I very much hope you can help me it should be a really good bash!

She winced at the phrase.

Thanking you in antic.i.p.ation, yours sincerely, I Unwin It was her usual signature; she had always hated her first name.

She re-read the letter, realized that she had left a 't' out of Lyle Kravitz's surname, and turned to a blank sheet to write it all out again, rather more neatly this time.

Dear Sir or Madam, I am hoping that you can help me with an enquiry...

The heavy bra.s.s doork.n.o.b of the reading room gave a familiar rattle and she glanced up and stayed looking, transfixed. Round the door trotted a small, white-haired figure carrying a tartan holdall.

'Here you are,' said Mrs McHugh, 'I was beginning to think you were hiding from me!'

Iris looked at her, stupefied.

'Are you busy?' The neat heels were already clicking across the floor towards her.

'Er, no, I've just finished.' She hastily folded the letter and scoured her brain for some tiny clue as to what might be going on. Her father was still maintaining radio silence about his relationship, and Iris's last exchange with Mrs McHugh had consisted of the words 'Happy Christmas', spoken after a carol concert several weeks ago. Mrs McHugh had been rattling a bucket for charity while dressed as the angel Gabriel.

'I've just b.u.mped into your lovely boys outside Woolworths. Of course I've never actually met them before but I've seen photos and I think they got the shock of their lives when I called their names out across the street. I said, "Tom! Robin!" I said it quite sternly, just as a joke of course, I didn't know which one was which. I said, "I hope your mother knows you smoke!" and for a moment they looked a wee bit sheepish, but then I introduced myself and they had to laugh.' I bet they did, thought Iris, diverted even in the midst of her confusion.

'So then I said, "I've been meaning to have a little chat with Iris but I never get to talk to her because she's always so busy, and we've got something we really need to discuss" ' Iris's heart sank 'and so they told me you were in the library but they didn't say where!' She wagged a finger in roguish admonition. 'I've been up hill and down dale and in my lady's chamber and I was just about to give up when the man at returns asked if I'd tried the reading room, and I said, "You just show me where it is, young man, and I'll call the reels at your wedding." So, here I am!' She settled herself in a chair opposite Iris, clasping her hands over a bouncily crossed knee. She was so short that her chin was only inches from the table top. 'All the years I've lived here and I've never realized this room existed. Mind you, it's just the place for a chat.'

'We're not supposed to talk in here,' said Iris, waving a straw at a hurricane.

'Och, and who's going to tell them?' There was a snore from the easy chair. 'He looks out for the count. But we could go somewhere for a snack instead my tummy certainly thinks it's snack time.' She patted her stomach. 'And what about your tummy?' she asked, coyly.

'It could do with a cup of tea,' said Iris. Or a very large gin, she thought.

Mrs McHugh seemed to know everybody in North London. In the three hundred yards that separated the library from British Home Stores, she stopped four times for little chats, all of which extended to quite long chats, as Iris was introduced, explained ('Ian's daughter') and included in a conversation that was conducted at a rolling boil, one topic succeeding another in rapid succession until Mrs McHugh happened to glance at her watch. 'Whoopsy! Is that the time? Iris and I are on our way for a little chat, aren't we Iris? Can't linger as much as we'd like!' and off she'd skitter down the street again, like a tugboat that happened to be dragging a lighthouse behind it.

'Honestly, Iris, sometimes I don't know how I ever get anything done,' she said, as they walked through the automatic doors and past the vast red banners advertising the January sale. 'When Hammy and I moved down here in 1957 people said I'd find London unfriendly but you know it's quite the opposite. Have you seen that, Iris, wool coats for under thirty-five pounds? And they've got some lovely colours I'd like to see you in a nice royal blue. That would really bring out your eyes.' They stepped onto the escalator up to the cafe and Mrs McHugh raised her voice to reach Iris's great height on the step above her. 'No, I think people who say London's unfriendly just haven't made the effort. It doesn't matter if someone's black, white, yellow or green, if you say "h.e.l.lo" they're always pleased to say "h.e.l.lo" back.' Iris tried to avoid the eye of the stony-faced black teenager standing just behind Mrs McHugh. 'One "h.e.l.lo" that's all it needs to kick-start a friendship, and I'll say "h.e.l.lo" to anyone. Do you know that saying, Iris, "a stranger is a friend you haven't met"?'

It occurred to Iris, as she selected a teacake and listened to Mrs McHugh tell the stranger that she'd only just met on the cash register that English cooks never seem to use enough soda in their scones, that although Mrs McHugh talked even more than her father, their styles were completely different. His phone monologues were an attempt to fill a horrible silence, whereas her chat seemed to be the overspill from a bottomless vat of bonhomie.

The scone conversation had now spread beyond the queue to include the woman who was clearing the tables, and a bottleneck was developing by the stack of trays. No one within earshot seemed to mind too much but those towards the back of the queue were getting restless. 'Cold hands for pastry, warm hands for dough,' said Mrs McHugh, deep into baking techniques. She was fishing around in her holdall as she spoke.

'Let me pay for this,' said Iris, attempting to break the blockade.

'No, no, this one's on me.' She drew out a bulging wallet and opened the purse section. 'Now,' she said, turning back to the woman at the counter, 'you won't mind if a lot of it's in coppers, will you?'

After half an hour they were on their second pot of tea, and Iris still had no idea what Mrs McHugh's little chat was supposed to be about. At the moment and she couldn't remember how they had got onto the subject they were talking about porridge.

'My mother,' said Mrs McHugh, 'used to put a lump of b.u.t.ter right in the middle, and a sprinkle of salt. It had to be unsalted b.u.t.ter, and sea salt, and then she'd stir the whole thing, round and round and round with a little horn spoon. I always found it rather greasy.'

Iris had been dragged across a lot of conversational ground Scottish education, the ingredients of white pudding, getting stains off suede, how to tell the twins apart and she had learned to use the word 'Tammy' without choking on her Earl Grey, but there had been no hint from her kidnapper that there might be a weightier subject on the agenda, or a more complex relationship between them than that of pourer and drinker. All was bubble and froth, an unstoppable fountain, deluging the listener with goodwill. The ridiculous image that for months had been floating at the back of her mind Mrs McHugh as houri temptress, luring her father from his family, ensnaring him in the nets of her l.u.s.t popped with the finality of a burst balloon.

'Do your boys eat porridge?'

'Only with lots of sugar.'

'Yes, of course their grandpa's a bit of a sweet tooth as well, isn't he? The Cough Candy King I call him.' Mrs McHugh gave her a jolly, red-lipsticked smile. 'Speaking of whom...' she added, unzipping her holdall and taking out a diary. 'Twenty-seventh of March! That's what I wanted to talk about.'

'Dad's birthday,' said Iris, feeling a great wash of relief. This was a topic that she could cope with.

'Uh huh. His seventieth, which I always feel is a significant one though I'm sure to a young thing like you it just seems terribly, terribly old.'

Iris, who had not felt like a young thing since 1972, shook her head in polite and automatic deprecation. Her mind was already jumping ahead. A present. Mrs McHugh was going to ask her advice on a present. She started mentally running through the possibilities a really good pair of secateurs, perhaps. Or a couple of deckchairs. She had already, on her own account, started checking out lawnmower prices.

'So I thought it might be quite exciting to organize a surprise party.'

It took a moment for Iris to catch up. 'You what?' she said, using a phrase she'd spent sixteen years trying to eliminate from the twins' vocabulary.

'A surprise party.'

'What, for Dad?' She realized how loudly she'd spoken when the three people on the next table all looked round.

'Nary a word from you now!' said Mrs McHugh to them, miming a zipped lip. 'We're talking secrets!' They smiled rather uncomfortably and turned away again.

'I'll tell you my plan,' said Mrs McHugh, patting Iris's hand, 'and then you can say what you think of it.' She leafed through the diary. 'It's on a Wednesday, you see, that's midweek bowls, so I could think up an excuse for not going myself I might say I've just got a little tummy upset and then we'd have the whole afternoon to prepare. I can invite the people from the church but I'd need your help for a few others, his cousin Kath, isn't it? and he's mentioned an old army friend in Wales '

'Leslie Peake,' said Iris.

'There, you see ' she scribbled a note in the diary ' Peake. You'll have to give me his address. So we could a.s.semble everybody in the kitchen, and when he comes back, not suspecting a thing or perhaps just expecting a little birthday tea, nothing out of the ordinary he'll open the door and... there we'll be!' Her face was suffused with enthusiasm.

For a moment, Iris saw it all: the covered buffet on the table, Mrs McHugh in a frilly blouse trying to light seventy candles without setting fire to her cuffs, Tom and Robin pink with suppressed hysteria, their eyes fixed on Leslie Peake's bizarre hairstyle, the sound of the front-door key, the excited shushing of the party guests, the footsteps in the hall, the door opening, and then...

What? Who would come through the door? The man who kept his tins of vegetables in alphabetical order, who stood anxiously on the pavement if Iris arrived more than five minutes late for an evening visit, who still allocated time for the television to 'warm up' before Coronation Street, who winced if she used the word 'b.l.o.o.d.y', who had chosen the same shade of beige with which to decorate the living room every five years for the last thirty, who regarded spontaneity as simply a case of bad planning? Or the one who'd just bought himself a video recorder, been out to the cinema every Wednesday since Christmas and answered to the nickname of Cough Candy King?

'Well,' said Mrs McHugh, eagerly, 'you know him best what do you think?'

15.

'There's a lot more s.p.a.ce in here now,' said Fran idly, glancing around Spencer's living room instead of bending to the task for which she had set aside Wednesday evening.

'What, now I've killed half the occupants, you mean?' Spencer was lying on the sofa with the tortoise on his lap.

'Bit more than half I'd say.' She did a quick mental calculation. 'More like ninety-eight per cent.'

'Thanks,' he said. 'That's a tremendous comfort.' He tipped a little Extra Virgin olive oil into the palm of one hand and started applying it to Bill's sh.e.l.l. He was looking after his remaining charges with renewed care, and had found this particular tip in the 'Pet of the Week' column of Reptile Monthly. There had, as usual, been no mention of paper eating.

'It was good that you killed the snails,' said Fran. 'It was the only correct way to deal with them. You know they've just found a huge colony of them at Hornsey dump and that's because some stupid person must have decided to cull their collection by putting them out with the rubbish. Can you believe that? They've had to mount a special extermination programme just to get rid of them.'

'Oh,' said Spencer, and then tutted disapprovingly a couple of times, not trusting his voice to say more. He turned Bill over and started on the underside.

'You know, you look like a Roman emperor with his favourite plaything,' said Fran. 'You should have someone oiling you.'

'My days of being oiled are over.'

'Mine too. Of course, Duncan was such a cheapskate that he always used Mazola so I smelled like a vegeburger.'

'What about Barry? I'm sure he'd fork out for some First Pressing if you gave him a bit of encouragement.'

'He's back with his girlfriend, didn't I tell you? Given up on me, thank G.o.d.' She twiddled the pencil between her fingers and looked at the blank page in front of her. After a moment's thought she wrote the number 1 and then put the pencil down.

'Do you want a beer?' she asked, getting to her feet. 'They should be cold by now.'

'Go on then.'

'I'll just shield my eyes.' She snapped on the kitchen light and blinked again at the extreme whiteness of the walls, the blinding sheet steel of the pristine work surfaces. Spencer had lashed out on a new kitchen and had chosen a style oddly reminiscent of an operating theatre.

'I just wanted it clean,' he'd said, a touch nettled, when she'd pointed that out. The only remaining homely touches were the photo of Mark in the park, now curling a little at the edges, and the two pages of the list. She found the bottle opener in the new lime-green revolving cutlery dispenser, and threw the tops into the chrome swingbin.

'Spence, can I ask you something?' she said, reseating herself.

He didn't answer for a moment, but held Bill up with one hand and tilted him to catch the light. 'Bit of a transformation,' he said admiringly.

'Are you going to paint his toenails now?'

'Might do,' said Spencer. 'Self-image is very important. It's a key element in eating disorders.' He placed Bill carefully on the floor and they watched as he began the trek to the magazine rack, his lumbering progress now strangely at odds with his jewelled appearance. 'Ask away then.'

'I just wondered what had happened to the Hypothetical Blinking Man.' She hadn't asked him again after that day at Kew; she had managed to batten down her curiosity, but there had been a subtle change in him since the turn of the year, a lifting of mood so slight that it could only be spotted by an old friend, only measured in nanometres, but present none the less.

Spencer took a long swig of beer. 'Nothing's happened really. In fact, not even "really". Just nothing. I haven't contacted him.'

'So you've got his number, then?'

'No, but I know where he works.'

'Which is...?'

'The North Middles.e.x.'

'A nurse?' Spencer had always had a penchant for nurses.

'Eye surgeon.'

'What, he's a surgeon and he's got a twitch?' said Fran horrified.

'He doesn't operate with his eyelids,' said Spencer, rather severely.

'No, I suppose not.'

'Anyway, a lot of tics disappear completely when the person's concentrating.'

'Right. It's just that I remember you saying all surgeons are psychopathic b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

He thought about this for a moment. 'Maybe it's only the straight ones.'

She couldn't imagine Spencer with a psychopathic b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She had got to know a couple of his previous boyfriends and they'd both been rather quiet, self-effacing men, apparently content to sit in the corner at pubs and laugh at other people's jokes. 'Harpo', Mark had nicknamed one of them. 'Smiles but never speaks.' Neither of them had stayed on the scene for very long blown over the horizon, she always thought, by the hurricane of Mark's personality.

'He did say,' said Spencer, as if struck by a new thought, 'that if I ever went to the Changing of the Guard then I should ring him.'

'You've already been, haven't you?'

'Yes, but I couldn't see anything, so maybe it doesn't count.'

'Give him a ring, then.'

He shrugged. 'I only met him the once. He probably wouldn't even remember me.'

'b.a.l.l.s. I bet he's saying exactly the same thing about you.'

Spencer lay back on the sofa and laced his fingers across his stomach. 'Do you want to get started?'

'Yeah all right,' said Fran, reluctantly. She looked at the piece of paper again, and added a full stop to the number i; then, as an afterthought, she wrote 'House Meeting' at the top of the page and underlined it using a table mat as a ruler. 'Did I tell you,' she said, putting the pencil down again, 'that Sylvie's got a special saucepan for the cat?'

'No.'

'Tinned cat food makes it ill, apparently, so every morning she has to boil up tiny bits of chicken and fish in a pan that's completely uncontaminated by wheat products and then shove them through a sieve. Except that the smell makes her feel ill so she gets Peter to do it while she sits in the bedroom and sprinkles ylang-ylang on an oil burner.' It was hard to express the weirdness of the two-storey odour that ensued: upstairs smelling like the meditation tent at Glas...o...b..ry, and downstairs like a baby vomitorium.

'Do you know,' said Spencer, carefully, 'that that's the third Sylvie anecdote you've told me since you got here.'

'Is it?'

'Not that I don't enjoy them, but I wonder if you might be getting... a bit obsessed? After all, how much do you actually see of her? You're at work all day, you're out a lot in the evenings, and she sticks to her room most of the time, doesn't she?'

'Yes but ' Fran tipped her chair back on two legs and searched for a description that would convey the pervasive presence of Sylvie. 'What was the name of that woman poet who was ill all the time? There's a film of it. She lies on the sofa and marries some other poet. Elopes.'

'Elizabeth Barrett Browning?'

'Yup. That's the one. That's Sylvie. Honestly, Spence, you needn't laugh. In the film she sits around with the curtains closed and you're meant to feel sorry for her and think how incredibly sensitive and poetic she is, but you never see the effect on the rest of the household. You never see them being told not to flush the loo after midnight because she's a light sleeper, or having to listen to her going on about the happy place she's just this minute discovered in the corner of the living room and wants to share with you, or always having to do the washing-up really quietly because she gets a headache if she hears two saucepans banging together, or hosing her cat's c.r.a.p off their winter greens every b.l.o.o.d.y day, or having to explain a joke three times because she's got absolutely no sense of humour, or being told by her that they're "wonderfully prosaic" as if they're supposed to take that as some sort of compliment.' She paused for breath.

'Is that what she said to you?'

'Yes,' said Fran resentfully.

'What was the context?'

'She was talking about reincarnation. Again.'