The Woman Next Door Read online

  About The Woman Next Door

  Over the years, the residents of Emerald Street have become more than just neighbours, they have built lasting friendships over a drink and chat on their back verandahs.

  Now a new chapter begins with the children having left home. Helen and Dennis have moved from their high maintenance family property to an apartment by the river with all the mod cons. For Joyce and Mac, the empty nest has Joyce craving a new challenge, while Mac fancies retirement on the south coast.

  Meanwhile, Polly embarks on a surprising long-distance relationship. But she worries about her friend next door. Stella’s erratic behaviour is starting to resemble something much more serious than endearing eccentricity…

  With her trademark warmth and wisdom, Liz Byrski involves us in the lives and loves of Emerald Street, and reminds us what it is to be truly neighbourly.

  Contents

  Cover

  About The Woman Next Door

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  About Liz Byrski

  Also by Liz Byrski

  Copyright page

  For my remarkable family and my extended family of special friends.

  With love.

  Chapter One

  Edinburgh, Scotland, Late February, 2014

  Shortly before midnight the hotel fire alarm goes off, a frightful blaring noise that tears into each of the rooms, shattering sleep and creating instant panic. Polly, who had been working late on her laptop and had thrown herself fully dressed onto the bed and fallen asleep, shoots bolt upright: confused, disorientated, her heart pounding. Alarm, she thinks, alarm, shit, I have to get out, and she staggers blurrily around the room stubbing her toe painfully on the leg of the desk. She feels giddy and nauseous – shock, fear or perhaps the combination of an empty stomach and a large gin and tonic from the bar fridge before she fell asleep? Focus, she tells herself, focus: shoes, laptop, coat, handbag, passport, money, and she drags on her boots, shoves the laptop and her handbag into her backpack and heads for the door.

  The passage is crowded with anxious, bleary-eyed people in various stages of dress or undress, heading like lemmings for the fire exit which is already jammed. An elderly woman, unable to push through, starts to panic, screaming and waving her arms. Alongside Polly a man wearing an army greatcoat open over cotton undershorts and a t-shirt starts shaking violently, so violently that his clenched fist catches the side of her face and at the contact he begins to howl – a chilling, unearthly sound. Polly reaches out to grasp his hands and still them. His eyes rake wildly over the people pushing towards the doorway and she can see that he is elsewhere, Iraq perhaps, or Afghanistan. He looks so young, barely more than a boy, but he has known terror and seen the unspeakable. He has stopped the howling and is talking now, talking fast into the distance in a low monotone, half English, half something else, all of it incomprehensible.

  ‘Come on,’ Polly says, ‘come on, you’re in the hotel, it’s the fire alarm, we have to get out.’ But he is taller and much stronger than her, and frozen to the spot.

  The panic in the passage is building, it needs only one more person to panic, to push until someone falls, or to throw a punch, and all hell will break loose. Polly tries to drag the soldier towards the fire door, but he is rigid in his traumatic state.

  ‘Can someone help me?’ she shouts, but she is shoved aside as people struggle to get to the door.

  ‘Here,’ a voice says behind her, and a man pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Okay, soldier,’ he says. He’s taller than Polly and able to look the young man straight in the face. ‘We’re going to get you out of here,’ he says, grabbing the soldier by the arm.

  The soldier stops shaking; sweat trickles down his temples, his fixed expression seems to crack and he breaks into gut wrenching sobs, doubling over at the waist, staggering, almost knocking Polly over.

  ‘Good,’ the man says, nodding at her, ‘we can move him now. We can get him down the stairs.’ And awkwardly they steer him, still shaking, through the fire door. The log jam has cleared now but people are still coming down from the upper levels and they are trapped on the landing until two women in hotel bathrobes, clutching each other’s arms, make a space for them to join the descent. Slowly they get the soldier down the five flights of stairs, along the passage and out into the street where the ragged mob of evacuees in pyjamas and dressing gowns waits in eerie silence by the flashing lights of two fire engines, two ambulances and three police cars. Polly and the other man lean with the soldier against the wall, while more stragglers emerge from the hotel and are steered by fire officers to join those on the opposite pavement.

  It has started to snow and large flakes dance against the black sky. There is no evidence of fire, no smoke, no smell of burning, no sense of panic out here. A fire officer urges them away from the building. The soldier is calmer now, still shaking violently, but he has stifled his sobs, and is standing, Polly realises, barefoot on the icy pavement. She points down at his feet. ‘Can we take him to the ambulance first, leave him there?’ she asks, and the officer nods and leads them to the nearest ambulance.

  ‘Sounds like post-traumatic stress,’ says the paramedic, pulling thick white socks onto the soldier’s feet. ‘Good you got him out, we’ll look after him now.’ And he wraps a thermal blanket around the young man’s shoulders.

  Polly steps back and the soldier reaches out a hand. ‘Thank you,’ he says, tears starting again as he turns to the man who had helped them. ‘Thank you, too, I’m sorry, so sorry, thank you.’

  Polly takes his hand in both of hers and holds it briefly. The older man pats the soldier on his shoulder, and they turn away and cross the street to join the shivering crowd.

  ‘Someone said it might be a false alarm,’ says one of the women who had let them pass on the stairs. ‘What a drama, I was really quite frightened, but my mother was positively stoic.’

  Her mother, who appears to be well into her eighties, is sitting on a low wall wrapped in one of the hotel’s bathrobes, sending a text on her mobile phone. ‘I went through the Blitz,’ she says, glancing up, ‘it prepares you for emergencies. How’s that poor young man?’

  Polly starts to shiver and then can’t stop; she stamps her feet and wraps her arms around herself as the m
an who helped her talks to the two women, then turns to her.

  ‘Were you asleep with your clothes on?’ he asks, looking her up and down.

  She nods. ‘I was. Lucky for me.’

  ‘Indeed. I was dead to the world. Grabbed my coat and shoes and ran.’

  ‘I grabbed my . . .’ she hesitates, remembering. ‘Oh shit . . . I just remembered I put my backpack down in the passage, my bag and computer are in it. Lord knows what’s happened to it.’

  ‘It’ll probably just be there waiting for you when we get back in,’ he says. ‘You sound like an Aussie.’

  Polly nods. ‘And you’re not a Scot.’

  ‘No, originally from South Africa, came to London as a teenager.’

  ‘But you’re wearing an Australian coat.’

  He grins. ‘Well I don’t think there’s any law that says only Aussies can wear Drizabones. I bought it a couple of years ago in Melbourne, best coat I’ve ever had and very stylish over navy blue pyjamas, don’t you think?’ He reaches out to shake hands. ‘Leo,’ he says, ‘Leo Croft.’

  She takes his hand. ‘Polly Griffin. Thanks for helping, I wouldn’t have got him out on my own.’

  No one seems to know what’s happening, people are stamping their feet, rubbing their hands and complaining and it’s another ten minutes or so before the fire chief tells them through the megaphone that this was indeed a false alarm and they can safely return to their rooms, using the stairs as the lifts are not yet reactivated.

  ‘Come on,’ Leo says, ‘let’s get back inside and see if we can find your backpack.’

  They find it exactly where she had left it, leaning against the wall where the soldier had been standing. She sighs with relief. ‘I would have been totally stuffed without this. I have a conference presentation to give tomorrow.’

  He turns in surprise. ‘Are you at the university?’

  ‘Just a small conference in the arts faculty.’

  ‘So you’re an artist?’

  She shakes her head, stops outside her room and pulls her keycard out of her coat pocket. ‘A writer, it’s a conference on life-writing in the School of Literature and Languages. Well this is me.’ She slides her card into the slot, it flashes green, and she opens the door.

  He laughs. ‘What a coincidence. I’m here for a symposium in the School of Social and Political Science,’ he points to the door opposite hers, ‘and that’s my room. Look here, d’you fancy a brandy? There are a couple of miniatures in my room – good for shock and very warming.’

  Polly hesitates. ‘Um . . . well . . . well no thanks, I need to get some sleep, I’ve a big day tomorrow.’

  ‘Not even a quick one?’

  ‘Not even that, but thanks anyway.’

  He takes a small step back. ‘Ah well, I’ll have to drink it all myself,’ he says. ‘Good night then; maybe catch you at breakfast?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘And thanks for helping with the soldier. No one else did.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m glad we could do it. Good luck with your presentation.’

  Inside the room Polly kicks off her boots and coat and stands in the silence, thinking. Then she goes to the bedside table and picks up the room service breakfast menu; there is still time to hang it on her door before collection time. The buffet breakfast in the dining room is excellent but the last thing she’ll need in the morning is a conversation before she has to deliver her keynote. She fills out the menu, opens her door very quietly, slips it onto the handle and closes it again. Good decision. He seemed nice but right now she doesn’t need any distractions.

  *

  Fremantle, Western Australia, Early March

  Joyce, unloading the dishwasher and making breakfast at the same time, straightens up and cracks her head on the open door of the cupboard where she keeps the cups.

  ‘Bugger!’ she says, rubbing it with one hand and stirring the scrambled eggs with the other. ‘It’s ready,’ she calls down the passage, and she piles the eggs on top of the already buttered toast and reaches for the tongs to extract tomatoes and bacon from the grill. ‘Mac, c’mon, it’ll get cold.’

  ‘Coming!’

  She hears the sound of his bare feet padding along the polished boards, the unmistakable rhythm of his steps, somehow entirely distinguishable from the sound of anyone else walking towards her. Soon I will have Sunday breakfasts alone for months on end, she thinks, lifting the coffee pot onto the bench top, pushing his plate and mug to the other side so that they can sit facing each other.

  ‘Ripper!’ Mac says, hitching himself onto his stool, pulling his breakfast towards him. ‘I’m going to miss this.’

  She nods, saying nothing, feeling suddenly crushed by the enormity of what they have agreed. Picking up her knife and fork she feels strangely revolted by the food, puts the cutlery down again, reaches for the plunger and pours their coffee.

  ‘I’ve sorted out the pool pump,’ Mac says. ‘It’s running like a dream now.’

  ‘Good,’ she nods, sipping scalding coffee and burning her mouth.

  ‘Not eating?’ he asks, pointing his fork at her plate.

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘You okay?’

  She nods, looking up, tries to smile but feels her face crumble, tears slide down her cheeks.

  Mac swallows his food. ‘Delayed reaction?’

  ‘Yep.’ She attempts to get a grip on her voice. ‘It just seems such a big change, such a big thing to do.’

  ‘It is a big thing to do, but it isn’t something that’s undoable,’ he says. ‘A year, remember, that’s what we said. See how it goes for a year. It was your idea. You said it was what you wanted.’

  ‘But you . . . you do want it too . . . don’t you?’

  ‘I do – I wouldn’t have agreed otherwise.’

  Joyce nods, patting her eyes on the tea towel. ‘It’s just that when I heard you walking along the passage I suddenly thought . . . I won’t hear that . . . I won’t hear his feet walking towards me for ages, months at a time. It just sort of got to me, I suppose.’

  He nods, reaches across the bench top to take her hand. ‘Me too. I woke up twice in a real sweat about it, nearly woke you. But we’ve been talking about this for ages. It’s time to give it a go.’

  Joyce takes a huge breath and sits up straighter. ‘I know, you’re right, and it’s not as though we’re splitting up, just that we . . .’ she pauses, unable to go on.

  ‘We’re at a time in our lives when we want different things. You want to be here, I want to be down in Albany, so we’re going to try it. It’s just . . . well just a change in the way we live for a while.’

  Joyce looks up at him, grips his hand. ‘When I told you I wanted us to live apart for a while I expected a fight, I was ready for it. I suppose I didn’t think you’d jump at the idea like you did . . . so now I’m wondering . . .’

  Mac smiles. ‘You’re wondering why; but my reasons are the same as yours. Time to be alone with myself, to see how I manage living alone. We bought that place to retire to and that’s what I want to do. I’m ready for it, you’re not, and you said you really want to do your own thing for a bit so I’ll take off and do my bloke-in-his-shed thing, and you can think about what you want to do. I can wait.’

  ‘Suppose . . . well suppose I never want to retire there?’

  He shrugs and returns to his food. ‘Well let’s worry about that if it happens. This is just a trial, that’s all, time for both of us to do something we want, and see what happens. Just as you said.’

  She looks at him. He’s nearly seventy-two, six years older than me, she thinks, but he looks so much younger and fitter. How has that happened, why haven’t I noticed that before?

  ‘You’re going to do something new,’ he says. ‘Something entirely your own.’

  She smiles. ‘Yes . . . well, when I work out what tha
t is. Should we ring the kids and tell them what we’ve decided?’

  ‘I think we should get Ben and Nessa round for a barbecue. Shame we can’t get Lucy and Kara at the same time but I doubt they’d want to trek back from uni for this. Anyway, we’ll tell Ben and Nessa and we can talk to Gemma on Skype, either before that or straight after, then they’ll all hear it round about the same time.’

  ‘Okay. How d’you think they’ll take it? It might be a bit confronting for them, they might not approve.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ Mac says, laughing now. ‘They’ve got their own lives and we have ours. But I think they’ll be fine. Let’s pick a date in March. Okay?’

  And they stand together in front of the calendar.

  ‘End of the month . . . I’ll leave on the twenty-fifth,’ Mac says.

  ‘It’s seems awfully soon. Less than three weeks.’

  He puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘Now that we’ve made the decision we need to act on it. Before either of us has too many disturbing second thoughts.’

  She nods and leans against him. ‘It’s not about you,’ she says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  He hugs her to him. ‘We’ve been through all this, it’s not about you either. It’s about giving each other some space to do what we want.’ They stand there hugging each other for a moment. ‘Will you tell Stella yet?’ Mac asks.

  ‘When she gets back from Albany next week, I think, but not anyone else, not until we’ve told the family. Stella will miss you.’

  ‘She’ll certainly have something to say about it.’

  ‘She’ll think we’re being very grown-up! Very modern. I’ll bet you ten bucks that’s what she says. Ha, you’re being very modern.’

  Mac laughs. ‘That’s exactly what she’ll say. I’m glad you’ll have her there next door.’

  ‘Me too. But you . . .’ she stops herself from saying that he won’t have anyone nearby, because somehow she knows that he doesn’t need that, doesn’t need someone to be there next door for him. He can do this, he can be on his own. What she doesn’t know is whether she can do that too.

  ‘And the others? Polly? Helen and Dennis?’ Mac asks.