‘So you hide her?’ I asked, trying to imagine the complexities of keeping a small dog hidden.
‘Aye, it’s a rare carry-on,’ Mrs Macbeth agreed. ‘The keech’s the worst thing, of course.’
The pair of them followed me back into the living-room, Mrs Macbeth insisting on carrying a box of Tunnock’s Teacakes, despite being hampered by the walking-frame. The old dog hobbled after her and when Duke caught sight of her he struggled up from the dead dog position he’d adopted on the floor and sniffed poor Janet’s rear end with bizarre enthusiasm.
‘Who is the man in the spare bedroom?’ I asked Maisie.
‘Ferdinand.’
‘Ferdinand? Your brother Ferdinand? I thought he was in prison?’
‘Early release for good behaviour,’ Maisie said, not taking her eyes off the television, which was now showing some kind of curling championship.
‘Irma escaped from Castle Vlad and went home,’ Mrs McCue said helpfully to me. ‘Ferdinand’s a good boy really,’ she added, nodding her old sweetie-selling head at me. Mrs Macbeth’s old dog flopped down heavily on its side and fell asleep immediately, making a strange creaking noise when it breathed.
Mrs McCue inspected the inside of her teacup and frowned. At her feet she had a large sack-like bag, made from some kind of chintzy material. The bag looked as if it contained a dead animal – a middle-sized one, a hyena perhaps – but when she turned it out, proved to contain everything imaginable except a hyena. Eventually she found what she was looking for – a handkerchief, a little lacy thing with bluebells embroidered all over it, and cleaned the cup, rubbing it vigorously with the handkerchief.
‘That woman keeps a clarty house, there’s stour everywhere,’ she said to Mrs Macbeth, who gave a little shiver and said, rather enigmatically, ‘The flair.’
‘I’m an affie tea-jenny,’ Mrs McCue said, pouring the tea in an unsteady stream from the heavy brown pot.
‘Me as well,’ Mrs Macbeth agreed.
‘Why was Ferdinand in prison if he was such a good boy?’ I persisted.
Mrs McCue shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s a rare cuppie,’ she said to Mrs Macbeth. Mrs McCue was managing to drink her tea, knit and read the Sunday Post all at the same time.
‘Mistaken identity,’ Maisie said through a mouthful of teacake.
Mrs McCue reached into her chintz sack again, and produced a large bag of Iced Gems which turned out to be soft but we ate them anyway. Then she produced a packet of Player’s No.6 and offered them round. ‘I only smoke for the coupons,’ she told me, shaking a cigarette out of the packet for Mrs Macbeth.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Mrs Macbeth said and they both lit up. Maisie coughed theatrically and Mrs McCue delved into the bag again and came up with a packet of Tyrozets for Maisie.
‘A’thing but the kitchen sink,’ Mrs Macbeth said, nodding approvingly at the bag.
As soon as I sat down Goneril leapt back onto me, kneading my chest with her claws. She was an extraordinarily heavy cat – if the Tara-Zanthians got hold of her they’d probably keep her in a safe deposit box. As soon as we were all nicely settled the doorbell rang suddenly (how else?), a simple enough event but one which set in motion an alarming amount of chaos – Duke barked his way to the door, a clumsy process which involved treading on Janet, knocking over the milk jug and sending Goneril in a death-defying leap from my lap to that of Archie’s mother who gave a little scream of horror and dropped an entire needleful of stitches from her erratically woven web. Thank goodness there was no baby to wake up – the usual conclusion to this kind of chain of events.
After all that commotion it was irritating to discover that there was no-one there when I opened the front door. The entire street was hushed and deserted, not even The Boy With No Name, just howling winds and freezing rain.
As soon as I sat down the doorbell rang again. How boring this was.
‘Let me go,’ Mrs Macbeth insisted, heaving herself out of her chair with enormous difficulty and zimmering to the front door. She hirpled back – looking smaller than ever – with a waterlogged Kevin, his hayseed hair plastered to his head by the rain. Since lunchtime he’d developed a huge pimple in the middle of his forehead, like an angry caste-mark.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked by way of greeting.
‘Babysitting,’ I said, which wasn’t, technically speaking, quite true, as I seemed to be sitting everything except a baby. He followed me into the living-room and sat down, looking awkward in the presence of so many women at different stages of their lives. He stared at Mrs McCue’s feet, securely encased in bootee slippers with sturdy zips. Mrs McCue glanced down at her feet to see if there was anything interesting about them.