Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (primary phonics .TXT) 📕

our garden, trampling on the roses. And Monty can’t bear parties, or fireworks. He’d be traumatised for weeks.

‘I don’t know, Daniel.’

‘Think of it as a last hurrah before the baby.’

He seemed to be actually excited by the idea. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d seemed excited about something. Him, Charlie and Katie. That was three against one. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again.

‘How about I speak to Charlie?’ he said, pulling me into a hug. ‘Keep the guest list under control?’

‘You can try,’ I muttered. Suddenly I felt too tired, too pregnant to argue.

‘And after the party, if she hasn’t gone by then, we’ll talk to Rachel again.’ He pulled away then, looked me in the eye, a serious expression on his face. ‘We’ll be nice about it, but she does need to go now. I mean, for God’s sake, Helen – our baby’s coming in three weeks. I know you’re worried about her. But she can’t just live here forever, can she?’

I sighed. ‘OK. We’ll talk to her again. After the party.’ And just like that, I’d agreed to it after all.

I rub Monty’s ears, and he purrs softly. Just for a moment, I wonder whether I could just lie down here on the bed by his side, a pillow between my aching knees. Stay here all night with my fingers in my ears, safe from the explosions. Pretend that none of it is happening.

HELEN

When I try to recall the night of the party, my most vivid memories will be of sticky floors, the smoke in my clothes, the hot air from the flames, the cold wet of the earth. And most of all, the hum of the dehumidifier.

Wherever I go in the house, I can’t seem to escape it. It seems to be gathering, rising in pitch, building to a crescendo that never quite comes. As the night goes on, I feel a dull headache spreading, growing like a tumour. Like storm clouds gathering.

The dehumidifier has to stay on all night. And no one, under any circumstances, can go into the cellar. The man who came to lay the cement was very clear on that point. I have written ‘NO ENTRY’ on a piece of paper in large red capital letters and stuck it on the cellar door.

Charlie and Daniel started the bonfire in the garden together, but it’s begun to rage out of control. Flames keep leaping towards the fences in the direction of the wind. The flames seem so high, so bright. I’m worried it might set the neighbours’ gardens on fire.

I’d invited some of the neighbours, just to try and soften the blow of what I feared would end up being a noisy and unpleasant evening for them. To my great relief, the family on our left said they were going to be away skiing that weekend. But Arthur and Mathilde, the elderly, childless couple to our right, had seemed pleased to be invited.

They arrived early, wearing charming smiles, eager to socialise. Arthur – who knows about old churches and had been friendly with my father – thrust what I suspected was a very good bottle of Muscadet into my hands, while Mathilde, a retired music teacher, brought along a plate of her home-made gravadlax, with sprigs of dill and chunks of fresh lemon. As she laid it down and started to fiddle with the cling film, I realised to my horror that her nails had been painted, her silvery hair blow-dried especially for the occasion.

I tried my best to make conversation with them both, but my efforts floundered. I didn’t really know anything about music, or curing fish, or the architecture of British churches, and Mathilde looked blank whenever I said anything about my pregnancy. I kept glancing around for someone I could safely introduce them to, but was unable to identify a single suitable candidate. Daniel and Charlie were busy with the fireworks, and there was no sign of Katie yet. Instead, the house was filling up with strange, edgy people I didn’t recognise, none of whom seemed remotely interested in speaking to us, or in trying Mathilde’s home-made gravadlax, which lay barely touched on the sideboard.

Within an hour of their arrival, I could tell by their faces that Arthur and Mathilde were mentally plotting their escape. I cringed as guest after guest barged past us, forcing Arthur to wheel round out of the way and Mathilde to pin herself up against the larder cupboard door. By now, the noise from the garden was making it increasingly difficult to hold a conversation. Arthur’s eyes darted nervously over my shoulder every time there was a smash of glass, a snap from the bonfire, a burst of explicit rap music. When Mathilde was knocked against the kitchen sideboard by a bloke in a purple dress and trainers carrying a huge speaker – ‘She’s only just had her hip done,’ a stunned Arthur muttered – I could see that all was lost.

Soon after that, the two of them were politely making their excuses. They were terribly tired – too old for parties these days, they said, with rueful smiles, hurriedly pulling on their scarves and gloves. They kept repeating what a lovely time they’d had, thanking me so profusely for inviting them that it made me want to cry. I helped them with their coats, apologising over and over about the sideboard incident, telling them how lovely it would be to catch up with them both again, though in what context, after this, I couldn’t really imagine. As I closed the door after them, Arthur carrying the barely touched gravadlax plate, Mathilde wobbling as she reached for the railings, I dreaded the thought of what they’d be saying on the way home.

It is not long after their departure that I start to feel odd. I head out to the garden, hoping some fresh air might help. The lawn is already littered with decaying pears, cigarette butts, spent fireworks