A Curtain Twitcher's Book of Murder E-Book

Gay Marris

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 528

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

London, 1968. A suburban London street. But this is no ordinary road. "Ask anyone on Atbara Avenue how well they know their neighbours, and they'll answer 'well'. After all, they see each other across the vast distance afforded by close proximity, and that is probably for the best...". In number 17 live a bitter daughter and her mother, trapped with each other. Or are they? The twin brothers at number 3 think they're nothing like each other, but they may be proved wrong. Lesley disappeared from number 49 years ago. Then her body is found, and with it more secrets. Atbara Avenue is a street where, all too often, murder feels like the solution. With a delicious cast of characters, dazzling plotting, and a unique voice, Gay Marris' first book is the fresh and compelling new voice in the world of crime fiction you've been waiting for.

Leseprobe

For Mum and Dad

Prologue

The first brick of the first house on Atbara Avenue was laid while Queen Victoria mourned her way through the twilight of her reign; the last brick of the last house when her son had been on the throne for a year. The mortar that bound them was imbued with both the complacency of an empire and the sanguinity of a playboy king. When newly built, each handsome dwelling, with its broad bay windows and gabled roof, was graced with sober iron railings and a gay front path of black and white tiles. London families quickly moved in with their cocker spaniels and their housemaids, pleased to unpack their soup tureens and aspirations into such generously appointed accommodation. They were as green and up-and-coming as the sapling limes planted outside every third house. There was a florist shop at one end of the avenue. At the other stood the modest church of St Francis in the Fields, complete with an ugly hall and even uglier vicarage in its grounds. In those days, fresh-cut flowers were a household necessity, and it went without saying that God was an Edwardian Englishman.

But that was two World Wars ago, and a dog has since orbited Earth. The buildings of Atbara Avenue have stood shoulder to shoulder, on parade for almost seven decades. Gone are the railings, melted down to make munitions, and cracked are the harlequin tiles. Gone, too, are the domestics. Armed with nylon brushes and Liquid Gumption, these days the women of the households scrub their own front steps. Some addresses have been converted to bedsits and several back lawns supplanted with crazy paving. The vicarage and hall lurk in the churchyard, unscathed and as ugly as ever, but St Francis’s is more often half empty than half full. The florist’s has been replaced by a corner shop, run by Mr and Mrs Singh. They sell all the essentials for a brave new world: Beano comics, Sherbet Dips, Instant Whipand Spam. The granite horse trough at the gates of Atbara Park is planted with lobelias. Tube trains rumble beneath the street’s foundations. The lime trees, fulsome in their maturity, rain down honeydew onto Ford Escorts and Vauxhall Vivas parked in their sticky shade.

While the Sixties may be in full swing on Carnaby Street, where skirts are short, shirts are cheesecloth and the Beatles are more popular than Jesus, Atbara Avenue retains a sense of restraint. As if something in its very fabric remembers its less cynical roots. Doubtless a little frayed round the edges, perhaps no longer absolutely smart, each pastel-painted frontage still offers a more-or-less respectable face to its smiling counterpart across the road. And, outwardly at least, it seems these decorous qualities rub off on its current population.

It’s true that you no longer have to be rich, or educated, or English, to live on Atbara Avenue, but you do have to maintain certain standards. Spick and span, best foot forward, inhabitants are as well presented as their window boxes. Heaven forbid that any bras should be burned in this neck of the woods. Here, children Listen with Mother, Father Goes to Work on an Egg and, on TV, chimpanzees sip their PG Tips from china cups. Many residents have lived on the avenue for years and years, swimming around together in the same bowl of suburban soup. In fact, some of them have never lived anywhere else. It’s surprising how often people born on the avenue end up dying there, too. But, in the meantime, they hail each other in passing, with confident waves and nods and simply-must-dashes.

Ask anyone how well they know their neighbours, and they’ll answer, ‘Well.’ They won’t hesitate before replying. After all, they see each other every day, as they move through the ebb and flow of their existence. Their faces have become as familiar as the printed daisies on their kitchen blinds. The truth is, however, these people hardly know each other at all. They can’t do, since propriety dictates they conceal the truly important details of their lives from view.

The residents of Atbara Avenue observe each other across the vast distance afforded by close proximity, and that is probably for the best.

1

Beneath Suspicion

From a distance, it’s easy to mistake Mrs Muriel Dollimore for a sweet little old lady. Plump and stooped, with a halo of wispy white hair framing her round, wrinkled face, it’s obvious she’s advanced in years. And trussed up in her tweed coat, its horn buttons straining to contain her short, stout body, she gives the impression she’s been upholstered rather than dressed. The epitome of the lavender-scented granny who sits, no doubt knitting away, in the mind’s eyes of her neighbours. They see her pass their front windows each afternoon, regular as clockwork. Tic tack, tic tack, tic tack go her clickety-clickety walking sticks, quick time on the pavement as she shuffles herself to the corner shop to fetch cat food and Carnation milk. She always looks the same. She always looks lovely. Bless her.

Mrs Dollimore is the longest-standing resident of Atbara Avenue. Not one of the neighbours who witnessed her arrival is alive to remember it, so as far as present-day occupants are concerned, she’s been around forever. A treasured constant in the stage play of local life.

When Muriel first moved in, half a century ago, the Great War was over, but London was still in shell shock. Horses were common, young men were rare, and ladies wore gloves to tea. It was her wedding day, but if anyone imagines that a once virile, now dead, Ernest Dollimore proudly carried his blushing bride over the threshold, they’re wrong. He was never built for lifting and she preferred him not to touch her. Especially in public. As soon as their hackney carriage pulled up outside Number 17, she alighted, and her slender feet bore her directly up the path and into the house. No dilly-dallying on the way.

Before she married, Muriel Edwards was a professional singer. With a sylph-like figure and a ruthless ability to blow her cigarette smoke in the direction of only the most useful men, she was the quintessence of glamour. Known by her stage name, Dolores, she was a rising starlet by the low-pitched standards of the day. She topped the bill in jazz clubs of the coastal resorts of southern England, and around the time she met dependable bank clerk Ernest, she also caught the eye of entrepreneur Vincent Grünblatt, shark-eyed talent spotter and keyholder to West End success. Vincent promised his little lark the stars and the moon. But, to her unending disappointment, she was never to receive such hard-won rewards. When it became clear she was expecting a baby, any interest Vinny may have had in his uncaged songbird evaporated, and it was he who flew away. With a steely instinct for survival, desperate Dolores had quickly accepted lovesick Ernest’s renewed offer of marriage. Ernest brought her to this city, where they completed the formalities at Hammersmith Registry Office within the month. Ernest was overcome with happiness; Muriel, with resentment.

Pauline Dollimore, daughter of Muriel, is the second longest-standing resident of the street. She was born in the back bedroom of Number 17 and, apart from a brief interlude in her early adult life, she has never left that address. She’s lived through a new war and rationing and bombs. She’s witnessed the departure of the horses and the gradual recovery of generations blown apart, but she’s never drunk tea anywhere smart enough to require gloves. For many years, this sad woman has been slowly reversing away from the world around her, and now she’s retreated so far into the background, she’s become scarcely more than a spectator in her own story. Viewed from any distance, way off or up close, it’s impossible to mistake Pauline Dollimore for anything other than exactly who she is: a nervy, overweight spinster, living at home with her widowed mother. She always looks the same. She always looks wretched.

Deirdre, wife of the Reverend Desmond O’Reilly, finishes a row before resting the knitting in her lap. Lit only by the mellow glow of the setting sun, the vicarage sitting room has become too dim for her to see her work. Although she prides herself on her ability to knit ‘blindfolded’, her eyes have started to ache. She looks across to her husband in the opposite armchair, snoozing. Head resting on the antimacassar, mouth hanging open, eyes closed. The latest paperback crime novel lies, face down, on his chest. His long, thin legs are stretched out in front of him.

She gives one of his feet a gentle kick with the toe of her slipper. ‘Desmond,’ she whispers, very loudly, ‘are you asleep?’

The vicar lets out a little grunt and opens an eye. ‘Not anymore.’

‘Oh good. Because I want to talk to you about something.’

‘Talk away,’ he replies, without adjusting his position. ‘I may close my eyes again, but I will still be listening.’

‘You need to sit up properly,’ says Deirdre, switching on a standard lamp, ‘otherwise you’ll just slide back off to sleep again and miss the whole gist.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ he yawns, straightening up and reining in his legs. He closes his book, places it on the arm of his chair, and puts on his spectacles. ‘You have my full attention.’

Deirdre shuffles her hips a little deeper into her seat, smooths down the front of her cardigan, and begins. ‘I’m worried that if a neighbour – let’s say for the sake of argument, a fellow member of the Women’s Institute – had a problem of some kind, she might not tell anyone. Especially if the individual concerned happens to be a particularly selfless person.’

‘What makes you think they wouldn’t want to confide in you? You’re an excellent sounding board.’

‘I’m concerned that natural reticence prevents her from offloading. She’s afraid, if she were to confess her problem to another person, she’d be inviting that person to worry about it too, obligating the confidante to carry her burden along with their own woes. And, of course, there are boundaries when it comes to one’s neighbours.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It may be all right to spatter immediate family with emotional slurry, but to do the same to one’s neighbours would be extremely…’ Deirdre hesitates before landing upon just the right word, ‘… rude. Good neighbours don’t embarrass each other by revealing their difficulties. Good neighbours keep themselves to themselves.’

‘Such a disappointing expression.’ The vicar shakes his head sadly.

‘Disappointing but true,’ she retorts irritably.

‘How can you tell that your mystery acquaintance is concealing something?’

Deirdre pauses before answering. She can’t say it’s anything about the way the woman looks, because, now she thinks about it, she’s never really looked at her that closely. When the gentle folk of Atbara Avenue meet in the street, they’d no more stare into one another’s eyes and risk such unneighbourly intimacy than trespass into someone else’s front garden and peer through their sitting-room window. ‘I don’t know. It’s just an uneasy feeling I get around her. She never complains, of course. The brave woman. But it must be stressful for her, still stuck in that house together, mother and daughter, cheek-by-jowl.’

‘Rather than guessing, can’t you just ask her what the trouble is?’

‘Certainly not!’ Deirdre exclaims. ‘Anyway, as I said, I don’t believe she’d tell me.’

They both fall into a testy silence. Instead of making her feel better, Desmond has made Deirdre feel admonished. As if speculation about a neighbour’s problems is just idle, fireside gossip. Isn’t it basic human nature to be curious about those around us? Isn’t her husband as basically human as she is? She may not have spent much time watching this woman – or listening to what she says, for that matter – but there’s a lot one can surmise about someone, even via the most casual observation. Deirdre takes in what she can see at a glance, and then fills in the gaps with guesswork. The tall policeman must be courageous; grubby boys are cheeky monkeys; tattooed youths probably stole Desmond’s bike. Etcetera, etcetera. These portraits of her neighbours, hanging in the galleries of her ever-active mind, may be painted with the brushstrokes of a thousand fleeting glances, but Deirdre’s quite satisfied with them. She does know people aren’t necessarily so straightforward, but she’s convinced she’s never guessed wrong yet.

‘I’m sorry, Desmond,’ she sighs. ‘I don’t mean to sound like a busybody. I really do want to help.’

‘That does you credit,’ says the vicar. ‘I never imagined otherwise.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ Deirdre resumes her knitting. ‘And the sooner I can reach out to Pauline Dollimore, the better.’

‘Pauline Dollimore?’ The vicar snorts. ‘Good heavens!’

‘Naturally. Whom did you think I meant?’

‘Saintly old Muriel. She’s the one I feel sorry for.’

It’s a fine April afternoon and the weather is breezy and bright. The conscientious housewives of Atbara Avenue have removed their rollers, fastened their pinnies and flocked outside, determined to take advantage of a decent drying day to peg up their Daz-white sheets in the coal-smoke-kissed air. Pauline Dollimore is indoors. She’s in her bedroom, redrafting a suicide note, when her mother returns home from the shop.

‘Mum? Is that you?’ she calls cheerfully from the upstairs landing.

She hears the old lady shuffling about downstairs, grumbling away, but can’t make out what she’s saying.

Pauline has another try. ‘Did you get what you need?’

Again, no direct answer, but a muffled string of complaints. ‘Sixpence? For a couple of ounces of desiccated coconut? Daylight robbery… but that’s no surprise… remember what they charged me for a shampoo and set at that bloody hair salon on the high street… tarts’ boudoir, more like… swanning around with their “beehives”. Birds’ nests, if you ask me. Everyone’s on the take…’

‘I was just going to put the kettle on. I expect you’re ready for a cup of something hot.’

‘Never found yourself a man and it’s far too late now. Look at yourself! I’m amazed you can bear to show your face… even that fool Ernest would be disgusted to look at you now. Do you hear me? He’d be DISGUSTED!’

As always, Pauline ignores these remarks. She didn’t answer back when she was growing up and she doesn’t now, no matter how hurtful her mother’s words nor how deep the unseen cuts they cause. What would be the point? The result would only be a tirade of abuse and a flurry of slammed doors. Her father taught her his ways well. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t kick the hornets’ nest. Let sleeping dogs lie. Bitch. For so many years Pauline has allowed her loathing to simmer, silently, in its bilious juices. Irrespective of what she hears, or what she feels, it’s now second nature to present her mother with an oblivious front.

‘Hot chocolate or tea?’ she asks brightly.

Not receiving any audible reply, Pauline lumbers down the stairs. As she approaches the kitchen, she catches sight of the hall clock. ‘Mum,’ she calls again. ‘It’s nearly time.’

‘Better get your skates on with my hot chocolate then, hadn’t you?’

Pauline picks up the string bag of groceries she finds carelessly abandoned on the worktop, and neatly stows its contents in the pantry. It takes her a few goes to set light to a ring of the fumy old gas hob. When the vapours eventually ignite, they go up with such a spectacular puff, she steps back to avoid singeing her eyebrows. She warms a pan of milk, preparing her mother’s drink first before knocking up a cup of tea for herself. Hastily, she piles a plate with cakes she finds in a tin on the side and manages to make it into the front room with only seconds to spare. Here she finds her mother, ensconced in her particular armchair, a rug over her knees, glued to the television set.

Pauline puts her laden tray down on an occasional table – ‘You’re in the way of the picture… great fat arse…’ – and settles herself into the chair next to the old lady’s. ‘You’ve whipped up a lovely batch of baking this week, Mum,’ she says, helping herself to two solid, moist macaroons. ‘I can never resist these.’

‘I know you can’t,’ spits her mother, giving her a particularly mean look as she turns up the volume on the TV, just in time for the opening sequence of her favourite programme, The Galloping Guzzler.

Pauline isn’t remotely interested in this show, but she’ll sit through anything so long as it keeps the old bat off her back for at least a little while. It follows its usual format. The host, a velvet-clad, improbably tanned-looking man named Julian LeCheval, begins by inviting two unsuspecting contestants, plucked from his entirely female studio audience, into a studio-set kitchen. Each woman, giddy with excitement, clutches her basket of ingredients while her apron strings are tied by a stagehand. Then, as always, Chef LeCheval challenges them to produce an original dish ‘fit for a king’, ready to be served up in just 30 minutes. After a frantic and emotionally charged half-hour of chopping and flambé-ing, the successes or failures of the participants’ efforts are judged. Not, as it turns out, by royalty, but by a celebrity. Someone from the world of show business sniffs and prods at the lovingly prepared plates of food, while the sweaty, starstruck competitors anxiously await their verdict. Today’s prize, a state-of-the-art hostess trolley, has them fit to burst.

Yawning, Pauline studies her mother, bent forwards, no more than three feet from the set, fixated on the screen. The old biddy’s eyes are alight as she nods and claps along with the TV audience. She licks her lips as the dishes are tasted and savoured and admired. Pauline has no doubt she’s imagining herself to be in the show, centre stage once again.

‘Come on down, contestant number two, Dolores!’ [prolonged round of applause] ‘Welcome to the show.’

‘Thank you, Julian. It’s lovely to be here.’

‘So, tell us, delightful Dolores, how long have you been interested in cooking?’

‘Ever since I was first married, Julian.’

‘And what do you like to cook best?’

‘Cakes.’

‘Well, your husband must be a very happy man. Now, it’s time to let the viewers at home know, Dolores, what are you going to cook for us tonight?’

‘Tonight, Julian, I’m going to cook my signature dish: Coconut Surprise.’

‘Can’t wait. Put your hands together for our lovely contestants. Ladies, oven gloves on, wooden spoons at the ready. All together, everyone, it’s time to get GUZZLING!’

Looking at her mother now, it’s hard to imagine her as she was in her prime. No one ever pictures her as anything other than elderly. And sweet-looking. Pauline sighs. She knows their neighbours haven’t the faintest notion her appearance is just a pleasant patina, not earned fairly through a long life kindly lived, but acquired through lucky adjustments the aging process has made to far more pointed original features. Soft jowls, as pink and pouchy as marshmallows, conceal a sharp, aggressive jawline. Scribblings of fine wrinkles have defrosted a mean mouth into the fat smudge that now passes for a warm smile. In youth, her cynical gaze smouldered beneath sultry lids. Today she’s never seen outside the house without a liberal caking of cornflower blue eyeshadow, which gives a clownlike affability to her expression. Together, these alterations conspire to create a convincing façade.

Perhaps if people were to stop for a minute, look up from their lives and take more than a glance at her mother, they might see something else. Perhaps they’d catch the spiteful glint in her bird-bright eyes as they dart to and fro, scanning the landscape for all-comers. God knows, she doesn’t miss a trick. Perhaps if anyone listened, they might hear the bitter diatribe tripping from between her constantly fluttering lips. A whispering, malevolent commentary. But neighbours are all too gladly deceived. They take it for granted that frail old ladies who appear homely and wear comical makeup must be equally benign in thoughts and deeds. So, no one ever does look hard, and no one ever listens to what she’s saying. No one, that is, except for Pauline.

‘Useless lump.’

Glancing at her wristwatch, Pauline remembers that at five o’clock the Reverend O’Reilly’s wife is taking her mother to choir practice. Thank God. As soon as she’s on her own in the house she can change the channel. She’ll be free to watch her own favourite programme in private.

True Detective screens dramatic reconstructions of real criminal investigations. Although the names of the victims are ‘changed to protect the innocent’, the policemen involved in the cases play themselves. Most of the stories are about murders, mostly from America. She does enjoy the Texan police officers who call all the female suspects ‘ma’am’ – even the ones who are prostitutes. Pauline sighs in anticipation. She likes the idea of being called ‘ma’am’.

As she picks at the edges of a third macaroon, she wonders what today’s case will be about. Another random shooting? She hopes not. Gun crimes are so lacking in finesse. The stories she relishes are about small-town, domestic murders, carefully planned to the tiniest detail, where the means of death is something so much part of the normal fabric of life that it isn’t even recognised as a weapon. Not death in a boring old hail of bullets, but by a ruck in the carpet. As for the identity of the murderers, the most satisfying cases are the ones where the victim knows their killer, but it’s someone so inconsequential that no one ever thought them capable of any crime at all. She smiles to herself as she recalls her all-time favourite episode, ‘The Dog Meat Massacre’. ‘I can’t believe he did it,’ the astonished townsfolk cried on learning that one of their God-fearing community strangled his wife and then fed her minced remains to her own chihuahuas. ‘But he was a marvellous neighbour, always kept himself to himself.’

Pauline has a great respect for such insidious assassins. Not people who are above suspicion, but people so low they’re beneath it.

The vicar’s wife arrives late.

‘Slovenly cow.’

As usual she sweeps through Number 17 like a dose of salts, carried in and then out again on an enormous bow-wave of efficiency. It seems to Pauline that the woman barely ever touches the sides of the hallway in her haste to cross another good deed off her to-do list.

‘Oh, ladies, ladies!’ blusters Deirdre O’Reilly. ‘You must have been wondering where I’d got to. I got held up by Mr Smith’s bad foot. That’s quite a saga. And then Brown Owl had issues with litter pick-up in the churchyard. But here I am at last, to whisk you off, Muriel. Now, where are your sticks? And your coat?’ As she fusses around, she turns to Pauline. ‘I wonder if you’d be so good as to fetch me mum’s baked offerings for the homeless hostel supper, so I can sling them in the car at the same time.’

Used to following orders, Pauline quickly does as she’s asked. To her amazement, in the few moments she’s away, the vicar’s wife somehow gets her mother dressed and ready, for when she returns, both are waiting for her by the door.

‘Here you are, Deirdre.’

‘Don’t these look wonderful? You’ve excelled yourself, Muriel.’

‘I’ve spat on them.’

‘Delicious! I shall rush these to the hostel straight after choir practice. We all know there’s nothing staler than a stale iced bun. And remember, Pauline,’ calls Mrs O’Reilly over her shoulder as she sails out, steering Muriel by the elbow, ‘the choir can always use another soprano.’

‘Pauline? Sing?’

As soon as she’s closed the front door behind them, Pauline goes back into the sitting room and switches over to her programme. Too late. She’s missed the beginning. But when she realises it’s a repeat of the episode ‘The Kalashnikov Killings’, she chooses to turn off the television and make the most of her temporary solitude. She toys with the idea of having another stab at the suicide note but decides against it. Instead, she sits back in her armchair, the armchair that was her father’s, taking in the silence. She closes her eyes, allowing memories of Dad, which are never far away, to come to the fore.

She misses him now as much as ever. From the moment she was born, she was the apple of his eye. He was always saying so. She also knew that right from birth, her mother saw her as a tiresome inconvenience – a fact the old woman likes to remind her of to this day.

As Pauline considers the succession of childminders she had as a little girl, she finds she can still remember some of their names. There was a ‘Nanny Sarah’, a ‘Nanny Susan’, a ‘Nanny Hetty’. Wasn’t there even a ‘Nanny Nancy’? She chuckles dryly. These women, who came and went faster than the seasons, had attended to her day-to-day needs while her father did his best to meet her emotional ones. He’d taken her to the park, read her bedtime stories and decorated the Christmas tree.

When she tries to recall the nannies’ faces, though, none comes to mind. They seem to merge into one composite figure – essentially female, essentially capable, paid to watch over her while her mother sloped off into the wings. At some point in Pauline’s childhood, Dolores all but withdrew from family life. She retired to the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind her. Interred within this tiled cocoon, she spent her days maniacally baking, uninterrupted by her husband or daughter, seldom re-emerging until Pauline was older, and slightly less ‘repulsive’.

Pauline summons a hazy recollection from when she was perhaps six years old, of hearing her mother singing at full volume while she mixed and measured; melodies that Pauline later learned were romantic songs from her days on the stage.‘Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you …’

She pictures her father, listening wistfully at the kitchen door. Poor man. Pretending Mum was singing about him.‘Let me hear you whisper… that you love me too.’

But over the years, the singing stopped. Instead, her mother began to talk to herself. What was it she used to say? ‘Why did you go without me?’ That was it. ‘Why did you go without me, Vinny?’ God! She always sounded so angry, even back then. Clattering her baking tins. ‘I don’t belong here. Trapped here forever, that’s what I am.’

No longer did her father strain to catch his wife’s words. Instead he, and Pauline too, endeavoured to turn deaf ears. As more years passed, it was a mercy when the talking became mumbling, and then, finally, a whisper, making it much easier for both to imagine they couldn’t hear.

‘There has got to be more to life than this place and these people.I amDOLORES!’

Following her stoic father’s daily example, Pauline had always striven to please her mother. Together they weathered her rages, ignored her insults, and ate the endless stream of cakes she set before them. He was always encouraging Pauline to ‘eat up, like a good girl’. And Pauline knew why. Hungry or not, they both recognised that these self-raised heaps, whipped up in the sanctum of her kitchen, were the closest her mother could ever offer either of them in the way of love. Neither wasted a crumb.

An aching sadness lurches inside her chest, making her gasp aloud. God knows she tried to be a good girl. God knows she’s still trying.

Scolding herself, Pauline summons thoughts of better times. She did well at school. Got a decent pass in her secretarial course. Once the war was over, she had no trouble getting that office job, working for Frank. And with four whole pounds a week in her personal back pocket, she was bright enough to leave home quick smart. Rent her own place.

Closing her eyes again, she evokes her modest little bedsit above the baker’s shop on the high street. Heaven. The details are vivid in her mind. One room, with a pull-out bed, a stove and sink in the corner, tucked away behind a curtain. The tiny bathroom, with its pink rubber shower attachment for the taps. A windowsill just broad enough to take a pot of geraniums. Although she’d moved no more than a short walk from Atbara Avenue, she’d stumbled out from under the monolithic shadow cast by her mother into a world that shone chromium bright. She was free.

A smile creeps across her face as she remembers the marvellous pleasure she took in keeping house, bleaching her net curtains until they were as white as the purest snow. Best of all, the flat meant she could entertain Frank. He’d come over. She’d make him a meal. Sometimes he brought a bottle of wine, something white and sweet, and they’d drink it together, sitting on her sofa bed, holding hands. Listening to Bing Crosby. Her smile broadens as her thoughts fly back through the years.

‘May I kiss you, Pauline?’

‘Oh yes, Frank, you may.’

She’d loved Frank and she believed he’d loved her in return. Why shouldn’t he have loved her? She was attractive enough in those days. Perhaps not beautiful – not like Dolores – but she did make the best of herself. Back then. Sturdy rather than curvaceous, she’d known what clothes to wear to make the most of her figure. The fashions of the day had suited. She really thought they had.

Reaching up to touch her greying temple, Pauline thinks about the trouble she used to go to in order to keep her brown hair nice, treating herself to a monthly wash and set at the salon. She can’t imagine setting foot in the hairdresser’s now.

She and Frank enjoyed going to the pictures and having picnics in the park. Some weekends he’d take her out for the day… pick her up in his sporty silver car.

‘A Renault,’ breathes Pauline. Just saying its name sounds debonair. It had a walnut-effect dashboard and a built-in cigarette lighter. She inhales as she remembers the smell of its blue leatherette seat covers mingling with the scented cologne she’d bought Frank for his birthday. If the weather was fine they might even have a run out to the coast, stopping for tea in some country village on their way back. Frank was so smart in his demob suit. When he wore a cravat, he looked like Clark Gable. She decided that when Frank asked her to marry him, she would accept.

Her smile fades. It seems impossible she was ever that happy. And impossibly cruel such happy times could have been so short-lived. How long was it after she moved out that Dad’s health went up the spout? Less than six months. Two heart attacks, one after the other. He was forced to retire from the bank. Of course, it was far beyond her mother’s inclinations to take any care of him.

‘Blasted, flaming, bloody nuisance. Always in my way.’

That’s why Pauline came home. Just for the time being. Nothing permanent. Just until he was on the mend. But her poor, shattered father never did mend. His decline was rapid and terminal. Their last conversation is one of Pauline’s most painful recollections. It was on the final day of his life, although she didn’t know that at the time. Propped up in bed, he suddenly grabbed her hand, gripping it so abruptly that it hurt.

‘Ow, Dad! Not so tight. You’ll turn my fingers blue.’

‘Promise me something, princess?’

‘Of course, Dad. Anything.’

‘Don’t leave her on her own, will you? When I’m gone, promise me you’ll stay with Mum.’

‘But you’re not going anywhere just yet, Dad.’

‘You’ve always been such a good girl, Pauline. Who else’ll take care of her? Just promise me. Promise your old dad.’

She looked into his face. His imploring eyes. ‘Yes, Daddy, I promise.’ And in the very next moment her flimsy father turned his face to the wall, sighed, and passed away.

The thought of these four words, so casually spoken, makes Pauline physically cringe. Jesus Christ, how could she possibly have known what was to come?

In the first weeks after her father died, when Pauline was still strong enough to keep turning a deaf ear, she had ways of coping with her mother. She had her bedsit and occasionally retreated there, if only for an hour or two. She watered her geraniums. Saw Frank. Life in Number 17 was unpleasant, but not impossible. But then the firm she worked for, along with Frank, moved to bigger premises away from the borough. She couldn’t follow without leaving her mother on her own. She lost her job. With her promise to her father ringing in her ears, and no money to pay rent, she let the bedsit go. Not long after, Frank stopped seeing her. And that was when the dreadful complacency began to set in. Like rising damp.

Her confidence ebbed away, her self-doubts reinforced by the background of constant whispering. Although she was pretty expert at tuning out her mother’s vicious opinions, delivered sotto voce and unattenuated, enough shards of malice hit their mark to inflict at least one wound every day.

‘Hopeless waste of space. I know why you’re still here. Too pathetic to be on your own, that’s why.“Will ye no’ come back again?” Ha ha ha. In the end he didn’t want you. In the end they never do.’

Now, sitting alone, kept company by a host of past regrets, Pauline longs for some respite from her mother. Apart from lightning-strike visits from the vicar’s wife, callers to the house are rare. A smattering of well-meaning neighbours knocks from time to time, but although the old woman sometimes takes up Reginald Pyles’s offers to mow the lawn, and has allowed young Robert Watts from up the road to trim the hedge, she never asks them inside. Pauline knows better than to extend any invitations of her own. It isn’t her place to do so. She’s painfully conscious that it isn’t her house, or her parlour, or her china tea set. Everything inside these walls belongs to her mother.

Her mother is right. Pauline doesn’t have any friends – or enemies – to invite. To her abject misery, Pauline has long conceded that she doesn’t occupy sufficient space on the planet to warrant either. She simply rolls along, from day to day, in her own shrunken world. No one makes her stay at Number 17 but, miserable as she is, it’s become impossible to leave. These are the most depressing facts of all. Somehow, weeks have turned into months, months into years, and today, more than two decades later, she’s still here. Left with nothing to do but feed her face with comfortless cooking – an endless round of rock cakes and melting moments that stick to her fat, unmarried hips, anchoring her permanently to her mother’s house.

The aching sadness returns to her chest, pressing harder than ever, threatening to actually burst her heart.

His wife draws the sitting-room curtains with such a vigorous swoosh, it makes the vicar jump. She looks troubled.

‘Something worrying you, my love?’ he asks, bashing the ashes from his pipe into the wastepaper basket.

‘I was thinking about poor Pauline Dollimore. Honestly, Desmond,’ she tuts, immediately emptying the contents of the bin into their empty hearth. ‘One of these days you’ll set fire to the vicarage.’ She passes him a pottery saucer embossed with the likeness of Joan of Arc, which serves as his ashtray.

‘Thinking what, exactly?’ He takes a generous pinch of fresh tobacco and refills his bowl.

‘How low she seems. Do you know, when I dropped Muriel Dollimore home this evening, I found Pauline just sitting in their front room, all alone in the dark. And I could tell she’d been crying. So, so sad. She looks pitiable these days.’ She joins him on the sofa, picks up her knitting and attacks a new row.

‘Pitiable is rather a harsh word.’

His wife is unapologetic. ‘I mean it quite literally. Her appearance makes me pity her. And, for that matter,’ she adds knowingly, ‘so do some of the things I’ve heard about her past.’

‘You know how we must resist the urge to gossip, however powerful the tempta—’

Her interruption is swift. ‘I was not gossiping. I was conferring with another concerned member of our community. And during this conferring I found out that, believe it or not, Pauline was once engaged to be married. Well, practically engaged. Let’s say “engaged to be engaged”. So put that in your pipe and smoke it!’

‘Who told you that?’ His curiosity is piqued.

‘I never like to reveal my sources,’ she teases, ‘but since you’re so interested, it was Ursula Peabody.’

‘How does she know? Did she say what happened?’

‘I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. Remember it’s not our business to pry!’ She smiles. ‘Suffice to say, something went wrong, and Pauline ended up crawling back to Mother and has stayed with her ever since.’

‘Well, it’s a blessing that Muriel was in a position to provide a roof over her head,’ he says sincerely, suck, suck, sucking on his newly lit pipe.

‘Yes, indeed. Pauline would be lost without her old mum.’

‘Shouldn’t we do something to help her? You’re so clever at drawing people out of their shells.’

‘I’ve been trying to get her to join things. Like the Women’s Institute, quilting club… I mentioned the choir again tonight as it happens, but she just isn’t interested.’ Deirdre sighs as she resumes her knitting with renewed gusto. ‘I shall certainly keep trying. Not least to get her out from under Muriel’s feet. But who knows? Perhaps Pauline has ways of keeping up her spirits that we know nothing about.’

‘I pray that you’re right, Deirdre. Let us pray that you’re right.’

Pauline isn’t sure exactly when she first decided to murder her mother. It started as the smallest grain of an idea, hiding in the creases of the most private pages of her consciousness. At first, not even she acknowledged such a dirty little thought. So, for a long time, it just lurked, lost in the crowd, amongst many other unfinished plans jostling for attention in her head: she would move out of her mother’s horrid house and find her own bright, airy flat on the new estate. She’d look up her old school friends. She’d find Frank and tell him she’d never stopped loving him. She’d reclaim her life.

Eventually, all these schemes withered to nothing. Over the passing years, the flats in the new estate were sold and sold again, old friends moved to new pastures… and Frank married someone else. But the murder idea festered away, growing in form and lustre with each disappointment, like a black seed pearl. Now it’s enormous. It is everything.

It’s not yet dawn, but Pauline is wide awake. Lying in bed, still enveloped in the gloom, once again she runs through her plan. Although it’s a simple one, she likes to go over it in her head at least once a day, checking for leaks. In essence, it goes as follows: she’ll dispatch her mother and make it look like suicide. Nice and straightforward.

She began her preparations a few weeks ago, working on the note to be found with the body. She’s tried various compositions, but even though her mother’s handwriting is similar to her own, she’s decided to keep the content brief. The fewer the number of words, the fewer opportunities for scrutiny. In the end, the final version, which she completed just yesterday evening, reads quite simply: ‘I have been a burden long enough.’ Not that Pauline expects anyone to question the suicide. She’s sure it’s obvious to even the most casual observer that the old woman must be nothing but an encumbrance to the daughter who’s stayed with her for the last twenty withering years, putting her own life on hold so her mother would never be alone. If the obnoxious witch had any decency, she’d have killed herself years ago.

Pauline is pleased the note is, at last, done. But with that out of the way, she must now address her plan’s next phase. She sits up in bed and takes in the room that’s been hers since childhood: the doll’s house her father made, on top of the wardrobe, its unblinking plastic windows staring down at her; her old school books on the shelf; the mother-of-pearl ring box Frank bought her, forever empty, gathering dust on her ridiculous, girlish dressing table. Just as the familiar, creeping ache begins to invade her chest, the whine of a milk float in the street outside shakes her from her reverie. She hears the distant rattle of the number seven bus, the first of the morning, heading off towards the city. Sure signs that the rest of the world is waking up to face the day.

Pauline, too, musters herself. Enough procrastination. She knows that although it will take courage, the time has come to turn her full attention to the real meat of the matter. The means of death.

When Deirdre O’Reilly spots Pauline Dollimore in the iron-monger’s, she pounces at once. ‘Pauline, how lovely to see you. The slugs are causing merry hell in the vicarage veg plot too.’ Seeing that Pauline is nonplussed, she adds by way of explanation, ‘You’re holding a packet of slug pellets, so I just assumed…’

‘Oh, yes, sorry, Deirdre.’ Pauline hastily stuffs the packet back on the shelf. ‘I was miles away. As a matter of fact, I’ve finished my shopping. But then I came back to get some string… and,’ she adds lightly, ‘some wallpaper paste. So, you see, nothing poisonous. I can’t think what I was about.’

‘Do you know, I believe wallpaper paste might actually be poisonous?’

‘Really?’ A spark of something like interest briefly ignites Pauline’s dull eyes.

‘Well, if one ate enough of it, perhaps. But we wouldn’t want to go sprinkling it on our porridge, would we?’ chuckles Deirdre, giving Pauline a little nudge. She peers into Pauline’s shopping basket and makes a swift appraisal of its contents. ‘Good gracious, you have been stocking up. It seems the Plagues of Egypt must have landed upon Number 17. Ant powder, weedkiller, wasp spray! Whatever next? Locust repellent? Mind you, I wouldn’t bother with that packet of Drano. It doesn’t work half so well as neat caustic soda. That’s what I put down the vicarage plugholes and our pipes are beautifully clear. Just ask the ironmonger.’ She makes a move to summon him over.

Pauline stops her. ‘Oh no, please, Deirdre. I don’t want to trouble him. Besides, as I say, I’ve already made my purchases for today, so, if you don’t mind—’

‘Well take some of mine then!’ says Deirdre, thrusting a packet of the crystals into Pauline’s basket. ‘I’ve just bought two of these for myself.’

‘No really. I couldn’t.’

‘Don’t be silly. Think of it as a little treat from me.’

Pauline offers no further protest but shifts slightly from foot to foot.

Noticing that Pauline is eying the shop’s door, planning her escape, Deirdre swiftly strikes again. ‘Anyway, I’m so glad I’ve run into you. I’ve been meaning to ask whether you’d like to join my sewing bee. We meet once a fortnight, at the vicarage. Just local ladies.’

Pauline hesitates, as if considering the offer.

‘And, of course, you must bring your mother.’

‘No,’ replies Pauline decisively, ‘but thank you so much for thinking of me. Now I’m afraid you must excuse me.’

‘What about the wallpaper paste?’

‘I don’t need any after all,’ she answers, her tone of voice suddenly distant and vague.

‘Are you quite all right?’ Deirdre notices Pauline looks tearful, and very pale. ‘May I walk you home?’

‘Oh. No. Thank you. I’m quite all right,’ she mumbles, reeling towards the exit. ‘I’m always quite all right.’

‘Say hello to Muriel from me.’

Pauline wanders homewards. As always, she walks tight in to the front garden walls, avoiding the centre of the pavement. It’s her practice to keep out of the paths of pushchairs, waggy-tailed dogs and the puddles of fallen cherry blossoms that mock her spinsterly progress.

Deciding on a staged suicide was all very well, but finding a way to do it is proving tricky. Despite giving this a lot of thought, so far all her ideas have unacceptable drawbacks. Poison seemed like a good solution, at least at first. But now she’s reconsidering. She can’t think of a way of buying something over the counter that would be toxic or corrosive enough to kill her mother, without it being traced back to her. She’s regretting asking the ironmonger which of the surprising array of rat poisons he stocks is the most easily soluble in hot milk. He tried to sell her a mousetrap. And the bloody vicar’s wife! Deirdre has seen – and no doubt made an indelible mental note of – all this morning’s acquisitions, so now Pauline can’t use any of these either. What a waste of money!

Pauline thinks about the caustic soda that Deirdre foisted onto her. It does look very like granulated sugar, and it could undoubtedly do somebody serious harm if they were to ‘accidentally’ take some. But Pauline has no idea how to engineer such an unfortunate mishap, short of putting a heap of the crystals in the middle of the kitchen table in a bowl labelled ‘sugar’, suggesting her mother make herself a nice, sweet cup of tea, and then leaving the old woman to brew up. As if. The hateful slouch hasn’t boiled her own kettle in over twenty years.

Anyway, even if Pauline does manage to get her hands on a suitably noxious substance without attracting attention, and she does somehow get her mother to swallow it, how can she be sure of delivering a lethal dose? How many spoonfuls of slug pellets, or wallpaper paste, or drain unblocker, would it take to get the job done? One? Two? Twenty-two? She remembers a disturbing episode of True Detective, where an intended victim failed to succumb to a diet laced with antifreeze because the would-be murderess messed up and only managed to get her husband to drink enough to cause convulsions. Just imagine if she were to make a similar mistake. She might be found out or, even worse, stuck with Mum, not dead but perhaps blinded, or incontinent, more foul-mouthed and difficult than ever. What a nightmare! This isn’t a risk she can afford to take.

Pauline knows she isn’t anything like clever enough with wiring to stage an electrocution. Besides, who ‘kills themselves’ by sticking their finger in a socket? Not only would it seem too incredible that the old woman would take her own life in this way, but Pauline doesn’t want to end up burning the house down. And as for staging a bathtub drowning or a hanging, there were myriad reasons for ruling out anything so physically ambitious.

She arrives back at Number 17 just one bit more discouraged than she was when she left it.

‘Yoo hoo!’ calls Pauline as she lets herself in. ‘Home again.’

On hearing no reply, she scurries into the kitchen and hastily puts away her now redundant purchases. She stows the Drano under the kitchen sink; the ant powder, weedkiller and wasp spray in the cupboard under the stairs. And Deirdre’s sodding soda crystals? She stuffs them into an old tin caddy and shoves it right to the back of the top shelf in the pantry. Out of sight, out of mind.

‘Are you in, Mum?’ she calls again. Still hearing nothing, not even a whisper, her mood lifts. Although she has a mountain of chores to get through, at least she has the place to herself. She’ll be able to work in peace for a change.

Apart from withstanding her mother’s limitless vitriol, she has to contend with her untidiness. Used to being waited on hand and foot, first by her husband and then by her daughter, she does absolutely nothing to keep their home straight. The old lady moves restlessly from room to room, leaving chaos in her wake. She always makes the worst mess in the kitchen. Although Pauline was never allowed in there as a child, as her mother has grown older and lazier, she now accepts her daughter’s presence in what was once exclusively her realm. But purely on a needs-must basis. Her cooking generates daily storms of disarray, and Pauline is the one left to wash the pots and sweep up after her.

When her mother isn’t baking, she’s constantly rummaging through cupboards and drawers. Whispering and rummaging, rummaging and whispering, she reminds Pauline of a foraging pig. Her favourite quarry is any photograph of herself, of which she has countless examples. She never seems to tire of looking at dated publicity shots of the dazzling Dolores, queen of the stage. At other times, she digs for recipes cut out of magazines. Every drawer in the house is stuffed with sticky scraps of paper. Nothing is sorted into any kind of order. Bank statements and bills are mixed in with the litter of her mother’s memories. It drives Pauline mad that important documents are always getting lost. Every day is a battle to keep even a semblance of tidiness in Number 17.

Pauline pulls on her shabby housecoat, slips on her shabby slippers, and arms herself with duster and beeswax to begin her regime. As she enters the dining room she gasps in shock. To her surprise her mother’s already in there, busily leafing through an old theatre programme, one of many dozens sprawled before her on the dining table. A moth-eaten boa is draped around her neck and she’s adorned herself with an assortment of jewellery – some real, some fake, but all gifts from Dolores’s stage-door admirers. Pauline guesses her mother must have been in the dining room for some time, given the number of crimson feathers trampled into the carpet.

‘Mum! You didn’t half give me a fright! I’d no idea you were in here.’

Her mother doesn’t look directly at her, but throws her a nasty sidelong stare.

‘I just thought I’d have a quick whizz round with the hoover,’ Pauline continues, her resolute semblance of good humour quickly restored. ‘Spruce things up a bit.’

‘What for? In case you have company?Ha ha.’

‘Why don’t I get started on the kitchen, so as not to disturb you.’

‘Tidying? Cleaning? Fetching in the coal? That Cinderella act doesn’t fool me. Cinderella was supposed to be beautiful.’

‘The vicar’s wife sends her love, by the way.’

Over the following weeks, Deirdre O’Reilly makes numerous overtures to Pauline. At every opportunity, which by coincidence often seem to arise in the aisles of the ironmonger’s, she extends an invitation to some event or another. She offers to take her, and naturally her mother too, to bridge, flower arranging, even brass rubbing. But all proposals of such companionable pastimes are politely rejected.

‘Honestly, Desmond,’ sighs Deirdre, ‘Pauline Dollimore is an absolute wreck these days. So miserable she looks unwell. Sometimes I wonder how Muriel stands it.’

It’s Maytime. Spring gambols towards summer. The days get longer, and after school the children of Atbara Avenue play in the street. Released into the teatime sunshine, a bellowing trio of boys rattles a homemade go-cart up and down the pavement, shedding caps, blazers, satchels and splinters of orange-box in their wake. A gaggle of little girls has chalked up a hopscotch grid, right outside Number 17. Hop, hop, hop, split, hop! Festering in the gloom of her mother’s front room, Pauline can hear the tap, tap, tap of their skipping ropes on the flagstones, and their maddening rhyming chants.

‘Johnny gave me apples,

‘Johnny gave me pears.

‘Johnny gave me thruppence

‘To kiss him on the stairs.

‘I gave him back his apples,

‘I gave him back his pears.

‘I gave him back his thru’penny bit

‘And kicked him down the stairs.’

She sighs to herself. She looks across at the old lady asleep in her chair, a framed photograph of Dolores resting on her chest. Kick her downstairs? If only!

Pauline has been chewing over her options, but after a lot of restive deliberation, she still finds herself no further forward. Resolved to commit her murder, but without a modus operandi fixed in her mind, she’s unable to proceed. If True Detective has taught her nothing else, it’s that the absolute bedrock of an effective looks-like-a-suicide killing ‘has to be a cast-iron MO, folks’.

This inability to settle on a strategy – to get the thing over and done with – has greatly added to her abject state. Unable to sleep, eating more cake than ever, she fears the murder plan might never come to fruition. Perhaps she is nothing more than a ‘hopeless failure’. Close to the end of her tether, this is the lowest Pauline’s ever felt in her whole, low-ebb life.

Much to her disquiet, there’ve been times recently when her anxious state has been so obvious that it’s drawn unwanted attention. In her latest encounter with Deirdre O’Reilly, the blasted busybody practically begged her to seek medical help.

‘Pauline,’ she burred in a voice steeped with pity, ‘you really should see someone.’

‘Thank you for your concern, Deirdre, but I can assure—’

‘The thing is, my dear, whatever it is that’s worrying you,’ she went on, raising the palm of her hand to silence Pauline, ‘and don’t you dare tell me you haven’t anything on your mind, because I can see that you do – it’s making you ill.’

These comments rattled Pauline at the time, and they still do now. If people can see she’s this distracted, that she’s ruminating dark thoughts, perhaps they might even work out what those dark thoughts are? Maybe she does need to take steps to improve her demeanour, or risk arousing suspicion?

Deirdre had continued, ‘Go and see a professional, Pauline. Ask a doctor to make you feel better. If not for your own sake, then do it for Muriel.’

The recollection of this last remark brings a brief, rueful smile to Pauline’s face. Taking care not to wake her mother, she rises to her feet, quietly slips into the hall and picks up the telephone.

When Deirdre O’Reilly next bumps into Pauline, she’s delighted to hear her news. She can hardly wait to pass it on to her husband. She finds him on his knees in the churchyard’s memorial garden, pulling up weeds.

‘Desmond!’ she gushes. ‘You’ll never guess what Pauline Dollimore’s done.’

‘Stolen her mother’s walking sticks and run amok in Woolworths?’ offers the vicar teasingly.

‘What a thing to say!’ she gasps. ‘Pauline must be the most timorous person I know. No,’ she continues triumphantly, ‘she’s taken my advice and booked herself an appointment at the local surgery.’

‘Has she now? Well done indeed.’ He smiles, pulling himself upright to pat her shoulder. ‘I can see why you’re pleased.’

‘Thank you. It’s gratifying to know that one really has been of help to a friend in need, even if it is in just a small way.’

When the day of Pauline’s appointment dawns, she expects to be seen by her usual doctor, a brusque woman who keeps patient encounters brief and compassion carefully rationed. Pauline has already mentally prepared herself for the long wait in the waiting room, followed by a short but thorough pull-yourself-together consultation, after which she’ll trail back home again, still broken. Indeed, she fears the only merit in this exercise will be the break it makes in her grindingly monotonous routine. However, quite by chance on this bright, bright morning that had promised so little, she learns that Dr Gwendoline Berry-Bowness has been called away. To her surprise, Pauline is, instead, seen by a locum GP.

Not long out of medical school, new to the practice, and such a caring young man, he is wonderfully sympathetic, Pauline finds. He asks her all about her life at home and, quite unlike her normal self, Pauline lets the whole story come tumbling out. She misses out the bit about the murder plans – obviously – but she does tell him how long she’s been living with her mother, about her mother’s talking to herself, her own sense of feeling trapped. The handsome young doctor is such a good listener. Pauline notices he doesn’t so much as glance at his watch once the entire time she’s talking. He looks genuinely sorry for her when she starts to cry.

‘Thank you for being so candid about your domestic situation, Miss Dollimore,’ he says when she’s finished. ‘I can see that sharing your circumstances with me hasn’t been easy for you.’

He’s very charming and though he doesn’t call her ‘ma’am’, when he says ‘Miss Dollimore’ Pauline experiences a frisson of pleasure that makes her blush. There’s definitely something of Frank about him around the eyes.

‘I’m sorry for being so emotional, Doctor,’ she gulps, trying to blow her snotty nose as prettily as possible.

‘No need to apologise. Your feelings are entirely understandable. You, Miss Dollimore, are suffering from what I like to call a “reactive depression”. In fact, I’m quite concerned about your frame of mind.’

‘You are?’ Pauline is so astounded to hear anyone express any concern about anything to do with her, it’s all she can do not to burst into tears again. ‘Because, quite honestly, I’m at my wits’ end.’

‘Rest assured, Miss Dollimore, I can see that for myself.’ The young doctor leans forward and pats her hand.

Pauline takes in the medicated scent of his soap and the potent, masculine whiff of hair cream, and she swallows, hard.

‘For now, I’m going to prescribe a course of tablets, just something to help you sleep, and let’s see how that goes. It may be that a proper night’s rest will be all it takes to make you feel better.’

‘Thank you so much. I can’t tell you—’

The doctor interrupts her. ‘There is one other thing I would like to suggest, if I may?’

‘What’s that?’

‘I would like to visit your mother.’

‘My mother?’ Pauline’s aghast.

‘Yes. Having listened to what you’ve told me, I’m a bit worried about her health too. It may be nothing, but the agitated behaviour you describe could be an early sign of senile dementia. Caring for someone who is suffering personality changes, especially a close family member’ – he nods knowingly – ‘can be extremely challenging. It might help if I could see her myself.’

‘Oh, dear. I’m afraid that she won’t like that idea. She really can be so difficult, Doctor, I’m not at all sure…’

‘Well, why don’t you mention it to her when you get home and let’s see what happens, eh? You never know. Your mother may just catch you by surprise.’ He smiles reassuringly. ‘If she agrees to seeing me, give our reception desk a ring to let me know. She doesn’t even have to come to the surgery. I can pop in to see her, first house call on my rounds – just to make sure all’s well.’

The young doctor makes his proposal sound so easy, but when Pauline leaves the consulting room she’s filled with doubts. A stranger ‘popping in’ to Number 17. Worse still, a ‘pop in’ elicited by her actions.She can’t see any way on this earth her mother would sanction it.

She makes her way home, her pace becoming slower and slower as she gets nearer and nearer her destination. By the time she’s back in Atbara Avenue she’s almost sick with despondency. Nevertheless, not wanting to disappoint the kindly doctor, she does exactly as he’s asked.

It’s to Pauline’s utter amazement that her mother not only consents to seeing the doctor – she actually seems keen to have him come.

The following day, the old woman prepares for his visit with care, plastering on makeup to recreate a ghastly parody of Dolores. Even Pauline herself puts on an ironed housecoat in honour of their guest.

‘Pathetic.’

To the doctor’s surprise, on arriving at the Dollimore household he finds the elderly lady bears no resemblance to the character described by her daughter. Quite the contrary, she comes across as calm, collected and the very embodiment of venerable cosiness. Admittedly a little short-tempered with Miss Pauline Dollimore, whom she dismisses to the kitchen to fetch shortbread – ‘homemade’ – she welcomes him into her front parlour. After spending just a few minutes alone with her, he’s very soon satisfied there’s nothing whatever wrong with this patient’s mental capacities.

‘Sharp as a needle, you are, Mrs Dollimore. Marvellous for your age.’

The only symptom of any note is that she too complains of sleeping badly.

‘Ah yes,’ he thinks to himself, ‘now that does concur with the younger woman’s account of her mother’s restlessness.’