There’s a pattern to the way I take in each property. Being at the far end of a cul-de-sac, I can see both sides of the road. I start with the houses on the left. They are pricier properties because they back on to school playing fields. Number twenty-nine is the last house I can see without squinting and the one that brings back the saddest memories. A little boy, Henry, almost died in a house fire there a few years ago. I remember him well: such a sweet, polite little lad. Firefighters rescued him but he suffered terrible brain damage by all accounts. His mum never forgave herself and it tore the family apart. But I noticed her husband and their two girls, Effie and Alice, moved back in not so long ago, so I hope there’s been a happy ever after for them.
Next, I’ll continue with the other side. Elsie’s house is next door to mine. She and I must be two of the street’s longest-serving residents. We moved in three months apart and became firm friends early on. She knows more secrets about this house than Nina does. Of all the people out there going about their lives, I miss talking to her the most.
She never closes her curtains until she goes to bed, even when it’s pitch-black. As an elderly woman living on her own, I’d assume she’d be more careful. I can just about spy a familiar green-and-white image on her large television screen and decide that it’s the opening credits of EastEnders. Elsie likes her soaps, as did I. We used to chat about them over our Thursday afternoon coffees. I wonder, after so long out of the loop, how quickly I’d be able to pick up on the storylines I’ve missed. I think again about asking Nina to have my television repaired but do I really want her to think she is doing me a favour? Perhaps I’m cutting my nose off to spite my face.
A small white car with a dark sunroof briefly pulls up outside the house. It must have the wrong address because it quickly drives away again.
I’m suddenly aware I’m not alone and turn to see Nina, watching me. She tries to pretend that she’s only just appeared but I sense she has been here for a few minutes. It’s happened before, knowing that I’m being silently observed and likely judged, but I never ask. Neither of us ever says what we actually mean. Untruths and unwillingness to communicate effectively, that’s how she and I function. Or perhaps dysfunction might be a more accurate description.
‘Are you ready to eat?’ she asks, and I smile a yes. She takes my arm gently and helps me down the stairs, one at a time.
Nina sits at the far end of the dining-room table by the sash window while I am two chairs away and to her side. The window’s top half has been opened a few inches and I feel a gentle breath of wind running through my hair. It sends goosebumps across my neck and shoulders.
The wine is an unexpected treat until she only pours herself a glass. She catches me looking at it for too long and knows that if she offered, I’d likely accept. But then she glances away so I don’t mention it. I take a sip of lukewarm water from my plastic cup instead.
Nina has put ABBA’s greatest hits album on the record player again. Some of the grooves have been literally worn away from the number of times she has played this LP with the same old stylus. Songs skip and crackles mask the words. I once suggested she bought it on compact disc without the clicks or interruptions and she looked at me in disgust, reminding me of who the album once belonged to and claiming it would be ‘sacrilegious’ to swap it. ‘We can’t start replacing things just because they’re getting older, can we?’ she asked pointedly.
I know the running order off by heart. The opening bars of ‘SOS’ begin and inside I chuckle. Gallows humour, I think they call it. Nina takes a serving spoon and awards me the larger of the two chicken breasts, along with an extra scoop of vegetables. She slathers them in more sauce than she gives herself. Later tonight, it will give me acid reflux. I thank her regardless and tell her again how lovely it smells.
‘Do you want me to cut up your chicken?’ she asks and I nod gratefully.
She chops it into bite-sized cubes with her knife, then returns to her seat.
‘Did anything interesting happen at work today?’ I ask.
‘Not really.’
‘Was it busy? I assume by the number of children playing in the street that they’ve broken up for the Easter holidays.’
‘Nothing escapes you from up there in your little crow’s nest, does it?’
‘I’m just observant.’
My chicken is still pale pink inside but I don’t complain. I dip it into the sauce to mask the raw taste.
‘It was the under-sevens’ club so it was busy this morning,’ she expands. ‘Some parents dump their kids on us like we’re babysitters then disappear into town to do their shopping. The idea of the programme is to participate and read with their children. But some women aren’t naturally maternal, are they?’
She holds her fork in her hand. A chunk of potato falls from it and lands on the tablecloth. She jabs at it twice with her cutlery, moving it around and spreading the sauce deeper into the ivory-coloured fabric. I hate it when she uses this tablecloth. It is made of lace and was the last thing my grandmother made before breast cancer took her life. However, I bite my tongue and try to ignore it.
‘I see Louise’s pregnant again,’ I continue.
‘Who’s Louise?’
‘You know, Louise Thorpe from number eighteen. Her husband’s a taxi driver.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he has one of those illuminated advertisements stuck to the roof of his car.’
Nina shakes her head. ‘I meant how do you know she’s pregnant?’
‘Oh,’ I chuckle, not genuinely, of course. ‘I saw her with a baby bump. She’s just starting to show as it wasn’t there a couple of weeks ago.’ Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I regret bringing this subject up. I should have self-censored because babies are an out-of-bounds subject in this house and I know where conversations like this can lead.
‘You don’t remember when I started showing, do you?’ she asks, her eyes narrowing.
‘No, I don’t suppose I do,’ I reply, and turn my attention towards the plate. It is as if the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees.
‘It probably wasn’t until my sixth month that I really noticed it myself,’ she recalls. ‘I had no morning sickness, no tiredness, nothing. I suppose I was fortunate.’
I keep my head down. ‘You were.’
‘To a point,’ she adds. ‘I was fortunate to a point.’
Her tone ensures that the sentence hangs between us. I need to change the subject, but so soon into our dinner I’m already running out of observations.
She drops her knife and fork on her plate with a clatter, which makes me jump. She removes the second disc from the double album and chooses a song called ‘Does Your Mother Know’. It’s one of ABBA’s pacier numbers and her face lights up as she hums along with the first verse. ‘We used to dance to this, do you remember?’ she asks. ‘We’d each use a hairbrush as a microphone and sing along to it. I’d be the boy and you’d be the girl.’
She moves towards me. My instinct is to flinch until she stretches out her hand. I shake my head. ‘I’m too old for that.’
‘No excuses.’