The Second Life of Sally Mottram

Harry shrugged.

‘Not really, I was just making conversation really,’ he said, ‘but no, if there are things going on, count us in. Eh, Olive? Mustn’t let the grass grow under our feet.’

Olive didn’t even bother to reply to this absurd suggestion. To imagine that she wanted to be counted in to anything! And the only thing to do with grass was to let it grow under your feet. That was the whole point of grass. She took another mouthful. It was far too spicy for her.

‘I know you taught history, Arnold …’ began Harry.

‘Head of History for twenty-nine years.’

‘Quite. But what was it you said you did at the hospital, Jill?’

‘Jill was the big noise in the endoscopy department,’ said Arnold.

Olive found herself crunching on a chilli. She wanted to spit it out. How could she?

‘Some said she was the endoscopy department. What she doesn’t know about the large intestine isn’t worth knowing.’

Olive gasped, retched, put her hand over her mouth and rushed out of the room.

Harry jumped up.

‘She won’t know where it is,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

‘At the end of the corridor, last door on the right,’ said Jill.

Harry rushed out, followed by Jill. There was no sign of Olive.

She emerged slowly from the last door on the left.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Wrong room. I’m afraid I’ve thrown up all over your vacuum cleaner.’

‘Will you be all right,’ said Jill, ‘or should I ring Dr Parker? That’s our doctor. Marvellous doctor.’

‘No, no, I’ll be all right now,’ said Olive. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Dr Parker. We’ll need a doctor. We must sign on with him, mustn’t we, Olive?’ said Harry.

‘Her,’ said Jill.

‘What?’

‘He’s a her.’

‘Better still. That’s marvellous, isn’t it, Olive?’ said Harry.

‘Lovely,’ said Olive. ‘I’m so sorry, Jill. It’s a top-of-the-range Dyson too.’

FIVE (#ulink_01062d5a-8c5d-5ebf-8c9e-90ed4b06f02a)

The Fazackerly sisters (#ulink_01062d5a-8c5d-5ebf-8c9e-90ed4b06f02a)

It wasn’t pleasant walking along Oxford Road in the dark – it was very inadequately lit – but she didn’t trust herself to drive the car. She knew that she was still in shock. Besides, she’d had quite a lot of gin and tonic with the Sparlings.

She walked past ‘Mount Teidi’ – the Hammonds tried to live in Tenerife even when they were in Potherthwaite. Barry had joked that their house should have been named Mount Tidy.

Barry would never joke again.

She hesitated outside ‘Ambleside’. It was tempting to call in, so tempting.

No, she must be strong.

Why? Why on earth should she be strong? She walked towards their gate, even reached out for the latch.

But she walked on. She hesitated in the pool of yellow light from each street lamp, then plunged on into the darkness of the Potherthwaite night.

A girl ran out of the drive of Dr Mallet’s house and nearly collided with her. Sally’s heart almost stopped. The girl looked terrified too, and the large vase she was carrying slipped out of her hands in her shock. She grabbed for the vase at incredible speed, got her arms round it, gained control of it just before it hit the ground, and ran off with it at a great pace. Sally had a vision of golden hair and a very slim body.

Sally’s heartbeat had barely slowed when she heard a cough from the allotments on her right. Oxford Road had become a minefield that day. Her blood curdled. Her heart missed several beats. She hurried across the road, to walk alongside the houses that carried on right into town on that side.

She’d imagined it. She was in an acutely nervous state.

She hadn’t imagined it. There had been a cough. A man’s cough. The cough of a killer.

She walked fast now, listening all the time for footsteps. But there were no footsteps. It occurred to her that it was odd that she should be so frightened. A few minutes ago, in the house, she had felt that she wanted to die. Turn, Sally. Face your killer. Get stabbed.

But he might just rape her and leave her. Besides, there was no one there.

The curtains were drawn in the Rose and Crown. People said that would be the next pub to go. She didn’t care if it did. Why should anybody be happy, with her Barry dead?

She crossed the street again, and turned into Cadwallader Road. The street lights were dim, and one of them was out. In her heightened state she could feel only hostility from the low stone terraces. Their very regularity, the total absence of decorative features, admired by purists, seemed comfortless now. Why on earth was she visiting number 6? Wasn’t it absurd to call on Ellie Fazackerly at this hour?

She had to speak to somebody. She didn’t know Jill Buss quite well enough to call so late. She couldn’t go back to the Sparlings. There was nobody else.

Ellie would be glad to see her. Ellie would be glad to see anybody.

She rang the bell. The moment she had rung it she wished that she hadn’t. Ellie would be watching her favourite television programme, her one way of escaping the prison she had built for herself.

You can’t de-ring a bell.

Perhaps they wouldn’t answer.

She heard footsteps. The door opened. It was Ali. She was the least obese of the three Fazackerly sisters. She was nineteen stone five.

‘Is it …? I just thought I’d call and see Ellie. Is this a bad time?’

‘Nooo! She’s always pleased to see you, Mrs Mottram.’

It was no use trying to get any of the sisters to call her Sally. She was Mrs Mottram, a do-gooder who lived on a higher plane. She had first met the Fazackerly sisters when Ali had fallen in the street; she had rushed to help, and she had escorted her home. She’d known of Ellie’s existence, and a few days later she had called round, to see if Ali was all right but partly also out of sheer curiosity, and she had stood at the doorstep for so long that in the end Ali had felt obliged to ask her in. She was still slightly ashamed of the origins of her concern for Ellie.