My bespectacled next-door neighbour, Martin, stands on the front path, his ashy blond hair curling below his ears like a seventies folk singer, hands clasped together in front of him like he’s about to give a sermon. He’s harmless enough, even if he is a bit of a fusspot, always worrying about something or other. When Dom and I first moved into the cul-de-sac, I made the mistake of asking Martin about the Neighbourhood Watch scheme, and he launched into this long rant about the lack of commitment from everyone in Magnolia Close. Not wanting to get into my new neighbour’s bad books, I agreed that Dom and I would attend the next meeting.
Turns out, it was just the three of us at his house that evening. Our hearts sank when we realised that Martin had several sheets of paper listing items about neighbourhood security he wanted to discuss. It was, quite possibly, the most boring evening of our lives. When we finally managed to get out of there, two hours later, Dom wanted to throttle me for having agreed to go. I didn’t blame him. But the creepiest thing about the whole evening was that when we were in Martin’s lounge, Dom noticed a photo on his mantelpiece of a woman holding a baby – only it wasn’t a baby, it was quite clearly a doll.
Dom asked Martin about the woman. Martin said it was his late wife. Dom then asked about the doll. Martin pursed his lips and said that he and his wife were unable to have children of their own and never adopted. He said that ‘Priddy’ was a comfort to his wife. Dom, not being one to beat around the bush, wanted Martin to clarify that ‘Priddy’ was in fact a doll. Martin said she may not have been a real baby, but Priddy was real enough to his wife.
I felt sorry for the man, but Dom thought he was a fruitcake.
Now, almost every time I leave the house, Martin tries to catch my attention so he can tell me his problems and list his complaints about this person or that person. I don’t mind really. I feel sorry for him. He’s recently retired, probably has far too much time on his hands. A bit like me at the moment. But I’m not in the mood to listen to his concerns. Not today.
‘Hi Martin. Everything okay?’
‘I’m all right. How about you and the little one?’ he asks through an abundance of teeth, crammed into his mouth like yellowing piano keys. I’d really like to give Martin the name of our dentist.
‘We’re okay,’ I reply.
‘The police came to see me yesterday. They asked me if I had a baby, of all things!’
I immediately think about his wife’s doll-child. ‘Yes, they came here, too.’ I don’t have the energy to explain why they were knocking on doors. If I get into it, he’ll be here for ages quizzing me about everything.
Martin huffs. ‘I told them you were the one with the baby, not me. She’s all right, isn’t she, little Daisy?’
‘She’s fine, thanks.’
‘Yes, because when they started talking about babies, I worried that something might have happened to her. But it was a bit too late to come round to your house, so I thought I’d wait until the morning. These individuals who call round in the evening when you’re relaxing or eating your dinner, well it’s not polite, is it?’
‘Thanks, Martin. It’s kind of you to pop round. But as you can see, Daisy and I are fine.’
‘Good, good. Glad to hear it. Now, while I’ve got you here…’My heart sinks. He’s about to launch into his latest woe, I know it. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind just nipping next door with me and checking the boundary wall at number six.’ He pushes his gold-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
‘The boundary wall?’ He’s obviously talking about the building works going on at the house next door to him. ‘I’m a little busy at the moment. Can it wait until later?’
‘It won’t take a minute, Kirstie. I just need another set of eyes on it. Make sure I’m not imagining things. Five minutes, tops.’
I sigh. May as well get it out of the way now. ‘Okay. Let me get some shoes on.’ As I transfer Daisy to my other arm, she reaches out, trying to make a grab for Martin’s glasses. He steps back and frowns.
‘Daisy’s hands look a little sticky, Kirstie. Maybe you could give them a wash before coming over. I’ll see you in a minute.’ He turns abruptly and leaves.
I’m used to his unusual ways. I know he doesn’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help rolling my eyes as I watch him walk away back down the path. Dominic isn’t as tolerant of Martin, and calls him ‘Moaning Myrtle’ after the character from Harry Potter. Not to his face, of course.
Ignoring Martin’s request to wash my daughter’s hands – which look perfectly fine to me – I slip on some flip-flops, grab the front door key and a sunhat for Daisy, and close the door behind me, wishing I hadn’t answered it in the first place.
I stride up Martin’s immaculate path, his neat front lawn turning a coppery brown from the lack of rain. From the house next door to Martin, the builders’ radio spews out inane chatter and tinny chart music, sporadically drowned out by the jaw-rattling sound of a jackhammer. Martin’s door opens before I have a chance to knock.
‘Come in, Kirstie. But please do take your shoes off first. I don’t like to have the outside brought inside.’
I do as he asks, noting that he’s now wearing a pair of tartan slippers which look odd with his shorts and shirt.
‘Bring your footwear with you,’ he says. ‘We’re going into the back garden and the ground out there is hot and very dusty from all the building works next door.’
Daisy tries to reach for Martin’s glasses once more and he backs away with a look of distaste. I stifle a smile, wondering what he would do if she actually managed to grab hold of them.
‘Have you seen number three’s lawn?’ Martin says as I follow him through his pristine hallway, my bare feet sinking into deep-pile dark-blue carpet. The stink of pine air freshener pervades every square inch, forcing me to hold my breath.
‘Their lawn?’ I ask, confused.
‘Yes, you can’t fail to notice that it’s green and healthy. They’re clearly ignoring the hosepipe ban. And he’s a headmaster, too. It’s not responsible behaviour. Not a good example to set.’
‘I hadn’t noticed, no.’
We’re now in Martin’s kitchen, a shrine to the seventies with avocado units and green and white patterned tiles on the walls. Our own back rooms were knocked through by the previous owners to open them up into one big space, enhanced by an extension. But Martin’s house has the original layout, with a small kitchen and a separate dining room at the back.
‘You know,’ Martin persists, ‘I’m in two minds whether or not to ring the Parkfields’ doorbell and point out that they could be fined if they don’t adhere to the hosepipe ban. Do you think I should report them? Would I have to call the council, or the police?’
‘Um… what’s this boundary you want me to look at?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘Ah, yes. You can put your shoes back on now. I always find it handy to keep a pair of slip-on sandals by the back door.’
We step out onto the patio and I’m hit again by the racket from the builders. ‘I thought the noise was bad enough at our house,’ I say, raising my voice, ‘but it’s deafening out here. Seems like it’s been going on forever.’
‘Seven weeks and four days, to be precise. Now, you see that two-storey extension they’re building there on the side of the house.’ Martin points next door.
I try to concentrate on what he’s telling me, but Daisy’s not looking happy, her bottom lip is quivering. I think the drilling noise is freaking her out. I bounce her up and down, making funny faces and kissing her cheeks, trying to distract her.
‘It looks like they’ve built the extension too close to the boundary fence. What do you think, Kirstie?’
The extension does look quite close to the fence, but I know nothing about boundaries and building regulations. ‘Why don’t you check with the Land Registry or the council? They’ll have the plans, won’t they? Then you can see what’s been agreed.’
‘Yes. Yes, I was going to do that, but I wanted a second opinion before I make my complaint. I’m sure they’re damaging the foundations of my property. I tried to speak to that building chappie who’s supposed to be managing the site – Rob Carson, not a very forthcoming man – but he was quite rude to me. I’m not happy. Not happy at all.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Martin, but, well, Daisy isn’t happy either. This noise is making her cranky. I’d better get back.’