I needed the ten pounds I keep tucked away for emergencies, the hem of the second-hand skirt had come adrift and there was more travelling to do. The streets of Hampstead had a Sunday slack-tide feel, with most people gone to take the air on the Heath or dozing indoors, and only a few children playing hopscotch in the sun. There was nothing and nobody waiting for me when I opened the front door except two cats and a pile of post. I’d just changed and was looking for the train timetable when there was a knock on the back door and my neighbour came in with a little brown envelope. ‘The post office boy brought this on Friday afternoon. I’d no idea where you were.’ It was a telegram from Bill. SHALL BE AWAY FOR WEEKEND. PLEASE TELEPHONE MONDAY, USUAL NUMBER. MEANWHILE, DO NOTHING. PLEASE. ‘Bad news?’ ‘No, just a friend. Thank you for taking it in. Would you mind seeing to the cats for another day or two? There’s some milk and fish money on the table.’ A few days ago I’d been angry with Bill for trying to interfere.
