Elizabeth Is Missing Read Online Free PDF Page B

used to stop the buses by standing in front of them and waving the umbrella, and then she would lift her dress and show her knickers. They said it was because her daughter had been knocked down and killed by a bus, before the war. People talked about it in whispers, or they made sly jokes, but if you asked a question you’d be told to be quiet, not to pry, just to keep away from her, as if she had something catching.
    The end of the tram was trundling away at last, when bang! she hit me again. I leapt across the road. She followed. I ran up my street, dropping the tin of peaches in panic, and she chased me, shouting something I couldn’t catch. I got through the kitchen door, calling for my mother, and she rushed out to see the woman off and retrieve the peach slices.
    “I’ve always told you, don’t look at her, don’t talk to her, keep your distance,” Ma said when she came back in.
    I told her I’d done all that and she’d still chased me.
    “Well, I’ve never seen her in the grocer’s before. We should probably fetch a policeman, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her. I suppose she doesn’t like seeing young girls about the place,” Ma said, peering out of the window, in case the woman was still about. “Because of her daughter being killed by that bus.”
    My fault for being a young girl, I thought. But I wondered later if she’d just been hungry and had wanted my rations. There was a bruise on my shoulder for weeks after that, dark against my pale skin. It was the same colour as the mad woman’s umbrella, as if it had left a piece of itself on me, a feather from a broken wing.

CHAPTER 3
    I ’ve rung the doctor. Carla told me not to, but I’ve got a very sore arm. I think it might be a symptom of something more worrying. She says it’s just the way old people are in the morning. She doesn’t use the words “old people,” but I know that’s what she means. When she realizes I have rung the doctor anyway she calls my daughter to come and tell me off.
    “For God’s sake, Mum, you’ve been asked to leave the poor man alone,” Helen says, sitting on the window seat, looking out for him.
    “But, Helen, I’m ill,” I say. “I think I’m ill.”
    “That’s what you said last time, but there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just not young any more; the doctor can’t do anything about that. Oh, here he is now.” She leaps up from the seat and goes to open the front door.
    They talk in the hall, but I can’t catch what they say.
    “Well, Mrs. Horsham,” he says, coming into the room, winding up the earphones to a Walkman, or whatever they are now. “I’m rather hard-pressed this morning. What did you want to see me about?”
    He’s young, my doctor. Very young and very handsome, with dark hair falling over his forehead. I smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back. “I’m all right,” I say. “What’s the fuss?”
    He breathes out through his nose, an impatient sound, like a foraging animal.
    “You called the surgery, Mrs. Horsham. You said you were in urgent need of a house call.” He looks at Helen, then sits down, holds my wrist in his hand and presses it, looking at his watch. “Can you remember what it was about?” he says. “You’ve been ringing fairly frequently of late. And people don’t usually ask for house calls when they are all right .”
    Helen shakes her head at me behind him.
    “I haven’t been calling frequently,” I say, still looking at Helen.
    “That’s not quite true, is it?” he says, scribbling something on a notepad. “In fact you’ve phoned us twelve times in the last fortnight.”
    Twelve times? He must have me confused with somebody else: the wires must have been crossed, or perhaps the telephonist put the wrong person through.
    “Now, I’m not suggesting you’re making things up, really I’m not, but I wonder whether there isn’t something else going on here.” He takes out a little flashlight. “Perhaps it’s not something