Trr, trr. Trr, trr. I pick up the phone. “Is that Mrs Stokely?”
“Yes; speaking.”
“Mrs I. Stokely?”
“That’s right, Imogene Stokely.”
“Of flat 3, Albion House?”
“The very same.”
“In Albion Gardens?”
The Gardens is a respectable address and we don’t get much trouble here. A bit of dog dirt in the streets and occasional fly posting is the worst that’s happened since we moved in. That’s if you don’t count the rubbish spread about before the dust men get here on collection days: but even that’s stopped since the council gave us all bins and the urban foxes have to find their suppers elsewhere; digging up things in our garden for the most part.
The down at heel neighbourhood was all that two aspiring academics could manage as a first home, and somehow we got to feeling comfortable with the faded gentility that it never quite lost. Things have started to change latterly and at one end of the road there is a distinct air of upward mobility. Albion House too is changing, and one or two of the original residents have died or moved on. Suits had not been de rigueur here until the young man upstairs moved in. He regularly goes to work in a charcoal grey number with a chalk stripe. Across the hall one elderly widow has been replaced by a spinster of much the same vintage. But despite the changes we continue on polite, if less intimate terms than those prevailing earlier.
“Yes, in Albion Gardens.”
“Oh, I’m so glad; I’ve called the right number then.”
A tidal wave of electronic wizardry is lapping at our door, but somehow it feels like a betrayal of the place’s dignity to embrace modern telecommunications too eagerly so Ken and I still rely on copper wires and an answering machine. We’d hung onto our old bakelite handset with its rotary dial for so long that it had to be confiscated by the telephone company despite out protestations: and our number can still be found in the telephone directory.
“I found your number but the phone book was six years old and I wasn’t sure it was really you.”
“It’s us alright; we’ve been here for fifteen years. Who am I speaking to?”
“Oh dear, I’d rather not say, the matter’s rather delicate and I don’t want to be involved personally… it’s just that I think there’s something you ought to know.”
I let her reticence go. The uncertain voice on the line doesn’t sound too threatening and anyway there’s a vague familiarity about it.
“It’s about your husband. I am right aren’t I; you live in flat No 3 with your husband, Dr K. Stokely?”
“I do but I’m not sure it’s any business of yours who I live with.”
“You see my dear, that’s rather the point; I think he’s having women in when you’re at work. Well, a woman, it always seems to be the same one”
Ken and I both work at the University, but whilst he’d gone on to a PhD and a senior lectureship my career had stalled and I spend my days as a university librarian; senior librarian you understand, in a department of two. Not only is he paid more than me, he has more flexible hours whilst I leave home at the same time every day.
“You always go out at 8 15 and it’s soon after that the comings and goings start.”
I’ve got her now; it’s the old girl from across the hallway.
“Is that comings and goings, or, goings and comings?”
“Really Mrs Stokely, do you have to be so flippant, it doesn’t matter which it is. This tall blonde woman in high heels and a red coat is in and out of your flat whenever you’re at work and I don’t think it’s right and nor should you.”
“I see.”
“Back in the summer she wore a very indiscrete purple dress and…”
I lay the phone down despite the indignant voice still on the line and go out to the front entrance. To the side of the door is a column of bell pushes, each next to a name. Above Dr K & Mrs I Stokely was the old bat’s, Miss V. Bocking Flat No 2. I press and wait, rather relishing the panic rising in Miss Bocking’s breast as she attempts to resolve the conflicting demands of telephone and doorbell. She comes out into the hall way, still clutching her phone, stretching its spiral lead to the limit. At the moment of recognition there is a crash from within No 2. Miss Bocking has gone too far.
“Oh… oh dear, it’s you… I… there’s some one on the phone, it’s…”
There’s another smaller crash and the hand set joins its cradle on the floor.
At this moment Miss Bocking isn’t the only one trying to resolve conflicting emotions, and I step forward, pick up the phone and taking her arm steer the old woman back to her flat. Concern for her distress wins out, at least for the moment.
“Are you alright now Miss Bocking? She’s sitting in an armchair and I’ve been busy in her kitchen.
“I’ve made you some tea, I hope it’s how you like it, I’ve put some sugar in. You look as if you’ve had a shock.”
The cup and saucer rattle as she takes it with a shaky hand.
“Oh, thank you my dear, you’re very kind.”
The atmosphere starts to settle back into the comfortable politeness that prevailed before the phone call. It turns out to be a mistake to say, “Now Miss Bocking, perhaps we should resume our conversation.” before she finishes her tea. Motionless, rather like a rabbit, mesmerised by a stoat, she watches me clear up the mess.
“Let’s recap; you want me to know my husband is having an affair and that he has the woman back to our flat when I’m at work.”
Somehow she retrieves the sanctimonious tone of earlier.
“I do, and I want you to stop him, it’s not decent and a maiden lady shouldn’t have to put up with goings on like that next door.”
I now have some difficulty keeping my cool. Really, how can she!
“I see your problem Miss Bocking. If I could arrange for you to be reassured about my husband’s fidelity, would that repair the reputation of Albion House?”
The narrow minded old bird looks as if she has sucked on a lime.
“I suppose so Mrs Stokely, but since you seem totally unaware of his scandalous behaviour I cannot see how or why you might do such a thing.”
By now Miss Bocking is her usual self; she agrees, reluctantly, to cross the entrance hall to our flat. I take her arm.
“I realise you might consider this improper but I’d like to take you into our bedroom.”
I’m unclear as to whether the tremor that goes through her is a shiver of anticipation, or disapproval. In any event, I propel her into the room. I’d tidied up; at least she can’t be offended by an unmade bed.
“This is our wardrobe Miss Bocking.”
I throw open a door to reveal dresses hanging full length, and rails at two levels sporting blouses, skirts and the odd jacket.
“Oh, I suppose it is.”
I move toward the other side.
“That was mine and this side is my husband’s.”
“Mrs Stokely I really don’t understand what this is all about, but I’d much rather you didn’t open it. It’s hardly proper, what with me being unmarried and…”
I start laying some of Ken’s clothes on the bed.
“You did say a red coat and an indiscrete purple dress?”
“Yes...”
“A tall blond in high heels was mentioned too?”
I reach down for the shoes and prop them precariously on the floor beneath the hem of the coat, and finally take out a blond wig and put just above the red collar.
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David BoultonDavid has a love of railways and has written a number of short stories that loosely follow this theme. Copyright Archives
December 2018
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