Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 19.1

SHEILA’S mound of bedclothes had remained untouched the day of Nancy’s departure. Sheila’s bottles beneath her bed would continue to collect dust along with her postcards to Ibiza, her snow-globes, her cheeky mugs from Great Yarmouth, her TV and her cascade of clothes over the bed-board.

Here, Nancy began by stripping Vince’s bed.

The housekeeper had done a change of sheets since Nancy’s last visit – satin of honeydew. Nancy dumped the bedclothes and several pillows in the hallway just outside his door. She added his barbells, his ledgers and his suits. Nancy found the utility room, possessed more than enough space for storage. She wheeled out his drinks trolley, his flat-screen, a laptop and his retro American mini fridge. She paused looking out of his window offering an elevated view of the pond nestling within the copse. She unfastened the opener and permitted the scent of mulched bark. With that, she unhooped his Owen Jones curtains of geometric mustard and white, and replaced them with pale blue cotton. White linen stretched over the mattress brought notions of clean driven snow. Two pillows and a navy blue blanket completed his bedding. She took down box canvas prints showing diametric designs of Frank Stella, a series of voluptuous figurines attributed to Gaston Lachaise.

Nancy noticed no nightclub shoots in his room and reasoned those on display in the foyer were for the benefit of his guests. But on a dresser, she found a small grouping in semicircular formation. A stately woman who could pass for Raquel Welch smiled for the viewer – his mother? Like the actress, she wore thick eyeliner, stressing the upward cant of her eyes, not unlike Vince’s own. Rolls of lavender converged in the distance towards an idyllic homestead, Umbria perhaps or at least Italy. Another photograph appeared to show Vince’s parents and his twenty-something self, lanky, cocky and stupidly good looking. His presumed father bore a similar carriage to his son, a greying figure, yet imposing and implying prosperity. Another family shot, back-dropped with hanging baskets of huge begonias within his childhood home, she deduced. All photos oozed sunshine, a diet of olive oil, sundried tomatoes and fruit of groves, a life Nancy could only comprehend. Nancy allowed the family shots to remain albeit with sour sentiment. He could never have known.

She entered his ensuite bathroom and caught her reflection in the cabinet mirror. A pale face gazed back. An English rose, yes, she could still be seen as a farm lass or a waitress as Kew, but her eyes had darkened with suspicion and her full mouth had grown set in a manner of one who suffered no fools. She could see why Henry and Naomi had never questioned her authority.

Beneath the sink, she found a hoard of spirits. This English rose unscrewed the cap and watched the dekuyper bottle hemorrhage its contents into the toilet pan. The smell of hops blossomed into the air; a second bottle, this time with the astringent bouquet of gin. The toilet water paled to honey. Bourbon darkened the concoction to caramel. Southern comfort resulted in no perceivable change in hue. Nancy depressed the flush system; an instant blank canvas.

Nancy placed the empty bottles into a flip-bin and pulled out the innards. The trash bag sagged in her grip as she ferried it through Vince’s bedroom.

The utility room bore now the appearance of a storage area. She inserted FF3 and locked the door. Dusk had crept upon the windows once Nancy had finished, and with it, a prickling sensation in her chest. She would have to speak to Henry again. The thought bothered her without a definable reason – his distilled glower, perhaps; his moist half-smile? Her trepidation angered her. She descended the stairs, taking solace in her smart rap and the sway of her satchel bag. In the meeting room, she caught sight of Henry’s form in the gloom still strimming the box hedge. The thing had barely altered shape in three hours. She would have to go out to him.

She cut a route through the kitchen, pausing at the recess leading into the surveillance room. Nancy took a detour. The keys glinted dully within the box. Nancy foraged for the FF keys within her pocket. Henry would soon return, expecting to see a complete set before closing the lid and locking up. She returned each key to their respective hooks. Her sights idled over the central row: G1, G2, G3, G4 and G5. And the bottom row: E1, E2 and E3.

Nancy unzipped the front pouch of her satchel bag and fished out her car keys. Sheila’s front and back door Yales hung redundantly from a secondary keyring. Her fingernails pinched, the double coil snatched within her grip. Once liberated, the keys underwent an aesthetic appraisal: staggered shafts terminating at hooped tops of tarnished brass. Doubts lurked as she held one against E2. Sheila’s offering was no match for an artifact of burnished bronze bearing the seal of an eagle’s head. Hung within the box, Sheila’s key looked more like a rusty great splinter. Nancy unhooked E1 and placed Sheila’s other key beside the first. Two dirty great splinters. Well, they were less conspicuous than one, and would not draw the eye as would vacant hooks. Nancy could only hope Henry would not notice.

She dropped E1 and E1 into her satchel bag. In time, she would discover what they unlocked.

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Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 18.3

Nancy stalked through the foyer, passing the oak desk and found herself within a meeting room. Terracotta floor tiles glimmered at the foot of a large recessed fireplace fashioned from, she reckoned, the stones of the original chapel. In the centre, two leather corner suites enclosed a glass coffee table. Nancy half-expected to see ropes skirting the walled areas. But no, she was free to gaze at and to touch modern art credited to weird names such as de Kooning, Chagall and Albers. Brash colours, knotted figures and symbols. She didn’t like them perhaps because she didn’t understand.

Through an Edwardian-style window, she spotted Henry strimming a box hedge. A hiss of air caused Nancy to turn. The pinnied housekeeper drew a cloth in large sweeps across the glass top. A student perhaps or a traveler paying for board. She busied in her task taking pains not to engage. Nancy could see herself in the housekeeper: young and unaware. He had tracked his finger along her arms, her waist, at her throat. At the crease, Nancy, it’s all about the crease.

Nancy broke the spell. ‘Er…excuse me.

The housekeeper’s jade eyes flicked towards her in surprise.

‘I don’t mean to disturb you. I’m Mr. Jonas’ nurse. Do you happen to know where the keys are kept?’

The housekeeper gazed upon her from a cloud of guilt. She reminded Nancy of a bird. ‘The keys?…er...’

The cosmopolitan cadence; French, Nancy decided. Nancy attempted to put her at ease with a small smile. ‘I’m rearranging Mr. Jonas’ room. My name is Nora Clements. I am the appointed nurse here.’

The housekeeper’s mirroring smile emerged bemused. ‘I am Naomi Siddoux.’ She pointed to a door adjacent to the fireplace. ‘The keys…they are in the kitchen, beneath the pantry. The box is usually locked but I think Henry has left it open while he does the lawns.’

Nancy nodded. ‘Naomi, do you work on daily shifts?’

Naomi straightened herself. ‘Weekdays, yes. Judith does the laundry on Fridays.’

Nancy adopted a tone she would have believed herself. ‘You may be aware that Mr. Jonas will be away in a few days time. He has left it to me to oversee things here, so you might as well take a week or so off. I would like you to convey this message to Judith.’

Naomi’s finely-shaped brows lifted. ‘Oh.’

‘Once you have finished your task here, you may as well go home.’

Naomi’s expression brightened as the news sunk in. ‘Yes, thank you, Nora…Miss. Clements.’

‘Please, it’s Nora. Have a lovely weekend.’

Naomi’s dusting hand geared up a notch on resuming her task. ‘Yes. You too, Miss…Nora.’

Nancy took a tour into the kitchen and remembered she had left her satchel bag upstairs. A spacious square room bearing a grand chimneybreast and lintel forming the reverse side of the meeting room’s fireplace, the kitchen would have suited any celebrity chef. A large circular window overlooked lawns sloping to a pond nestled within a copse. Distressed pine chairs enclosed a block of Venetian marble with overhead hob. Cabinets boasted wine, spices and condiments of every description. A Rayburn stove provided a warm glow for the occupant of a nearby rocker.

Nancy strode across the oak floor to find a recess on the other side of the chimneybreast. She glanced at the window just in time to see Henry move to the rear of the box hedge with his strimmer.

A grey metallic box hung from a panel. Her fingers did a meander of the bronze cuts; FF room 1, FF room 2, FF room 3 and FF room 4. First Floor? Nancy unhooked all four keys and put them in her pocket. An overhead utility light buzzed on; motion-sensored, likely.

Before her, the passage opened out into a wide nook. A fisheye view of Lime Tree Drive lit up the gloom. Next to it, a patch of grass at the foot of the Vince’s mighty gates. A view of a Lakestone garage and lastly the lawns looking down to the copse completed a two-by-two grid composite image. Nancy approached the monitor presenting these four views. Nancy could picture herself within the upper left waiting, her satchel bag swinging at her side and cogitating over tea and biscuits. Amy must have been spinning on her swivel seat at the sight.

On the wall facing the desk, she noticed a security panel bearing a grid of numbers and a speakerphone. Nancy tracked the raised buttons with her index finger which came to rest upon a silver square. She guessed the button would either open the gates or open communications with the person outside. Either way, she couldn’t determine yet. All four views appeared motionless, which was what Amy no doubt preferred. A star-shaped green button drew her eye: ‘gate override/ gate automatic.’ Her brows drew together at this obscurity and the tip of her index finger did a few circuits before depressing. A red light came on. Nancy quickly depressed and the red light went off.

Within a palpitation surge, her hands grew hot. She unfastened the top button of her mandarin collar which suddenly felt tight. She closed her eyes and took a breath. An afterimage of the four-square composite pressed upon her eyeballs. On the lower right, she saw the huge Cycloptic bin-liner resting upon Vince’s lawn waiting to take her back to the night side of the train station. She shouldn’t be here. Vince had not recognized her. She shouldn’t be here. She could no longer recognize herself. Nancy pushed the chair from beneath her and a whimper escaped from deep within her throat.

To her right, she noticed a door. In desperation, she stepped towards it, simultaneously depressing the handle. A cool breeze wafted over her face on finding herself back in Vince’s foyer. She stepped through and allowed the door to drift back towards its moorings and clicking shut. No doubt, Amy would have taken this access point beneath Vince’s stairs in her surveillance duties.

Nancy straightened her collar and walked towards the foot of the stairs. She could see herself pressing that little green button when it suited her. Nancy ascended the stairs once again. She returned to Vince’s door. FF2 had turned out to be the missing piece. She entered Vince’s room.

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Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 18.2

Nancy stepped into the foyer. The walls appeared more sedate without the sunlight pouring through the tinted windows. A pinnied figure resembling a white chess pawn pushed a rag across the side of the desk. Nancy guessed she might be the housekeeper with the cosmopolitan cadence.

Henry stood before her, awaiting her next words. Did this reflex always afflict him when presented with a figure assuming authority? Nancy could see how he had wound up the groundskeeper.

‘Can you tell me when Mr. Jonas is expected back?’ she asked.

Henry’s spectacled eyes were unwavering. ‘He’s getting the late flight from London, could be past ten tonight.’

Nancy frowned. ‘Why doesn’t he overnight at his other place in Knightsbridge?’

For one who assumed the subservient role, Henry could inflict the most distilled glower. ‘All his stuff is here,’ he said as though he were stating the obvious.

Nancy maintained eye contact though he uneased her. ‘I don’t follow.’

A crinkle formed beneath one eye. ‘The equipment…for his legs. The doctors aren’t expecting him to walk again. I thought you would have known.’

Another awkward silence.

‘I’m sorry, Nurse, but you don’t seem that well-informed.’

He had called her nurse. She took this as her cue. ‘Oh.’ she regrouped her thoughts. ‘Well, this had not been made clear to me on his previous evaluation. Perhaps I had taken an optimistic view.’ She attempted a small laugh. Henry’s small pupils merely flicked over her face. Nancy would be glad to put some distance from him. ‘I’d best get on,’ she uttered and turned for the stairs, noticing the housekeeper had disappeared into the next room. ‘Henry, can you please tell the housekeeper and anyone else here that I will be taking care of things upstairs for Mr. Jonas. This may take all afternoon.’

Henry returned to his former casual self. ‘Sure. Just give us a shout if you need anything.’

‘I shall,’ Nancy closed, wanting to tell him to sod off and mounted the stairs. His footfalls receded behind her but the stairlift affixed to the Newell post detained her progress. Like the wheelchair she’d seen yesterday, this model appeared to be the pinnacle of its kind: a black leather seat, lever, seatbelt, footrests and a range of shiny buttons. Sheila had planned to get one fitted to her stair-rail anon. Yet again, Sheila would adopt that gratified serenity to inspire sympathy and offers of help from friends and regulars at the Hatchet Inn.

Nancy pulled out her small screwdriver. Finally, that stupid whirring sound of the mobility scooter would find its way inside Sheila’s house. Nancy had always wanted to tip Sheila out of her chair. When it suited her, Sheila could still hang the washing, she could still jive the funky chicken at revelries and waltz between the taxi and a plane bound for Mallorca. No one could argue with the trite excuse about the weather, the good and the bad days. But Nancy couldn’t argue her mother’s calves had of late resembled saveloy sausages. No one could tell her that Sheila’s so-called moderation had actually insulted her system. Sheila owned her denial and she could do what she liked with it.

A Svorn model, Nancy noted; a little pricy for Sheila. Still, any model would do for one afflicted with liver damage and borderline diabetes. Nancy had no choice but to observe her mother’s requests for help in getting her out of bed, pulling her shoes on and in dishing out the pills akin to a nurse working at the Weston Hill Care Centre. You know I love ya, Nancy.

Nancy’s trips to the Quick Shop for the usual came together in a leaden chain that Nancy wore about her neck. Nancy had become an unwitting participant in creating Sheila’s ultimate state. Her mother’s stupid serene expression; her stupid stretch tights and her stupid hospital-style dinner tray. It had all started with a pack of lies.

Nancy pocketed four screws and checked the foyer was still empty. She made her way to the upper landing of Vince’s foyer, pausing at a door ahead. Somewhere downstairs, a radio chirped. Nancy pushed through and found a large utility room that at first appeared empty. Built-in wardrobes blended into walls of buff. She took at punt for a deep drawer that glided elegantly upon an apparent cushion of air.

Bedding of Mulberry silk rippled beneath her touch; primrose, indigo and scarlet. Reflections snaked in elaborate patterns as though a living being. An adjoining door fronted a cavern no smaller than her guestroom at the Cheap Sleep. Towels, bathrobes, throws, curtains and pillowcases had been neatly folded in pullout compartments. Designs not of the high street mesmerized. Prussian blue spliced with scarlet, brocades of chocolate and cream, influences from the Far East, the Mediterranean, South America. What did the stuff she had nicked her entire life amount to but junk deserving a carboot? Her fingers insulted the fabric by a mere touch. Nancy slammed the door shut and aimed low. And yes, aiming low had found herself back home. Linen sheets. Pillowcases. White. In packets never opened. Evidently, Vince’s guests, himself included, had never had to stoop to plain linen.

Nancy tucked the packets beneath her arm and paused at an abutting drawer. Curtains. Pale blue. Cotton.

Nancy reemerged at the landing and made her way to Vince’s room. She found not to her surprise the door locked. Without pause, she placed the packets upon the floor and made her way down.

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Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 18.1

NANCY pulled up behind the Hawthorne hedge. Today, she had donned a black overcoat and leather ankle boots with fleece lining. A scarf provided further insulation against the chill during a possible wait.

She had packed a flask of tea, biscuits and ham sandwiches. The Cheap Sleep Hostel permitted the use of a spacious but dour kitchen with steel tops. Burroughs had advised her to place any food in a named Tupperware box but could not guarantee someone might not steal it. She was pleased to find her bread, ham, butter and digestives in the fridge when she had returned from breakfast.

Her first night at the Cheap Sleep had seen little of its namesake. The radiators rattled and the bed was hard. The bunk felt no more hers even with her addition of new sheets and pillowcases.

Nancy pressed the buzzer. Today she took cautious hope. With Amy out of the picture, things might pan out differently. The place remained pap-free. According to a snippet in today’s Daily Mail, Vince still languished in hospital but would soon be flown out to a private clinic in Switzerland. A reporter had taken his chances outside Vince’s Knightsbridge apartment without a sighting. Speculations have begun to abound on conspiracy theories. Had the crash been planned? Had someone messed with the brakes? Who was responsible? Could it be family, the government, the secret service? A simple blowout would seem to provide journalists extra things to write about. Still, this digression had worked in Nancy’s favour. The Retreat in the backwoods of Warwickshire had grown increasingly overlooked in the public eye.

Nancy adopted the stance of yesterday: her feet planted upon a patch of grass overlooked by the cameras and both hands grasping the handle of her satchel bag. No whirring pierced the air this time, but then, the cameras didn’t have to pan to spot her. At the head of the driveway, a green land rover partially obscured the porchway. She lifted her chin for the benefit of whoever received the feed. Her purpose here would remain plain; the manner by which she occupied the space outside Vince’s gates could only mean one thing. A mechanism behind the intercom system clicked. The gates hummed on its transit though a ninety-degree arc. Nancy’s lower lip fell; a small frown gathered. She remembered the cameras and stilled her expression. She was a guest here after all; she had a job to do. Nancy transferred the handle of her bag to her right hand and let it swing at her side.

Today, the row of elms to her right did not look upon her as an intruder; the soles of her boots pounded the gravel; the chapel entrance approached as though expecting this guest. Her long black coat had almost taken flight as she strode onto the Lakeland slabs. She straightened her scarf as she clopped towards the door.

On the oak panels she had the choice of a pulley or a large knocker. She went for neither and rapped her knuckles against the oak. Nothing on the reverse side of that door would tease out one Sheila’s daughter of Weaver’s Street who did not know her father’s name. Her tiny but implacable smile came easily, not to be dislodged by anything the Retreat could throw at her. The oak front gave an inch before the gap widened. Mr. Beatnik of the Aaron jumper gazed at her with his angelic blue eyes. Nancy found her words immediately. ‘Good morning, I’m Nora Clements, Mr. Jonas’ nurse. You may remember me from the other day.’

Mr. Beatnik’s wheaty brows drew together in a frown. ‘Yeah, I remember you.’ Small pupils did a flick over her attire and seemed to make an evaluation. ‘He ain’t here; gone to London on a meeting with some accountant.’

Beatnik’s informality grated. He had a faint cockney twang American actors might adopt in an effort to sound British.

‘That’s okay,’ Nancy said and flashed a copy badge. ‘I’m here to rearrange Mr. Jonas’ room. Amy took the day off and left it to me.’

Beatnik gave a small, slow nod. ‘Oh, right.’

An awkward silence. ‘And you are…’

‘Oh, I’m Henry Cavendish, the groundskeeper.’ His moist lips turned up at one corner.

Amy had evidently excluded a mere groundskeeper from the news a charlatan was at large tricking her way into Vince’s bedroom. ‘May I come in?’ Nancy asked.

‘Er…yeah, sure.’ Henry pulled the door wider and stood aside.

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Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 17.3

Nancy closed her eyes and quickly took tack. She would do the defensive freeze-out. An infallible method of dissociating oneself from an embarrassment who happened to share the same gene pool, the script went, ‘Where have you been, young lady?’ ‘Messin’.’ ‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere.’ ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ ‘Get into that car right, that’s what I want you do to!’ ‘What, right this minute?’ ‘Don’t try that tone with me; wait till I tell your mother!’

Victims of Nancy’s freeze-out had mounted somewhat in the past few years and Nancy had grown most adept.

‘Hi, Mrs. Clements,’ Mark piped.

‘Hello, Mark. It’s a little cold to be sitting out here like that. You’ve met my niece?’

Nancy peeped at her aunt from between the fronds of her hair.

‘I wasn’t sure what soup you’d like, Nancy so I opted for vegetable.’ Millie proffered a flask – an old-fashioned model with a plaid pattern. Dumbly, Nancy took it. ‘There should be enough in there for two.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Clements,’ Mark contributed.

Nancy lifted her chin just as Millie’s smile tempered to a faraway kind. The coattails of Millie’s brown trench-coat flapped in the breeze on her retreat to the Smart Car.

‘Is that your aunt, then?’ Mark asked.

‘I’m only stopping a few weeks,’ Nancy found herself repeating.

‘She lives in that weird little bungalow up Stafford Hill, doesn’t she?’ …I mean, it’s not that weird.’

Nancy had to agree, the bungalow appeared to cant to the right due to how the road sloped in front. Idly she opened the flask. A barley-potato and onion infusion eddied into the parky atmosphere. The combination brought piquancy to the other which spurred a deep longing. She poured a little into the plastic cup and took a sip. On its transit, the broth steamed the back of her throat with seasoning and little garlic. In its wake, Nancy felt a fool. Why was she sitting here? Back home, her campaign would have fitted. I’m running away, that’s all. Its shit at home; I don’t wanna talk about it. Her aunt, who happened to be embarrassing, had provided a flask of soup on a chilly evening and possessed a photo of her and her daughter in a mawkish hug. Thanks to Millie, Nancy’s campaign had become redundant.

Mark asked, ‘so, if you ain’t from round here, where you from?’

Nancy shrugged. ‘Oh, just outside.’

‘Outside?’

‘I mean, Glebe Hollow, a little place outside Coventry.’ A weariness suddenly overcame her. She slipped from the bench.

‘Me and some mates’ll be here tomorrow. Wanna meet up?’

Nancy screwed the lid. ‘To do what?’

‘I dunno, doss.’

Nancy smiled tightly. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

Mark lifted his can to her. ‘See you tomorrow unless it blows a gale.’

Nancy walked to her aunt’s weird little bungalow.

She learned to buy Mayfair or Park Lane first. Next, go for Oxford Street, Euston Road or Piccadilly. Don’t worry if a set cannot be acquired, but purchase to block the other from getting a set. Purchase houses and hotels as soon as the opportunity arises. Acquisition of all four train stations guaranteed frequent payouts. Going to jail isn’t so bad in the latter stages, as payouts can be avoided while the other player remains vulnerable.

Within any nine-square grid, select a square that possesses numbers that lay diagonally, vertically, horizontally or within the grid itself. Eliminate each to find the number that should inhabit that square. Each number from one to nine should only appear once in each grid. If the answer cannot be found, move onto another square.

Do the edges first. Sky, grass and sea colours can easily be distinguished. The remaining pieces can then be more easily found to fit somewhere. Find pieces of similar colours and/or patterns to create blocks that can then be fitted en-masse to the remainder of the puzzle.

Separate vowels from consonants. Use each letter once to make words of four letters or more. No plurals, no foreign words. See if the nine letters contain common suffixes or prefixes such as ed, ing or pre to make additional words. Try spelling backwards as well as forwards to find new words.

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Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 17.2

Sheila had supplied Nancy with a couple of twenties for spending, but was loathe to break into one so early. She snuck into Millie’s room to see if she could find change. Photographs, lace curtains and a parma-violet counterpane roused an urge to mess the place up. On the dresser next to the bed, Nancy spotted Millie’s slimline black purse. In the next room, studio laughter prickled the air. Nancy unfastened the clasp and leafed through to find four tenners. She unzipped the card holder and rummaged through the top pouch. She found several store cards and a passport sized photograph of Millie and Bernadette cheek to cheek. Bernadette might have been Nancy’s age at the time and quite pretty in a sappy sort of way. Bernadette had seized Millie in a garroting sort of embrace that brought an inner repugnance.

Nancy’s fingers found their way back to the tenners. Would Millie notice? Nancy reckoned not, but at that moment, Nancy got the notion her hands had grown large and grubby. If she took the tenner, Nancy could never be let into a secret. The passport-sized photo prodded at her. They loved each other; it was obvious. Nancy wanted to tear the photo up. Instead, she closed Millie’s purse and left it on the bedside table without taking anything.

Nancy made a quiet exit through the back door. Not knowing what else to do, she ambled to the off-license at the top of Stafford Hill. Coke and crisps and change for a twenty. No vodka, no gin. The man behind the counter, Nancy was certain, would have refused to sell liquor to this minor.

Nancy perched herself upon a bench eating crisps. Sitting outside had become a big feature of her life – park benches, bus stations, whatever. Outside was preferable to what home might have in store: one of Sheila’s boyfriends watching the box, socked feet on the coffee table supping brown ale; Sheila holding one of her Ann Summer parties and getting pissed, Sheila in hangover mode or Sheila in a bipolar rage. ‘Where you goin’, Nance?’ ‘Out.’ Always ‘out.’

Nancy glanced across and noticed a boy of about fifteen leaning against the shop front. His skinny frame had yet to fill out his sweatshirt. His lanky features didn’t come together too bad if not for his over-gelled hair. ‘Hi,’ he uttered.

Nancy turned away.

‘Ain’t seen you here before.’

Nancy was used to this and felt no compunction in not answering. The coke-supper was undeterred. From the corner of her eye, she watched him approach.  ‘I already have a boyfriend,’ Nancy lied as he roosted himself upon the arm beside her.

His not-quite-broken voice quivered. ‘Well, that’s just gutted me!’

Thankfully the dusk concealed her blush. ‘I’m only here for a couple of weeks anyway, so just save it, won’t you?’

Another quiver. ‘Stop it, you’re sending bubbles up me nose!’

‘Are you always this rude to strangers?’

Gelled Hair sensed her irony. ‘I dunno. I should take some lessons from you, Crisp Hoarder.’

Nancy proffered the bag. He took one.

‘So what’s your name?’

‘Nancy.’

‘That’s a bit old fashioned, isn’t it?’

‘My mum didn’t think so.’

‘I’m just ribbing you. My name’s Mark. I always come here.’

‘Well, that’s good to know.’

‘Always pleased to serve.’

Nancy grabbed another crisp as Mark swigged his coke. A green Smart Car turned a corner. Nancy scrunched her crisp packet. The driver’s window framed Millie’s tall head. Why did she insist upon that pageboy haircut? Nancy cast her sights onto the littered slabs as the engine cut outside the shops.
‘It’s weird Mrs. Clements.’ Mark commented.

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Nora by Charles Jay Harwood Chapter 17.1

THE HESSIAN patches on the stairs carpet of the Cheap Sleep Hostel reminded Nancy of Aunt Millie’s bungalow in Leighton Buzzard. Aunt Millie still had one of those kettles that whistled – not a retro, the original thing. Flat-pack furniture, futons and an avocado bathroom formed her comforts. Her modest abode had a made-to-measure nook for everything, her wheelie-bin, her hedge-trimmer, even her car-cover. Her husband, Ken worked as a bookbinder in Milton Keynes and often spent time away in Brittany learning antique aspects of the trade.

Sheila had sent Nancy to Millie’s at the age of twelve because Sheila had arranged a trip to Magaluf with Alexis, her sister and Cora’s mum. Nancy’s recent spate of shoplifting meant the police could uncover Nancy’s time home alone.

Nancy had never seen the two sisters together. She had never even known Sheila telephone her. The arrangement just happened. People thought Sheila was the pretty one, the fashionable one, the livelier of the two. Nancy was lucky to have such a funny and cool mum who wasn’t a stick-in-the-mud like Millie. Close call.

Millie was six years older than Sheila. Her daughter, Bernadette, much older than Nancy, had a BSc in Pure Maths and worked as a statistical analyst in Dunstable. Thirty-five years of Millie’s life had been devoted to the nearby crown court. Not as a judge, or a prosecutor or even as a court usher, but admin.

Of the few times Sheila had mentioned her sister, she had called her boring. Boring Aunt Millie. As a result, Nancy forgot she had an aunt. That’s why Nancy didn’t want to go to Millie’s when she was twelve.

Sheila stuck Nancy on a National Express coach bound for Milton Keynes. Nancy didn’t put up a fight. She just sulked. Sheila was good at pretending there wasn’t an atmosphere when it suited her. The glowering sky reflected how she felt. Nancy would much rather hang outside the Quick Shop with Bex, Danielle and Steph – or rather, the idea appealed. In reality, she often got bored and cold. Nancy didn’t know what she wanted, but when she spotted Aunt Millie at the bus station, Nancy wished she could have swapped her life for the pigeon dissecting a ham sandwich on the floor or that cat curled upon the shop steps.

Millie wore a tent-like coat and brown sandals. She had a lofty form, at five-foot-ten with wide hips. Like her limbs, her features were widely spaced, making her look plain. By contrast, Sheila’s huddled together. With a full fringe and wide eyes, Sheila couldn’t fail to look pretty. Millie’s plainness matched her humour. She wasn’t stern or solemn; she just didn’t get it. This made Millie a hopeless joke-teller or repartee contender. Nancy rolled her eyes when Millie asked, ‘have you got everything, Nancy? Are you sure, now?’

Nancy rolled her eyes again when she spotted Millie’s green Smart Car. Nancy didn’t want to speak to her and limited her replies to, sure, yeah or huh.

During the journey, Millie had tuned her radio onto Recline FM, which was exactly how it sounded. A DJ equivalent to Alan Partridge had a playlist of the Beatles, Cliff and the Doobie Brothers, which on Millie was just plan archaic. How could it be that Nancy was sitting on one of Millie’s futons staring at a photo of Bernadette, cap-and-gowned and buck-toothed? And how come she had such a nerd for a cousin?

Nancy’s debut refreshments consisted of a pot of tea and a packet of hobnobs. Nancy would have preferred coke and crisps. Millie’s ensuing effort at chitchat was toe-curling.

‘Do you have any hobbies, Nancy?’

Nancy shrugged, avoiding her aunt’s dark, fish-shaped eyes.

‘Do you like puzzles?’

Oh, dear God!

‘Since you will be staying a couple of weeks here, we can find some interesting things to do to keep you occupied. What do you say?’

Nancy shrugged again.

Millie poured herself a cup of tea and took a sip. Nancy didn’t know what she was supposed to do; sip along with auntie? At that moment, Nancy’s resentment of Sheila hit a new high.

Nancy went out back to unpack her things. Bernadette’s old bedroom implied that Bernadette had never matured beyond the age of twelve. The duvet cover busied the eye with a Smarties pattern. Jigsaws piled the cupboard tops and a central rug bore a cupcake motif. Nancy tried to call Bex but her phone was off so she texted, ‘bored.’

Millie made a rule of no TV during dinner. She pledged Nancy a square meal per day beginning with sausages, mash and peas. They ate in silence except for Millie’s remark ‘I don’t know why a square meal is called square, as the shape has four edges. Meat and two veg equals three.’

Nancy hoped her remark wasn’t an attempt at humour; she made a small conceding sound in her throat, wanting the moment to go away. Millie put Countdown on. Points seemed to depend upon the contestants’ ability to make words from a series of letters and to find an anagram. Millie had displayed her most annoying self on getting the anagrams ahead of the contestants and finding the longest words. On putting a recording of Pointless on, Nancy excused herself to go to the toilet. 

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