Mary George of Allnorthover

Stella was knocking on the door as soon as she had locked it. ‘Mary? I left you my water. It’s still warm.’

Since the shortage had been announced, people were encouraged to conserve what water they could. The shallow bath Stella had left her had a cloudy sheen and around the edge was a bubbly, creamy scum. The basin was also half full. As quietly as she could, Mary ran a trickle of cold water into a glass, rubbed a dry flannel against the soap and, dipping its corner in the glass, washed herself inch by inch.

‘Good morning, Mary Mystery!’ Lucas greeted her without taking his mouth from the rim of his tea cup so the tea spilt over his lips, staining the white stubble on his chin. Mary smiled but squeezed herself past the other side of the table.

‘More tea?’ She collected the pot from the table. ‘Any toast?’

Lucas winced and shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t impose.’ He smoothed the front of his battered raincoat, which was too small and had no buttons, and under which he appeared to be wearing nothing. He adjusted the string he used as a belt and pushed his hand into a pocket. Just as Mary got to the kitchen, he added, ‘I have an egg … if you wouldn’t mind.’ It was strange to see something so fragile emerge from his filthy coat, in his swollen, arthritic hand.

She took the egg from him and went into the kitchen where her mother already had not only the kettle but a small pan of water on the boil. Mary put the egg in to cook and after a couple of minutes went back to Lucas. ‘And would you like a drop more tea with your egg?’ He gave a small nod. ‘And, while you’re at it, what about a little toast on the side?’

As they sat down to breakfast together, Lucas took a bite of his heavily buttered toast and mumbled something through his ill-fitting dentures about property.

‘What was that?’ Mary asked out of politeness more than curiosity.

‘I’ve got property.’ Lucas had lived for twenty-five years in a shed. ‘A caravan.’

‘You’re moving into a caravan?’

‘Not moving in. I sold it.’

‘Which caravan?’

‘Mrs Eley, see. She came over and said as how I could live in that caravan she has in her orchard, as how she wanted to put it to good use. To think of it as my home.’

‘But you don’t want to live there?’

‘I’ve got my shed but I wasn’t ungrateful. I met this bloke in the pub who came down and had a look at it, and made me an offer on the spot.’

Stella had come in from the kitchen now and explained for him. ‘Lucas was confused. Mrs Eley was offering him the caravan to live in, not to keep.’

Lucas scooped out the remains of his egg with his fingers, slurped his tea, and gave Mary a sidelong smile. ‘She changed her mind, is all. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He heaved himself up, and made his way to the downstairs toilet which he used noisily. Then he left through the front door, without saying goodbye. Lucas’s shed was a short distance across the fields behind the house and he liked to visit that way, coming in through the back-garden gate.

Stella pulled on her rubber gloves and went to clean up after him. She came back, shaking her head. ‘They’re trying to ban him from the Arms again. He celebrated his so-called sale last night and upset a few of the new customers. I’ve got his shirt and trousers here in the wash.’

‘Not with my stuff?’ Mary couldn’t help herself. She didn’t use the downstairs toilet these days, either. Stella frowned and Mary felt worse, so she continued. ‘Well, good for him, getting one over on Violet Eley.’ Mary had never liked that woman, and had thought for years that her name was ‘Eely’ and that it suited her sharp face and wriggling voice. ‘I mean, shouldn’t he be in a council house or something?’

‘He’d only try and sell that, too.’

‘Like his medals?’

‘The medals were really his.’

‘I’m off to the Post Office, before it shuts,’ Mary pulled on her boots.

‘Don’t forget the Fête this afternoon. I’ll need quite a lot of help getting everything over from the shop to the church fields.’ The phone started ringing again and Mary went to answer it but Stella grabbed her arm. ‘It’s been going all morning. Wrong number.’

Ray Cornice would have closed up by the time Mary reached the Post Office, as it was a minute after half past twelve, only he was busy helping Alf Kettle fill out a fishing permit and couldn’t get to the door. In exasperation, he had lifted the counter window as high as it would go and had pushed his arms through to point out the words on the form. ‘Start date doesn’t mean today’s date but the date you want it to start.’

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