The tales we had heard, husband and I, about the girl next door, the girl whom wielded a baseball bat at her neighbour.
‘The girl next door?’ I asked Bella.
‘She’s all right, I know her from school.’
I reminded Bella of the baseball bat incident – the girl next door did not sound ‘all right’.
‘Everyone has a past.’
True. I would not like people condemning my daughter for her past. Plus, we did not know why the attack happened, was she provoked, had she defended herself – nobody was prepared to ask.
‘Her boyfriend lives with her; he seems ok.’ Bella was in the flow of conversing. ‘They were drinking beers last night, asked me to go round and join them, asked me whether I would like to go out one night. I told them about my past, said it wasn’t a good idea, so no thanks.’
I was pleased to hear this – did not know it was fabrication.
‘The guy who lives over there,’ Bella said. Jumping up and pointing to a house, ‘he posted me a welcome card, it had a necklace in it.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that. Why give someone you don’t know a necklace? Post it back.’
Where in the hell, had husband, and I chose for our daughter to live.
Those stones in my stomach were multiplying, jostling for position.
‘Where’s that bloody postman? I’m sick of this,’ she said. Still looking out of the window, still waiting for her driving licence.
I went to the window, beside her, viewed the neighbourhood, pristine and pretty, but the occupants?