Alison said quietly. ‘Dad’s still asleep, you know.’
Considering she was almost a teenager, Holly was pretty perky for a Saturday morning, already dressed in cut-off jeans and leggings with a loose black Beatles T-shirt. Holly lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘Mum, she’s waiting downstairs. She was pretty shouty.’ Alison came back into the bedroom and replied, ‘I’m pretty sure whatever it is can wait until I’m dressed.’
Holly glanced around the room as Alison slipped on underwear, jeans and a long-sleeved top. ‘Mum …’ at her mother’s dressing table, tugging distractedly at her messy ponytail, bangles gently jangling. ‘Why do you have all these pictures of olden-days dead people getting married?’
Alison looked over to where Holly’s eyes had come to rest. She’d never thought of the photos like that before. She’d been collecting them for years, black and white photos of couples on their wedding days, the more awkward-looking the better. Her friend Carla had sent her one she’d picked up in Portobello market, a very young bride with too-large shoes, who looked like Olive Oyl, her chunky older husband looking down at her adoringly. She’d framed each photoin a junk-shop frame and mounted them around her mirror. There was no way of knowing whether any of the couples were still alive now, but if they were they’d certainly be very old.
‘I just like them,’ Alison said. ‘Don’t you think they’re interesting?’
Holly didn’t pause for a second. ‘No, Mum. I don’t – I think they’re creepy. Are you ready yet?’
Alison and Holly walked downstairs and there was Janet from next door, still waiting on the doorstep, the front door open. Janet was a stout woman of about fifty, with ruddy cheeks and carefully curled ash blonde hair; in Alison’s view she wasn’t a patch on Sally, her old friend and neighbour who’d moved out the previous summer.
‘Hi Janet,’ Alison said, clipping the front part of her hair back with a kirby grip. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘Your dog,’ said Janet, her flush deepening as she struggled to even get the words out. ‘Just come and look at what he’s done.’
Alison and Holly followed Janet as she marched back towards her house in her high heels, sending bits of gravel flying. She led them down the side passageway between their two houses, past her living room window with its ruched coral curtains, into her back garden. Alison hadn’t seen the next-door garden since Sally had left – but Janet and her husband had manicured the lawn to suburban perfection, with neat rows of matching pansies filling each flower bed up to theback, except for …
Janet thrust out a sturdy arm to indicate the damage where the fence had been torn down, flashing her fuchsia-painted nails. There really wasn’t any need, it was hard to miss. George must have powered through the back panel of fencing, and he was presently having a whale of a time digging a big hole in the once-pristine lawn. Muddy laundry, pulled from the line, lay scattered around and about. And cowering under the garden bench was Janet’s cocker spaniel, Cassie, a quivering wreck.
George had taken to barking at Cassie through the fence the moment she arrived – but it looked like he might have taken things a step further today.
‘Ah,’ Alison said, Holly next to her, shaking with suppressed giggles. She drew on all her strength to stop her own emerging. ‘I see. Oops,’ Alison said, biting her lip. Then she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. The wolfhound’s head bobbed up from the muddy hole. ‘Party’s over, George,’ she called out.
Janet’s lips were pursed so tightly she looked as if she might pop.
‘Oh Christ, she’s awful, Jamie,’ Alison said, her head in her hands, weeping with laughter. ‘So prim. And after she woke us up at half-bloody-eight in the morning I was dying for her to be the one in the wrong …’
Jamie was cooking up pancakes in
Considering she was almost a teenager, Holly was pretty perky for a Saturday morning, already dressed in cut-off jeans and leggings with a loose black Beatles T-shirt. Holly lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘Mum, she’s waiting downstairs. She was pretty shouty.’ Alison came back into the bedroom and replied, ‘I’m pretty sure whatever it is can wait until I’m dressed.’
Holly glanced around the room as Alison slipped on underwear, jeans and a long-sleeved top. ‘Mum …’ at her mother’s dressing table, tugging distractedly at her messy ponytail, bangles gently jangling. ‘Why do you have all these pictures of olden-days dead people getting married?’
Alison looked over to where Holly’s eyes had come to rest. She’d never thought of the photos like that before. She’d been collecting them for years, black and white photos of couples on their wedding days, the more awkward-looking the better. Her friend Carla had sent her one she’d picked up in Portobello market, a very young bride with too-large shoes, who looked like Olive Oyl, her chunky older husband looking down at her adoringly. She’d framed each photoin a junk-shop frame and mounted them around her mirror. There was no way of knowing whether any of the couples were still alive now, but if they were they’d certainly be very old.
‘I just like them,’ Alison said. ‘Don’t you think they’re interesting?’
Holly didn’t pause for a second. ‘No, Mum. I don’t – I think they’re creepy. Are you ready yet?’
Alison and Holly walked downstairs and there was Janet from next door, still waiting on the doorstep, the front door open. Janet was a stout woman of about fifty, with ruddy cheeks and carefully curled ash blonde hair; in Alison’s view she wasn’t a patch on Sally, her old friend and neighbour who’d moved out the previous summer.
‘Hi Janet,’ Alison said, clipping the front part of her hair back with a kirby grip. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘Your dog,’ said Janet, her flush deepening as she struggled to even get the words out. ‘Just come and look at what he’s done.’
Alison and Holly followed Janet as she marched back towards her house in her high heels, sending bits of gravel flying. She led them down the side passageway between their two houses, past her living room window with its ruched coral curtains, into her back garden. Alison hadn’t seen the next-door garden since Sally had left – but Janet and her husband had manicured the lawn to suburban perfection, with neat rows of matching pansies filling each flower bed up to theback, except for …
Janet thrust out a sturdy arm to indicate the damage where the fence had been torn down, flashing her fuchsia-painted nails. There really wasn’t any need, it was hard to miss. George must have powered through the back panel of fencing, and he was presently having a whale of a time digging a big hole in the once-pristine lawn. Muddy laundry, pulled from the line, lay scattered around and about. And cowering under the garden bench was Janet’s cocker spaniel, Cassie, a quivering wreck.
George had taken to barking at Cassie through the fence the moment she arrived – but it looked like he might have taken things a step further today.
‘Ah,’ Alison said, Holly next to her, shaking with suppressed giggles. She drew on all her strength to stop her own emerging. ‘I see. Oops,’ Alison said, biting her lip. Then she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. The wolfhound’s head bobbed up from the muddy hole. ‘Party’s over, George,’ she called out.
Janet’s lips were pursed so tightly she looked as if she might pop.
‘Oh Christ, she’s awful, Jamie,’ Alison said, her head in her hands, weeping with laughter. ‘So prim. And after she woke us up at half-bloody-eight in the morning I was dying for her to be the one in the wrong …’
Jamie was cooking up pancakes in
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