The Siege of Wrenstock Gardens

By Suzanna Stanbury

Noreen Bottle likes to think she’s a good judge of character. She’s convinced her new neighbour, Marsha Sludger, a rum-soaked aspiring author with a taste for disco-bunny clothes will bring trouble to their cosy south Bristol street.

One night Marsha asks Noreen for help in escaping her brutish ex-husband. Noreen hides Marsha in the family caravan in Brean, but is annoyed when the wretched woman won’t stay put.

Marsha’s publisher, Grayzon Devine, a man abounding with peacock tendencies turns up in hysterics recounting the terrifying tale of Marsha’s abduction.

In trying to trace the missing Marsha, Noreen, her husband Skipper and Grayzon are caught up in what is less of a mystery and more of a mess.

Guns, drugs and dog-napping, Noreen takes it all in her stride, but when the BBC arrive, even she has to admit everything has gone over the top.
The Siege at Wrenstock Gardens is based on the popular column The Parson Street Nose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanna Stanbury
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310291296

Suzanna Stanbury

Suzanna Stanbury lives in Bristol, England. She publishes as Snub Try Publishing. Suzanna writes children's books, novels and short stories. She performs regularly at spoken word events, performing at schools and libraries encouraging children to love books. She is administrator and an active member of The Bristol Fiction Writers' Group. Website: http://snubtry.weebly.com/ Twitter: @suzannastanbury Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/SuzannaStanbury The illustrations for Suzanna Stanbury books are created by Liz Ascott.

Book preview

Chapter One

I’m so angry my hold on the shopping bag has become a death grip. That wretched woman! Marsha, next door. As if it wasn’t bad enough she drove through a puddle, drenching me and the dog – luckily Pickle bore the brunt of the soaking. She then drove up on the kerb and nearly flattened the pair of us – and she didn’t even park straight. The woman has more dress sense than she has manners. She’s clearly not going to get out of the car so I can give her a piece of my mind and it’s raining too hard to wait – just look at her in there gabbling away on the phone. I expect she drives when she’s taking a call; she looks the sort to do that – it’s so dangerous.

Still fuming, I fumble with my keys. The wind catches the porch door, slamming it hard enough to make my teeth rattle. The violence of the noise is oddly calming.

Is that you, Noggin?

Of course it’s me! I snap. Who else would be in our porch – manic Marsha?

I despair of my husband sometimes. But I expect Skipper would be delighted if Marsha appeared in our porch, dressed inappropriately, as she always is. No, I’m being unfair. Skipper stares at all women who dress like tramps. Goodness me, I am cross. Now I’m being uncharitable. Marsha isn’t a tramp, she just has badly defined lines between dressing decently and… And... I must calm down. Relax, Noreen.

I shake out my sopping wet umbrella while the dog shimmies rain all over the porch.

Did you get the doughnuts? bawls Skipper.

I wrestle my wet mac off, reaching for the coat rack, the hanging chain snaps and the mac falls to the floor. For goodness sakes! Grabbing the dratted thing, I try again, using the label to hang it this time. I shall have to add my coat to the mending pile – or perhaps it’s time for a new one.

The dog’s running circles around the living room. I dump the bag of doughnuts on Skipper’s lap. The rumbling storm outside coupled with our encounter in the park with a poodle has set poor little Pickle all of a skitter. Thunderstorms alone are enough to cause the mutt to buck like a badly-saddled seafront donkey, but his love of poodles has caused many a near miss with disaster in the past.

By the time I catch and settle Pickle, Skipper is already into the bag of doughnuts, sugar all over his beard and a large splodge of jam decorating the arm of the chair.

Careful! I say. Look at the mess you’ve made. I’ll fetch a plate.

You’re in a moody two-shoes today, says Skipper, licking his fingers. What’s got your goat?

Marsha, that’s what!

What’s she done now? he asks. Didn’t drop another fag packet outside our gate, did she? I don’t need that plate now, two doughnuts at one sitting is my limit.

Drumming my nails on the rejected plate I glare at Skipper, wondering how he could be so clueless. Didn’t you see it? I ask, my words quivering with umbrage.

See what? He blinks innocently up at me like a new-born seal.

That… That awful car of hers! She’s parked it on the pavement again. You must have heard her screech to a halt just now. It’s such a vulgar car – it’s nothing more than a… Slutmobile.

Oh, the red Mazda, says Skipper, his tone as light as an August breeze. Yes, I did hear her come into land. Nice sporty little number, I thought.

Nice sporty…

Careful, Noggin. Skipper reaches out, patting me on the arm. Watch your blood pressure, he says, mouth full of doughnut, you’ve gone a bit pink of cheek.

Don’t get jam on my cardigan! I whisk out of the room, returning the plate to its rightful place in the cupboard. I give the worktops a good hard wiping down while I simmer silently. Since Marsha moved in next door she’s been nothing but a distraction and not a good one.

Why don’t you like the Mazda? Skipper sidles in on his nubuck-soled slippers making me soar six inches off the vinyl flooring.

Oh, you did make me jump! When my heart rate has dropped a little I round on him. Honestly, Skipper – I swear I’m going to put Blakey’s on those slippers of yours. Waving a finger, I glower at him. You’re the master of stealth and a danger to all.

Don’t over react, Noggin. Skipper’s removed the roll of kitchen paper from its silver prong. Unwinding enough of it to mummify the dog, he begins swabbing the jam out of his beard. I was only asking why you don’t like Marsha’s new car.

A car like that is inappropriate for a woman of her age, that’s why.

Re-pronging the kitchen roll, he gives a small chuckle. Do they have age-appropriate cars now then? When did that law come in? His chuckle turns into a snort. What’s the penalty for transgression of this new law? Do you get an ASBO? A Mazbo! Hah!

You mark my words. I raise my warning finger in his direction. That car of hers is the start of trouble. Just think what people will say if they see it lurking by the kerb oozing unsavoury intent.

You’re just jealous, says Skipper, putting the kettle on to boil. I bet you’d swap your old Rover for a nice little sports car if someone offered you one.

My jalopy is a solid, decent vehicle. It may be old, but it’s still in perfect condition, well-kept and is entirely suitable for purpose.

Still sniggering, Skipper glides out; his slippers squeaking as he corners into the hall.

***

The following morning the rain has passed over and the sun’s daring to make an appearance over St Barnabas of the Seventh Advent when I tweak the nets aside for a peek into the street. Feeling confident it’s dry enough to venture forth I check my lipstick in the ornate, bronze-framed wall mirror.

Will you get me a Daily Mail while you’re out? Skipper zips into the room. Coming up behind me, he sticks his tongue out at his reflection in the mirror. I’m off down to the shed to tidy up my reels ready for the weekend. Does my tongue look grey to you, Noggs?

The slutmobile’s gone, I say, plucking a cobweb from the mirror frame. I expect Marsha’s gone for a tan. What with it being Thursday I expect she’s faded enough for a re-spray by now. And it’s no wonder your tongue’s grey with all the Guinness you guzzled with Big Stan in the shed last night.

***

When Skipper came out of the navy he did a bit of work down at Avonmouth docks for a while, and that’s where he met Stan Shunt. Stan’s only in his early forties and his IQ is just a smidgen higher. No. That’s not fair. Stan is a sweet-natured and gentle man – a great bumbling bear. He was absolutely devoted to his mother. It’s good for Skipper to have a younger friend, keeps him sprightly – as if Skipper needed any encouragement to be non-age-appropriate. Let us just say it is very apt Skipper is a sexagenarian as smut is his primary thought pattern – that is, beyond snacks, fishing and Guinness. Honestly – I have to be on alert at all times to rein in his shenanigans.

***

Two bottles, says Skipper. That’s all I had. Just two bottles. Hey – do you think Marsha has a shade chart like they do in B&Q? He begins picking bits of cereal out of his beard. Then she can check the grade of her fade.

I have absolutely not one iota of interest in Marsha’s tan. I’m merely commenting it’s unnecessary to drive to the beauty salon when she usually walks; she’s just showing off her new car. Make sure you pick up those Bran Flakes with which you’ve so casually seeded the Wilton before the dog eats them. He’s regular enough without you adding bran into the equation.

I’m all for driving, says Skipper, whizzing the zip up on his cardigan, and trying not to fall over the dog when Pickle dives on the fallen flakes like a ravenous jackal. I wouldn’t swap my van for a bike if you offered me all the Guinness in Asda. Are you taking the dog to the park before you go shopping?

Of course I am! I snap. I’ve told you before about overfilling his water bowl – half full is adequate for a dog of his size. Just look at him – the poor thing’s got his legs crossed. Pickle! Walk!

The dog scoots out, returning at great speed trailing his lead. Well, done, Pickle, I say. Good dog.

We leave Skipper to wind in his reels, and whatever other piscine preparations he has planned for the morning. I’ve done my duty enough times down the years accompanying Skipper on his coastal jaunts, now it’s Big Stan’s turn, and good luck to him is what I say.

***

It’s a trifle blustery in the park. A golden retriever sniffing the rose-beds looks as if he’s being blow-dried by the burgeoning easterly whipping through the buddleias.

Pickle, no! My words are torn asunder as my disobedient hound careers off up the path. With the wind at his heels he almost appears to take off at the apex of the incline and by the time I catch up with him he’s nose to sphincter with a Labradoodle.

Is this your dog? The young woman hanging on to the Labradoodle’s lead seems somewhat discomfited by my dog’s attentions to her pooch’s nether quarters.

Pickle! Out of there! Swiftly, I crook a finger under my dog’s collar and haul him away. He’s always a bit over-friendly when the wind’s up, I explain, trapping Pickle between my legs. My hair is all over the place. Desperately I try to extract a wind-tossed curl from my nose. He’s a very weather-orientated dog.

Yes, well. The young woman is pouting so hard her blackberry lip-loss ripples like the surface of a pond. "Just be more careful in future. Beckham is a very masculine dog. I don’t want him to waste himself on a mixture."

Pickle is a dog not a bitch, he’s just unusually pretty. I snap on Pickle’s lead with as much attitude as I can muster. "And I’ll have you know he’s not a mixture; he’s a finely-tuned cross-breed."

Whatever! The girl strides away on high-heeled boots, tight jeans stretched to capacity over her hips. I try not to laugh as a sudden blast of wind sends her teetering sideways into a litter-bin.

Bedminster’s packed when we arrive and the queue for the Post Office, ridiculously long.

Dreadful, innit? The elderly woman in front of me turns slowly, cranking her neck round as I tie Pickle to the bike-rack. It’s always like this on a Thursday, she says. I don’t know why the government pays everythin’ out on a Thursday. Why don’t they stagger it a bit? No plannin’, that’s their problem. D’you know – I was ‘ere earlier but the queue went right down to The Golden Slots, I wasn’t waitin’ in that wind so I went in The Slots and had a few spins on the Treble Lemon Mega Payout, now here I am again to try my luck in ‘ere.

She tries to chuckle and falls into a coughing spasm. I watch fascinated as she jabs her dentures back inside her mouth, seizing her cheeks to settle her errant gnashers into place.

Fifteen minutes later, with parcel to America safely dispatched, I’m just tucking my purse back into my jute bag when I see her. Marsha from next door. She’s strutting past the post office, orange as a tangerine; her blue leggings – that appear to have sprayed on – emerge from splinter-heeled black boots frothing with fake fur. Her hair seems to be more bouffant than usual and I’m sure that’s a new leather jacket she’s wearing. Although, I doubt its real leather – probably pleather. And even more interestingly, she’s with a young man.

I’m so distracted by the sight of them, I almost forget to untether the dog from the bike rack, and its only Pickle’s plaintive whimper that sets me bending to untie him.

Alright, shush, I say. I would have remembered you… eventually. Don’t look at me like that.

Off we set in Marsha’s wake, with me wondering who on earth the young man can be. He seems far too young to be her beau and as far as I know Marsha only has daughters – five of them, or so I’m told. Marsha only moved in next door a few months ago and I’m still busy gleaning her back story. Mr Thing at the corner shop – who’s usually a wealth of local information, has been disappointingly lax in the detecting department where Marsha is concerned. I mention her every time I go into the shop but he has not been at all forth-coming – in fact I’m somewhat worried he’s losing his usual Sherlockesque talents.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Thing, like Skipper, has been distracted by Marsha’s scanty wardrobe choices. And today’s outfit is shocking. Under the jacket her purple nylon top is so fragile-looking and low-cut I’m surprised it can sustain stitches let alone Marsha’s considerable frontage.

The woman’s like a cat on hot bricks around her youthful friend – a cat on heat I should say, prancing around showing off. I’m so wrapped up in salacious supposition, when the young man’s phone rings and he stops dead in his tracks, it takes me quite by surprise and I almost canon into the back of them.

Oops, so sorry! I trill, stepping backwards onto the dog. Oh, Pickle, get out from under my feet, do! You’ve only got yourself to blame if you will dog my footsteps.

Marsha seems instantly overtaken by a wave of smugness, letting out a shudder-inducing smile as she rises up on the hideous furry boots.

Morning, Norma, she beams. Lovely weather today.

She knows my name only too well. I’m almost tempted to call her Monica in retaliation but a polite correction will suffice.

"It’s Noreen, and good morning to you, Marsha. Yes, it’s turning quite pleasant now the wind’s died down. Have you been on holiday? I know full well she hasn’t. You’re looking rather tanned."

Marsha smiles like Skipper would, had he been let loose in a brewery. You’d never know its fake, would you? Her beam becomes blinding, and she attempts to flick back her hair, which is so rigid with spray I suspect it wouldn’t budge if she head-butted a brick wall. I’ve just come from Tanadu. They’ve got a new treatment spray. It’s fab-u-luss. Marsha gives a swift look towards her yammering friend, then leans closer, so close in fact; I’m overwhelmed by the pong of her sickly scent. Cheap.

This is Grayzon, she says, flapping her hand towards him, as if I hadn’t guessed she meant her chit-chatting companion. He’s my publisher.

For a moment all thought and speech is lost to me. Almost too late, I realise my jaw’s heading south, hanging slackly onto the collar of my mac. With a sharp snap of teeth, I clamp it shut, trying frantically to summon a reply from the depths of my shocked cerebellum.

Ooohhh, I drag the syllable out to its fullest extent. How… Marvellous.

Isn’t it, though? squeals Marsha. Super-fab.

I wonder why she’s screeching, and realise it’s for Grayzon’s benefit. Such an affected name – I expect he’s really called Graham.

Grayzon glances at Marsha, dropping his volume to an almost unintelligible mutter, he turns his back on us. How extremely rude! I consider he sounds decidedly furtive and with his pale colouring those sideburns were definitely a mistake; they just make him look like he has dirty cheeks.

Yes. Marsha seems oblivious to his rudeness. Grayzon is totes amaze-balls! I got him off Facebook. He’s marvellous, absolutely brilliant. He’s in great demand. She turns her dazzling smile on him, but he’s still yammering away.

I give Grayzon the quick once over and think him unexceptional apart from his shoes which appear to be made of snakeskin – if indeed there are pink snakes slithering about somewhere in the world. The rest of his outfit is mundane: jeans with a pink decal on the back pocket; a navy sweater with pink leather elbow patches; all topped with a neatly gelled haircut, which – if you ignore the sideburns, is not too off-putting.

Grayzon says I’ve got what it takes to be a hot-shot author, chirps Marsha, moving me away from him. He’s on a private call, she whispers, examining her cobalt blue nails after she’s released them from my shoulder. Grayzon says my book’s going to be bigger than Potter, better than 50 Shades, better than… Oh, I don’t know.

What’s it about? I enquire, carefully maintaining a calm expression while straightening the bunched-up shoulder of my mac.

What’s what about? Marsha attempts a frown, barely managing to conjure a wrinkle. Perhaps they perform Botox in that salon in addition to spray-tans. I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe it’s the poison that makes Marsha so insufferable.

What’s the plot? She still looks puzzled, so I dial the complexity level down even further. Your book. What is your book about?

Marsha stares at me, comprehension clearly her enemy. I don’t know, do I? she says. I haven’t written it yet, I can’t tell you what it’s about until it’s finished, can I?

Grayzon’s volume suddenly increases as he reaches the sign-off point in his conversation. Yep, yeah, bye, hon. Pocketing his phone, he turns around; his eyes sliding over me like oil in a frying pan. Hi, he says, his stare hot enough to flash-fry a steak. Grayzon Devine – are you a friend of Marsha’s?

Noreen Bottle; I’m a neighbour. I switch a smile on and off again. And I hear Marsha is about to become an author.

Grayzon coils his arm around Marsha’s shoulder, giving her a quick, chummy squeeze. Marsha here’s going to be the hottest literary property since the Kardashians’ wrote Dollhouse, he says. Isn’t that right, Marsh?

Even I’ve heard of the Kardashian’s – mostly due to Skipper’s love of the Daily Mail. I quickly strive to change the subject.

Are you using a ghost writer? I ask, reining in Pickle, who’s straining his neck to lick the fur on Marsha’s boots. Pickle! I hiss. Stop it! You’ll choke on the fibres.

I don’t do scary, says Marsha. My book’s a memoir – isn’t it, Grayzon?

It will be, says Grayzon, plucking at the neck of his sweater.

I can’t wait to be famous. Marsha puts her arm through his. Grayzon flinches, almost treading on Pickle whose extended tongue is now snakeskin bound.

Anyway, says Grayzon, we must get on. Places to go, you know how it is. Lovely to meet you, Mrs Blah-Whatsit. Super-fab.

See you. Turning on her heel, Marsha wiggles her fingers at me and scurries after him. I can hear them giggling as they prance away down the street like a couple of ninnies. What a pair. Super-fab indeed!

Well, Pickle, I say, stooping to untangle the lead from the road sign the dog’s busy circling. This could prove to be rather interesting.

Chapter Two

What the ruddy hell is that? Skipper wails.

Dragged out of a deep sleep and opening one eye, I struggle to focus on the digital clock on the bed-side table. I don’t know, I moan. But it’s a quarter to five in the morning.

There it is again! Skipper whisks back the covers letting in a chill breeze. Hopping out of bed he pads to the window; his sharp heels thumping down on the carpet. It’s a bloody fox, he says from behind the curtain. Slinking about in the middle of the street. Randy things, those vixens. It’s the time of year for them. I can’t see her now; she’s gone behind a car. By the sounds of it, I think she’s gone in the Welshford’s garden – must have got in through their dodgy gate. Mr Thing said their gate caught a Jehovah’s Witness on Tuesday. You could hear his screams in Aldi.

Skipper! Elbowing myself up in the bed, I squint blearily at him. Get away from that window. Come back to bed at once.

For a second there’s silence then a two-litre growl permeates the bedroom.

It’s the Mazda. Here’s good-time Marsha coming home, Skipper says. I wonder where she’s been, out until this time. Ooh, she’s hit the kerb. Steady on, Marsha, old love, that’s it, slowly does it.

It’s too much for me and in seconds I’m by his side, pulling at the folds of lined chintz to tidy up the mess he’s made writhing about behind the curtains.

Where is she? I ask, almost head-butting him as he turns around.

There! Skipper pulls the nets up high, pointing across the street to where the back-end of the Mazda is skew-whiff up the kerb.

Skipper! Pull that net down at once or she’ll see us.

He sniggers. No she won’t, at least not until she’s managed to park it. Ooh, I thought she was going to hit Squinty-Eyed Geoff’s Ford Focus then, but she missed it by a whisker.

She’s in. Come away now, or she really will see us. Get out from behind that curtain and stop being so nosy.

You can talk. Remember what Len and Jackie next door used to call you? The Parson Street Nose! You’re far worse than me for window watching.

I don’t want to discuss Len and Jackie. I pull him out of the nets, and in the manner of bridesmaids we tweak the edge of the chintz back into place. The sound of a car door slamming has us peering out again; bobbing like a pair of meerkats for a better view.

The driver’s door of the Mazda is kicked open. She is wearing those horrid furry boots again. This time the door stays open. A hand emerges next, long fingers clamp onto the car roof and Marsha winches herself upright. Her dress is miniscule; it has fur on the bustier. She’s wearing a glitzy diamante choker and no coat.

Oo-ee! says Skipper. What an outfit. Old Marsha certainly knows how to dress.

"She does not know how to dress, Skipper. That dress is far too short for a woman of her age." I elbow him out of the way.

A squeal has me turning back around again. Was that the fox?

No, Marsha, Skipper giggles. She snapped off a heel and pitched over; for a moment, I thought she was going to fall out of her dress.

Disgraceful. Can you imagine what people would say if I wore something like that?

She’s younger than you… Skipper begins, and then before I can breathe out again he adds. Not by much, though – I mean she’s a lot thinner than you. He wriggles past me, sticking his face up against the corner of the bay.

Well, thank you very much, I snap, steaming up the window with a gust of hot breath. I have had two children, you know.

And she’s had five, says Skipper, squeaking his finger on the glass to make a viewing circle. "Marsha’s a bit dolled-up, even for her. In fact she looks like she’s dressed for the Oscars or the BAFTA’s or something fancy like that – I wonder where she has been?"

So you’d like me to start dressing like Marsha, would you? Is that what you’re saying?

He emerges from behind the curtain, returning to the darkness of our bedroom from the dim orange of the street lights, blinking like a rat exiting a drainpipe, his nose gently buffets my nightie.

Careful! Don’t wipe your snotty hooter on my new David Nieper.

Your what? He goggles at me.

My nightdress, you fashionless fool, and I said: would you prefer it if I began dressing like Marsha?

I thought you said something about hooters? I can see his teeth grinning at me in the darkness as I haul him back into bed.

Skipper! I snap the bedside light on, glaring at him.

Sorry, Noggs, he says, his tone tinged with repentance. "It was the lace on that nightie that got me going. And, no I don’t want you to dress like Marsha. You never dressed like that even when you were young. Seeing my face, he pats the lacy sleeve of my nightie. And I wouldn’t have married you if you did, he adds. After all – who wants salmon over cruet when you can have fish and chips?"

Oh! Swinging round in exasperation I turn the light off again. I’m going back to sleep, and it’s salmon en croute, you philistine.

I don’t care! Skipper retorts. I didn’t swallow a dictionary like you.

Five minutes later he whips the bedclothes back again.

Where are you off to now? I was just dropping off to sleep.

I’m starving! he says. That’s you going on about fish, that is. My stomach’s rumbling so much I’ll never get back to sleep now. Fancy some toast, Noggs? Early breakfast in bed?

And who’s going to clean up all the crumbage? I snap the light back on again. Me! That’s who. Go and eat toast in the kitchen if you must have toast, and I warn you, Skipper – there’s no bringing food up here or else there’ll be trouble.

Fine. Skipper wraps himself into his comfy old beige and chocolate-coloured dressing gown. It’s a dreadful old thing – I really must source him a new one. A catalogue came yesterday with some very suitable men’s night attire – and on special offer too.

I like breakfast in bed on the boat, he mutters, scuffling his feet in the dark trying to locate his slippers. Breakfast in bunk, I should say. Cor – toast and peanut butter – mmm.

Skipper, just go downstairs and leave me in peace, will you? And how on earth do you make toast on that boat? No! Don’t tell me, I’d rather not know.

For a short while I fume about what he does get up to on that boat of his. Smoking his smelly old pipe as I’ve banned it from the house; eating ill-advised foodstuffs and… I take a few deep breaths to calm down and soon drift into a shallow sleep. I’m dreaming about Marsha at the Oscars with photographers snapping away at her and Grayzon, who’s clad in an azure blue snakeskin suit with denim shoes. Seeing me, Grayzon races over, throws his arms around me, kissing me with wet slurping licks.

Pickle! I shriek. Get off the bed. Stop it! Bad boy. Get down.

A quick look at the clock confirms it’s now half-past eight. Belting myself into my dressing gown, I stomp downstairs, sniffing the air for any tell-tale aroma of burnt toast. A swift glance in the kitchen calms my fears; aside from a scattering of crumbs on the worktop and the butter left out, all is thankfully intact.

In the living room I find Skipper slumped in a chair snoring his head off. In the corner the TV’s quietly on, showing a burly-looking chap in a plaid shirt casting for salmon in a fast-rushing river.

I shake Skipper’s shoulder.

What’s happening? He sits bolt upright, knocking the plate of half-eaten toast onto the floor which the dog promptly gobbles up.

You fell asleep again. So much for you being starving hungry – you couldn’t even finish one slice of toast.

That was my fifth. Skipper yawns so widely all the crumbs fall out of his beard onto his lap. I need another coffee now, he says. I’m going to be restless all day after that early start.

You only have yourself to blame. It serves you right for coming down here instead of going back to sleep. I say, adding. Pick up that plate – I’m off for a shower.

I’ve just finished towelling down and have begun creaming-up when the front doorbell rings. I bet he’s gone back to sleep again, Pickle, I say to the dog, who’s busily engaged in licking talcum powder off the floor. Oh, no, I’m wrong, he’s answered the door; I can hear him talking to someone – I wonder who it is?

The front door closes and a van engine starts up. Big engines always rattle the loose glass in our porch. Skipper! Who was that at the door? With a bath sheet slung around me like a tee-pee, so as not to disturb the absorption of lily of the valley silken whisper body cream, l hang over the banisters trying to see and only just catch the dog as he sticks his head between the rails, at imminent risk of plummeting into the hall below. My greasy hands lose their grip and he fires into the wall. Silly dog; you’re not hurt, there, there. You’ll live to bark another day.

Parcel, shouts Skipper. I wonder what’s in it.

He stomps off with the parcel. I dress as quickly as I can manage.