Page 104 of Every Silent Lie

By six o’clock, Dec hasn’t called. Mr. Percival, however, has. Numerous times. A small part of me is grateful for his incessant drop-ins, another part feels downhearted that I’m depending on my ninety-nine-year-old neighbour to take my mind off things.

Why hasn’t he called?

By the umpteenth time Mr. Percival knocks on my door, for one thing or another—Have I seen Maureen? Can I smell gas? What did I do last night with my new friend?—I’m past the point of being exasperated and instead invite the old boy in for a coffee.

“Oh, if you’re not too busy,” he says, wandering in on his frame.

“Wait.”

“What, dear?”

“Do you like milk in your coffee?”

“Milk and two sugars, dear.”

“Do you have milk and sugar?”

He’s utterly thrilled I need something from him and ambles off again while I put the kettle on, trying not to constantly check my phone. He’s back a few minutes later with a container of sugar and a pint of milk. “Go sit down,” I say, ushering him into the lounge and finishing our coffees.

“Oh, your flowers still look beautiful.”

“They do,” I say on a smile, stirring some sugar into his coffee. “It’s Dec’s birthday today.”

“Oh, are you going out for dinner? Am I keeping you?”

I wander in, forcing a smile. “He had pre-arranged plans with his sister.” I shrug, lowering to the couch. “It’s a bit soon to meet her.”

He snorts. “It’s never too soon for anything. Look at me. I’m a hundred years old next month, Camryn. One bleeding hundred! I was twenty-one what feels like yesterday.”

I smile and settle back. “You’ve still got lots of years to fill me in on.”

He beams at me, inhaling ready to launch, and I sit on my couch for the longest stretch of time since I moved in and listen to tales of years gone by, when foods were rationed, and he could walk to the end of his street and find everything he could possibly need. A butcher, a baker, Mrs. Smith’s grocery store, which also, conveniently, had a post office counter in there too. A hardware store, a chemist. He lived in the East End. Drank in the same “boozer” as the Krays. Used to fix their cars too. Following his service in the war, he had a garage in the East End. “Those were the days,” he says with a fond smile on his face. “Only the wealthy had cars. Now, every bleeder and their dog whizzes around London.”

“I don’t,” I point out, pulling my feet up onto the couch. “Have you ever driven, Mr. Percival?”

He grins. “I had a Ford Capri in the eighties. It was bright green.” And he goes on.

* * *

I come to with the sound of my mobile ringing from the coffee table. I frown, disorientated, trying to gather my bearings. I have a pillow from my bed under my head and my duvet draped over me.

Bleary-eyed, I reach for my phone and squint at the screen. “Hello?” I murmur sleepily.

“I woke you,” Dec breathes. “I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t be sorry. I’m glad he’s called, no matter the time. Speaking of which . . . “What time is it?”

“Just gone ten. I just got done with some work stuff and needed to hear your voice before I go to bed.”

“Swoon,” I murmur sleepily, falling back to my pillow, smiling when he chuckles. “Why are you working on your birthday?”

“I had a few contracts to check. What did you do today?”

“Miss you.”

“Swoon,” he murmurs.

My smile widens. “Another man tucked me into bed tonight.”