of a talisman. This wasn’t a wicked neighbourhood, but it was godless. Margaret braced herself. If he looked like the son of hers who never was, Logo was her problem: she certainly didn’t want him to be anyone else’s.
    â€˜No, he isn’t my kin, but I’ve lived next door to him and his family, when he had a family, for nigh on twenty years, so I know him better than anybody, you might say. It was when his wife and his daughter went off, you see, only a year or two since, that he went a bit barmy. You shouldn’t take offence at him, he’s all right really. Gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he’s been good to me, really. Ever so good.’
    The younger woman’s cross-examining glance was so sharp, Margaret thought for a second that the powder would be stripped off her own face. She always wore face powder, just a little, to correspond with the talcum on her body: she dressed and undressed in a shower of sweet-smelling dust and she tried to keep herself decent. It was her own compensation for age, infirmity, the bad hip for which treatment had never been successful, and as far as compensations went, it worked. Margaret Mellors, with her cakelike face, neat little frame and her almost edible gentleness, was never less than easy on the eye.
    â€˜Someone said,’ the woman was saying, trying to keep the aggression from her voice, ‘he’s been arrested ever so many times. But he always gets off.’
    Margaret rallied, she did not raise her voice because she never felt the need.
    â€˜Well, that’ll be because he never actually does anything. He’s always looking for some kid who looks like his daughter used to look, don’t know what she looks like now, but that’s what he does. Silly, but he does it …’
    Her voice was fading softly into nothing. She knew as she spoke, with the child pulling on the shopping bags and dragging her sideways, that any attempt to explain or excuse the enigmas of Logo were useless. She had better try another route.
    â€˜Never mind what he does, it hardly matters,’ she said. ‘Anyway whatever gave you the idea he was ever in my house during the day? He does work, you know, after his fashion, but oh no, he’s never in my place. Never. He’s out with his trolley.’
    It was almost the truth and she meant it to be the truth. She paused for dramatic effect. ‘Never,’ she added, with quiet emphasis, feeling disloyal as she spoke, but still determined. The child began to move again, re-creating the humming sound, but louder, until it became a kind of growling. The mother looked at her in alarm.
    â€˜I’m a dog, really,’ the child announced.
    â€˜Of course you are,’ Margaret murmured comfortably. ‘Are you a big dog or a little dog? Only they make different noises. Wouldn’t you be better as a cat?’
    The mother’s last defences were gone. Some persuasion had been necessary, but not much.
    â€˜Listen, if you could … Only I’ve got so much to get, and she’s a nightmare round the shops—’
    â€˜Of course I’ll have her if it helps. You just relax, you look a bit tired. Late-night shopping, isn’t it? You’ll be able to get a lot