have got in the car and driven away without seeing me. But as it was, they walked out onto the pavement, the five of them, on their way to where they were having to park the Chelsea tractor on a neighbouring street.
‘Oh, Verity,’ Tom said, seeing me bending over. ‘This is a turn-up for the books.’
‘Nice to see you, Tom.’
He was tanned, tiny white crinkle lines at the sides of his eyes, which looked very blue. He tapped the top of the gate. ‘Good,’ he said, about nothing in particular, nodding.
Behind him, his family stood waiting. Ailsa was wearing too many clothes: black tights, a calf-length denim skirt, and her usual long-sleeved layers. ‘We’re going for a pub lunch,’ she said. ‘It’s such a lovely day. We could all do with blowing away some cobwebs.’
‘How lovely.’
‘The Black Sheep on Wimbledon Common,’ Ailsa said.
‘I’ve always fancied Wimbledon Common; it’s on my list, but I’ve never ventured.’
‘You’ve never been to Wimbledon Common?’ Tom reared back in mock alarm. ‘It’s so close.’
‘It’s not that close,’ Melissa said. Her face wore traces of make-up that had been roughly removed – ashy streaks under her lower lashes, bloodshot eyes – and while I recognised the bottom of a clingy black T-shirt dress as one she had worn to go out in on a recent Saturday, the top of it was covered up by a big grey sweatshirt, the word ‘Baggage’ jaggedly scrawled across it in graffiti-style letters. She looked sulky, as if there might have been a row.
‘Verity doesn’t drive,’ Ailsa said. ‘And when her mother was alive she didn’t like her going into public places. You’re only just making up for lost time, now, aren’t you?’
‘Buses work,’ I said. ‘I’d need to get two, but I’ve often thought of doing so.’
Max had reached over the fence to pat Maudie. ‘She could come with us,’ he said.
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to . . .’
‘No, you should.’ Ailsa was frowning at Tom. ‘Shouldn’t she? She’s done so much for Max. Yes. You must come!’
Tom seemed to find the suggestion almost amusing. He surveyed my front garden. ‘Of course,’ he said, eventually. ‘You can finish up here later.’
Ailsa persuaded Melissa into the boot and insisted I took the front, while she sat braced in the middle behind. She seemed to be trying hard to make sure we all got on. ‘How jolly this is.’
She made me tell Tom about my life as a student in north London, how one of my great friends was an Oxford professor. Tom had been to Cambridge, she said (though I knew that from the photo in their downstairs loo). ‘Long time ago now,’ he said, ‘though funnily enough I just bumped into an old college friend, he’s a film producer, in Cannes.’ He told a story involving the Croisette and the red carpet, the Vanity Fair party. ‘You ever been to the south of France?’ he asked, and I told him I hadn’t; after a moment’s consideration I added that in fact I didn’t actually have a passport, I’d never been abroad.
‘Never?’ Bea poked her head over my seat. ‘Like never? Not even Italy? Or skiing?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Ailsa pulled Bea back down. ‘You sound like a privileged brat.’
‘I’m not.’
Max’s voice: ‘You are.’
I was aware of a tussle behind me, knees digging through from behind, seatbelts stretching.
Tom changed gear. He was wearing a short-sleeved white T-shirt, and as he pushed the stick forward, his bicep bulged, freckles thrown into relief by the pale skin on his underarm. ‘And how’s your work, Verity? You busy? Any interesting wordage?’
I had that morning just started on ‘Rodeo’ and outlined my latest research – how in the previous OED, the earliest understood sense was of rodeo as in competition, but I had found a quotation that pre-dated it, indicating the first meaning was ‘cattle enclosure’. ‘So I shall restructure the entry, which is always thrilling.’
Behind us Max and Bea were still fighting, Ailsa increasingly strained, and if I were to be generous I would say Tom was attempting to put a stop to it, when he called back: ‘Max? Are you listening? Quick spelling test. Let’s see what difference all Verity’s tutoring has made.’
He started shouting out random words. ‘Competition?’; ‘Quotation’; ‘Enclosure.’
I couldn’t tell you if Max was getting them right or not. I found the tension too much; he and I hardly did spellings by then, busy as we were with more creative endeavours. I began finishing the words for him. The car