Close to Death

‘Maybe you should talk to Dr Beresford.’

‘I think Dr Beresford should see a doctor himself. I bumped into him yesterday in the High Street.’

‘You told me, dear.’ May quickly became irritated when Phyllis repeated herself.

Phyllis blinked apologetically. ‘He didn’t look at all well, poor man.’

There was a whine from underneath the table and a brown face with bulging eyes, oversized ears and a look of permanent dissatisfaction peered up at the two women. This was Ellery, the French bulldog they had bought a few years after they had moved into Riverview Close. Ellery was a small, bulky creature who only took on the shape of a dog when he was walking. Lying on the bed or in his basket, he was more like an overfilled sack of potatoes.

‘Little Ellery!’ Without even thinking, May leaned down and fed the animal a corner of her toast. The dog wasn’t hungry, but he liked to be included. ‘Who’s a good boy, then? Who’s a good boy?’

This cooing might have gone on for several minutes more, but just then the doorbell rang. May glanced at Phyllis and something flashed in her eyes: nervousness, perhaps, or annoyance. It couldn’t be the postman. It was only half past eight and he wouldn’t come until mid-morning – not that either of them received very much mail. Nor were they expecting any deliveries. Somehow, they both knew who it was. At this time of the day, who else could it be?

‘I’ll go,’ Phyllis said.

‘No.’ May had taken charge. ‘I’ll see to it.’

Wiping her hands on a tea towel (printed with the slogan Stolen from Bertram’s Hotel), she walked stiffly out into the hall and over to the front door. She didn’t have far to go. She could make out a figure on the other side of the smoked glass, and two pinpricks of red appeared in her cheeks as she reached down, slid the security lock to one side and opened the door.

A woman was standing on the doorstep, wearing designer jeans that hugged her a little too tightly, a loose blouse and no make-up. Her hair, ash blonde with an undertone of silver, tumbled down her neck. In one hand, she was pinching a small plastic bag between her index finger and thumb, emphasising the fact that it had something unpleasant inside. She held it out.

‘I think this is yours,’ she said in a voice that was at once cultivated and coarse, as if she had spent years with an elocution teacher but one who had let her down badly.

‘Good morning, Mrs Kenworthy,’ May replied, standing her ground and refusing to play along.

‘I found this on our lawn this morning,’ Lynda Kenworthy continued. She was struggling to keep her temper. ‘It’s the second one I’ve had to pick up this week.’

‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand . . .’

‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Mrs Winslow. Your bleeding dog is completely out of control. It comes in under the fence and digs up the grass around our magnolia tree. You should see the damage! And then if that isn’t enough, it does its poops in the flower beds. It’s disgusting!’

‘Please can I ask you not to use that language with me, Mrs Kenworthy? And I’ve said this to you many times. The fence belongs to Mr Browne. It’s got nothing to do with us.’

‘But your dog goes into Mr Browne’s garden and then comes through the fence into ours.’

‘I think you need to talk to Mr Browne.’

‘No, Mrs Winslow. I’m talking to you. I really don’t think I’m being unreasonable, asking you to keep your animal under control.’

Lynda Kenworthy was still holding out the green plastic bag, but May was reluctant to take it. ‘Did you see Ellery do that?’ she enquired.

‘I didn’t need to see him, did I? There’s only one dog in these houses.’

‘It could have been a dog from outside. How do you know it’s even a dog?’

‘I’m not going to argue with you, Mrs Winslow.’ Lynda sniffed. ‘But I’m warning you. I’ve spoken to my husband and he wants you to understand something.’ She jabbed at the older woman with a finger topped by a long and brilliantly coloured nail. ‘If your animal strays into our garden one more time, I’m going to ask him to deal with it.’

May stood her ground, scowling at the younger woman. ‘I’m not going to be bullied by you or your husband, Mrs Kenworthy!’

But the other woman was already leaving. As she turned, she dropped the bag so that it landed at May’s feet. May stood still for a moment, then leaned down, picked it up and went back into the house.

Phyllis was standing on the other side of the door, cradling the French bulldog in her arms. She had heard the entire exchange. ‘What a horrible woman!’ she exclaimed.

The dog gazed mournfully at the door, as if in agreement.

‘I really don’t think we need to worry about her,’ May said. ‘We can talk about it this evening. That’s the whole point of the meeting. To clear the air. The trouble with the Kenworthys is that even though they’ve been here for more than six months, they’re still behaving as if they’re new to the close and haven’t learned how to fit in with our ways.’

‘It’s been seven months.’ Phyllis scowled.