heart. Fortunately, some people, and Mrs. McNeil was one of them, quickly find they have plenty to tell after all. “He and this friend of his started digging a great—well, a sort of ditch or trench. It was high summer, you know, and they dug in an absolutely wanton fashion, right up through poor old Mr. Grimble's garden, ruining a beautiful Rosa hugonis and a bed of calla lilies—I don't suppose you know what those are but no matter—and the friend finished the job, if he finished it. He only worked in the evenings, if you can call it work. And then, of course, or so young Mr. Pickford told my husband, he failed to get his planning permission and they had to fill it all in again.”
“I expect that pleased you.”
“It certainly did. The last thing I wanted was four houses built opposite me. All the same they would have been, all red brick with those picture windows, so-called. Of course that was before we knew we'd move on account of the disgusting behavior going on at the Tredowns.”
“You saw the trench they'd dug filled in again?”
“Oh, yes. I saw the man fill it in. He had his wireless on all the time, full on. I could hear it from Flagford Hall with all my windows shut. Those kind of people can't do anything without that pop music. Ronald used to say it makes them feel uneasy not having background noise.”
“Did you see anything odd at that time, Mrs. McNeil? Anything, never mind how small, you thought at the time was—well, strange.”
“Not apart from that man's wireless set. But that's not odd these days, that's normal.” She hesitated. “Well, there was one thing, though I don't really know that you could call it odd.”
“Try me,” said Damon.
“It was just the day after that man had finished filling in the trench. The first Mrs. Tredown—she calls herself Claudia Ricardo, but a person like that would call herself anything—she came across Grimble's Field with her dog. She had a little dog in those days, brought it with her. It's dead now and no one shed any tears about that. Well, she walked it across the field and when she came to where the trench was—there was a sort of line of bare earth if you see what I mean—she didn't walk over it, she walked around it, all the way down to the bungalow and up the other side as if she was avoiding that line of earth. I went over after she'd gone and I couldn't see any reason why a person would walk around it.”
“While you were living at Flagford Hall did you hear of anyone going missing? Disappearing?”
“Only that retarded man. What was he called? Cummings? He was simple, you know. Almost the village idiot.”
This phrase gave Damon a worse shock than would a stream of obscenities issuing from Mrs. McNeil's mouth. He even made an involuntary sound, a kind of “ouch” of protest. She spoke more gently than she had throughout the interview. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, no, I'm fine.” He tried a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. McNeil, you've been very helpful.”
Walking him to the front door, her legs barely performing their prime function, she turned, peered at him, and said, “You speak very good English. What part of the world do you come from?”
This was a question Damon was quite used to being asked. It still happened all the time. “Bermondsey,” he said.
Number 5 Oswald Road, home of John and Kathleen Grimble, was one of those houses—or its living room was—which are furnished with most of the necessities of life, things to sit on and sit at, things to look at and listen to, to supply warmth or keep out the cold, insulate the walls and cover the floors, but with nothing to refresh the spirit or gladden the heart, compel the eye or turn the soul's eye toward the light. The predominant color was beige. There was a calendar (Industry in Twenty-first Century UK) but no pictures on the walls, no books, not even a magazine, a small pale blue
“I expect that pleased you.”
“It certainly did. The last thing I wanted was four houses built opposite me. All the same they would have been, all red brick with those picture windows, so-called. Of course that was before we knew we'd move on account of the disgusting behavior going on at the Tredowns.”
“You saw the trench they'd dug filled in again?”
“Oh, yes. I saw the man fill it in. He had his wireless on all the time, full on. I could hear it from Flagford Hall with all my windows shut. Those kind of people can't do anything without that pop music. Ronald used to say it makes them feel uneasy not having background noise.”
“Did you see anything odd at that time, Mrs. McNeil? Anything, never mind how small, you thought at the time was—well, strange.”
“Not apart from that man's wireless set. But that's not odd these days, that's normal.” She hesitated. “Well, there was one thing, though I don't really know that you could call it odd.”
“Try me,” said Damon.
“It was just the day after that man had finished filling in the trench. The first Mrs. Tredown—she calls herself Claudia Ricardo, but a person like that would call herself anything—she came across Grimble's Field with her dog. She had a little dog in those days, brought it with her. It's dead now and no one shed any tears about that. Well, she walked it across the field and when she came to where the trench was—there was a sort of line of bare earth if you see what I mean—she didn't walk over it, she walked around it, all the way down to the bungalow and up the other side as if she was avoiding that line of earth. I went over after she'd gone and I couldn't see any reason why a person would walk around it.”
“While you were living at Flagford Hall did you hear of anyone going missing? Disappearing?”
“Only that retarded man. What was he called? Cummings? He was simple, you know. Almost the village idiot.”
This phrase gave Damon a worse shock than would a stream of obscenities issuing from Mrs. McNeil's mouth. He even made an involuntary sound, a kind of “ouch” of protest. She spoke more gently than she had throughout the interview. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, no, I'm fine.” He tried a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. McNeil, you've been very helpful.”
Walking him to the front door, her legs barely performing their prime function, she turned, peered at him, and said, “You speak very good English. What part of the world do you come from?”
This was a question Damon was quite used to being asked. It still happened all the time. “Bermondsey,” he said.
Number 5 Oswald Road, home of John and Kathleen Grimble, was one of those houses—or its living room was—which are furnished with most of the necessities of life, things to sit on and sit at, things to look at and listen to, to supply warmth or keep out the cold, insulate the walls and cover the floors, but with nothing to refresh the spirit or gladden the heart, compel the eye or turn the soul's eye toward the light. The predominant color was beige. There was a calendar (Industry in Twenty-first Century UK) but no pictures on the walls, no books, not even a magazine, a small pale blue
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