The Mistake I Made Read Free Page B

state of fractious agitation if I left the wheelie bin at the end of the garden path for more than two days running, or if my living-room curtains remained closed while I was at work or, heaven forbid, if I left my washing on the line when her book club was in attendance. Celia was a terrible snob. A working-class woman who liked to let you know that she was than everyone else. It was terribly amusing and, unexpectedly, I had grown to love her for it.
    We reached an agreement early on whereby, because I didn’t have time to give the cottage the kerb appeal Celia deemed necessary, and because she lived in mortal fear of falling property values, Celia had a key to my place. Anything that was going to fray her nerves, I told her to address herself. So her husband would bring my bin in the very second the waste wagon left. I would arrive home to find the fringe of grass edges neatly trimmed in the front garden, or small pink stains on the path where Celia had poured weed killer on my dandelions. Lately, I could feel her itching to affix a hanging basket or two, to match her four, but she hadn’t yet broached the subject.
    I pulled the note from the door. ‘Come on,’ I said to George, ‘let’s go to Celia’s.’ This was the last thing I needed, to be honest. We were supposed to be out the house again by 7.30 for my sister’s party. George needed feeding and we both needed smartening up. Glancing his way, I noticed some hair missing above his right ear. How I’d missed it earlier, I had no idea, because there was quite a chunk gone.
    ‘What’s going on there?’ I said, gesturing.
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    ‘George,’ I said.
    ‘I don’t remember.’
    A quick word about fibs. You’ve noticed, I’m certain, the inability of little boys to tell the truth. Don’t hold it against them. They’re simply afraid of making us cross. ‘George, I’m not angry with you, I just want to know why you’ve cut away such a large piece of your hair.’
    ‘I needed it for a creature I was making,’ he said.
    ‘Seems reasonable,’ I replied.
    We made our way down the path, out the front gate and along the short stretch of road to Celia’s. ‘I’m really thirsty. I need a drink, Mum,’ George said, and I said, ‘You and me both.’ The heat was fierce: thick, heavy air trapped in the basin formed by the surrounding fells. I pulled my tunic away from my midriff in a wafting motion, a lame attempt to get some ventilation. Sweat trickled down my skin, making me itch.
    Celia’s house was a detached cottage. Ours was a semi; the other side of my house was a holiday home. I never saw the owners. Instead there was a parade of similar kinds of people – folk who smiled if the sun was shining, were grim-faced and uncommunicative if it was not.
    Remember the village of Greendale, from the children’s television programme Postman Pat? Well, Greendale doesn’t exist, but it was modelled on Longsleddale, a spot over on the other side of the lake, and it’s close enough to form a fairly accurate picture of Hawkshead. Five hundred people live in the village and, aside from the holiday makers, everyone really does know everyone. Set amongst farmland (mostly used for grazing sheep), the stone or white-rendered cottages are bordered by dry-stone walls. Those of us in the village centre benefit from gas and mains drainage, those on the outskirts heat their homes with electricity, or more commonly oil, and have septic tanks. Everyone within a mile of the village centre has a small notice next to the loo, requesting guests not to flush anything other than the necessaries, and the smallest amount of toilet tissue. It’s something you’re used to if you’ve grown up with it. Like sterilized milk and half-day closing.
    Celia must have been loitering by her window, looking out for us, as the second we opened her gate she was at the front door. ‘Good Lord, George!’ she declared loudly. ‘What on earth have you done to your hair?’ I