Joanna Cannon - The Trouble with Goats and Sheep

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Joanna Cannon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Copyright © Joanna Cannon 2016

Lyrics from ‘Bye Bye Baby’ © Bob Gaudio, Bob Crewe

Lyrics from ‘Knock Three Times’ © Irwin Levine, L. Russell Brown

Lyrics from ‘Crazy’ © Willie Nelson

Lyrics from ‘Save all your kisses for me’ © Tony Hiller, Lee Sheriden, Martin Lee

Map by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperColl‌insPublishers 2016

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com2016

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780008132187

Source ISBN: 9780008132170

Version: 2017-10-27

For Arthur and Janice

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Number Four, The Avenue

St Anthony’s

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Six, The Avenue

Number Three, Rowan Tree Croft

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Six, The Avenue

Number Two, The Avenue

The Royal British Legion

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Eight, The Avenue

Number Two, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Twelve, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Ten, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Three, Rowan Tree Croft

Number Eleven, The Avenue

Number Twelve, The Avenue

Number Eleven, The Avenue

Number Twelve, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Six, The Avenue

Number Ten, The Avenue

Number Fourteen, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

The Drainpipe

Number Two, The Avenue

The Drainpipe

Number Eight, The Avenue

The Drainpipe

The Drainpipe

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Three, Rowan Tree Croft

The Drainpipe

Number Ten, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Four, The Avenue

The Drainpipe

Number Four, The Avenue

The Drainpipe

Number Four, The Avenue

Number Twelve, The Avenue

Number Three, Rowan Tree Croft

The Drainpipe

The Avenue

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

If you enjoyed this book, read on for an exclusive excerpt from Joanna Cannon’s new novel Three Things About Elsie

About the Author

About the Publisher

Mrs Creasy disappeared on a Monday.

I know it was a Monday, because it was the day the dustbin men came, and the avenue was filled with a smell of scraped plates.

‘What’s he up to?’ My father nodded at the lace in the kitchen window. Mr Creasy was wandering the pavement in his shirtsleeves. Every few minutes, he stopped wandering and stood quite still, peering around his Hillman Hunter and leaning into the air as though he were listening.

‘He’s lost his wife.’ I took another slice of toast, because everyone was distracted. ‘Although she’s probably just finally buggered off.’

‘Grace Elizabeth!’ My mother turned from the stove so quickly, flecks of porridge turned with her and escaped on to the floor.

‘I’m only quoting Mr Forbes,’ I said, ‘Margaret Creasy never came home last night. Perhaps she’s finally buggered off . ’

We all watched Mr Creasy. He stared into people’s gardens, as though Mrs Creasy might be camping out in someone else’s herbaceous border.

My father lost interest and spoke into his newspaper. ‘Do you listen in on all our neighbours?’ he said.

‘Mr Forbes was in his garden, talking to his wife. My window was open. It was accidental listening, which is allowed.’ I spoke to my father, but addressed Harold Wilson and his pipe, who stared back at me from the front page.

‘He won’t find a woman wandering up and down the avenue,’ my father said, ‘although he might have more luck if he tried at number twelve.’

I watched my mother’s face argue with a smile. They assumed I didn’t understand the conversation, and it was much easier to let them think it. My mother said I was at an awkward age . I didn’t feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant that it was awkward for them.

‘Perhaps she’s been abducted,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s not safe for me to go to school today.’

‘It’s perfectly safe,’ my mother said, ‘nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it.’

‘How can someone just disappear?’ I watched Mr Creasy, who was marching up and down the pavement. He had heavy shoulders and stared at his shoes as he walked.

‘Sometimes people need their own space,’ my mother spoke to the stove, ‘they get confused.’

‘Margaret Creasy was confused all right.’ My father turned to the sports section and snapped at the pages until they were straight. ‘She asked far too many questions. You couldn’t get away for her rabbiting on.’

‘She was just interested in people, Derek. You can feel lonely, even if you’re married. And they had no children.’

My mother looked over at me as though she were considering whether the last bit made any difference at all, and then she spooned porridge into a large bowl that had purple hearts all around the rim.

‘Why are you talking about Mrs Creasy in the past tense?’ I said. ‘Is she dead?’

‘No, of course not.’ My mother put the bowl on the floor. ‘Remington,’ she shouted, ‘Mummy’s made your breakfast.’

Remington padded into the kitchen. He used to be a Labrador, but he’d become so fat, it was difficult to tell.

‘She’ll turn up,’ said my father.

He’d said the same thing about next door’s cat. It disappeared years ago, and no one has seen it since.

*

Tilly was waiting by the front gate, in a jumper which had been hand-washed and stretched to her knees. She’d taken the bobbles out of her hair, but it stayed in exactly the same position as if they were still there.

‘The lady from number eight has been murdered,’ I said.