Getting The Picture Read Free Page B

window, though. I can see the little strips of gardens from left to right, all with red-bricked walls separating them. I haven’t seen the neighbours on the right, and from the look of their garden, they don’t use it much, but there are two young brothers on the left-hand side. I hide behind my curtains because they climb up on the wall when they think no one’s watching and throw stones at our rosebushes. What is it with small boys and the need to hit things?
    And the other day I saw one of them holding something up to his eyes that they kept passing from one to another. I couldn’t see what it was at first, but then I realised they’d made some binoculars out of toilet rolls. They were watching Brenda Lewis hang out the washing. She shooed them away when she spotted them but as soon as she’d gone, they popped up again. They were laughing and trying to push each other off the wall, and then they threw something at Brenda’s washing. They kept dipping down and throwing again several times before I realised it was handfuls of mud they were chucking. I think they were trying to knock the washing off the line. After a bit, they went quiet and just sat straddling the wall, watching how the underwear swayed in the wind through those cardboard binoculars of theirs.
    I wonder what they thought was interesting enough to spy on. Perhaps they were thinking what a strange species we are to wear such giant underpants.
    They call us the Pilgrims around here, which feels apt. We’re all in some kind of limbo station on our journey towards death. Most like me are going about it as quietly as we can, and yet this still makes us something of interest. To those boys, it seems we are of great interest.
    I haven’t spoken to George yet. You might wonder how that could be when we’re in the same house, but we both keep to ourselves. I’ve seen one of your daughters though. Nell. And Robyn, the granddaughter. She’s a good-looking girl. A Goth, if you know what that is. I used to rather like them coming into the newsagents, like little butterflies of doom. It seems that Angie is in France. I’m biding my time. It’s not as if I don’t have any to spare.
    M
    8. note from george griffiths to brenda lewis
    Dear Mrs. Lewis,
    You may not be aware that yesterday afternoon when you were absent, Susan Reed’s daughter visited, along with the family dog.
    Not only did the dog bark several times, but I watched it relieve itself on the front lawn.
    I have looked up the regulations for Pilgrim House and it specifically says No Pets. I would be grateful if you could bring this to the attention of all residents.
    Yours sincerely,
    George Griffiths
    9. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
    Hey Angie,
    I am at my wit’s end with Dad and you’ve got to help me. Paris is not that far away and he’s your father too. You can’t keep this noninvolvement thing going forever. He’s got worse, if possible. He even talks about himself in the third person. He said to me yesterday: George Griffiths has never put up with shoddy behaviour from anyone, and he’s not about to begin now . I nearly said, Well, Nell Baker doesn’t either , but old habits and all that. All he wants to talk about is you and your great job. You have to tell him the truth, or I will. I’m tired of biting my lip when he’s so rude about Robyn. It’s not easy being a single parent, or any kind of parent at all. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?
    I will wait to hear when you can come over but make it soon. Please. You have responsibilities here, Angie. Whether you like it or not.
    Nell
    10. note from claude bichourie to angie griffiths (left on hotel bedside table)
    Chérie,
    You looked so beautiful this morning I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Here is a little something for you to buy something nice. I will call you when I can get away but until then, one hundred kisses