Five French Hens. Judy Leigh

Her limbs had gone numb. Her lips too. She could only nod. Eddie eased himself upright.

      ‘Well, I’ll get off now, shall I? Perhaps we can meet tomorrow and we can talk about it again when you’ve had time to give it some thought? It’s a good offer, my dear. What do you say, Jen?’

      She stood up, facing him. ‘Yes. Yes, all right, I’ll think about it.’

      He kissed her lips lightly again. ‘Well, that’s it. Do take it seriously, though. You and I are very good together. We make a good couple and we’d make each other very happy.’ He reached for his coat, tugging it over broad shoulders.

      Jen blinked, then fussed with his collar, fidgeting with the buttons. ‘Are you going home now, Eddie?’

      ‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ he said, smiling. ‘I need my beauty sleep. You too.’ He lifted her chin. ‘Well, you just need sleep.’ He shuffled towards the door. Jen wondered if she should invite him to stay. She wanted company. She wanted him to hold her tight, to kiss her properly. He hadn’t said he was in love with her yet.

      ‘You wouldn’t like to stay… a bit longer?’

      He pecked her cheek again. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow and we can meet for afternoon tea.’ He put a finger to her face. ‘What a wonderful evening this has been. It’s so nice to spend time with you. I just thought it would be lovely if our arrangement was a bit more – permanent.’

      Jen nodded. She wondered if she should have said yes, if her refusal had made Eddie’s feelings cooler towards her. He kissed her cheek and put an affectionate arm around her. She clung to him but he eased himself away.

      ‘It’ll be cold outside. I’ll see myself out. I don’t want you to catch a chill. Goodnight, my dear.’

      And then he was gone. Jen squeezed her eyes closed, not sure if she was disappointed, in love or just confused. All three, perhaps. But she would have liked him to stay. She’d have enjoyed more conversation and a sense of closeness. Then perhaps she would be sure she loved him; she’d know if she should have accepted his proposal. But there was always tomorrow. She was suddenly filled with a thrill about the future, and what it might bring.

      She picked up the tray. The coffee was untouched, but it had gone cold. Jen sighed. She’d wash up, tidy a little and then she’d go to bed, alone. She gazed at her finger where the diamond ring had stayed for almost a minute. She’d had the chance to become an engaged woman, a bride-to-be. It had felt strange, frightening and just a little bit exciting. She wasn’t sure what she’d tell her friends at aqua aerobics — that Eddie had proposed and she’d turned him down? The room was cold and Jen was alone. For a moment, she imagined that Eddie was her husband, that they’d finished cups of cocoa and they were on their way upstairs to bed. He’d take her small fingers in his large hand and they’d go up together. Jen suddenly felt a chill in the air and she realised how lonely she was.

      Rose played Für Elise again, perfectly. Her fingers drifted easily over the piano keys and the sound of the music flowing, confident and loud, was somehow reassuring. She finished with a flourish, sat back and looked at her hands. Small, neat, well-shaped, a single gold band on her left hand. She still missed him, Bernard, especially at this time of night, although there had been times he’d annoyed her and they’d bickered. But it was too late for feelings of regret. She had no one to be annoyed with now, and that made her sad. When the last vibration of the piano had faded, it was replaced with empty silence and she felt cold and alone. Rose stood up from the piano stool. She’d throw away the half-eaten macaroni cheese, wash the plate and go up to bed.

      Della lay on her back, listening to the nasal rattle of her husband, Sylvester, who was sleeping by her side, his glasses still perched on his nose. It was his usual nightly practice to snore, an adenoidal snort that lasted for fifteen seconds, stopped and then started up again. Like a chainsaw. Della smiled. She waited through the silence, the seven seconds’ respite, counting him down and then, bang on time, he started again, the persistent wheeze assaulting her ears again. She reached over, patting his shoulder lovingly. ‘Sylvester… Sylvester. Stop snoring and go to sleep now, will you, my love?’

      He paused and then mumbled through soft lips. ‘Love you too.’

      Della grinned. She breathed out, rolled over, tugging the duvet with her, and snuggled down into the cocoon of warmth. She closed her eyes, sighed, and started to drift. Seven seconds of blissful silence. The chainsaw rattle began again, stretching out into a fifteen second rumble, pausing for seven seconds, then starting up all over again.

      It was past eleven now and Alan was still watching golf. He was still making comments aloud, analysing each whack of the ball, the angle of each curve on the air, the descent towards each hole. Tess clenched her teeth – as if she’d be interested. She’d recorded the documentary about Nefertiti. She’d watch it tomorrow, when Alan was out with his other golf buddies, after he’d left in his jacket and ridiculous cap, carrying his bag of clubs to the car. Tess groaned. The television screen illuminated his face and his eyes shone with happiness. She didn’t care. She had her friends, her own thoughts. She picked up his teacup, the plate she’d put the biscuits on, and took them through to the kitchen to wash up, avoiding his eyes. As she passed him, he gave a little grunt of thanks.

      She washed the dishes, staring out of the kitchen window. The sky was dark blue, dotted with shining specks of stars. The moon slid behind a cloud and emerged again, a pale silver hook. Tess felt very small inside her quiet house, with no sound except for the dripping tap in the kitchen, and the rattle of the television from the next room. She shook her head sadly and told herself again that she didn’t care what Alan did. She’d carry on trying to make her own life fun, as she always did, just for herself.

      It was one of those precious moments that could be held still, like a scoop of fresh water in cupped hands, and treasured. A second of pure peace, followed by another. Elvis was curled up at the bottom of the bed and soothing music from the smart speaker filled the room, the gentle melodic voice of Enya. Pam closed her eyes and thought of woodlands, leaves draping their tips in gurgling streams, the sunlight filtering through branches. She reached down to stroke Elvis’s soft fur and felt a damp nose, the wetness of a tongue. She breathed out, grateful for the warmth of a thick duvet and the intense burning of her toes against a hot-water bottle. The past was in the distance. The present was all that mattered. Life, she decided, was good. How could anything be simpler and better than this?

      Jen woke early in the morning; her eyes immediately opened wide and she listened. She sat upright in bed, her heart pounding. She’d heard a noise downstairs. She held her breath. The digital alarm said it was almost seven o’clock. She listened harder, her ears straining against the silence. There it was again, a soft bump like a footfall. It had come from the living room. Jen breathed out imperceptibly. It hadn’t come from outside; it wasn’t the soft gliding of a milk float – there hadn’t been one in the street for years – or the heavy rumble of the bin men’s lorry. It had sounded like someone bumping against furniture. It was a burglar.

      Jen called out, ‘Who’s there?’

      The fear in her own voice made her tremble. She slid out of bed and reached for her dressing gown, pulling it over her nightie. Somehow a second layer made her feel safer. She edged to the top of the stairs, her feet barely touching the carpet. She held onto the banister, supporting each step she took. At the bottom of the stairs, the front door was locked; she’d locked it last night after Eddie had left. Jen listened; empty silence rang in her ears, and then the noise came again, a brief brushing sound, once.

      ‘Who’s