Junction X

you were even considering joining. I was thinking of getting the children violins.” I shuddered inwardly at the thought of that as she stood up and opened a wardrobe. “Clear off, Ed, there’s a dear. I’ve asked Ann McKewen to come over at seven to sit, so you needn’t stay in and eat humble pie.” She kissed me on the top of my head and I grinned.
“It was an impulse thing. There was a lot of whisky. I only went to see what it was like.”
“Dear Ed,” she said. “Trust Phil to lead you into temptation.” I felt those icy fingers again, this time on the back of my neck, but it seemed to be a dismissal; I’d lost her attention.
I stopped at the door and looked back. “Really? Violins?”
She didn’t answer.
I escaped to my study and got changed. I felt exhausted. For a horrible second I’d really thought she had found out about Phil and the relief, as it flooded through me, made me weary. I pulled on my sweater and I considered going to The Sands, but didn’t really fancy it. I would be welcomed, I was sure, but hard drinking during the week wasn’t a good idea for someone who had to stay alert in his job, and I shied away from seeing Phil again so soon for some reason.
So I spent some time with the children. They sat around the table while I made a sandwich, and we discussed the merits and otherwise of stick insects. When the sitter arrived, I left them with an unsatisfactory (for them) “We’ll see.”
It was pure impulse and a memory of Albert Charles’s assertion that the train set would be ready in a day or so that pulled me to the house next door, and before I could think twice, I was knocking. It wasn’t until after I knocked that I wondered if they were the sort of people (like us) who preferred to have people they didn’t know particularly well ring in advance. It took Sheila’s smiling face to reassure me.
I grinned. “I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all,” she said, and stood aside to let me in.
“Thanks. Wasn’t sure if I’d be interrupting your dinner.”
“Not a bit of it. We eat early during the week.” She pushed open the sitting room door. “Albert? It’s Mr. Johnson.”
“Oh, God, Sheila. It’s Ed, please.”
Albert put down his paper and stood to greet me. He was wearing a shirt with no tie. “Sherry, Ed?”
I shook my head. “I won’t stop long. I’m being the nosy neighbour tonight. I was wondering if the train set was ready. I’ll go down the club for a beer later.”
Albert smiled. “Just about.” He moved to the door and called. “Alec? Alec! Come down a moment!”
There was an awkward silence as we waited and, never being able to stand such things, I asked, “Any plans to decorate?”
Sheila glanced at Albert and he answered for her, “No. I don’t think so, not yet, we like it as it is, really.”
I felt awful. I smiled and nodded and muttered something about Claire’s taste being good, but I was suddenly aware that they probably couldn’t afford it. The silence descended again, and I was beginning to wish I’d had that sherry just to have something to do with my hands when I heard the bump of someone jumping down the stairs and Alec arrived in the doorway.
His face was clouded, and apart from a glance at me—swiftly removed—he didn’t really look at anyone. He was wearing a black T-shirt which looked brand new and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. A pair he’d probably had a while, as they were as tight on him as on any young peacock strutting through London these days. His hair had probably been neatly cropped around his ears from the term before, but the summer growth gave a rebellious wave to the ends, paler where it curled than where it lay flat against his head. His feet were bare. It was something that I was to get used to. He wore shoes only when he had to.
His mother sighed and I glanced at her. “You could have put slippers on before coming down. What will Mr. Johnson think?”
“I didn’t know Mr. Johnson was down here. You didn’t say.”
“Ed, please,” I interrupted, recognising the first signs of trouble through years of family radar. “Mr. Johnson makes me sound like I’m a hundred and two.” I suddenly wanted to say something like “Why should he wear shoes if he doesn’t want to?” But he wasn’t my son, and I’d probably have said the same to John if he’d come down barefoot—so why did it seem different for Alec?
“Ed’s here to see the layout,” Albert said. “Why don’t you take him up and let him see what we’ve done?”
“All right.” He shrugged and turned away, trotting up the carpeted stairs leaving me no recourse but to hare off after him.
Although every house in The Avenue is different, they follow the basic pattern: sitting room, study, kitchen, dining room, then bedrooms and bathrooms depending on the size of the house. But it was the attics that people loved about them. They’d been built when most people still had servants and they’d have lived at the top of the house. Such things were long gone. Some people, like us, filled them with the detritus of living: broken rackets and toys, boxes of old curtains and unwanted gifts, but some had converted them into large spaces as bedrooms, studies and for other uses. As Alec led me up the final wooden flight of stairs, his bare feet on a level with my eyes, I was reminded that our attic was a project I’d long been meaning to address. He pushed open the narrow door and led me in. I couldn’t help but laugh in amazement at the incredible array of track and terrain which took up nearly the entire floor of the house.
Alec’s face darkened. “It’s not a