Novel Experience

By Andrew Keighley

Jude Morrow's decision to look for tenants for his newly acquired London House brings some surprising new people into his life. He encounters love, but also darker and more lethal aspects of the human psyche which will test his new found faith to the limit. A writer at heart, he must walk the tightrope between fact and fiction with infinite delicacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Keighley
• Release date: Aug 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311660244

Andrew Keighley

I was born in 1955 in London, lived in Rome with my parents from 1963 to 1970, then returned to England to finish school there. After a gap year back in Italy, I went to University in Dundee, Scotland, where I was awarded an MA Hons in Philosphy. After 6 years in the local fire service, in Dundee, my wife and I and two young children emigrated to Australia. I am now a High School teacher in Darwin, teaching Italian and English. I began writing fiction while at university, but then wrote little for years, until I took it up again in 2008. By 2010 I had completed 'Between Worlds', which is now available free here on Smashwords. By 2015 I had completed my second novel 'Novel Experience', also available now on Smashwords. Enjoy!

Book preview

BY ANDREW D. KEIGHLEY

PROLOGUE

The writer sits at his desk gazing out of the large sheer-curtained window in front of him. It is June and as the light gradually fades from the street outside, the North London dusk descends on Hampton Row. Streetlights come on and the sounds of evening on a quiet Hackney residential street are heard; but still he sits on, gazing at the laptop computer in front of him, and the half-written page of text, which stares back at him, implacably.

*

The words of an Elvis Costello song come into his head.

What can we do with all this useless beauty? (A1)

It is beautiful. His neck hurts, his back is sore, he needs a drink of water and some food and his haemorrhoids are playing up, and the novel mocks him again, but…evening is so haunting, its sadness arising like mist from the past.

A small scratching noise on the roof above directs his attention to the ceiling; he can just make out the pattern of the cornice round the edge, reflecting the orange light of the street lamp outside. Through the wall, up and onto the slate roof, between the two dormer windows on the top floor of the house, sits a young squirrel, alternately scratching itself and trying to prise a seed out of the guttering. The squirrel looks down briefly as a car passes on the street below, then up at the sky, where one bright star hangs low above the rooftops. A gust of wind ruffles his fur and he returns to extracting the seed from the gutter.

Back on the first floor, Jude hears the family next door starting their evening routine. A child is crying and someone or something is setting up a steady thumping on the common wall which divides the two three storey, semi-detached houses. The vibration rouses Jude and he stands up rapidly, then leans on the desk a moment, as his head spins from the sudden movement. Lights are coming on in the block of flats opposite. The room is getting a little chilly in the early summer evening and he will switch on the convection heater later. He turns slowly and walks out of the room.

Outside is a small landing with a large chest standing against the wall to his left. In front of him a wooden staircase rises to another small landing where a dog-leg turn takes the stairs up to the top storey. On the half landing, is a late Victorian stained-glass window showing St George astride his horse, in full armour, holding his lance. In the dim city glow from outside he can just make out the shape of the design. Turning to the left he glances inside the room next to his own. It is the same size, with a double bed, some basic furniture, and heavy curtains on the window. These are drawn back and white sheer curtains protect the room from curious eyes on the street. He flicks on the light briefly, glances at the dusty carpet and the huge dark wardrobe on the adjacent wall, then extinguishes the light and withdraws.

Ignoring the bathroom on the first floor he climbs the staircase to the top storey, where he is presented with a landing and the two doors of the rooms on this floor. He turns the handle of the door on the left and flicks on the light switch. Built into the roof space of the redbrick Victorian house, the room’s ceiling slopes up on either side of the dormer window, which looks down onto the street below. A small double bed lies against the wall on the left, which is covered in a heavy flock wall paper whose design stands out off the wall in relief, so thick is it. A small wooden desk, wardrobe and chest of drawers occupy wall space around the room, and the heavy curtains on the window are again drawn back, leaving the window to the feeble protection of the same white sheer curtains. There is a slight musty smell, but the original fireplace is still there, giving the room a homely look and feel, even though the night chill is setting in.

He raises bushy eyebrows, then turns off the light, before withdrawing back to the top landing. The other room, adjacent, is very similar, but with inferior furnishings. He glances quickly into the small bathroom that is slotted into the space between the stairwell and the outside wall of the house. Long and narrow, it has a heavy old-fashioned sink, an even heavier bath on lion’s claw feet, and at the far end, a toilet with a cracked wooden seat. He wonders how many bums have sat on that wood since the house was built in the 1880’s? Originally servants’ bums, almost certainly, but later….who? How many? He shakes his head with a wry grin and turns away, dousing the feeble light .

Descending the four short flights of stairs to the ground floor, he turns right, passing the kitchen on the right, then left into the entrance hall, almost entirely in darkness now. Opening a door on the left, he slips into the spacious front ground floor room, which sports the large bay window visible from the street. Then leaving the light off, he allows the glow from outside to reveal the two large armchairs either side of the fireplace, the bookshelves, table in the window, large double bed to the right of the door and enormous dark wardrobe to the left. It is cold and shadowy, yet mysterious in the light shining through the window, waiting for its next occupant. Jude goes out into the hallway again and closes the door.

Following the passage to the kitchen at the back of the house, he passes straight through this and down the four steps into the conservatory, built onto the back of the house. Opening the door at the rear of this, he steps out into the garden and the suburban night.

Looking up, the house, with its twin next door, seems to tower above him. Against the silhouette of the old chimneys, which still rise from the rooftops, he can see a clear sky, where a few stars manage to break through the city’s electric radiance. A sudden gust of wind rustles the leaves of the beech tree which stands opposite the conservatory. He turns slowly and looks up, seeing more of the sky, framing the blackness of the tree, with nearby rooftops all around. He walks slowly along the concrete path, which dissects the long, thin garden, to where some enlightened previous owner has constructed a sort of leafy bower in the far right hand corner of the garden. He sits down on a low bench, under a wooden lattice archway, backed by a miniature weeping willow tree and gazes back at his property.

*

The solicitor had been young and efficient, congratulating Jude effusively, as if he had won the national lottery, by inheriting the house from his deceased Uncle Geoffrey.

He had sat back in his sumptuous soft leather office chair and placed the ends of his fingers together, looking at the older man over the top of them, as if he were some elderly, benevolent grandfather.

"Oh yes, Mr Morrow, it’s a fine property in its way. A little run down, of course, but it’s quite a piece of history, you know. Built in… he consulted the file in front of him, 1880 by a certain Matthew Jenkinson, who apparently had a string of butcher shops which did a roaring trade all around this part of London. He built the entire building and rented out the other half, naturally. Stayed in the family until, he consulted again, 1923, when it was sold to….well, anyway…it’s had several owners since then. Your uncle acquired it as part of a property deal he made in 1971, and he rented it out, as you might know; first as a complete property, then in 1982 he decided to divide it up into separate rooms for rent, put in an extra bathroom on the first floor and refurbished the kitchen and that’s how it’s been ever since. Lots of different tenants, naturally. He waved his hands dismissively. These sorts of people tend to come and go… but with 8 rentable rooms, and now three bathrooms, he moved his head sharply forward to emphasise the number, it’s generated a reasonable rental income."

He stopped and took a breath, looking at Jude, who said nothing. Of course you have some options in terms of your own disposal of the property. You may wish to sell, although, he raised a cautionary finger, " my advice there would be repair and refurbish first. In the current state of repair you would not get a very attractive price for it. Of course that would take capital. I’m not sure how you’re placed there, Mr Morrow?"

Jude smiled bravely across the desk at the young pup. I’m not a wealthy man, Mr Maughan. In Australia I’ve been a… a writer and a relief school teacher for many years. I’ve made ends meet, but well, you know how it is… He gazed at the steel-rimmed glasses and dark striped suit of the solicitor. Well, perhaps you don’t, but anyway…

I see. Maughan smiled back, glancing at the digital clock on his desk. And will you be returning to Australia? Would you like my colleagues here to arrange for the sale of the property? We’d be happy to do that for you, if you wish.

No, thank you. I’ve decided to stay on in London. I have no particular….well, anyway I’ve decided to stay on here for a while.

And will you be selling the property?

Er, no. I’ll be keeping it going, renting the rooms out, as my uncle did.

I see, Maughan said mysteriously, as if the plot were definitely thickening. So, will you be requiring a residence for yourself in London? We have many contacts in the real estate business, if we can be of any assistance there.

Oh no, thank you. I’m going to live in the house myself.

The solicitor had been writing something in his notes, but looked up sharply at this. Did you say you were going to live in the house yourself?

Jude nodded.

In one of the rooms? He nodded again.

"Are you aware Mr Morrow…? I’m trying to put this delicately. While the property is in a currently quite, um, desirable part of the city, given the fact that you are offering single rooms, with shared bathrooms, you will not be able to charge what we might call, ‘top end market rates’, which means the clientele you are likely to attract are going to be…" he was searching for appropriate words.

A bit rough? A bit multi-cultural, as we say back home? Is that what you’re worried about?

"I’m not worried, Mr Morrow, I’m simply pointing out that you will attract a, he made a gesture with one hand, …variety of different tenants, and you may prefer to let a real estate company handle the business side of things, rather than live there yourself, as the landlord."

No. I’ve thought about it. I don’t really have any capital or income of my own, so it suits me to stay there as well. I’m a writer, and a single man. I think I’d rather like to live with other people, in a big house like that. He smiled. It will be interesting.

Maughan was gazing at him with a slight frown on his face. "Yes; of course. As you wish. It’s entirely your decision and, I wish you luck! He smiled broadly. Now, shall we go through to the other room and sign some documents?"

*

From where he sat on his bench at the far end of the garden, he could see the tall brick wall beside him; about 25m long, it stretched down to where the other end met the beech tree and the glassed-in conservatory. He reached out a hand in the dark and ran his fingers along the bricks, some of them chipped and crumbling at the edges, the cement between them rather old and flakey. Some ten metres away was an identical wall, parallel to the first, the two joined at right angles by the end wall. Between them was lawn, with the concrete path down the middle. Someone, at some time, had attempted to make some borders for flowers, and a dug up patch down at the house end might have been a vegetable patch once, but now the grass was reclaiming it. The grass needed mowing, he noticed.

There was a loud beeping noise and he fumbled to get the mobile phone in his pocket out in time.

Yes, Jude Morrow here.

The voice at the other end was male, with a deep resonance and an upper class London accent. Yes, good evening. I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m ringing about the advertisement you have on the ‘London Rooms for Rent’ website.

Yes, that’s right.

Now, you say there are seven rooms available? That’s right.

One large for £140 per week and the others for a hundred.

That’s correct. All bills included? Jude sighed. Yes.

What is different about the more expensive one?

It’s bigger, nicer. It has a large bay window on the ground floor.

Really? What’s the view like? And bathrooms? A shared kitchen I assume?

Jude had just about had enough. Let me make a suggestion. Come along and see the place tomorrow morning, then you can decide for yourself. The address is on the ad. I’ll be here all day. How’s that?

"I say, are you an Australian? Yes. What’s your name please?

Austin. Reginald Austin. Yes, Rightio. I’ll come round in the morning. Cherio!

Jude put the phone back in his pocket, smiling secretly. His caste of characters was beginning to assemble. He stood up and admired the miniature weeping willow tree behind the lattice archway. Delicate, nebulous branches with tiny leaves on them were waving gently in the night breeze. He thought about shrubs and flowers he might plant in the garden, to turn it into a riot of colour in the spring and summer. He had a vision of flower beds and a fountain and more trees – a delightful garden paradise in the heart of Hackney. Then he stepped back and returned thoughtfully to the empty house.

He received two more calls that evening which he answered briefly and advised the callers to come around the next morning, which was Saturday. Later he lay in bed reading a novel on his tablet. After a while he laid it down on top of the covers and listened to the noises of the night. He tried to identify them one by one. The traffic was easy, music, noise from nearby televisions, the odd voice raised in anger, or ecstasy; but the house itself seemed to be slumbering peacefully. He lay down and as he drifted to sleep he reflected that this might be the last night he would spend alone in the house, if things worked out tomorrow.

SATURDAY MORNING

Always an early riser, six am found Jude standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom on the first floor in his shorts, looking critically at his reflection. The grey, almost white hair was somewhat long, hanging down well over his ears and reaching his neck. He raised a hand and rubbed it ruefully over the very large bald patch, which extended from the forehead to just past the crown and half way to his ears at the sides. It was scattered with longish single hairs, which stood up in a ridiculous fashion, he realised. The face carried a line down each side of the cheeks, while the nose was rather large and somewhat bulbous at the end. Dark brown eyes were cradled by 2 large puffy pouches, greyish in the early morning light, a legacy of years of insomnia, while the fairly full lips were surrounded by two days’ whitish stubble. The shoulders were somewhat slumped and a chest sporting just a very few white hairs descended to a medium-sized potbelly above his shorts.

He did his morning exercise, puffing out his chest, dropping the shoulders hard, tummy in and head raised, giving himself a fierce, defiant look in the mirror. Yes, definitely much better, but difficult to hold. A physiotherapist had once told him that a lot of his sore neck condition was due to poor posture. He was meant to do yoga each morning, but the chest and dropped shoulders routine was what passed for his exercises.

Having brushed his teeth, followed by a wet shave with a razor, he reached a momentous decision. A new life needed a new look. He padded back into the room, found his slippers, because the floors were bloody cold, even in June, and rummaged in the bottom of the wardrobe until he found a scrunched up plastic bag. Returning with it to the bathroom, he removed a gadget from the bag and fiddled for a moment, choosing an attachment and fitting it on; then plugging it into a socket beside the mirror, he switched on, to the accompaniment of a loud buzzing noise. Grimacing defiantly at himself, he raised the electric hair-cutter and moved it slowly backwards through the hair over his right ear. This left a shaved gap through the hair about an inch and a half wide. Grunting with satisfaction, he continued the process all round his head, taking great care not to miss any bits, spending a full fifteen minutes ensuring that the number one cut was even all round.

When he’d finished, his head felt wonderful; the cool morning air penetrated right to his scalp, which was now covered with a whitish stubble 3 mm long, while the bald patch in the middle was virtually clear and smooth and shiny. He grinned evilly at himself. Yes, definitely on the scary side! Children would run away from him now, but it wasn’t children he was concerned with; it was the rough, tough, gritty stuff of adult humanity that he was dealing with, and a somewhat intimidating appearance could only be an advantage, when confronting that abrasive, beguiling, perilous commodity.

*

The doorbell rang at 9 o’clock precisely and when opened it revealed a middle-aged man in a well-worn black suit, standing on the step holding a rolled up umbrella. He had a ridiculous amount of white hair, for a man of his age, cut short but styled well, with steel rimmed glasses on a smooth, shiny, rather long face.

Jude raised his eyebrows. Reginald Austin?

Indeed. We spoke on the phone last night. He tapped his umbrella on the step and stretched his lips in a thin smile.

Please come in. Let me show you around the place.

They started in the big downstairs room with the bay window, where Austin examined everything minutely. He carefully inspected the view from the window, which consisted mainly of the bottom end of the two bushy cypress trees which grew in the tiny front garden; although to the right side of these one could see up the street, almost to the railway bridge. The newcomer admired the large padded armchairs either side of the fireplace, itself containing a large electric fire with simulated burning logs at the front of it, which Jude had remembered to turn on earlier, making the room warm and cosy. He also admired the two stained wood bookshelves, one to the left of the window, the other on the opposite wall, near the door. The double bed only received a cursory glance.

Yes; somewhat dark. The view, shall we say, leaves a little to be desired? He looked at his host over the top of the steel rimmed glasses.

Jude merely smiled inanely and said, Would you like to see the rest of the house? Hmm. Yes, all right. Lead on!

He poked his head around the door of the room at the back, then cast a quick glance around the large, well-appointed kitchen, with its rectangular, solid wooden table and chairs in the middle, surrounded by sinks, stoves and appliances round the outside.

Um…bathroom on this floor? he asked hopefully.

No, there’s one in the basement, another on the first floor and another on the top floor, but… not here, no. Let me show you.

Austin sighed and followed Jude down the wooden staircase to the basement bathroom, then up to the first floor, his other option. They even went up to the top floor, where he looked with interest into the two rooms there.

Back down in the kitchen and slightly out of breath, the visitor sat down in a chair and accepted the offer of tea from Jude. Looking around him vaguely he said, So, nobody else here then? Do you live here yourself?

I do; room on the first floor.

Really? Why didn’t you take the big one.

His back turned, making the tea, Jude nearly said he hadn’t liked the view, then decided against it. Oh, I like to be up off the ground. Maybe it’s an Aussie thing. A lot of our houses are elevated. He carried a mug over to the other man. Floods and all that.

Austin looked up at him. Yes, of course. He stirred the tea thoughtfully. So, you’re the owner? Manager?

Owner. He came and sat down. Just recently arrived; you can tell where from, he added with a grin. Inherited the place. Decided to live here myself.

"I see. Bit of a….windfall for you."

Jude leaned back and looked at the wall opposite. Yes, I suppose it is. Mind you, the building needs some, well, you know, just routine maintenance; nothing serious, but a building this old…naturally, in this climate…

Yes. I see what you mean. "What do you do for a crust?"

Sorry, er…oh, I see what you mean. I’m a teacher. English and History, at the Technical College down in Shoreditch. Spotty 14 and 15 year olds being trained to work in ‘Silicon Roundabout’, he said the words with disdain, as it’s so poetically called round here. But they have to do some ‘real’ subjects as well, so I get the pleasure of trying to teach them how to read and write, and correct their horrible essays on ‘What I want to achieve in the next 5 years’ and ‘Why did Cromwell’s Commonwealth fail?

He looked hard at Jude. I wasn’t always a teacher, you know. Used to have a different life altogether. Might tell you about that someday.

Silence fell between them. Then the Australian cleared his throat, had a sip of tea and asked whether his visitor wanted the room.

"Oh, ah, yes. Well, I do like it. I mean, shame about the view, and the bathrooms. Still, we can’t have everything in life, can we! I think I….can I see the garden? Is it through here?" He rose and was just descending the four steps into the conservatory when the doorbell rang.

I’ll have to get that. Please… Jude gestured towards the garden. Help yourself, and he went to answer the door.

On the step outside stood a young, dark-skinned woman dressed in black pants and a blue anorak; over her head was a light grey hijab. Her face, however, was exposed and Jude could see how pretty her delicate features were. On her hip she carried a child of indeterminate gender, of perhaps two or three, well wrapped up, with the hood of its anorak pulled up over its head. The woman wore a tired and worried expression, as if she didn’t expect anything good to come out of the meeting.

She spoke English haltingly, with a heavy South Asian accent. Good morning sir, I am here about rooms you advertise on internet. The child seemed rather scared of Jude, and turned and buried its face on its mother’s shoulder.

He smiled at them. Yes, of course. Please come in. He stood aside and after a moment’s hesitation the visitors entered the hallway.

He indicated the door to the front room. "I think this one’s already taken. I’ve got someone here for it right now, and I think he’s going to take it. But there are six others I can show you."

She pointed to the door in question. This one, hundred forty? Yes, that’s right. The others are all a hundred a week.

She gave a nervous little smile, obviously relieved.

Anyway, here we go. He led the way to the back room, next to the kitchen. This is one.

She looked in shyly, noting the rather old furniture and the low double bed, which seemed to have lost its legs at some point in the past.

She gave her little smile again and bobbed her head in thanks, looking at him expectantly. OK, so there are two more in the basement; this way, and they clumped down the stairs.

He found the light switch for the laundry and storage area, directly below the kitchen. She looked round admiringly at the two large washing machines and the two concrete sinks around the walls. Then he showed her the small room at the back, which she regarded without comment, followed by the small bathroom next to it, and finally the large room at the front, which also had a bay window, directly in line with the bay window above it.

She walked inside, put the child down, saying something quietly to it in her own language, then proceeded to make a close examination of the furniture and fittings. She opened the large wardrobe, looked inside the drawers of the chest of drawers, sat down on the bed and felt the mattress, looked at the electric fire which stood in front of the sealed off fireplace, then finally she went and stood in the bay of the window, looking out. The view consisted of a narrow, dusty, enclosed area populated only by a couple of very tired looking pot plants. This was reached by a flight of spiral stone steps, which wound down from the street level above. Someone had placed the plants outside, perhaps to get some air and sunshine; but the cure had not worked, as now the plants appeared to be almost dead.

She looked intensely into his face. This room one hundred? Yes.

She nodded, then struggled for the right words. Er….other money? Ah yes. Two weeks rent as bond, and two weeks rent in advance.

Her face fell then seemed to shut down, showing no emotion at all. She bent down and picked up the child and turned for the door. Sorry sir, have only two hundred. Cannot.

She was in the passageway, making for the stairs when Jude caught her. "Hey, listen. Don’t just go like that. Why don’t you….Why don’t we go up to the kitchen and have a chat about it? Maybe we can sort something out?"

She turned and looked at him sharply, silent for a moment. I tell you, have only two hundred; more later.

Alright, well, come upstairs anyway. Do you drink tea? Will you have a cup? I….I might have some juice for the little one.

She raised her eyebrows slightly and bobbed her head again, then followed him upstairs to the kitchen.

Austin was just coming in from the garden.

Austin, this is…. He turned to the woman. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name? She looked down and mumbled something.

I’m sorry, what was that?

She looked up at him in desperation. My name is Rupa.

Ah, Rupa, this is Austin; well, Reginald, actually. He might be going to take the front room.

Yes, how d’you do? To Rupa. "I’ve been thinking it over. D’you know, I think I will. He smiled at them. So it’s two weeks rent as bond, and two weeks in advance? Is that right? Jude nodded. Ok, so…. He took out his wallet and counted some notes. There we are, five sixty, and he handed them to Jude. So that’s settled then. He waved a hand. You can give me a receipt tonight. Have to rush now and do a few things. I’ll come back later with some of my stuff." He gave another quick smile and bustled out, heading for the front door, which they heard close behind him. A moment later a car door slammed, an engine revved and he was gone.

Jude turned to Rupa, who was standing, still holding the child, embarrassed during this exchange. Come, sit down, please. Take a seat. He pulled one out for her. She sat down gratefully, obviously tired from carrying the child. Now, I’ve got tea, or coffee, but only instant, sorry about that. Which would you prefer?

She had placed the child on her knee. Tea, please. Very kind.

Jude moved around the kitchen, organising drinks. What about your, um, child? I have some apple juice?

She said something to the little one, who whispered back to her; then she gave her little nervous smile. Lunah say yes, apple juice good.

Aha, that’s the way! Lunah, pretty name. Is it a…? Rupa smiled. Girl, yes. She is girl.

When the drinks were made, he sat down at the head of the table, with Rupa and Lunah at the side, on his left. While she helped the child to a drink of the juice, he said, as gently as he could, So…money’s a bit of a problem, is it?

Rupa put down the glass of juice and made sure that Lunah was settled on her knee, then she looked up at Jude. Sir, you…you are kind man. I try to explain.

He nodded and smiled encouragement at her.

Two month ago my husband he… she looked down, then up again, he divorce me. She paused a moment. Yes…Talaq, Talaq, Talaq…like this.

That’s how he divorced you – just saying that word three times?

Yes! Is law…Muslim law. I see.

He bad man. His family very… nasty to me. Treat like….like servant. She stroked Lunah’s hair for a moment, remembering. Rich family…him. My family…poor, back in Sylhet, Taherpur. Make me work, work, work! She was angry and bitter, almost shouting the last words.

Jude was cradling his coffee cup between two hands. Well, sounds like you were better off out of there, away from them!

She looked up at him hopelessly. But go where? "Hmm….do you have any family over here?"

"Have sister in Birmingham, but she scared of family. His family very…" She clenched two fists and raised them above the table.

Right. I see what you mean.

She tell me….go back to Taherpur, to family; but I say no, nothing for me there. Would be… She cannot find the words. Very bad.

Ok, so you’ve been staying with your sister in Birmingham? Yes, but she have no room. Three children, small…flat. No good. Right, so you came down here.

Yes, have friend here. Help me. She reached into a pocket of her anorak and took out a grubby envelope. She work for Social Security. Help me get money. Look. She held out the envelope to him.

He took it and read the document. Sure enough, as a British Citizen with the Right of Abode in the UK she was entitled, as an active job seeker, to £67.50 and £20.30 for Lunah, a total of

£87.80 per week.

She reached out and touched the sleeve of his cardigan. But can work too. Can earn money also. Can earn more money! She laid an exquisite hand on his arm. Later will get job. More money!

He gave her back the letter, which she replaced in her pocket. Feeling in the other one, she produced a bright red purse, from which she extracted some bank notes. Here….two hundred pounds. Get money soon. She offered them to him, her dark eyes seeking his out frantically.

Jude didn’t move; frozen with indecision, caught between competing emotions. Then he forced himself to look at the woman.

But if you give me this, what will you live on? Is this all the money you have?

She shrugged. Have little more. Have some food at friend house. Is enough. Suddenly, she looked round at the kitchen and had an idea. Her face brightened and her dark eyes sparkled. "Can cook! Am good cook. Can cook for you. Can cook for all! She looked at Lunah, then at him, her face glowing. You like curry?"

He laughed aloud, mainly at the sudden change in her mood. Yes, I love curry. But…

She was on a roll and interrupted him. I clean too! This big house. I clean all time at home. I clean big house for you!

Hey, calm down, will you….! The doorbell rang. Oh, I need to get that. He rose and her eyes followed him to the door. He turned back to her. "Ok,