On Sunday morning, Celia brought George’s birthday present to Number Twelve.
I knew because Vivienne asked me to come over and help write a card. It was a strange request in the circumstances, but perhaps ordinary errands were the only kind she knew how to offer.
The book lay on the table, wrapped in dark blue paper. George’s birthday was the following day. He had spent the weekend speaking to police and cancelling hall bookings.
“We shouldn’t forget him,” Vivienne said.
“No,” I agreed.
Celia stood near the window. She looked as though she hadn’t slept.
“I’ve been asked about Thursday,” she said.
“We all have.”
“About the present.”
Vivienne looked up from the card.
“What about it?”
“When I collected it. Where. Ordinary questions.”
She gave a brief smile that convinced nobody.
“That’s what you said you were going to do,” I replied.
“Yes.”
I remembered the clock, the sandwiches, the unremarkable way she’d reached for her coat.
“Was there a problem?”
“Nothing to do with George’s birthday.”
Vivienne put down her pen.
“Celia.”
“I don’t want everything I say discussed round the street.”
That was reasonable. We had all seen what was happening to Beth’s cancelled appointment.
“Then don’t tell us anything you don’t want to,” I said. “But tell the police accurately.”
Celia turned towards me.
“You don’t need to say that as though I wouldn’t.”
The room became uncomfortable in a new way. Not grief this time. Irritation, and the embarrassing awareness that irritation had survived grief quite easily.
Vivienne opened the card again.
“George has had an awful few days. Let’s concentrate on him.”
We wrote short messages. Thank you for looking after the hall. Thinking of you. No one found a way to mention his birthday without sounding either cheerful or apologetic.
I settled on a sentence about a peaceful day and hoped it didn’t look like an instruction.
Vivienne counted the names already on the card. Beth had sent her message by text and asked Priya to write it in; she wasn’t coming over. There was a space for Helen, which Vivienne briefly covered with her hand before moving it away.
“Shall I ask whether she wants to add anything?” I said.
“If you like.”
I sent a simple message. Helen replied that she had already taken George flowers and would prefer us to give him the card without waiting for her.
No insult. No explanation of the falling-out. Just an answer about a birthday card.
I relayed it exactly. Celia nodded and said George would appreciate the flowers. Vivienne put the envelope beside the book.
For a minute we managed to think about the person whose birthday it was. George liked walking early, before the paths became crowded, Celia said. She remembered him lending Andrew a map. I found myself hoping he would eventually be able to use the new book without remembering why we’d struggled to sign it.
Celia smoothed a corner of the wrapping paper. A small shop label remained on the back.
“Did they gift-wrap it?” Vivienne asked.
“Yes.”
“Lovely.”
I knew the label. Bell’s Books, near the station. I had bought Poppy a birthday present there. It wasn’t evidence of anything. A bookshop wrapping a book was as ordinary as the sentence sounded.
Still, I understood why the police would ask. A claimed errand was something that could be checked without asking someone to remember a whole evening.
When Celia left, Vivienne sat down heavily.
“She’s taking this very hard.”
“So is everyone.”
“Yes, but she feels watched.”
“I imagine we all do.”
Vivienne rubbed at an ink mark on her finger.
“You could sound a little less clinical.”
I looked at the book between us.
“I’m trying not to turn being upset into an explanation.”
“It is an explanation.”
“For being upset. Not for where somebody went.”
She said nothing. I regretted the sharpness, but not the distinction.
Outside, Priya arrived carrying a dish she’d borrowed. People on this street were always returning containers; apparently it was how we ensured no conversation was ever quite finished.
Vivienne told her about the present. Priya asked whether George wanted visitors. Nobody knew.
“Then ask before we deliver it.”
I nearly smiled. The same lesson, travelling around the crescent one woman at a time.
That afternoon, an officer rang to clarify my recollection of Celia’s departure. I repeated the reason she had given and said I had not seen her at the bookshop.
“And did you see a parcel when she returned?”
I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them. Concentrating harder could not create something I hadn’t noticed.
“No. That doesn’t mean she didn’t have one.”
“Understood.”
After the call, I found a message from Celia.
Could we have a word? I don’t think I explained myself very well this morning.
I looked at the time. It was still early enough for any number of ordinary errands.
I replied that we could speak, but that I would not help anybody remember something I hadn’t seen.
Her answer was only two words.
Of course.