Rebuilding Coventry Read Online Free PDF Page B

Fox!’
    ‘Coventry?’
    ‘Yes!’
    ‘Killed?’
    ‘Yes!’
    ‘Gerald
Fox?’
    ‘YES!’
    ‘Coventry
has killed Gerald Fox?’
    ‘YES!’
    An
explosion of enjoyment filled the kitchen. The two women, trembling and
shocked, but also excited and happy, began to talk. Coventry’s life was
examined for previous displays of aggression. Greta remembered the time that Coventry
had spoken to her sharply once.
    Greta
had remarked that Derek didn’t deserve Coventry who, in Greta’s opinion, was
younger, better-looking, nicer and far more interesting and intelligent than
Derek.
    Coventry
had replied, very irritably, that Derek had married her when she was an
ignorant teenager who was in and out of work, living in her parents’ house and
having to obey her parents’ rules. Derek, however, was twenty-six, well
established, in a job with prospects and already had his name on the council
house waiting list.
    To
this, Greta said, ‘Big deal!’ Coventry had run out of Greta’s house and slammed
the front door. Disappointing, in that it lacked drama perhaps, but worth two
minutes in the telling. The two women felt important and were conscious of
their high status in these dramatic events; after all, they were Coventry’s
best friends.
    They
moved into the living-room and watched as official vehicles came to a halt
outside the Foxes’ house. Greta did a count: three ambulances; five police
cars; one white police van; a fire engine (had Coventry turned to arson as
well?); three plain cars carrying six plain men; and a rocky little Citroën
containing one gaudily dressed social worker. The street had seen nothing like
it since a wedding reception had turned nasty and temporarily stopped the
traffic while the men of both families slogged it out. Greta and Maureen went
outside and joined the throng of neighbours standing behind the plastic ribbon
of the police barricade. Every now and again all the heads turned to look at
the Dakins’s house, where the murderess’s husband was expected home from work.

 
     
     
     
     
    5 I Meet Mr Periwinkle
     
    It is two o’clock in the
morning. I am sitting outside the London Foot Hospital in a place called
Fitzroy Square. I can’t walk another step, but the rain has stopped and my
clothes have dried on me. I am grateful for such small mercies. To my delight I
found three strong elastic bands inside the doorway. One I used to fasten my
damp hair into a pony-tail, the other two I used to wrap around the superfluous
folds of flapping cloth at my ankles. Bell-bottoms were the ultimate extreme of
flares. I have only worn them once outside the house before and then a high
wind blew up and billowed the surplus cloth. From the knees down I looked like
a galleon in full sail. Derek was pleased when they were relegated to
chimney-sweeping wear. He hates unconventional clothing. It unsettles him.
    Before
I went to sleep I wiped my hands and face with wet leaves from the square. I
was desperate to get rid of the soot. Two nurses swaddled in warm cloaks passed
me. They looked on curiously as I scrunched the leaves over my face. As they
walked past me I heard one say, ‘I like the smell of autumn leaves as
much as anybody, but sticking them up your nose is going too far.’ The other
said, ‘That reminds me, I’m starting my psychiatric training next month.’
    The wet
leaves made no impression on the soot. Looking in a lamplit puddle I saw a
dusky face staring back at me. I was reminded of the Black and White Minstrels,
their horrible winking and grimacing and strutting around with canes and top
hats. They were a firm favourite of Derek’s. He wrote to the BBC when the show
was taken off. I remember one phrase in his letter, ‘Clean family
entertainment.’ He signed himself: ‘Derek A. Dakin’.
    My head
lolls forward; am I asleep? I don’t know, hard to tell, my brain is tired. My
eyes drop shut… . The sun is shining. I am warm. An old man with
mutton-chop whiskers and kindly eyes is