“I was against holding these meetings in a bar, Mr. Chairman,” said Miss Anderson, under the laughter. “But you know best.”
While people were struggling into their coats, Fancy stood on her chair and addressed them, waving little slips of paper.
“The first dry run of Keiko’s profiling questionnaire starts Monday at ten,” she shouted. “Upstairs at the Pooles’. Come to me for the details.” She hopped down again and-stepping out of the way of Miss Anderson, who had come to inspect the chair and was wiping its velour seat with a tissue and muttering-caught Mrs. Poole’s eye for a moment. She was looking at Fancy without expression and although her jaw was clenched tight making little pouches at the sides of her mouth, the quick movement of her chest showed that she must be breathing hard though her nose. Suddenly she winced and stretched her mouth wide open for a second to release the pressure, giving Fancy the swift and unpleasant impression that she was screaming. Fancy looked away and immediately broke into a smile at the sight of Mabel Watson, who was clapping her hands together and bouncing up and down.
“I can’t wait, Fancy,” she said. “I love doing them, even if it’s just for a catalogue, but this!” She sighed, clasped her hands to her heart in a gesture of bliss that was only half-joking.
“I would have thought I could count on you for a bit of loyalty,” Andrew McLuskie muttered as he helped Etta on with her coat. She turned to him in surprise.
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?” he said. “You’re my wife.”
Etta McLuskie stopped buttoning her coat and stood looking at him. This was a thought she rarely allowed to form while he stood in front of her. She was delighted to be Mrs. McLuskie, of course, wife of a prominent businessman, provost of the burgh, but when Andrew himself was right there…
“And,” he went on, “because you certainly have mine. No matter what you’re up to and even when you go ranting on at Fancy for no reason.”
Although he had stepped back from her, Etta could still smell him-that warm sweet smell that hung around his clothes and his hair-and she thought she could see a faint powder dusting his hairline and caught in his brows. He would never open a second branch and start a chain, she knew that now, would never stop getting up at four in the morning and spending the day in the bake room, would always smell of flour and yeast and sugar and never see the need to wash it off himself.
“Have your what?” she snapped, brushing the shoulders of her coat as though he spread flour from his fingers like a human dredger.
“My loyalty, Henrietta,” he said. “More than you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Etta said. She had a high colour and always wore green basecoat, so she was safe from untoward flushing, but she could not help her eyes growing round. How could he know anything? What made him think for a moment there was anything to know?
“Don’t look so worried,” he said, for he was fond of his wife, proud of her, and liked life easy. “Like I just told you, you can count on me.”
“My God,” said Craig quietly to Fancy. “It’s supposed to be us young ones that fall out and have a go at each other in the pub. Look at Etta and Mr. Staypuff. If looks could kill!”
“Craig,” said Fancy, catching another glimpse of Mrs. Poole, who hadn’t moved although the room was emptying from around her like water draining from a bathtub and leaving her stranded. “Do you ever think there must be more going on round here than what your uncle tells you? The state everyone’s in.”
“Everyone who?” said Craig. “What do you mean?”
“Oh. Well, nobody,” said Fancy, turning away from Mrs. Poole again. “Yeah, you’re right. Nothing.”
sixteen
The security light clicked on most nights, flooding the back of the house and the patio with a white glare that banished sleep as instantly as snapped fingers. Roaming cats set it off, tree branches in high winds, even a hedgehog one time. They had learned to ignore it and so the delivery went unwitnessed. The letter didn’t make itself known until the next morning. Then there it was, propped against the kitchen window, held in place with one of the large polished pebbles from the water feature, facing in, the front of it-for you-pressed against the glass, ink bleeding a little from the dew. And inside: There’s a name for people like you. There’s a word for it. I will tell them all.
As soon as the house was empty for the day, it was taken upstairs, up the Ramsey ladder, to the attic, into the eaves. It was filed between the pages of a weekly magazine, fifteen years old, one of hundreds, yellowing. It was put towards the back of the issue too, with the dress patterns and recipes, the black-and-white pages, where no one flipping through to see the articles and photographs would ever go looking.
Monday, 4 November
The first knock came half an hour early. Keiko was ready though, a pile of questionnaire papers and a mug of biros set out in the living room, the whole bottle of chemicals tipped down the kitchen sink and a vanilla candle lit, the door to her bedroom and bathroom safely closed.
She stepped back when she saw Malcolm Poole standing there but managed, moving sideways, to turn it into a gesture of welcome.
“I’m not coming in,” he said, his voice booming around the high empty landing. The creep across the road, Craig’s cousin had called him. “I just wanted to warn you to close your back windows. Mum said your bathroom window was open.”
“Yes,” said Keiko. “I open it every day. I didn’t realise. Please make my apologies to your mother.” Could a creep be female? She could ask Fancy.
“No,” said Malcolm. “Just this morning, I mean. I’m doing kidneys.”
“Oh yes?”
“Cleaning them. And they smell a bit.”
Keiko took a little sniff, feeling her lip curl and Malcolm, looking up briefly, noticed and smiled.
“I haven’t started yet,” he said. “They’re lovely, once you’ve soaked and blanched them. But they do smell at first, so I do a whole load of them together and freeze them down. I’ll go up to McLuskie’s after this and tell the girls to take their aprons in off the line.” He seemed to be waiting for a response, looking from side to side at the edges of the doormat.
“You’re very thoughtful,” said Keiko. “So… you’ll be busy in the little house in the yard this morning.”
He looked at her properly then, closely into her face for the first time, then shook his head, and made a massive movement of relaxation, leaning against the doorframe and throwing one leg in front of the other. He almost filled the doorway, an iceberg in his white overall and white boots, leaving just a sliver of space that she would have to jump through if she decided, for some reason, that she needed to get past him.
“No,” he said. “I do everything in the back of the shop. We don’t really use the slaughterhouse anymore. Hey!” he said, suddenly loud, the sound echoing. Keiko could feel her heart banging. “Hey! I’ll bet you’ve never had a steak and kidney pudding.”
“You’re right,” said Keiko.
“I’m going to make you a steak and kidney pudding. I only make pies for the shop, of course. They keep better. A pudding has to be made and cooked in a oner, unless you’re very careful, but there’s nothing like it. I’ll use ox kidneys. Beef suet. You know, suet is kidney fat. Makes sense, eh? All these old recipes.”
“You’re very kind,” said Keiko again.
“You’ve no idea,” said Malcolm. “Wait until you taste it. I’ll need to come up here to boil it, though. Easiest all round and let’s face it, the smell of it cooking is half the pleasure. You name the day and I’ll be here.”