The Switch - Beth O'Leary Page 0,13

I expect. Poor young lady who found her had just come round to see if she wanted new double glazing, found the door unlocked, and there she was – dead a week and nobody knew it!’

‘What’s this, Basil?’ I ask. ‘Are you telling horror stories again?’

‘Lady over in Knargill,’ Basil says, sipping his tea complacently. ‘Drowned in her bowl of soup.’

‘That’s awful!’ says Betsy.

‘Were there flies and maggots by the time they found her?’ asks Penelope, with interest.

‘Penelope!’ everybody choruses, then we all immediately turn to Basil for the answer.

‘Likely,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘Very likely. Poor lady was only seventy-nine. Husband died the year before. Didn’t have a soul in the world to care for her. The neighbours said she’d go months without speaking to anyone but the birds.’

I suddenly feel peculiar, a little light-headed, maybe, and as I reach for another ginger snap I notice my hand is trembling more than usual.

I suppose I’m thinking this poor lady was the same age as me. But that’s where the similarity ends, I tell myself firmly. I’d never choose leek and potato soup, for starters – so bland.

I swallow. Yesterday’s incident with the jar was an unpleasant reminder of exactly how easy it can be to stop coping. And not coping can turn drastic quickly when you’re on your own.

‘We should do more for people like that,’ I say suddenly. ‘With all the bus timetables getting cut down and the Dales Senior Transport lot having funding trouble, it’s hard for them to get anywhere even if they want to.’

Everyone looks rather surprised. Usually if the inhabitants of Knargill are mentioned in a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, it’s followed by some mischievous cackling from Betsy, who will then declare ‘it serves them right for living in Knargill’.

‘Well, yes, I suppose,’ Penelope says querulously into the silence.

‘Let’s put it on the next agenda,’ I say. I make a note on my printout.

There’s a slightly awkward pause.

‘You know, over in Firs Blandon they’re talking about setting up a rival May Day celebration,’ Basil says, looking at me shrewdly, as if he’s testing my loyalties.

‘They’re not!’ I say, tsking. Basil ought to know I’d never side with Firs Blandon. A decade or two ago, when Hamleigh lost power for three days after a big storm, all the other villages offered funds and spare rooms to help those who couldn’t manage without their heaters. Not a soul in Firs Blandon lifted a finger. ‘Well,’ I say staunchly, ‘a Firs Blandon May Day will never be as good as ours.’

‘Of course it won’t!’ Betsy declares, and everybody relaxes now we’re back on safe ground. ‘More biscuits, anybody?’

The rest of the meeting passes as normal, but my nasty peculiar feeling nags me all day. I’m glad Leena’s coming tomorrow. I’m rather worn out, and it’s an awful lot easier to be independent when there’s somebody else there with you.

5

Leena

Hamleigh-in-Harksdale is as cute as it sounds. The village is cosied between two hills in the south of the Yorkshire Dales; I can just see its rooftops and wonky chimneys between tawny crags as the bus rattles along the valley road.

I didn’t grow up in Hamleigh – Mum only moved there when Carla got sick. There are two versions of the village in my mind: half my memories have a sweet, sepia-toned childhood nostalgia to them, and the other half are darkly painful, raw with loss. My stomach clenches. I try to remember how I felt here as a child, the joy of coming around this bend in the road to see Hamleigh’s roofs ahead of us.

Even when we were teenagers, always at each other’s throats, Carla and I would make peace for the duration of a visit to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house. We’d grouch about the parties we’d be missing as Mum drove us up from Leeds, but as soon as we got to Hamleigh we remembered who we were here. Illicit cider and kissing with sixth-form boys would seem slightly absurd, like something from someone else’s life. We’d be outside all day, collecting blackberries together in old Tupperwares with cracks in their lids, not caring about the scratches on our newly shaven legs until we were back home and had them on show under school skirts rolled up at the waist.

I watch the colours of the Dales streak by through the grubby bus window: russets, greens, the sandy grey of drystone walls. Sheep lift dozy eyes our way as we pass. It’s drizzling lightly; I can almost smell