says she’s lost her hairclip and she only wants that hairclip, because it has a flower on it, and the morning routine takes over.
Dan’s changed his job since we first met. Back then, he worked in a huge property-investment company. It was lucrative but fairly soul-destroying, so he put money aside every year (like father, like son) and finally had enough to start his own company. They make self-contained, pre-fabricated, sustainable office units. His office is on the river in east London and he often drives the girls to school, because it’s on his way.
As I’m waving goodbye from the front doorstep, I see our next-door neighbour, Professor Russell, picking up the paper. He has a comical tuft of white hair that makes me smile every time I see him, although as he turns, I quickly put on a straight, grown-up face.
Professor Russell moved in earlier this year. He’s in his seventies, I’d guess. He’s retired from Oxford University, where he taught botany and apparently he’s the world expert on some kind of fern. Certainly, his garden is full of a massive new greenhouse and I often see him in it, pottering among the green fronds. He lives with another white-haired man who was just introduced as Owen, and I guess they’re a couple but I’m not totally sure.
I’m actually a bit wary of them, because pretty much the first thing that happened after they moved in was that Tessa kicked a football over the fence and it landed on the roof of the greenhouse. Dan had to get it, and he cracked a pane of glass as he was climbing up. We paid for it to be replaced, but it wasn’t the best start. Now I’m just waiting for them to complain about the girls’ screaming. Although maybe they’re a bit deaf. I hope so.
No, scratch that. I don’t hope they’re deaf. Obviously not. I just … It would be convenient.
‘Hello!’ I say brightly.
‘Hello.’ Professor Russell gives me a pleasant smile, although his eyes look abstracted and distant.
‘How are you enjoying Canville Road?’
‘Oh, very much, very much.’ He nods. ‘Very much.’
His gaze has already slid away again. Maybe he’s bored. Or maybe his mind isn’t what it was. I can’t honestly tell.
‘It must be strange though, after Oxford?’ I have a vision of Professor Russell wandering through an ancient quad, wearing a sweeping black gown, lecturing a bunch of undergraduates. To tell the truth, that vision suits him more than this: standing on his front doorstep in a little street in Wandsworth, looking like he’s forgotten what day it is.
‘Yes.’ He seems to consider this as though for the first time. ‘Yes, a little strange. But better. One has to move on.’ His eyes suddenly fix on me, and I can see the wink of sharpness in them. ‘So many of those fellows stay on too long. If you don’t move on in life, you atrophy. Vincit qui se vincit.’ He pauses as though to let the words breathe. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware.’
OK, so his mind has definitely not gone.
‘Absolutely!’ I nod. ‘Vincit … er …’ I realize too late that attempting to repeat it was a mistake. ‘Definitely,’ I amend.
I’m wondering what vincit-whatsit means and whether I could quickly google it, when another voice hits the air.
‘Toby, are you listening? You need to take the rubbish out. And if you wanted to help me, you could pop and buy a salad for lunch. And where are all our mugs? I’ll tell you where. On the floor of your room is where.’
I turn to see our other neighbour, Tilda, leaving the house. She’s winding what seems like an endless ethnic-looking scarf around her neck, and simultaneously berating her son, Toby. Toby is twenty-four and he finished at Leeds University two years ago. Since then, he’s been living at home, working on a tech start-up. (Every time he tries to tell me what exactly it is, my brain glazes over, but it’s something to do with ‘digital capability’. Whatever that is.)
He’s listening silently to his mother, leaning against the front doorway, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression distant. Toby could be really good-looking, but he’s got one of those beards. There are sexy beards and there are stupid beards, and his is stupid. It’s so straggly and unformed, it makes me suck in breath. I mean, just trim it. Shape it. Do something with it …
‘… and we need to have a chat about money,’ Tilda finishes