On Sunday, Beth asked whether I would come to Vivienne’s for an hour.
“Not another book discussion,” she said. “There’s something I want you to understand before you decide whether to keep helping.”
I almost said she didn’t need to explain. Then I remembered that she was choosing to.
“All right.”
Tom took Poppy to the park. He did not ask what time I would be back until after he had found her coat, which I chose to count as progress.
At Number Twelve, the green chair had been moved away from the table. Priya saw me noticing.
“Someone finally admitted it has a broken spring.”
“It’s an antique,” Vivienne said.
“So are some diseases.”
Celia laughed and handed her a mug.
Beth remained standing until everyone had settled.
“I asked Nora to keep my portfolio. Martin went round and tried to get information from her. I don’t want her finding out the rest in bits.”
Vivienne looked at me, then back at Beth.
“How much do you want to say?”
“About me, enough. About anyone else, nothing.”
She sat.
Vivienne explained that the book club had existed for six years. At first, it had been exactly what it sounded like, except nobody could agree on a book and they eventually stopped trying.
“We still recommend things,” Celia said.
“Occasionally people read them,” Priya added.
The other part had begun when a neighbour needed transport to hospital and did not want to tell the whole street why. After that came a broken boiler, a lost job, someone needing a room for a few nights.
“We started putting a little aside,” Vivienne said. “Other residents offered to contribute. Some of the community events raise money for it.”
“Is it a charity?” I asked.
“A small neighbourhood fund,” Priya said. “And practical help. Those are different things.”
She said it gently, but Vivienne’s mouth tightened.
“We aren’t professionals,” Celia added. “If someone needs more than lifts and a bit towards a bill, we help them find people who are.”
“Who decides?”
“The person asking decides what she needs,” Beth said. “Vivienne decides what the fund can pay for.”
“Within what we can afford,” Vivienne added.
On the table lay a leaflet for a local advice service. Its corners were worn. This was not the sleek enterprise I had imagined from her house; some of the help consisted simply of knowing a number and sitting beside somebody while they rang it.
Celia described accompanying a neighbour to an appointment, without giving a name or a reason. She had waited in the corridor for an hour. Nothing about the story made her look important. It made her sound patient, and I liked her more for it.
Beth folded her hands.
“I’m leaving Martin.”
I knew I ought not to look surprised. I was surprised anyway. Suspecting a decision was different from hearing somebody place it in the room.
“When?”
“Soon. When I’ve sorted somewhere to stay and the work meeting.”
“Does he know?”
“He knows I’m unhappy. He calls it a phase.”
She studied the rim of her cup.
“He doesn’t have to shout. He can make a thing impossible very quietly. A job becomes a silly idea. A friend becomes a bad influence. By the time I stop doing something, it looks like my decision.”
Nobody interrupted.
“I don’t want to spend the next ten years explaining why I’m tired.”
Vivienne reached for her red notebook. Beth watched it open.
“I’ve spoken to someone at the support service,” Beth continued. “I’ve got another appointment this week. I’m not asking you to sort out my marriage.”
“What are you asking?” I said.
“Keep the box until Monday. Maybe have a cup of coffee with me when I’m frightened and start calling it inconvenient instead.”
That I could understand.
“Yes.”
Vivienne turned a page.
“And there may be some short-term financial support. We’re checking the costs.”
“No numbers today,” Beth said. “I haven’t finished them.”
The notebook closed again.
I looked at Priya.
“Do you keep the accounts?”
“No. I help at events when I can. Celia handles the payments and paperwork.”
“With Vivienne agreeing what we cover,” Celia said.
She looked tired suddenly, though that might have been the grey afternoon beyond the window.
“You could stay with us,” I said. “We’ve a spare—”
“Nora.” Beth looked at me. “A box. Coffee. That’s what I’m asking.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I hadn’t even asked Tom about the room. I had offered her a promise I would have to go home and negotiate, and for a moment she had been the one trying to spare my feelings.
When I left, Beth walked me to the gate.
“You don’t have to join anything,” she said.
“Good. I’m terrible at minutes.”
She smiled, then became serious.
“I told Martin about the meeting. He said he’d drive me.”
“Would that help?”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
“I said I was getting the train.”
Down the crescent, a car door slammed. Beth looked towards the sound, then deliberately back at me.
“He asked who’d put that idea in my head.”
“What did you say?”
She tightened her coat around herself.
“That it was mine.”