Read by Margaret Ashley (1st story in podcast, at 5m 30s)
The next-door neighbour is punching her husband in the garden. High-pitched grunts dart through the window like punctuation marks. He’s got pads strapped to his hands. Now and then he shows her how she should move her feet, push from the shoulder, swivel her waist. They wear t-shirts in the same faded blue. After a while they swap over. Now she’s holding the pads and he’s hitting her. When he makes contact her arm moves back, as if on a spring. Jab jab jab.
It’s been six months since they moved in. They still have that newlywed smugness about them. Reality hasn’t yet sunk in, with familiarity breeding contempt and resentment spreading like a bed of nettles.
*
Later, I see her go out with a bag for life tucked under her arm. I make sure I’m doing the bins when she gets back.
‘Hi Susan,’ she says. Not for the first time, I curse myself for having such a boring-sounding name. ‘Lovely day isn’t it?’
I stretch my mouth, force my teeth to show. ‘That it is. But rain’s forecast for later.’
‘Is Thursday still okay for you to pop round?’
‘Absolutely fine, my dear. Tell your husband to leave his shirts on the table, I’ll iron them when I’ve finished.’
She looks delighted at the thought of pleasing him with this news. I was like that once.
*
Thursday goes well. They left cash for me on the table, plus a tip for the ironing. I may be old but I know how to clean a house. After all, I spent years in fear of having my head banged against the wall if he saw a smear on the shower screen or a dirty fingerprint by the light switch.
Some people call me the Crazy Cat Lady. Children laugh behind their hands when they see me in the street. I used to have five cats, which helped to explain the smell, but now it’s just me and Mr Perkins. Not crazy at all. We’re more comfy together than any long-married couple. He brings me gifts. Yesterday it was the back end of a mouse, its stomach and entrails hanging out, still intact and mottled like marble. Not to my taste, I told him, but I appreciated the gesture.
*
After a few weeks I know every detail of next door’s living arrangements. Where they keep the sex toys, the second phone he’s got in an old shoebox, how to get into the attic. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realised my suspicions were correct. Their house is a mirror image of mine.
It’s a long time since anybody’s asked about my husband. I used to think it was because they were embarrassed that he’d left me, but now I realise it’s more likely they don’t care. The lives of old people are of no interest to others. We’re stories already told, nothing to look forward to but death.
My story is not at an end. Still plenty to be written.
*
Six months later, my For Sale sign goes up. The neighbour comes round with a bunch of flowers.
‘Thanks for all your work, Susan. I’m not sure where we’ll find another cleaner as good as you.’
We chat for a while about the cottage I’ve found. It’s just right for me and Mr Perkins. Garden’s big enough to grow some nasturtiums and strawberries. She says she admires how active I am. The T’ai Chi classes have paid off. Core strength. I only had to make three trips up the ladder. He was easy to carry up to their attic, being nothing but a bag of bones. Literally.
I mustn’t laugh. There were times when I lay awake every night, dread coiling inside at the thought of a knock at the door, a police car waiting. Then there was the summer of the smell. At least the cats dealt with the vermin – and some of the body too, I suspect. After that, I knew it would be all right. Nobody came looking for him. Just a Christmas card each year from a distant relative in Canada. I put it in the bin each time.
*
On moving day I pause outside the house, taking one last look. Almost fifty years I’ve spent here. The windows need a lick of paint, and the guttering could do with unblocking. A bit like me, ha ha. The man and van have departed with the furniture, so it’s just me, my battered old car, and Mr Perkins in his basket. He crouches in the bottom looking sulky. He doesn’t like long journeys.
I’m about to make my escape when she comes out, ponytail bobbing.
‘Hi Susan!’
‘Hello and goodbye,’ I say.
She shoves a card into my hand.
‘We wanted to give you this. A little bonus for all your hard work, and to wish you well in your new home.’
‘Thank you.’ I do mean it. Without them, I wouldn’t have been able to sell the house.
‘Why don’t you give me your new address?’ she says. ‘In case there’s any post or something.’
I shake my head. ‘If there are bills, I don’t want them.’
‘What about Christmas cards?’
I’m worried she’ll keep insisting. She’s not the type to let go when she thinks she’s made a ‘friend’. Mr Perkins shifts in his carrier. I put one hand on the car door.
‘Susan,’ she says. She looks around and leans forward, eyes shining. ‘I’m not supposed to say anything yet, but I have to tell someone. Mike and I. We’re going to have a baby.’
I remember what I’m supposed to say in these situations.
‘Congratulations. I’m very happy for you both.’
She hugs herself with excitement.
‘It happened earlier than we thought. Mike was hoping to get the loft conversion done before it arrived. But I’m sure we’ll cope.’
‘Loft conversion?’ My stomach goes solid, as if I’ve eaten something bad.
‘Oh, yes. The planning application’s just gone in. Hopefully the new neighbours won’t mind the building work.’ She gazes up at our two houses, joined at the semi-detached hip. Her voice goes all dreamy. ‘I wonder if they’ll have children too.’
*
The new cottage is everything I hoped for. Surrounded by trees and silence. I’ve placed a seat outside the back door that catches the sun every evening. Mr Perkins loves it. I’ve even put in for a new kitten from the cat shelter. My former neighbour isn’t the only person who’ll have a little one about the place. It’s funny how I remember her at the oddest moments, like yesterday when I was putting the clean mugs away in the cupboard. I wonder how she took the news about her husband’s affair. An anonymous note is a bit hackneyed, but it’s all I could think of. She might not know it now, but she’s better off without him. I hope that she and the baby will be well.
Here's Mr Perkins come to rub against my legs. Time to feed him his tea.
(c) 2024, Angelita Lapuz Bradney
Angelita Lapuz Bradney's short stories have won prizes & been published in several literary magazines & anthologies, including Ellipsis Zine, Litro, &Nothing Is As It Was (Retreat West books), a collection of stories about climate change. Her novel-in-progress Wildwood draws on British & Filipino folklore & has been shortlisted for the SI Leeds Literary Prize. Angelita lives in London with her family & cat.
Margaret Ashley is a multi-award-winning voiceover artist & experienced actress, known on television for Coronation Street, The Bill, London's Burning, The Ward & audio dramas with BBC/Big Finish & video games including Doctor Who, Blakes 7, Banishers: Ghost of New Eden, Black Dessert OnLine, Indika, A Plague’s Tale Requiem, Indika, Lord of the Rings & many more. For more see margaretashley.com
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