The Lives of Women by Christine Dwyer Hickey Page A

The attic. That house has a huge attic. They never converted it.’
    She nods and then: ‘We never heard from them after, you know. Not a word. They just upped and went and… Not a word.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜What do you call that candelabra thing? Shaped like a spade?’
    â€˜A menorah.’
    â€˜That’s right. A menorah. Why would they leave that behind if it meant so much to Mr Shillman? Apart from anything else, it must be worth a packet.’
    She looks at her scarf again, turns it once or twice in her hands, then blurts, ‘I saw the haversack.’
    I take the biscuit tin off the top shelf.
    â€˜Elaine?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’m saying, I saw the haversack.’
    â€˜A haversack,’ I say, ‘is a haversack. Could be anyone’s from over the years. One of those tenants you mentioned.’
    â€˜I saw it on the lawn and a couple of days later when I went in—’
    â€˜You went in?’
    I slide a few biscuits onto the plate and then come back to her.
    â€˜Just to the garden.’
    â€˜You went in, Brenda?’
    â€˜The workmen were gone home. Nobody saw me. I found it in the shed. It wasn’t as if I was breaking in – there’s no lock on the door. The badges were on it. All the cities he was going to visit? Remember? It was Karl’s haversack, I’m telling you.’
    â€˜You didn’t take it – did you?’
    â€˜No. Of course not. I didn’t touch it.’
    â€˜Did you look inside?’
    â€˜No! No, I didn’t fucking look inside. I couldn’t look inside. I couldn’t touch it.’
    â€˜All right, Brenda, Jesus, take it easy will you?’
    â€˜But what if there is anything inside it, Elaine? What if…?’
    We stand staring at each other. She is waiting for me to say something, to tell her what we should do. I can think of nothing to say. I can think of nothing but the small, cold eel twisting around in my stomach.
    Lynette comes to my rescue then, popping her broad brown face around the door, smiling her mile-wide smile. ‘All happy now,’ she says, ‘concert time.’
    â€˜Oh, good. This is Brenda, by the way, a neighbour.’
    â€˜Ahhh, a neighbour. A
neighbour
. I think sometimes all houses maybe empty around here.’
    She gives us one of her sideways waves, disappears back out to the hall and there is the lonely sound of the front door clicking behind her.
    â€˜See you tomorrow,’ I call after her.
    Â 
    The first few piano notes tip into the house. We listen.
    â€˜He still plays then?’ Brenda asks.
    â€˜Every evening for a couple of hours. He’s no trouble really.’
    â€˜What does he play?’
    â€˜His scales for a while. Then whatever happens to be next in the pile.’
    I pour the tea, pass a mug across the counter to her. Then hold the milk carton over the mug—
    â€˜Leave it now, Brenda. There’s no point. It’s too late.’
    â€˜I’m just saying, I saw it, that’s all.’
    â€˜Fine, you saw it. But forget it now.’
    She sighs. ‘You wouldn’t have a drink – would you? Something a bit stronger than tea?’
    â€˜We don’t keep drink in the house any more, I’m afraid.’
    I pour the milk into the mugs.
    â€˜No? Not even a drop of brandy or something? Not even for medicinal purposes?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜How times change.’ She gives a sad and slightly sarcastic smile then begins to put her scarf back around her neck.
    She stands and goes to the window looking out towards the Shillman house as though checking out the view. But these gardens are long and heavily shrubbed and, at this level anyhow, there is nothing to see.
    â€˜Jesus, though,’ she says then, ‘it makes you think about it – doesn’t it? It makes you—’
    â€˜Only if you allow it.’
    â€˜Oh, come on. You’re not saying you