translation to the big screen. We had to put on an extra performance of our production. It was so popular.”
“Where do you perform?”
“At the Little Theatre in Rokesby Green, about four miles away. Our next production’s an Agatha Christie. The Murder at the Vicarage. As I live in the old vicarage, they all thought it’d be quite a hoot if I played the vicar’s wife—Griselda Clement. How could I refuse?” She laughed. “We had a read-through at my house last Tuesday, but there isn’t enough room there to set up a stage—even an imaginary one—and no one has anything larger.”
I sat back in my chair. The more I thought about this idea, the more I liked it. I’d never had the confidence myself to tread the boards but the thought of having a bunch of my neighbors trooping in and out agreed with me. Besides, it was about time I started meeting people and making friends. With my shyness, I never found that easy, but I did have my fallback coping mechanism to help me. It had been a long time since I’d needed her.
“I assume you have an interval while you’re rehearsing? I could make tea and coffee. Biscuits maybe?”
“Oh, we couldn’t impose on you for that, and I’m afraid we can’t afford to pay much rent either. These productions are a lot of fun, and a lot of hard work too, but they barely cover their costs, even though we usually have very good houses. It’s the rent of the Little Theatre, you see.”
“I’m not charging you. It’ll be a pleasure. And, besides, you’ve solved the problem of what to do with the second floor.”
Shona stared at me, her mouth slightly open. “Oh, that is so generous of you, Maddie. The society will be thrilled. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.” I didn’t tell her I was already planning to bake a lemon drizzle cake. Neil’s favorite. I hadn’t made it since he left. Come to think of it, I hadn’t baked anything since we split up. Memories of fresh bread, roasting meat, and biscuits hot from the oven floated back. I had spent hours in the kitchen when we were married; when I was happy in my ignorance of Neil’s infidelity. Afterwards, I no longer had the heart for it.
The house felt empty when Shona went home. Perhaps I should think about hiring a live-in housekeeper. At least then, at night, when the lights were off, timbers creaked, and the shadows lengthened, I wouldn’t be alone. But what would she do all day? When I’d worked in the bookshop, I’d been too busy to bother with any real hobbies, other than reading and following my favorite soaps on TV. But now? Maybe it wasn’t a housekeeper I needed at all. A companion. I shuddered at the thought. Companions were for old, lonely, sad spinsters. I was none of those.
As I settled down in front of the television, I looked forward to the theater group’s rehearsal nights. Maybe it would also stop my stupid fears of the upper floors.
I was watching some inane sitcom on TV when the doorbell sounded. I glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I was quickly learning that, in a place like Priory St. Michael, that didn’t really count for anything. People had a habit of turning up, unannounced and uninvited. They’d probably even tried the door handle first to see if it was open. If it had been, they would have wandered in and thought nothing of it. But I’d spent too long living in a city to be so trusting of my fellow residents.
I opened the door and stared at the familiar, but unusually disheveled figure on the doorstep. His shirt was creased, his graying hair had grown long over his collar and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. When he spoke, he seemed to struggle to raise the hint of a smile, and his feeble effort stopped at the corners of his mouth. His eyes had lost their former sparkle and he seemed to have aged a decade, not a mere three years.
“Hello, Maddie. Long time, no see.”
“Neil. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, come on, aren’t
“Where do you perform?”
“At the Little Theatre in Rokesby Green, about four miles away. Our next production’s an Agatha Christie. The Murder at the Vicarage. As I live in the old vicarage, they all thought it’d be quite a hoot if I played the vicar’s wife—Griselda Clement. How could I refuse?” She laughed. “We had a read-through at my house last Tuesday, but there isn’t enough room there to set up a stage—even an imaginary one—and no one has anything larger.”
I sat back in my chair. The more I thought about this idea, the more I liked it. I’d never had the confidence myself to tread the boards but the thought of having a bunch of my neighbors trooping in and out agreed with me. Besides, it was about time I started meeting people and making friends. With my shyness, I never found that easy, but I did have my fallback coping mechanism to help me. It had been a long time since I’d needed her.
“I assume you have an interval while you’re rehearsing? I could make tea and coffee. Biscuits maybe?”
“Oh, we couldn’t impose on you for that, and I’m afraid we can’t afford to pay much rent either. These productions are a lot of fun, and a lot of hard work too, but they barely cover their costs, even though we usually have very good houses. It’s the rent of the Little Theatre, you see.”
“I’m not charging you. It’ll be a pleasure. And, besides, you’ve solved the problem of what to do with the second floor.”
Shona stared at me, her mouth slightly open. “Oh, that is so generous of you, Maddie. The society will be thrilled. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.” I didn’t tell her I was already planning to bake a lemon drizzle cake. Neil’s favorite. I hadn’t made it since he left. Come to think of it, I hadn’t baked anything since we split up. Memories of fresh bread, roasting meat, and biscuits hot from the oven floated back. I had spent hours in the kitchen when we were married; when I was happy in my ignorance of Neil’s infidelity. Afterwards, I no longer had the heart for it.
The house felt empty when Shona went home. Perhaps I should think about hiring a live-in housekeeper. At least then, at night, when the lights were off, timbers creaked, and the shadows lengthened, I wouldn’t be alone. But what would she do all day? When I’d worked in the bookshop, I’d been too busy to bother with any real hobbies, other than reading and following my favorite soaps on TV. But now? Maybe it wasn’t a housekeeper I needed at all. A companion. I shuddered at the thought. Companions were for old, lonely, sad spinsters. I was none of those.
As I settled down in front of the television, I looked forward to the theater group’s rehearsal nights. Maybe it would also stop my stupid fears of the upper floors.
I was watching some inane sitcom on TV when the doorbell sounded. I glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I was quickly learning that, in a place like Priory St. Michael, that didn’t really count for anything. People had a habit of turning up, unannounced and uninvited. They’d probably even tried the door handle first to see if it was open. If it had been, they would have wandered in and thought nothing of it. But I’d spent too long living in a city to be so trusting of my fellow residents.
I opened the door and stared at the familiar, but unusually disheveled figure on the doorstep. His shirt was creased, his graying hair had grown long over his collar and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. When he spoke, he seemed to struggle to raise the hint of a smile, and his feeble effort stopped at the corners of his mouth. His eyes had lost their former sparkle and he seemed to have aged a decade, not a mere three years.
“Hello, Maddie. Long time, no see.”
“Neil. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, come on, aren’t
Similar Books
