Hartsend by Janice Brown Page B

home.’’
    â€˜â€˜And you are …?’’
    â€˜â€˜Mrs Robertson. Her neighbour.’’
    Mrs Crawfurd pressed the doorbell again, and looked up at the gathering clouds.
    â€˜â€˜I think she might have a visitor.’’
    Mrs Crawfurd turned.
    â€˜â€˜A man came to the door when I was … She seems to have quite a lot of gentlemen calling. At all hours.’’ A little nervous laugh. ‘‘Not that she shouldn’t. It’s quite right that friends should rally round. She’s on her own now, you see. She lost her mother recently, and as I said to Walter, those of us who …’’
    This was becoming ridiculous. But there was the problem of the boots.
    â€˜â€˜Perhaps you would give her these, when you see her next,’’ Mrs Crawfurd extended the brown paper parcel. Not the most satisfactory of solutions, but what else could be done?
    â€˜â€˜Who will I say …?’’ The voice followed her down the path.
    She lifted a gloved hand without looking back, a hand that contrived to be dismissive but courteous at the same time.
    â€˜â€˜How is she?’’ Duncan asked, switching on the wipers as large spots of rain began to hit the windscreen.
    â€˜â€˜She wasn’t at home. I left them with her neighbour. I must say, the garden looks very neglected and sad. Perhaps her new gentleman friend will do something about it.’’
    She watched him out of the corner of her eye for several seconds, but there was no sign that he had heard. He had the same annoying habit as his late father of not hearing unless a sentence was prefaced with his name.
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    Every year the pattern was the same. They would go to Boots, then Mother would visit Marks and Spencer to choose some item of clothing, while he went to the nearby bookshop. She would come for him, then they would cross the street and have lunch.
    The restaurant had changed hands more than once, but the furniture remained the same. The chairs and tables were a faded pink, Lloyd Loom originals. The square tables with their protective glass tops had cross struts below that made stretching one’s legs impossible.
    Members of the library staff had recommended other places, which Duncan would have been happy to try, but this was the one his mother insisted was his favourite. She liked a window seat on the upper floor, and was prepared to wait for one so that they could look down on the shoppers in the street below.
    He placed the plastic bag with his purchase carefully on the carpet at his feet. The Poetry of Birds . He had read the reviews some weeks earlier. According to the Telegraph the poems were ‘‘set in acres of space which makes the reading experience pleasurable.’’ The reviewer had also praised the ‘‘striking red endpapers.’’ He had read the contents page already, and the thought of the evening ahead when he could recline and settle into it was wonderful. He was still undecided as to whether he should limit himself to one poem per evening.
    What would he like today?
    Quickly he looked at the menu. Last year he had tried the Turkey Toastie with Cranberry Sauce. It had proved to be dry. He ordered the Tasty Macaroni Cheese. He’d liked it since his boarding school days. Did Lesley eat macaroni cheese? Did she know how to make it? He hoped she was looking after herself properly.
    A rivulet of cold water fell on his neck. He turned to protest. But the woman holding the umbrella was elderly. He contained his annoyance, took out his handkerchief and patted himself dry.
    Mother was absorbed by the scurrying bodies below. Now she turned to take a spoonful of broth and a small piece of unbuttered roll.
    â€˜â€˜I ought to have got you a new cardigan in Marks. You’re terribly hard on elbows, Duncan. I’ve given up looking for darning wool. Marjory says nobody darns any more. If I could find leather