Nigel twitched the nets behind the green chintz curtains. He peered down into the road. The suburban sporadic swoosh of cars was barely audible through the double glazing.
“What is it? Come to bed Nigel. Turn the main light off, as you’re up.”
“That van’s parked there again.” He lingered to peer a little more, before pulling the curtains back with irritation.
“What van?” Mrs Breckseight was opening her Hilary Mantel. Reading glasses low on her waspish Norman nose.
“You know. That green transit. One of those van men. Lives in a van, for goodness sake. Neighbours will be out again. He’s over their space.”
Mr Breckseight stepped away with a faint smile. “Bloody annoying I’d imagine. Still, they’re always away, so serves them right.”
He walked past the end of the bed to the wardrobe.
“Light, Nigel.”
“Yes I know, dear. Haven’t got Alzheimer’s. Just closing the wardrobe doors. Odd they’re open. Did you leave them open, Carol?”
Mrs Breckseight didn’t answer. She turned a page.
“Good God!” Mr Breckseight closed the doors with a clatter and stepped back. Mrs Breckseight carried on reading.
“What is it now, Nigel?” she muttered.
“One of those dreadful women, Carol. You know, one of those single mother types.”
Mrs Breckseight gave a tut, held her page with a finger and looked up. “What?”
“Looks like she’s got one of those pot noodles. From the food bank. She’s eating at the back. On your side too.”
Mrs Breckseight frowned and removed her reading spectacles. “Just the one, I hope?”
“Not sure.”
“Oh Nigel, I’d close the doors and come away. It’s not nice to stare.”
“No. No, of course, not right to stare, I suppose. Still…”
“Light.”
“I know. Just closing the doors. You’d better check your clothes. In the morning, I mean.”
Mrs Breckseight put her glasses back and returned to her book. The main light went out and the glow of her bedside lamp was warm and homely. Mr Breckseight removed his slippers and sat heavily on his side of the bed.
“Good lord!”
Mrs Breckseight sighed and lowered her book, now a little exasperated.
“What is it this time, Nigel. Can’t you just get into bed. I’m trying to finish the chapter.”
“Sorry dear. It’s just that one of those ghastly boat type people has stuffed himself in the bedside cabinet. You know, floated across the Channel from Calais. Migrant chaps. Grinning away like he owns the place. Damned cheek, I’d say! I thought we’d stopped all that nonsense.”
Mrs Breckseight pulled irritably at the covers. “It’s the horrid French, Nigel. They’re deliberately sending them over. Just shut the door and come to bed.”
“Yes, dear. Of course. Beastly business. Eat raw horse meat. I mean to say. Talk of the neighbours from hell.”
“Yes, dear. Don’t go on. Doesn’t help does it.”
“Suppose not.”
Mr Breckseight climbed into bed. His wife looked crossly at him and pulled her book away. She turned to the light her side.
“Well, I don’t know what the world’s coming to. I blame — Good grief! I say, Carol, did you see that?”
Carol closed her book and removed her spectacles as if for the final time. She slapped the bed covers with her hands and looked sternly at her husband.
“Nigel!”
“I’m sorry Carol. It’s just one of those awful lady men… You know, in women’s clothes — what do you call them — wandered across the end of the bed. I mean to say. A man with a beard in a dress. It’s utterly ridiculous. Ghastly. World’s gone mad.”
“Well, write to the M.P. in the morning, if it’ll make you feel better. I’m turning out the light. If you want to read, you’ll have to turn yours on. Good night Nigel.”
“Night Carol.”
With that, Carol Breckseight put her book on her bedside cabinet and turned out the light.
“Sorry to go on, Carol.”
“Don’t be sorry. Good night, Nigel.”
“Night, Carol. Sweet dreams.”
“You too.”
