Peony Place. Jules Wake

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      I nodded, not wanting to admit that I was on temporary hiatus. It would be too embarrassing explaining why. She might think I was taking the easy way out, time off when there was nothing really wrong with me. I clenched my fists under my thighs. And she’d be right. Dr Boulter had overreacted. I could probably go back next week once I’d caught up on a bit of sleep.

      ‘You don’t want to get an office bottom, do you?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Office bottom, also known as spreading arse. Too much sitting down.’

      ‘Ah, no. I don’t.’

      ‘So, a bit further every day and before you know it you’ll be running a marathon,’ she said with an air of complacency. ‘I can tell we’re going to get on famously. What did you say your name was again? That’s the downside to being old: butterfly brain. By the time you get to my age, it’s so full of stuff, I lose things in there.’

      I smiled, rather charmed by her description that shied away from forgetfulness.

      ‘I’m Claire.’

      ‘Pleased to meet you Claire and welcome to Command Centre.’

      ‘Command Centre?’ This woman veered from sensible and stately to completely whacky in nought to sixty. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

      ‘Yes, this is my little spot. I know everything that goes on in this park.’ She patted the plump pink peony heads at the end of the bench on which we were sitting as if they were pet dogs, thereby loosening a few drops of rain. ‘It’s my personal fiefdom, if you like. I’ve lived around here off and on for sixty years.’ She pointed to the rather smart Regency houses that just peeped over the trees to the south of the park. ‘I used to live in one of those when my son was small. He used to want to come to the park a lot then. Play on the swings. Feed the ducks. Children,’ she sighed, ‘they grow up so quickly. One minute they’re clinging to your hands, the next minute they’re packing you off to a home. Of course, he hasn’t been here for years. Do you have children?’

      ‘Er… no.’

      ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

      ‘I’m looking after my nieces for a week while their mother is away and I’ve just taken them to school.’

      ‘Ah, that must be fun. How old are they?’

      Mmm, the jury was out on the fun bit. This morning had been a bit of a nightmare. ‘Poppy’s ten and Ava’s six’

      ‘Lovely ages. Shame they have to grow up really. My son’s turned into a pompous twerp.’

      ‘How old is he?’ I bit back a smile at her weary dismissal.

      ‘Forty-five going on ninety-five.’ She shook her head and pursed her walnut-wrinkled mouth. ‘Don’t ever let anyone dump you in a home. I come here every day, just to get out of that dreary place.

      ‘Where do you live?’

      ‘Dreary place, weren’t you listening?’ She gave me a mischievous grin. ‘Also known as The Sunnyside Memorial Home for the half-dead and totally bewildered. My son insisted. I had a bit of a fall and broke my hip. He was all for putting me in a care home on the south coast. I’m old but I’m not senile.’ She gave me a wicked grin. ‘So I started running again, just to annoy him.’

      ‘How does that annoy him? I’d have thought he’d be rather proud of you running at your…’ my voice petered out.

      ‘Oh Lord girl, don’t be shy. At my great age. It’s all right, you can say it. With these wrinkles, I’m in no position to be getting coy about how old I am. If I’m still running every day, there’s no way he’ll get a doctor to say I’m not fit enough to live independently. I run around the park, just one loop, every single day. Rain or shine. And no one’s going to stop me.’

      ‘I remember you,’ I blurted out. ‘Sunshine-yellow tracksuit.’ Startler of pigeons. Harbinger of coffee disasters.

      ‘That’s my particular favourite. So good of you to notice it. I have a rather lovely emerald green one as well. Which reminds me, I haven’t done my stretches and at my age, they’re a must.’

      She stood up and began doing a series of lunges. I watched in amusement as she bounced around the small area with more enthusiasm than skill.

      Finally, jogging on the spot, she waved a hand at me. ‘Right, toodle-pip. Same time tomorrow.’

      I shrugged. Today’s attempt at running had been woeful. Maybe I’d been a bit hasty emailing Dave about the 5k. The treadmill in the gym always seemed so much easier. Maybe I’d get the train into Leeds and visit the gym instead.

      With a sniff, she turned and began to jog away down the path to join the main drag through the park.

      I watched her retreating figure. At least it had been nice to have some company; she was a character and she’d made me smile quite a few times. In fact, my face felt positively mobile for once instead of having that stretched, clenched-teeth feeling that, now I thought about it, had been around for a lot longer than a few weeks. When was the last time I’d felt anything other than an insidious sense of doom and that everything was about to go wrong?

      Chapter Seven

      The kitchen looked as if a small tornado had swept through it. Spilled milk on the table, dried cornflakes in the bowls, which had acquired superglue-like properties, and abandoned toast crusts – apparently Ava’s hair was curly enough – as well as a pool of sticky orange juice that had been tramped across the floor, down the hall, and there was one tacky footprint on the cream lounge carpet. Breathe, Claire. It was okay. I could do this. I’d got the girls to school… and only five minutes late. I didn’t dare look at the bedroom where I knew there’d be a pile of abandoned school uniform items. Who knew children could generate so many dirty clothes? Little Ava could attract food, mud, and paint to her clothes, skin, and hair in equal quantities. There were even red paint and orange juice stains on her white ankle socks – although grey would have been a better description; they hadn’t been white for a long time.

      The mess set all my tidy-senses tingling, bringing with them that familiar on-edge something-bad-was-going-to-happen feeling. As soon as I’d cleaned the juice from the floor by the fridge, I realised that underneath the fridge was filthy. So I pulled that out. Then I attacked the dust behind it. But the sides of the kitchen cupboards beside it were disgusting, so I cleaned off the sheen of grease, only to find that the extractor fan was also covered in a film of the same grease. With each bowl of hot soapy water I filled, I felt like the sorcerer’s apprentice. Each time I pulled out or moved something, there was more to do. The tiles behind the cooker were food-stained. The ceiling needed painting. The flooring was marked.

      I stopped, realising that my breath was coming in shallow pants. This was ridiculous.

      But even though my brain registered the onset of panic, I was still taking the shelves out of the oven to scrub them.

      This was crazy. I should be at work, not doing this. Work, where I knew what needed to be done. Knew what I had to do. Where I had a million things to do. There were reports to be written. Data to be analysed. By now a gazillion СКАЧАТЬ