Close to Death

Lying alone in the bed that they had shared for thirty-five years, Andrew remembered her voice. It was half past five in the morning and already light. He had been woken up by the Porsche, just like Adam Strauss and Tom Beresford. Where had Giles Kenworthy been, out all night until four in the morning? Didn’t he ever sleep?

Was Giles a racist?

There was something else Andrew had noticed while standing there with the cake. A flyer had been placed in one of the windows – quite unnecessarily, as the only people who could see it lived in the close. It was a bright red square with the words BELIEVE IN BRITAIN printed in white. He had recognised the slogan of the UK Independence Party, none of whose members were racist, of course, but whose candidates had so far managed to offend just about every ethnic group in the country, including his own. Every time he walked home, Andrew saw the poster and couldn’t escape the feeling that it was aimed, directly, at him.

And although there had been half a dozen parties at Riverview Lodge, including a New Year’s Eve special that had managed to extend itself until midnight on 1 January, Andrew’s invitation had somehow never materialised. Seven months later, he had never been inside the house.

He got out of bed and went downstairs to make himself some tea. There were photographs of Iris all around him and he wondered what she would say. Would she have come with him to the meeting that was being held that evening, a chance for everyone to air their grievances, or would she have warned him not to go? He opened the fridge and sniffed the milk, and at the same time he heard her voice.

‘No good will come of it, Andrew. You know that. How many times have you seen it? Little grudges that get out of control and turn into fights, and fights that somehow become violent and end up with you standing there in court? You stay away!’

He closed the fridge door. He knew what she would have said, but this time he wasn’t going to listen to her. It was only much later that he would wish he had.

4

At exactly eight o’clock that morning, May Winslow and Phyllis Moore sat down to breakfast together in their tiny, perfectly arranged kitchen. They each had an organic free-range egg boiled for three and a half minutes, a square of white toast without the crusts and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, along with a shared pot of tea. They faced each other across a small kitchen table with a gingham cloth, two plates, two spoons, two egg cups and two porcelain mugs. Upstairs, there were two small bedrooms with single beds. Both women had been married and both of them were widows. May had a son who had moved abroad, and outside the close they had few friends. They were quite happy to live the single life but preferred to do so together.

They had moved into The Gables in February 2000, fourteen years ago.

In keeping with the village ethos of the place, the architects had created a terrace of three cottages that stretched out along the eastern side. The Gables was in the middle, between Well House and Woodlands; with narrow corridors and a garden that seemed to struggle for space, it was the smallest home in the close and also the least expensive. But May, who had found the house, was determined to move into a smart neighbourhood. She had been born in Richmond and her parents had been what she would have called ‘respectable people’. In her last years, she was determined to live like them.

The new development had sold very quickly, although it had still been six months before everyone arrived, and once the dust had settled, May could see that she had made the right decision. Her immediate neighbours – Andrew and Iris Pennington on one side and Roderick and Felicity Browne on the other – were delightful. The Beresfords had arrived next, moving into Gardener’s Cottage, exactly opposite them.

That just left two properties.

Adam Strauss, a very famous chess player and a minor celebrity with his own game show on television, had originally moved into Riverview Lodge, the largest and by far the most expensive property in the close. At the same time, The Stables, backing on to the Petersham Road, became the home of a businessman called Jon Emin, who had moved in with his wife, two very polite children and a black Labrador called Doris. He was the last to arrive and, as things turned out, would be the first to go.

From the very start, everyone had got on perfectly, the way that neighbours used to long ago, when May was a girl. They were friendly but not obtrusive, helping each other when needed, swapping local information, stopping for a chat whenever the occasion demanded. Occasionally, they had lunches or dinners in each other’s houses. Andrew and Iris played bridge with Roderick and Felicity. The Beresfords and the Emins were close. Adam Strauss and his first wife, Wendy, threw a garden party every summer and everyone came.