Little Dramas Page 3

  “I got your letter.”

  Henry looked confused. “What bloody letter?”

  “You sent me a letter.”

  “We sent it.”

  Adam turned around to find Kenny and Malcolm staring down at him.

  “He looks a little pale, Kenny,” said Malcolm.

  “Like somebody walked over his grave,” said Kenny.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Adam.

  “We want to talk to you.”

  “What about? Who wrote the letter?”

  “We did.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “We ran into your dear friend Mulligan,” Kenny explained. “At the weekend.”

  “What! And he told you where I was?”

  Malcolm smiled. “Not at first.”

  “What the bloody hell’s going on here?” asked Henry.

  “It’s alright, Dad,” said Kenny. “There’s not going to be any trouble. We’re all just gonna have a nice little chat inside.”

  “After you,” Malcolm said to Adam, gesturing towards the doorway.

  Adam looked at the Twilley brothers, then, shaking his head, he walked into the house, followed by Kenny and Malcolm.

  Henry closed the door, saying, “Now, let’s keep this civilized, shall we?”

  Moving On

  I followed him when he left the house.

  I’d stood in the hallway and listened to them argue in the kitchen. Mum had found some texts on his phone. She wanted to know who the woman was. He said it was an old school friend, who he’d bumped into in the pub recently.

  “Don’t worry, Pat,” he told her. “There’s nothing going on.”

  “Then why is she sending you all these bloody messages?”

  “I don’t know. My engaging personality?”

  “This is no time for humour, Simon.”

  The conversation went downhill from there, and shortly after the door slammed as he left.

  I watched him walk down the driveway and climb into the Range Rover, shaking my head at the nerve of the guy – mum had let him share the use of it for the last few months, and now he pretty much took it as he pleased.

  I watched him pass through the front gates then ran out to my car, figuring I would find out where he was going.

  I tried to keep a couple of cars between myself and the Range Rover, so I wouldn’t be seen. I thought about the situation as I drove.

  Why was I following him? I didn’t trust him. He’d told mum he was going to see his friend while she cooled down, but I wanted to find out who this friend was. He might have had mum fooled, but not me.

  They’d met about a year ago, when he was part of a team that were doing some landscaping for us. He was loud and told stories, and mum must have found some of them funny because she’d invite him into the kitchen for tea and sandwiches at lunchtime.

  When the work was finished he invited her to dinner, and they began dating. I can’t say I liked him much; I thought he was too confident, and a little bit crude. And why did he insist on calling her Pat, not Patricia?

  But he seemed to have a positive effect on mum, so I left them to it. She’d been on her own since father had died in 2009, so I thought it was good for her to start socialising again.

  They would get together most nights of the week. Sometimes he came over for dinner and spent the night, and at other times they would go out for drinks or a movie.

  There were a number of instances when we wouldn’t see him for a few days. He would tell mum he was catching up with his friends, and she seemed happy with that – but I’d always wondered.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled to the kerb on a quiet residential street in the village of Throckley.

  Simon had pulled up about a hundred metres ahead, and I didn’t dare get any closer. He got out of the car, and I watched him take a quick glance left and right before opening the garden gate of a large detached bungalow.

  He walked down the path that dissected a well-kept garden, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a woman, who stepped out and hugged him. She looked to be in her late twenties, just like me. They went inside and closed the door behind them.

  I wondered if this was the woman who had been texting him, and if she was also the “friend” he would see on the nights he didn’t spend with mum.

  I waited there a couple of hours, as the streetlamps lit up and darkness closed in. The Range Rover was still there when I left after 10 p.m.

  The following morning I found mum having breakfast in the conservatory. I told her about the night before.

  “It was probably the woman who’s been texting him,” she said. “He’ll have been telling her to leave him alone.”

  “And that takes two hours?”

  “Maybe it’s just a friend.”

  “Mum, don’t be so naive.”

  “Don’t shake your head at me, Amy.” She took a sip of coffee. “How did it occur to you to even follow him?”

  “I don’t know. I was in my car before I really thought about it.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve never really trusted him.”

  “I should give him a call,” she said.

  “No, don’t. He’ll just tell you another story.”

  “Just wait here five minutes. And leave my croissants alone.”

  I helped myself to a croissant, and poured a coffee while she made her call. She returned five minutes later.

  She sat down and let out a sigh.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “He’s not happy at you spying on him.”

  “Mum! You told him?”

  “He asked me if I’d been following him. I told him it was you,” she said, and chuckled.

  “Oh, thanks a lot. I don’t care anyway. What did he say about the woman?”

  “He said it’s the one who’s been texting him. He told her to leave him alone.”

  “Yeah, right. And that took two hours?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “And he might have been there longer than two hours – he was still there when I left!”

  “Bloody men!”

  “How did you leave it?”

  “I told him to stay away. I need to be on my own for a while, figure things out.”

  I raised my hands in the air. “Hurrah! Good move, mum. Stay there while I grab some more croissants.”

  We didn’t hear from him for a week, during which time I tried to stop mum feeling sorry for herself.

  I told her that she had made the right decision, that if she couldn’t trust him she was better off without him. She nodded her head and agreed, but I didn’t know if I was making things any better.

  Then he called and invited her to dinner. I told her it was a bad idea, but she seemed determined to go.

  “I just want to hear what he has to say for himself,” she said.

  I was surprised by his choice of restaurant – an expensive one. I was sure he’d probably have “lost” his credit card when the bill arrived.

  I hoped she’d just tell him to piss off, but I didn’t think she would. So I decided to go with her.

  You should have seen his face, when he saw me enter the restaurant with mum! It took all my willpower not to make a sarcastic comment as the waiter placed an extra seat at the table.

  He made small talk as we checked the menus, probably a little unsure what he was going to say to mum in front of me.

  Then he gave her the spiel, telling her she was the only one and all that jazz.

  He put a small gift box on the table.

  “You are so full of shit,” I said to him.

  At which point the waiter arrived to take our orders. I stared at Simon for a couple of seconds, then got up and walked out.

  I drove home, and poured myself a large vodka. I was halfway through drinking my second when mum returned.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just lost it.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had a
drink with him after you left,” she said. “I didn’t eat. He asked me to open the box, but I said no. I asked him to give me some space, as I needed time to think.”

  “Good, mum. Good. Can I get you a drink?”

  She kicked off her shoes, and said, “Only one?”

  That was last month.

  She seems OK now. I don’t think she’s had any contact with him. She talks about calling him, but never does.

  We’ve often talked, and I’ve tried to reassure her that she’s doing the right thing. I think she’s going to be fine.

  I just hope she doesn’t think too much about what was inside the box!

  No Good Deed

  It is 11.00 a.m. at number seven Dorset Street. Michael Hemly lies on his sofa, smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. An envelope rests on his chest, and his free hand thumbs the £20 notes inside.

  He is considering his options. Buy a season ticket for The Boro? Large-screen TV? Get a whole new wardrobe? But either of these choices will encourage a lot of questions, and he doesn’t like questions.

  Then a thought strikes him, and he grins. He can buy some lingerie for Susie, or maybe take her on a nice weekend away.

  “Ooh, yeah,” he says. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  He stubs out his cigarette, and thinks about where to hide the money. His wife is still at work; she has not seen the envelope, and he sees no reason why she needs to know about it.

  Further down at number eleven, Dan Wilson stands in his bedroom with an envelope in his hand.

  “It’s a thousand,” he says. “I double-checked it.”

  His wife sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “And it was where?” she asks.

  “I told you - on the mat with the other mail.”

  She holds out her hand, and says, “Let me see.”

  He passes her the envelope.

  “That’s odd,” she says. “Nothing on the envelope even.”

  “I know. What do you think we should do with it?”

  “Spend it?”

  “What?”

  “We could use it for a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “We could pay off the rest of the holiday. Or, I don’t know, maybe a new carpet for the front room.”

  “Lisa! It’s not our money.”

  “It was posted through our letterbox, right?”

  Dan sits on the bed. “That doesn’t make it ours,” he says. “We don’t even know where it came from.”

  “Who cares, love?” she says, taking his hand in hers. “It’s here now.”

  “What if somebody comes looking for it?”

  Lisa thinks for a moment. “We could give it a week, and if nobody comes looking for it – we spend it.”

  Next door to the Wilsons, Edna Sharpe sits by the telephone and drinks her coffee. Her hand shakes gently as she places her cup on the table. She is thinking about the envelope.

  If Stan were still alive, he’d know what to do; but he died three years ago, the day before his seventieth. She’s on her own, now.

  Why would anyone give her a thousand pounds? She doesn’t have many friends now, and none of them would have that kind of money to throw around.

  She won’t spend it, because she doesn’t know where it came from. She picks up the telephone, thinking that the police will help her.

  Across the street, Jennifer Grant sits next to her boy at the kitchen table.

  “Well, Ben,” she says. “Mummy’s got a surprise for you.”

  Ben looks at her from over his cereal bowl.

  “Shall we go somewhere nice today?”

  “Yeaaaah! Seaside!”

  “OK, then. We’ll go to the seaside.”

  “Sea-side! Sea-side!” he says, banging his spoon to each syllable.

  Jennifer laughs. “OK, son. But finish your cornflakes first.”

  She picks up some forms from the table, and shows them to her son.

  “Do you know what these are, Ben?”

  Ben looks at the paperwork, puzzled. “Photos?” he asks.

  “Photos? No, silly. They’re bills. We can walk into town, and I’ll finally get these bills paid. Then where are we going?”

  “Sea-side! Sea-side!”

  She places her bag on her lap, making sure the envelope is still there. She smiles.

  Three doors down from Jennifer Grant, Alice White is having a disagreement with her son.

  “Brian. Who posts cash through somebody’s letterbox?”

  Brian shrugs and says, “I don’t know.”

  “That’s right – we don’t know.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters,” says Alice. “It could be meant for somebody else.”

  “It could be meant for us.”

  “And who do we know that owes us a thousand pounds?”

  Brian is puzzled by this question. “Well…”

  “Well what? Nobody. That’s who. It’s not ours. We can’t keep it.”

  “Well, what are we going to do with it then? We can’t send it back – who would we send it back to?”

  He has a point, Alice thinks. But her son has never been the brightest bulb; that’s why he’s still living with her, in 2001, at twenty-three years old.

  “Wasn’t there a note or something inside?” she asks.

  “No. Just the cash. Nothing on the envelope. It’s completely blank.”

  “Bloody hell! What a mess.”

  “I don’t know what you’re stressing out about, Mum - we’ve got five hundred pounds each.”

  Two hours later, at number eighteen Dorset Street, Paula Hannon is trying to be patient with her brother Dennis.

  “Maybe it’s just a hoax or something. Somebody might come and ask for it back.”

  “And they might not,” says Dennis. “Then what?”

  “Then we wait.”

  “Wait? How long?”

  Paula shrugs, saying, “Maybe a month?”

  “A month?” Dennis says. He shakes his head. “Why don’t you just give me my five hundred now?”

  “Your five hundred?”

  “Yeah. Five hundred each.”

  “You want to split it now?”

  “Yeah. Why wait?”

  Paula eyes him suspiciously. “What’s the rush?” she asks.

  Dennis studies his shoes, saying, “I could use the money now.”

  She stares at him, raising the envelope to eye level. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with you?”

  “No! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “I know what you’re like, with those friends of yours.”

  “Sister – I have debts.”

  “Stop!” she says, putting up her hand. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “But-”

  “We’ll hold on to it for a month.”

  “No! I need money now. And who put you in charge anyway?”

  “I’m the oldest, and I found the envelope this morning; so it’s my decision.”

  “What kind of-”

  “That’s enough, Dennis. I’ve told you what we’re going to do with it, so stop moaning.”

  Later that evening, Dorothy Burnett sits at her kitchen table while her husband makes tea for them both. He joins her at the table, and Dorothy pushes aside a pile of envelopes so that he can set the cups down.

  “Eddie, love,” she says. “Do you think we should give them more?”

  “More than a thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” he says. “A thousand is enough. Maybe more than enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He taps a finger on the pile of envelopes. “Well, how long can we afford to keep giving money away?”

  “Oh, Eddie,” she says, shaking her head. “Always worrying.”

  Dorothy reaches into the pocket of her jacket, and takes out a bank statement. She places it on the table for Eddie to see.

  As Eddie reads the numbers on the paper, she says, “See – we�
��ve still got plenty left.”

  “Yes, that is plenty. But we can’t just give it all away.”

  “Well, what harm does it do? We’re probably making life easier for these people.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But why don’t we spend some more on ourselves? It was us that won the lottery after all.”

  “Yes, we could do that. What do you want to do, love?”

  Eddie takes Dorothy’s hand in his. “Well, we’ve been talking about a holiday in America since I retired – why don’t we do that?”

  “That’s a great idea. But what about these envelopes for Kingston Road?”

  “We could deliver them tonight, and then that’s it - no more.”

  Dorothy looks a little deflated. “No more surprise envelopes?”

  “No, love. We’ll make these the last for now. And then we can start planning our trip.”

  “OK,” Dorothy says as she smiles. “We could go to New York.”

  In the second week of September, Eddie is looking out of his hotel room window.

  “Look, love – you can see the Statue of Liberty.”

  Dorothy is making herself comfortable on the bed. “Oh, I’ll have a look later. I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep at all on that flight.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I thought First Class would have been much better than that. But, still, isn’t it great to be here?”

  “Yes, love,” says Dorothy, kicking off her shoes.

  “What do you want to do first?” asks Eddie. “The Empire State? Times Square? World Trade Centre?”

  “What’s the World Trade Centre?”

  “The Twin Towers.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I was reading about it. One of the towers has an observation deck, really high up, and on a clear day you can see for about fifty miles.”

  “That sounds OK, love,” says Dorothy. She switches off her bedside lamp. “But can we do it tomorrow? Maybe we could just have a nap and hang around the hotel today?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. We’ve got the whole week to explore.”

  “Thanks, love. What day is it anyway?”

  “Wow! You really do need to sleep. It’s Monday.”