The Widow Read Free Page A

gather her wits.
    â€˜I’m looking for your mother but where does she live?’
    â€˜Me mum?’ in so broad an accent that she had to keep her face straight. The boy considered, studying her shrewdly. Not a bailiff! Maybe one of those social-assistant women, or likely a schoolmarm. ‘None too sure. Gone out, likely enough.’ A child accustomed already to helping fend off unwanted visitors.
    â€˜I said I’d come this morning. She’ll be expecting me.’ The English even in an accent as strong as his own reassured him.
    â€˜Ey, Ian,’ he bawled across the playground. ‘Our mum gone out?’ The answer was incomprehensible but not to him. He grinned again broadly.
    â€˜Can always try, Missis. End block over there. Door at the left. Three up on the corner.’
    â€˜Thanks very much,’ said Arlette politely. One of the HLM blocks. She studied the row of names on the bellpushes. She didn’t even know Robert’s name, and it was just ‘sociological’ curiosity. A loose net, that had gathered all sorts of fish. French names, and the heavy Teutonic names of Alsace; Spanish and Portuguese, a couple of blacks, a couple of Arabs: but all in the proportions you would expect for the whole city. Not a dumping ground for underprivileged immigrant labour.
    The hallway smelt, the stairs smelt, the lift smelt worst, being a shut-in box, slightly but unmistakably. Smell not so much of poverty – these people certainly weren’t ‘poor’ – as of backwardness, neglect, a low and uneducated mentality, apathetic, with no energy for much more than bare survival. Piss, cabbage, stale sweat, general unwashedness hung faint but certain on the air. But efforts had been made to scrub off the graffiti and keep the stairs swept. There were the usual notices about fire and how to call the cops or an ambulance, an elaborate roster of people’s turns at cleaning the landings and tidying the garbage chute, and a few brave ones done incolour with fancy lettering and roneo’d, from outside, about the cinema club and the pathetic neighbourhood activities, as well as rules about dogs and not playing ball-games. Arlette was borne upwards depressed. Depression gathered when she rang the bell on the landing and the door snapped open on the other side. She did not turn but she could feel the curious, and somehow malicious stare, like a draught on the back of her neck. Norma’s door opened finally, after a loud noise of lavatory being flushed, just as Arlette was going to turn and stare back. Norma’s look was suspicious too, but her face cleared at once. ‘’S you. Great. Come on in.’ She shut the door firmly, put her tongue out at the landing beyond, winked at Arlette and gave her a friendly clap on the arm. ‘Real nice of you to come. Don’t mind the kitchen, do you love? – that ol’ sitting-room’s in a mess again. Kids! Not to worry – have it straight before Robert can start moaning. Make some tea, shall I? Not like yours I’m afraid. Lipton teabags! But in France you know it’s either that or the really classy stuff what I can’t afford.’
    â€˜I don’t mind a bit.’ Depression had vanished instantly. What right had she to feel sorry for herself? Norma might well break down into a violent cry, as she had yesterday, but it would go over like the rain, now right above their heads and due to break any second, and be again good tough resilient Norma. And untidy it might be, but there was no smell. She probably put the children’s socks to soak in the bidet, but she was scrubbed, and so was the flat.
    â€˜Going to pee down,’ said Norma slapping the kettle on and looking out of the window. ‘Them brats are all right but the little one’s out doing the shopping.’
    â€˜All the way over to the supermarket?’
    â€˜Naw – don’t go there much. A few things that’s