The Old Girls' Network. Judy Leigh

keep him here overnight. We’ll make a decision tomorrow.’

      Natalie nodded her head. ‘All right. Just for tonight.’

      ‘It’s an awful idea. He could murder us in our beds, Pauline.’

      Pauline turned to her sister, her face set. ‘He can hardly move. Look at him. He’s just a frail old gentleman who’s lost his way a bit. Besides, you heard what he said – he’s not really likely to wander into your room.’

      Barbara was still taking the comment in as Pauline brushed past her and hurried back to the lounge. Douglas’ armchair was empty. And there wasn’t much left in the bottle of Scotch, resting on the chair arm. Bisto had gone. Pauline breathed out, wondering how he was managing to walk on his swollen ankle, when she heard Barbara breathe a sigh of relief behind her.

      ‘Well, thank goodness for that. He’s on his way. We won’t see him again, I hope.’

      Pauline swung round, about to say something about Barbara being heartless, when Dr Natalie appeared, standing just behind her, her face anxious.

      Pauline’s thoughts turned to Bisto. She had knocked him over and she’d wanted to make amends. It would have been the decent thing and she was frustrated that the opportunity had passed. Besides, she had taken to him: he seemed good company: he was warm hearted and he had a sense of humour, which was more than she could say for her complaining sister. She was about to snap at Barbara, to say something rude, but her conscience intervened. She decided to put space between her and her sister before she commented on her lack of compassion. She strode over to Douglas’ drinks cupboard and found a bottle of wine.

      ‘Right. I’m off out. I’m going to take this to the new neighbours’ house, to say hello and welcome. It’s what good neighbours do. I haven’t introduced myself yet.’

      Barbara stood up straight. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

      ‘There’s no need, Barbara. I’ll go alone. I’m sure you could stay here and make Natalie another cup of tea. I’ll only be gone for ten minutes – the house is just across the road and down a little path. You don’t need to come. In fact, I’d rather go by myself. I haven’t met them yet and I don’t want you upsetting them.’

      Barbara watched as Pauline rushed past her, the bottle clutched in her fist, and was gone. She exhaled, a little surprised that her sister could be so impolite. She’d have words with her when she came back, and explain that it wasn’t appropriate to berate her in front of the GP. Barbara turned to Natalie.

      ‘I’ll make you that cup of tea, shall I? I’m sorry about Pauline. Knocking the tramp down has obviously affected her a little more than I thought. Perhaps a chocolate biscuit will sort her out when she gets back. I think we have a packet of bourbons in the cupboard. And perhaps while the tea is brewing, you could tell me if there is anything of any cultural interest whatsoever to be found in this desolate little village.’

      7

      Pauline was feeling unhappy that the little man had limped away. She’d liked him immediately; she’d found him amusing and she’d been sorry for him, not to mention feeling a little guilty as it had all been her fault. She crossed the road and pushed open her neighbour’s gate. A dark-haired woman was in the garden, busying herself with something in front of the open garage door. She was bending over a large cardboard box, pulling out implements and laying them on the floor. Pauline saw a shiny new trowel, a pair of shears, gardening gloves and a roll of wire. She called out, ‘Hello,’ and raised the hand carrying the wine.

      The woman’s face was expressionless. She stood up and stared at Pauline. She was in her forties, probably; she had dark brown hair, pale skin, a sombre face, attractive, yet there was something aloof about the way she held herself, as if she was untrusting. She had on tailored jeans, heeled boots, a cashmere sweater and an expensive-looking jacket. Pauline thought she was far too smart to be emptying grubby boxes in the garden. She smiled and waved the bottle again.

      ‘Yoo-hoo.’

      The woman frowned. ‘If you’re selling anything, please go away. We’re new to the neighbourhood and I’m not interested in buying anything.’

      Pauline laughed, a light trilling sound. ‘Oh, no. I’m your neighbour. I brought this.’ She brandished the wine, held out her other hand towards the woman. ‘I’m Pauline Pye from the house across the lane.’

      The woman took her hand tentatively, held it for a second as if obliged to make a polite gesture. Pauline handed the bottle to the woman who gazed at the label with interest and then murmured, ‘Thank you. That’s kind.’

      Pauline wondered if everyone in the family was teetotal; if she’d just made a mistake. She took a deep breath. ‘So, how are you settling in?’

      The woman pulled a face. ‘It’s so difficult. My husband was keen to buy this house. I just think we’ve taken on a lot of work. The people who lived here before have let it get into a bit of a state.’

      Pauline brought her lips together. Henry and Catherine, who’d lived there before, were in their eighties; delightful people, welcoming, church-going – great friends of Chrissie the vicar, and they’d always kept their house and garden immaculate. She nodded hopefully. ‘Are you planning to make big changes, then?’

      The woman stared into the distance, seemingly not interested.

      ‘I think there’s a lot to do.’ She seemed to notice Pauline for the first time. ‘I’m Julia Darby.’

      Pauline grinned. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here.’

      Julia didn’t look happy at all. ‘Oh, I so hope I will. I was very happy where we were before, in Bath. It’s such a lovely place, fantastic architecture. This place is so – well, it’s like the back of beyond, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s a great community, Winsley.’ Pauline put on her most positive face. ‘Everyone is so nice, so helpful. We have a really good neighbourhood. Everyone looks after everyone else. You’ll make friends so easily.’

      Julia shook her head. ‘It’s been a gamble, selling our lovely house and coming here.’

      ‘You won’t regret it. I’ve been here for a couple of years and I love it. Everyone is so nice, so decent. There isn’t a single bad thing to be said about the local…’

      Pauline stopped and stared across the garden. A little man in tattered clothes had limped onto the flower bed and was tottering, confused and bewildered, as he approached a rose bush. Pauline pressed her lips together to stop a giggle as she saw him fiddling with the zip of his jeans.

      Julia turned to her with an expression of horror. ‘Is that your husband?’

      Pauline waved her arms apologetically. ‘Oh, no, no. He’s a tramp… He’s just had a drink with me. I knocked him down in my car this morning.’ She stared at Bisto, whose face was clearly baffled. ‘He bumped his head. I’m not sure he knows where he is…’

      Six feet away, behind the rose bush, Bisto was adjusting his zip. The dirty material of his jeans sagged, falling to his ankles. There was a moment’s silence then there came the persistent gush of a steady stream of liquid.

      Bisto sighed. ‘Ah, nothing like a good pish, is there?’ He tottered forward, staggering beyond the rose bush, clearly confused, then his feet encountered the material wrapped around his ankles and he fell headlong.

      Pauline put a hand to her lips to conceal a smile. ‘I’m so sorry…’

      Julia’s mouth was a perfect circle. The women locked eyes for a moment, then their gaze moved back to Bisto, who was wriggling on his front like a snake in the grass.

      ‘Ah well...’ his voice was muffled by the earth beneath his face, but the tone was full of good humour. ‘It was the Scotch, I think. One too many. Hey, give us a hand here, will you? I swear I have thorns from the rose bush stuck