The tales we had heard, Husband and I, about the girl next door. The girl who wielded a baseball bat at her neighbour.
‘The girl next door?’ I asked Laura.
‘She’s all right. I know her from school.’
I reminded Laura of the baseball bat incident. The girl next door did not sound all right to me.
‘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. Had she been provoked? Had she defended herself? Nobody was prepared to ask.
Laura informed me of more. ‘Her boyfriend lives with her. He seems okay. They were drinking beers last night. Asked me to go round and join them. Asked me whether I wanted to go out one night. Don’t worry! I told them about my past. Said it wasn’t a good idea. So no thanks.’
I was pleased to hear this. I had no idea it was a fabrication.
‘The guy who lives over there,’ Laura said. Jumping up and pointing to a house. ‘He posted me a welcome card, it had a necklace in it.’ (The same guy the baseball girl had attacked).
‘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,’ Laura said. Still looking out of the window. Still waiting for her new driving licence.
I went to the window beside her, viewed the neighbourhood, pristine and pretty, but the occupants?