On the corner of Bracken Gardens, she sees Hossein sauntering up the road towards her, dapper in a shirt of cotton brocade, his beard neatly trimmed. She waves, and his face is suddenly wreathed in smiles. He hurries up to her and stretches out a hand to take hold of the handle of her case.
‘You’re home!’ he says. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Vesta laughs, and pushes at his upper arm. ‘Oh, go on, you. You’re all charm.’
He takes the bag and starts pulling it towards the house. ‘What are you doing?’ she protests. ‘You’re on your way out!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman. I can go later.’
‘But you —’
‘Enough,’ he barks. ‘Do as you’re told.’
She subsides, content. The magazines she read when she was young, when feminism was a mere glint in Germaine’s eye, were full of warnings about Middle Eastern men and how controlling they were. Never said anything about the gentlemanliness, though, she thinks. Catch an Englishman dropping his trip to the bookies to drag an old lady’s suitcase home.
‘Did you have a good holiday?’ he asks.
‘Oh, lovely, thank you. It’s so beautiful down there. Even with that silly statue they’ve stuck in the middle of it.’
‘So I heard,’ he says.
‘Yes. You should go and see it,’ she says. ‘Silly, being here and not seeing anything of the country.’
‘As soon as I can, I will,’ says Hossein. ‘There are a lot of places I want to see.’
Vesta remembers. ‘Sorry, poppet,’ she says. ‘Mind like a sieve, me.’
Hossein gives her his lovely smile again. ‘It’s okay. I take it as a compliment.’
‘Where were you off to, anyway?’
‘To sign my little book,’ he says, ‘so they know I haven’t run away. Then I’m going to Kensington.’
‘Kensington!’ says Vesta. ‘Posh!’
He laughs. ‘Iranian shops. I’m going to see my cousin. He lives in Ealing.’
‘That’s nice,’ says Vesta. ‘It’s nice to have family. Even if they are in Ealing.’
‘Yes,’ says Hossein. ‘It is. Do you have any family of your own?’
She pauses, sighs. ‘Not any more. I had an auntie in Ilfracombe, but she passed away a few years ago, now.’
‘No brothers or sisters?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
She sees him glance at her from the side of his eye. Don’t look at me like that, she thinks. It’s a fine old day when you feel sorry for me.
‘You don’t miss what you never had, dear,’ she says. ‘It’s not like I don’t have friends, is it?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re good at that.’
Vesta smiles. Such a charmer. But still, she feels warmed by the compliment. ‘So how’s life at the old homestead?’ she asks. ‘Any gossip? How’s that little girl? Not got into any trouble, has she?’
Hossein shrugs. ‘No. She’s okay, I think. No trouble. There’s a new woman, moved into Nikki’s room.’
‘Oh! Nikki didn’t come back, then?’
‘No. Not a sign of her. And her rent’s run out, so boom, she’s history.’
‘That’s weird,’ says Vesta. ‘She was a nice girl. I didn’t think she would be the type.’
Hossein shrugs expansively, as is his habit. ‘I know. But there you go. And you know what he’s like. Not going to leave it a day longer than he needs without getting some money.’
‘Well,’ says Vesta. Then: ‘She just went? I can’t believe it. She didn’t say goodbye? Not even to Cher?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Well,’ says Vesta, again. The itinerant movements of the young never cease to amaze her. ‘Maybe she went back to Glasgow. Did she make up with her folks, did you hear?’
‘Vesta,’ says Hossein, ‘nobody tells me anything. I sometimes think you’re the only one who realises I speak English.’
‘Well,’ says Vesta again. ‘So what’s she like?’
‘Don’t know,’ says Hossein. ‘She only got here today. I heard the Landlord letting her in, so I…’
‘Oh, you big scaredy-cat.’
He shrugs again. She’s right, of course. A man his age shouldn’t be hiding from strangers, even if they do have Roy Preece attached. They reach the steps and he bends to slide the handle back into the case. Picks it up and starts towards the door. ‘Good God, woman. What have you got in here?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t have anywhere to dispose of the bodies. It was only a bed and breakfast.’