Broken Homes

asked.
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Just looking for a native guide,’ I said.
    Emma bit her lip and then, after a long pause, gave a false little chuckle.
    ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Would you—’
    I never found out what I might have done, because the door opened and Lesley stuck her face out.
    ‘Hello,’ she said cheerily. ‘Any chance of the shopping arriving?’
    I sighed and picked up the bags and told Emma I’d see her later.
    ‘Sure,’ she said and fled back to her flat.
    ‘Who was that?’ asked Lesley as I unpacked the groceries in the kitchen. By the style and level of wear on the kitchen fittings I could narrow the date the work was done to the early 2000s. The top edges were dented and discoloured and when I opened the wall-mounted cupboard, the doors were wonky. The styles may change but it’s always laminated chipboard underneath.
    I gave her Emma’s full name and flat number so she could run a check later, which reminded me to ask whether anything had popped on Betsy and her family.
    ‘Public order offences,’ she said. ‘Threatening behaviour, assault, GBH, drunk and disorderly.’
    ‘Kevin?’
    ‘Betsy,’ she said. ‘Or rather Elizabeth Tankridge née Tuttle, most of it steadily accumulated over the last twenty years or so except for the threatening behaviour which was last week.’
    ‘One to ask Sergeant Daverc about,’ I said.
    ‘Son Kevin on the other hand has never been charged with anything, although his name comes up in relation to thirty-six separate investigations mostly burglaries and receiving. Why did you get so much Weetabix?’
    ‘It was a BOGOF,’ I said.
    The flap on the letterbox rattled and we both leaned out of the kitchen door to see why. It rattled again and it was impossible to tell whether someone was trying to push something through, or use it as a substitute door knocker.
    I walked quietly over to the door and when I was sure that Lesley had taken a secure place in the living room doorway, out of the line of sight, I turned the Chubb handle and pulled it open.
    A man was stooped over in front of our letterbox, caught in the act of either snooping or pushing a leaflet through.
    ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’
    The man stayed bent over but turned his head so he could see me out of the corner of his eye.
    ‘As it happens,’ he said and held out a hand. ‘If you would?’
    I took his hand, his skin was soft, wrinkled but his grip was very firm. He took a deep breath and then letting me take some of his weight levered himself painfully upright. He was a white man of medium height with a blunt honest face that would have been his fortune had he been selling second-hand cars. His hair was white but thick, long and pulled back into a pony tail.
    ‘Oh, the back of the working man,’ he said, and shook the hand he was already holding. ‘Jake Phillips, local activist, busybody and thorn in the side of late stage capitalism.’
    ‘Peter Grant,’ I said. ‘Recent arrival, slacker and man of very little fame.’
    Jake Phillips thrust a leaflet into my hand. ‘Well, I’m offering a once in a month-time opportunity to attend a Skygarden TRA meeting. Everyone welcome.’
    ‘I’ll see you there,’ I said.
    This caused Jake to pause.
    ‘Really?’ he asked.
    ‘Yeah – why not?’
    ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Okay. I’m the chair, by the way.’
    Of course you are, I thought.
    We exchanged goodbyes a couple more times before Jake moved off towards the stairwell – I closed the door.
    ‘Man of very little fame?’ asked Lesley.
    ‘First thing that came into my head,’ I said.
    We returned to the kitchen where we found that Toby was still sitting and staring intently into the shopping bags. I pulled out a tin and showed it to him.
    ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Meaty chunks.’
    Toby barked.
    ‘We did bring a tin opener, didn’t we?’ asked Lesley.
    Well, the exercise probably did me and Toby good. And, like I said, the shops were nice and close.
    Everyone who ever grew up on an estate and had parents who cared enough to give them a birthday party knew about the community room. A room set aside for whatever it was that idealistic young architects thought the working class might need it for – workers’ soviets is my guess. What they actually get used for is Tenant and Resident Association meetings, keep fit for the over fifties and birthday parties. Generally they’re large, low-ceilinged rooms set on the ground floor with, if you’re lucky, a kitchen