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Authors: Lesley Thomson
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and rinse. Creeping out, I would have to stop and gaze at him, his face deceptively angelic in the glow of the nightlight, he hated the dark.’ Dr Challoner appeared distracted; then he shrugged and picked up a sickle probe from his tray.
Stella imagined a father who read his child stories, held her hand in the street and sat her on his knee to ask about her day at school. Bright light warmed her face when Mr Challoner repositioned the lamp; she closed her eyes.
It was over.
Mr Challoner was keying details of his treatment into a computer. Stella tottered against the chair as she tidied her hair and tugged at her clothes. The bib lay on the counter.
She had a gum infection under her lower left second bicuspid for which he scribbled a prescription for antibiotics, reassuring her that, apart from a spot of plaque and decay behind her top left incisor revealed by the X-ray, her teeth were good. With his hygienist on holiday he had performed a clean and polish. He would see her again for the filling which he made sound like a treat in store.
He delivered Stella to his receptionist and with a slight bow bade her goodbye.
Outside it occurred to Stella coming out of the reception, that the wall where the surgery had been was blank. She put this crazy impression down to the lidocaine numbing one side of her face; it turned the visit into a not unpleasant dream.
She stuck to the speed limit on Chiswick Bridge thinking about the little boy tucked in by his father. Terry could not have named her favourite music. Her phone’s ringtone was amplified through the speakers and propelled her into the present.
Jackie had left a voicemail about Mrs Ramsay, although crackling made the message unintelligible, Stella guessed Mrs Ramsay wanted her. When doing costing analyses Stella never built in the extra attentions she gave some clients regardless of their business worth. Such efforts, she had explained to Terry, were key to her success.
Stella did not reflect that the extra touches were because she cared about Mrs Ramsay. Page two of her staff handbook warned cleaners of the dangers of mixing emotion with business: You are one side of the dustpan and brush ; the client is on the other.
Stella resolved to start on Terry’s house that afternoon. The pain in her mouth had gone and as her van rumbled over the rickety Hogarth flyover the cloud lifted. She angled the visor to cut out low sunlight and estimated, based on years of experience, that clearing his possessions need take no time at all.
A police car and a van marked ‘Scientific Support Branch’ were parked outside Mrs Ramsay’s house. The back doors of the van were open and inside Stella could see the same blue plastic slide-out containers that she used for storing cleaning equipment in her vehicles. She drew in behind, wrenching up the handbrake to the furthest notch.
Blue police boundary tape, rattling in the breeze, had been tied across the gateway of Mrs Ramsay’s house and a policeman blocked the path.
‘Sorry, madam, you can’t pass this point.’
Stella looked over the officer’s shoulder to the shadowy hall. A lookalike Terry in a crumpled grey suit, balanced on his haunches, was inspecting her shampooed rug. A woman in scene-of-crime overalls sprinkled powder along the dining-room window sash bars which Stella had treated only last week and now would have to do again. The detective came out on to the porch, speaking into his phone.
It was not Terry.
As he kicked his heels, stamping on the mat and smacking dirt off his trousers, she caught the words ‘… place is a tip…’
‘I’m going to have to ask you to move on, madam.’
‘I’m here to see Mrs Ramsay. We handle her cleaning.’
The constable folded his arms. ‘Not any more. Mrs Ramsay died in the night.’
7
May 1985
The engine hurtled too fast into the tunnel; he should have applied the brakes sooner. Everything went into slow motion. His tummy churned, his tongue was a dead thing and
Stella imagined a father who read his child stories, held her hand in the street and sat her on his knee to ask about her day at school. Bright light warmed her face when Mr Challoner repositioned the lamp; she closed her eyes.
It was over.
Mr Challoner was keying details of his treatment into a computer. Stella tottered against the chair as she tidied her hair and tugged at her clothes. The bib lay on the counter.
She had a gum infection under her lower left second bicuspid for which he scribbled a prescription for antibiotics, reassuring her that, apart from a spot of plaque and decay behind her top left incisor revealed by the X-ray, her teeth were good. With his hygienist on holiday he had performed a clean and polish. He would see her again for the filling which he made sound like a treat in store.
He delivered Stella to his receptionist and with a slight bow bade her goodbye.
Outside it occurred to Stella coming out of the reception, that the wall where the surgery had been was blank. She put this crazy impression down to the lidocaine numbing one side of her face; it turned the visit into a not unpleasant dream.
She stuck to the speed limit on Chiswick Bridge thinking about the little boy tucked in by his father. Terry could not have named her favourite music. Her phone’s ringtone was amplified through the speakers and propelled her into the present.
Jackie had left a voicemail about Mrs Ramsay, although crackling made the message unintelligible, Stella guessed Mrs Ramsay wanted her. When doing costing analyses Stella never built in the extra attentions she gave some clients regardless of their business worth. Such efforts, she had explained to Terry, were key to her success.
Stella did not reflect that the extra touches were because she cared about Mrs Ramsay. Page two of her staff handbook warned cleaners of the dangers of mixing emotion with business: You are one side of the dustpan and brush ; the client is on the other.
Stella resolved to start on Terry’s house that afternoon. The pain in her mouth had gone and as her van rumbled over the rickety Hogarth flyover the cloud lifted. She angled the visor to cut out low sunlight and estimated, based on years of experience, that clearing his possessions need take no time at all.
A police car and a van marked ‘Scientific Support Branch’ were parked outside Mrs Ramsay’s house. The back doors of the van were open and inside Stella could see the same blue plastic slide-out containers that she used for storing cleaning equipment in her vehicles. She drew in behind, wrenching up the handbrake to the furthest notch.
Blue police boundary tape, rattling in the breeze, had been tied across the gateway of Mrs Ramsay’s house and a policeman blocked the path.
‘Sorry, madam, you can’t pass this point.’
Stella looked over the officer’s shoulder to the shadowy hall. A lookalike Terry in a crumpled grey suit, balanced on his haunches, was inspecting her shampooed rug. A woman in scene-of-crime overalls sprinkled powder along the dining-room window sash bars which Stella had treated only last week and now would have to do again. The detective came out on to the porch, speaking into his phone.
It was not Terry.
As he kicked his heels, stamping on the mat and smacking dirt off his trousers, she caught the words ‘… place is a tip…’
‘I’m going to have to ask you to move on, madam.’
‘I’m here to see Mrs Ramsay. We handle her cleaning.’
The constable folded his arms. ‘Not any more. Mrs Ramsay died in the night.’
7
May 1985
The engine hurtled too fast into the tunnel; he should have applied the brakes sooner. Everything went into slow motion. His tummy churned, his tongue was a dead thing and
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