Page 12 of The Family Across the Street
‘Perhaps you don’t want to be here gardening; perhaps you’d rather be somewhere else,’ Katherine said, her voice tight with anger.
Gladys had the feeling she had stumbled into a conversation that had been going on for some time.
John stood up from the garden bed and walked towards Katherine, grabbing the hose out of her hands and using it to wash the dirt off his own.
‘Hey!’ shouted Sophie.
‘Quiet,’ he barked and then he stormed off away from them, back into the house.
‘Bad morning?’ Gladys asked in what she hoped was a jovial tone.
‘Lots of bad mornings,’ Katherine said, holding the hose over the children again.
It seemed to Gladys that Katherine’s words were said more to herself than to Gladys. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, unable to think of any other reply, and Katherine gave herself a little shake. ‘Sorry, Gladys… don’t mind John. He’s grumpy because he’s tired. He’s been working late a lot.’
‘Of course, of course,’ murmured Gladys and then she waved and went on her way.
It wasn’t the silly argument that had bothered her but rather the tension between the two of them. It filled the summer air and darkened John’s features.
He isn’t a big man, only a little taller than Katherine, and Gladys doesn’t think he’s the type to become violent. He is an accountant in a large firm. Accountants are not a violent bunch – not usually at least. But in that moment, just then, it seemed as if he could have been, from the way he wrenched the hose out of Katherine’s hand.
Gladys stares at the house, where the closed blinds look strangely ominous and secretive.
‘Well, you need to just stop being ridiculous,’ she says aloud. ‘Just march over there and check on them.’
She nods her head and catches sight of herself in the guest bedroom mirror, makes a clicking sound with her tongue at her appearance. She hasn’t put on any make-up this morning but she supposes there’s no point. It will simply slide off her face in this terrible heat, and hardly anyone’s going to see her anyway. She finds herself dressing up less and less these days, a feeling of defeat overtaking her as she applies base to cover wrinkles and age spots. It’s not healthy, and she is trying to encourage herself not to think that way. She pushes her hair behind her ears and lifts her neck. She’s not doing badly for seventy, and at least her body is still trim and fit. She likes the pants she’s wearing today. The lovely flower-patterned design feels like she’s wearing a garden around her legs. Clothes should be bright and cheerful, she’s always thought.
As a young girl Gladys was conscious of her skinny arms and legs and her slightly hooked nose. She had nice eyes, wide and blue, but she knew that she didn’t fit the description of pretty. Her brown hair is still cut in a short bob and she keeps the colour with regular visits to the hairdresser. She tried, throughout her teenage years, to make peace with the fact that she was not likely to find a husband. ‘What nonsense,’ her mother told her, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder and you’re a beautiful young woman,’ and she was right.
She bumped into Lou at a pub on a night out with some of the teachers from the school where she was working at the time.
‘We’ll all move up a little – sit down,’ said someone, Gladys can’t remember who. And then she moved to create a space, assuming that the person sitting next to her would shuffle up as well, but Lou said, ‘I’ll take that seat, right next to the pretty one.’ He sat down beside her and offered her his hand. ‘I’m Lou and I sell cars. I’ll get you the best deal on a new car if you let me buy you your next drink.’ He had thick brown hair and grey-blue eyes. Gladys allows herself a small smile now as she remembers how she had flushed, heat rising up from her toes.
She leaves the guest bedroom and looks in on her husband downstairs. He is still asleep. She contemplates leaving him a note but then doesn’t. She’ll be back almost immediately, she’s sure.
Outside the heat is starting to take hold, cicadas ramping up their song. She looks across the road and sees the dog who belongs to the Patel family lying in the front garden under a tree, panting. He’s a golden retriever and even though he’s had his summer cut, he looks very unhappy in the heat.
She ducks across the road quickly and looks down the side of the house where she knows they leave his water and food. She can see not just one bowl of water but three. She nods her head, satisfied, and crosses back over to her side of the street.
Pushing open the metal gate at the front of Katherine’s house, Gladys walks purposefully up the front path.
Once she’s rung the bell she waits, knowing that she will soon hear Katherine shout, ‘George, do not answer the door until I’m there.’ The little boy likes to answer the door. He is curious about everything and everyone and speaks to her as though they are the same age. Sometimes he calls her ‘Glad’, which sounds strange coming from the mouth of a five-year-old, but he is completely charming. Sophie is less interested in other people and more of a chatterbox, filled with information and ideas. ‘Did you know that a worker bee lives for forty-two days,’ she said to Gladys when they met in the street last week, as though handing over classified information, and Gladys nodded, making sure to register this fact with the gravitas it needed.
But the house is silent. There are no sounds of running children or Katherine shouting.
Gladys wonders if perhaps the family have left for an early holiday. School finishes up for the year on Friday. But then she remembers that John left for work this morning, with screeching tyres, according to Lou. And when they do go away, Katherine always comes over to tell Gladys so that she can keep an eye on the house.
She pushes the doorbell once more and waits. She could have just called Katherine because she has her mobile number. But phone calls are easily ignored and then Gladys would have been left still wondering if everything was all right. No, it’s better to tackle this in person.
She hears the metal square that holds the peephole open and she smiles.
‘Hey Gladys,’ says Katherine through the door. ‘Now isn’t really a good time.’
‘Oh,’ says Gladys, a little flustered. Even in the early days, when she had rung the bell to find Katherine in the middle of changing a nappy, the door was always opened for her. Only Katherine’s tight politeness would give Gladys any sense that she was not in the mood for coffee and a chat.
‘Oh right,’ she says, ‘I just… well, I didn’t see the children go to school and the blinds in their room are closed, and I just wondered if everything was okay, or if you needed anything, if the children are sick or something…’
She stops speaking, aware that she does sound like a very nosy person. She pats at her hair, making sure the clip is still holding in place.
