Junction X

was too late in the day. Everything was shut. I was going to have to go home empty-handed and face the music.
By the time I reached my front door, my nerves were about as tightly-stretched as they could be, but when I opened the front door, I found I was coming home to a completely different house than the one I’d left.
Valerie floated up the hall, a vision in something diaphanous in a colour she called “Eau de Nil,” her hair piled in Grecian layers on her head.
“Darling,” she said, scaring me senseless, “how tired you look.” She took my hat, briefcase and umbrella from me gently, wafting Chanel No. 5 with every movement of her body. I frowned, wary of this new camouflage. “Come and meet the new neighbours,” she said. “I’ve invited them for dinner to save them struggling with the packing cases for their pots and pans.”
It was, frankly, the last thing I wanted. I knew that I’d have to greet the new neighbours eventually, but I’d planned to be out in the garden, casually passing the time of day. I resented them for being in my house when I wasn’t there and I resented them for living in Phil’s house. Forced and unexpected dinner parties I could do without. With the day I’d had, all I really wanted was to down a swift couple of whiskies and then to immerse myself in Maigret on the television.
However, when Valerie entertains, it’s a stronger man than I that can resist her. She led me into the sitting room. “Here he is,” she said brightly, giving the impression that she’d been talking about me before I arrived. “Darling, this is Mr. and Mrs. Charles. And this is Ed.”
“Albert,” said the man who stood and held out his hand. “Albert and Sheila, please.”
 I shook his hand, dutifully; he was a short and dusty-looking man, with thinning blond hair and a mouse-like expression, as if he were constantly on the alert for the snap of a trap. Sheila was plumpish, all in cherry-red and white, with a nervous little smile. I think both of them were terrified of Valerie in full “Hostess-with-the-Mostest” mode. I couldn’t blame them; she was like a battleship on crudities once she got going.
“And this is their son, Alec.”
And there he was. Gangly, taller than both of his parents, with a face that said ‘boredom’ as clearly as if he’d shouted it. He had on clothes that spoke eloquently of who he was and where he’d come from. Dark black trousers, with a shiny white shirt, slightly too big, and a maroon jumper which did nothing for his colouring at all. I guessed that they were school clothes, worn because they were “smart,” and I was right.
I wish, oh, I really wish, that I could say it happened then, that it was love at first sight. I wish that I could say that I looked at him and the world disappeared, or something poetic like that. But I can’t. I was annoyed at my evening being interrupted, I was smarting from Phil’s behaviour, and I was on edge that Valerie would revert to her cold war after the guests left. So I didn’t take much notice of him. He was at the back of the room and he said nothing much all evening, so he was easy to overlook.
After the greetings were over, I made my excuses and went to change. I returned, with a fixed smile and a resolve to use the evening to please Valerie, hoping that perfect behaviour would substitute for flowers. I poured us all drinks and sat down.
“Valerie tells me you work in the city,” Alfred said. “Been telling us all how successful you are.”
“Not that we couldn’t tell,” Sheila added. I was to get used to the way they spoke, in sequence, not quite finishing each other’s sentences but still managing a coherent whole. “You being so young in a lovely house like this, and your lovely wife, and cars.”
The Bentley and the Wolseley were in the garage and I felt a rush of irritation that Valerie had shown them off. It seemed like boasting to strangers.
“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” I said. “Honestly. What is it that you do?”
“I’m an engineer at the car plant.”
“Been there twenty-five years, got a lovely commemoration gift,” Sheila finished for him. I remember smiling and feeling like my face was aching. “I work at the hospital,” she continued. “I’m a sister in the geriatric wards.”
“Keeps them all under control, don’t you, dear?” Alfred said.
“That must be very rewarding,” I said automatically. I was surprised, though, and I wondered how they would fit in with the City brigade and the housewife Mafia. I couldn’t think of one other man on The Avenue who worked with his hands or one other woman who worked, full stop. I turned my attention to Alex at last. He was staring out of the window, if I remember, his feet kicking at Valerie’s precious Ercol chairs. “And…” I had forgotten his name.
“Alec,” his father said. “He’s the reason we moved. To get him into St. Peter’s.”
Then I understood. The children both went, of course. If you lived in The Avenue and you wanted the best grounding for your children, and if you could afford it, then there wasn’t any other choice. Living so close, of course, meant the twins didn’t have to board, so that cut down on St. Peter’s considerable fees a great deal. Even with both of the Charleses working, I reckoned in my head that they must have been on a tight budget to manage. It made sense to move, too. The catchment area was strict; if you didn’t live in the area, it was very unlikely you’d get in, and people wanted their children to get into St. Peter’s. It was the school that produced Oxbridge students, year after year.
“He’s bright, then,” I said, speaking of him as if he wasn’t in the room.
“Oh