Bron-37

Continued from Chapter 36: Bron-36 | ABCtales

“Bit of a bummer, the landlord finding out about Petouche, like that,” said Grace. “I mean, we always were so careful about stopping her from looking out of the front window. Must have been an unlucky chance, him spotting her.”

“Yeah. Though I think he was getting a bit suspicious, the way the sofa was getting shredded.”

“A one-cat furniture destruction machine, she is. Still, I think we’ve fallen on our feet. Lucky Geoff giving us the use of his flat like that for six weeks.”

They were in a taxi heading from Putney to Bayswater, their belongings piled up around them on the empty seats. Petouche’s pink carrier occupied the floor. Bron had got in touch with Chris to ask if there was any possibility of moving back to Marble Arch. There wasn’t – Linda, though on the mend, was still in a fragile state – but he said that Geoff had just moved in with a new girlfriend in Notting Hill and that his flat might be available. Much to her surprise, Geoff had offered his place in Bayswater free, for six weeks, with alacrity. It was all ready for them to move in within a week.

They’d use the time to look for a permanent place – they’d plenty of money for a deposit. After Bron had stormed out of the solicitor’s office, old Mr Rudge had come panting after her, offering to pay whatever she asked, cash on the nail, apologising for the ‘misunderstanding’. Bron had ensured that it took three visits by Petouche to ensure that Sneed, Rudge and Wivell’s premises were completely pest-free.

They scrabbled for handholds as the taxi swung sharply left at Marble Arch, Petouche’s holdall sliding across the floor. Bron grabbed it with her free hand.

“Wouldn’t have Geoff down as the generous type,” said Bron. “Must have an ulterior motive.”

“Maybe he’s worried about squatters if there’s no one there.”

“Could be.”

The taxi dropped them at the white-pillared street door of Crawley Court on Inverness Terrace. They lugged their belongings, and Petouche’s holdall, up the six flights of purple-red carpeted stairs to Flat 22. Inside, they released Petouche, who skittered across the beechwood laminated floors, claws scrabbling for purchase on the highly-polished surface. She emitted a few plaintive howls – what Grace called her Hound of the Baskervilles voice – before scrambling up to the topmost shelf of the bookcase and settling down next to a discarded drinks can to watch as the two women arranged their belongings.

“Got everything, this place,” Bron exclaimed. “Cooker, washing machine, even a microwave.”

“Fancy a curry from the shop?”

“Yeah. Why not.”

There was still a faint blue glow in the dark blue sky as they stepped out of the porch to explore their new neighbourhood. Tourists bumbled up and down, stopping suddenly to look at upper floors of banks and shops for no apparent reason, or down in the gutter.

People milled in and out of restaurants – Chinese, Indian, Greek…

“Open your eyes, my pizza very naize!” yelled the Lebanese guy at the food kiosk at the bottom of Queensway, as he did every few seconds, every minute of every day.

“Nighs? What’s nighs?” asked Bron.

“Nice. It’s a poem, rhymes with ‘eyes’.”

“Doesn’t look very nice, does it?”

“No. Bit greasy.”

They nursed drinks – a half lager and a coke – in the King’s Arms on Moscow Road. The chess players in the front bar did the same. In the back bar, by the refrigerated cabinet with its neon striplight, a Scouse guy was giving a long, loud post-mortem on a recently-finished poker game to his three companions.

“I think I’m going to like it here,” said Grace.

“Mmm, yes,” said Bron. “Maybe I’ll have to take back everything I said about Geoff.”

They walked back to the flat, past the little shop on Inverness Place that sold hidden cameras and other surveillance devices. They paused to look through the window. “Who buys all this stuff?” said Bron.

“Arabs, Lebanese - business people? They’re always doing things like that, spying on each other.”

Bron half-nodded, shrugged her shoulders and they carried on towards Crawley Court.

“Heard any more about your railway job?” said Grace as they climbed the stairs.

“No, it’s dragging on. Problem is, they’re in turmoil after the big smash. Not taking anyone on. Hearing got postponed, then again, still waiting for a date.”

“Oh well, Petouche is giving you a good income.”

“Reminds me. Must change the phone number on all the adverts. I’ll go round tomorrow.”

To be continued in Chapter 38: Bron-38 | ABCtales