Peter Robinson: The Price of Love and Other Stories

“This is Geoff Salisbury,” said Ida Banks. “Geoff lives up the street at number fifty-five.”

Geoff moved forward, hand stretched out like a weapon. He was a small, compact man, with lively, slightly watery eyes and cropped gray hair, about Banks’s age. His smile revealed what looked to Banks like a set of perfect false teeth. His handshake was firm, and his hands were calloused and ingrained with oil or grease from manual labor.

“Pleased to meet you, Alan,” he said. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t just now.” He turned to Banks’s mother. “Have you got that shopping list, Mrs. B? I’ll be off to Asda now.”

“Only if you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Nothing’s too much trouble for you. You know that. Besides, I have to go there myself.”

Banks’s mother picked up her handbag, took out her purse and gave Geoffrey a handwritten list and a twenty-pound note. “Will that cover it?”

“Easily, Mrs. B. Easily. I’ll be back in a tick. Coach and Horses tonight, Arthur?”

“Maybe. We’ll see how I feel,” said Banks’s father. On closer examination, he did look tired and drawn, Banks thought. More so since he had last seen him in the summer. His eyes had the look of milky marbles and his skin was the color of porridge. It could be the strain of the preparing for the upcoming party — Arthur Banks, while gregarious enough in the pub, had never liked a house full of relatives — but most of the organization, Banks guessed, would have fallen to his mother. Perhaps it was simple old age catching up fast.

Geoff Salisbury left, and Banks saw him go up to the red Fiesta with the rusted chassis, parked behind Banks’s Renault. Geoff paused and looked Banks’s car over before getting into his own and driving off.

“Who’s that?” Banks asked his mother.

“I told you. Geoff Salisbury. He’s a neighbor.”

“He seems at home here.”

“I don’t know what we’d do without him,” said Mrs. Banks. “He’s just like a son to us. Anyway, son, sit yourself down. Have a cuppa.”

Banks sat and his mother poured. “So Roy’s not coming till Sunday, then?” he said.

“No. He rang us last night, didn’t he, Arthur?” She said it as if it were some momentous event. Arthur Banks nodded. “He’s got an important business meeting all day Saturday,” she went on. “Something to do with some Yanks flying in, and they have to be back in New York by evening... I don’t know. Anyway, he says he should be here by Sunday lunchtime.”

“Good of him to bother,” Banks muttered.

His mother cast him a long-suffering glance. Banks knew she had been used to the brothers’ bickering when they both lived at home, and it was no surprise whose side she usually took. “What time are you planning on starting the party?” Banks asked.

“We told everyone to come about six o’clock. That’ll give us time to clear up and get things ready after lunch. By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet, but Mrs. Summerville passed away just last week.” She announced it in the sort of soft and solemn tones generally reserved for those who had passed away.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Banks. Mrs. Summerville was the mother of the first girl he had ever slept with, though he had always believed that neither the late Mrs. Summerville nor his own mother knew that. “What did she die of?”

“It wasn’t anything suspicious, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Perish the thought.”

His mother studied him, frowning. “Yes... well, it was a blessing really. She’d been very poorly. Died in her sleep, according to Alice Green.”

“Still...” said Banks, uncertain what to say. He sipped some tea. As usual, it was milky and sweet, though he had stopped taking milk and sugar twenty years ago.

“And how are the Marshalls?” Banks asked. The Marshalls were the parents of Banks’s school friend Graham, who had disappeared at the age of fourteen and whose body had been discovered the previous summer. Banks had come down to help the locals work on the case and the solution hadn’t pleased anyone. It was during that time Banks had met Detective Inspector Michelle Hart, whom he had been seeing on and off ever since. Pity she wasn’t around this weekend, he thought.

“Same as ever, I suppose,” said Mrs. Banks. “We don’t see much of them, do we, Arthur?”

Arthur Banks shook his head.

“It’s as if they’ve shut themselves away since you were last down.” Banks’s mother cast him an accusing glance, as if their becoming recluses were his fault. And maybe it was, in a way. The truth is rarely as liberating as people would have us believe; it often binds more than it frees.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“You know,” his mother went on, “while you’re here, you ought to go and see Mrs. Green. She keeps asking about you, you know, and she was very put out you didn’t drop by and see her in the summer. She still thinks very fondly of you, though I can’t see why, the noise you lot used to make at her house.”

Banks smiled. He remembered Mrs. Green fondly, too. She was the mother of an old school friend, Tony Green, whom Banks hadn’t seen since he left home. Tony hadn’t been one of the real in-crowd, but he had been on the rugby team with Banks, and Banks had always liked Mrs. Green. Most of the kids did. She didn’t stop them from smoking in her house, and she didn’t mind them playing the sort of music — the Beatles and the Rolling Stones mostly — that most adults hated. Once or twice, she had given Banks and Tony half a crown apiece and sent them off to the pictures out of her way. She had also been very pretty, with the kind of bosom young boys dream about, and she certainly had a mouth on her. Mrs. Green had a reputation for speaking her mind, and nobody ruffled her feathers and got away with it. Tony had gone off to Canada, Banks remembered. Also, Mr. Green had died of emphysema a year or two ago. His mother had told him over the telephone, and he had sent a sympathy card. Yes, he would pay Mrs. Green a visit.

So Banks sipped tea with his mother and father, catching up on the local gossip. The usual stuff: another school friend had emigrated to Australia, an old neighbor who had moved into a home a year ago had died, and the Venables lad from number sixty-six had been sent to Borstal for mugging a pensioner. Banks didn’t bother telling his mother that it wasn’t called “Borstal” anymore but “detention center” or “youth custody center.” They weren’t much interested in what he’d been doing, outside of the divorce from Sandra. They were more interested in Brian and Tracy, and they expressed regret that neither could come to the party on Sunday: Brian’s band was playing an important series of gigs in Germany, and Tracy had the flu. Not entirely convinced this wasn’t some excuse, Banks had dropped by and offered to drive her from her university residence in Leeds, but when he saw her, he took pity on her and said he’d look in again on his way back. Fortunately, she had friends there who would feed her chicken noodle soup and Lemsip in the meantime.

“Have you seen who’s moved in next door?” Mrs. Banks asked.

“No,” said Banks. “But I heard them.”

“Not that side. The other. A Paki family, that’s who. I must say, though,” she went on, “they seem really nice. Very quiet, they are, even the kids, aren’t they, Arthur? And polite. Always say good morning and ask how you’re doing. Talk just like us, they do. Makes a change from that lot on the other side.”

“Who are they?” Banks asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t even know their name. They moved in about two weeks ago. They’re not very friendly neighbors. Don’t know how many of them live there, either. Shifty-looking lot. Comings and goings all hours of the day and night. Noise. And the place is a pigsty.”