‘Security,’ Donna had begun, though she was really thinking about whether she should get a tattoo. A dolphin on her lower back? Or would that be too much of a cliché? And would it be painful? Probably, but she was supposed to be a police officer, wasn’t she? ‘What do we mean when we say the word “security”? Well, I think that word means different things to different …’
A hand shot up in the front row. Which was not normally how this went, but in for a penny. An immaculately dressed woman in her eighties had a point to make.
‘Dear, I think we’re all hoping this won’t be a talk about window locks.’ The woman looked around her, picking up murmured support.
A gentleman hemmed in by a walking frame in the second row was next. ‘And no ID cards please, we know about ID cards. Are you really from the Gas Board, or are you a burglar? We’ve got it, I promise.’
A free-for-all had commenced.
‘It’s not the Gas Board any more. It’s Centrica,’ said a man in a very good three-piece suit.
The man sitting next to him, wearing shorts, flip-flops and a West Ham United shirt, took this opportunity to stand up and stab a finger in no particular direction, ‘It’s thanks to Thatcher that, Ibrahim. We used to own it.’
‘Oh do sit down, Ron,’ the smartly dressed woman had said. Then looked at Donna and added, ‘Sorry about Ron,’ with a slow shake of her head. The comments had continued to fly.
‘And what criminal wouldn’t be able to forge an ID document?’
‘I’ve got cataracts. You could show me a library card and I’d let you in.’
‘They don’t even check the meter now. It’s all on the web.’
‘It’s on the cloud, dear.’
‘I’d welcome a burglar. It would be nice to have a visitor.’
There had been the briefest of lulls. An atonal symphony of whistles began as some hearing aids were turned up, while others were switched off. The woman in the front row had taken charge again.
‘So … and I’m Elizabeth, by the way … no window locks, please, and no ID cards, and no need to tell us we mustn’t give our PIN number to Nigerians over the phone. If I am still allowed to say Nigerians.’
Donna De Freitas had regrouped, but was aware she was no longer thinking about pub lunches or tattoos – now she was thinking about a riot training course back in the good, old days in south London.
‘Well, what shall we talk about then?’ Donna had asked. ‘I have to do at least forty-five minutes or I don’t get the time off in lieu.’
‘Institutional sexism in the police force?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I’d like to talk about the illegal shooting of Mark Duggan, sanctioned by the state and –’
‘Sit down, Ron!’
So it went on, enjoyably and agreeably, until the hour was up, whereupon Donna had been warmly thanked, shown pictures of grandchildren and then invited to stay for lunch.
And so here she is, picking at her salad, in what the menu describes as a ‘contemporary upscale restaurant’. A quarter to twelve is a little early for her to have lunch, but it wouldn’t have been polite to refuse the invitation. She notes that her four hosts are not only tucking in to full lunches, but have also cracked open a bottle of red wine.
‘That really was wonderful, Donna’, says Elizabeth. ‘We enjoyed it tremendously.’ Elizabeth looks to Donna like the sort of teacher who terrifies you all year but then gets you a grade A and cries when you leave. Perhaps it’s the tweed jacket.
‘It was blinding, Donna,’ says Ron. ‘Can I call you Donna, love?’
‘You can call me Donna, but maybe don’t call me love,’ says Donna.
‘Quite right, darling,’ agrees Ron. ‘Noted. That story about the Ukrainian with the parking ticket and the chainsaw, though? You should do after-dinner speaking, there’s money in it. I know someone, if you’d like a number?’
The salad is delicious, thinks Donna, and it’s not often she thinks that.
‘I would have made a terrific heroin smuggler, I think.’ This was Ibrahim, who had earlier raised the point about Centrica. ‘It’s just logistics, isn’t it? There’s all the weighing too, which I would enjoy, very precise. And they have machines to count money. All the mod cons. Have you ever captured a heroin dealer, PC De Freitas?’
‘No,’ admits Donna. ‘It’s on my list, though.’
‘But I’m right that they have machines to count money?’ asks Ibrahim.
‘They do, yes,’ says Donna.
‘Wonderful,’ says Ibrahim, and downs his glass of wine.
‘We bore easily,’ adds Elizabeth, also polishing off a glass. ‘God save us from window locks, WPC De Freitas.’
‘It’s just PC now,’ says Donna.
‘I see,’ says Elizabeth, lips pursing. ‘And what happens if I still choose to say WPC? Will there be a warrant for my arrest?’
‘No, but I’ll think a bit less of you,’ says Donna. ‘Because it’s a really simple thing to do, and it’s more respectful to me.’
‘Damn! Checkmate. OK,’ says Elizabeth, and unpurses her lips.
‘Thank you,’ says Donna.
‘Guess how old I am?’ challenges Ibrahim.
Donna hesitates. Ibrahim has a nice suit, and he has great skin. He smells wonderful. A handkerchief is artfully folded in his breast pocket. Hair thinning, but still there. No paunch, and just the one chin. And yet underneath it all? Hmmm. Donna looks at Ibrahim’s hands. Always the giveaway.
‘Eighty?’ she ventures.
She sees the wind depart Ibrahim’s sails. ‘Yes, spot on, but I look younger. I look about seventy-four. Everyone agrees. The secret is Pilates.’
‘And what’s your story, Joyce?’ asks Donna to the fourth member of the group, a small, white-haired woman in a lavender blouse and mauve cardigan. She is sitting very happily, taking it all in. Mouth closed, but eyes bright. Like a quiet bird, constantly on the lookout for something sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Me?’ says Joyce. ‘No story at all. I was a nurse, and then a mum, and then a nurse again. Nothing to see here I’m afraid.’
Elizabeth gives a short snort. ‘Don’t be taken in by Joyce, PC De Freitas. She is the type who “gets things done”.’
‘I’m just organized,’ says Joyce. ‘It’s out of fashion. If I say I’m going to Zumba, I go to Zumba. That’s just me. My daughter is the interesting one in the family. She runs a hedge fund, if you know what one is?’
‘Not really,’ admits Donna.
‘No,’ agrees Joyce.
‘Zumba is before Pilates,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I don’t like to do both. It’s counter-intuitive to your major muscle groups.’
A question has been nagging at Donna throughout lunch. ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, I know you all live at Coopers Chase, but how did the four of you become friends?’
‘Friends?’ Elizabeth seems amused. ‘Oh, we’re not friends, dear.’
Ron is chuckling. ‘Christ, love, no, we’re not friends. Do you need a top-up, Liz?’