The distant chiming of bells, not unlike the ring of Big Ben drifting down the Thames on a misty afternoon, abruptly shifted the course of my intentions to help my son and his young family find a flat.
I live alone, nestled in a charming one-bedroom in the heart of London. My husband passed away five years ago, leaving me with a legacy from my Aunt Edithanother two-room flatnot in Knightsbridge but a respectable corner of Wimbledon. Its a practical place, not grand but nicely laid out. For two years now, Ive rented it to a fastidious young couple, both brimming with opinions and good habits. Once a month, I stop by for the rentalways in crisp pounds sterlingand to see that all is well. Never, until now, did I hear a single complaint.
When my son William tied the knot with Emily, they decided to make a go of it themselves and set about saving for a mortgage deposit. I didnt objecteven though in the depths of my mind I planned to gift them Aunt Ediths place one day, letting them sell, repaint, or rearrange as their own spirits desired.
After a year of marriage, my grandson Oliver joined their world. With his arrival, my resolve deepened: Id arrange the papers for William, see them comfortably settled. Yet, not a week ago, my certainty was pulled out from beneath me like a tea towel from a magic act.
It happened the week of my sixtieth birthday. Wanting something special, mostly for myself, I reserved a private room at a fine local eaterycomplete with crisp linen and candlelightinviting a host of friends, acquaintances, and of course William and Emily.
Emily and I have always got on well enough. Shes spirited, sometimes a trifle dramatic, tossing out sharp words now and thennever anything Ive held against her, chalking it up to youthful temperament. But the way she set me up before a room full of people turned the whole evening inside out.
They brought Oliver along, of course. The hum and clatter of the restaurant hardly agreed with a toddlers nerves, so Emily warned me theyd likely slip out before too long. I nodded, understanding.
But as they prepared to depart, Emily couldnt find her mobile. I trailed behind her, searching among coats and handbags, ringing her number to help. A hush crept over the gathering, a nervous pause as the device eluded us. Then, without warning, an almighty racket tore through the aira furious growling, yapping, the baleful howling of a dog in some wild corner of Suffolk!
Every head turned, faces flushed and suddenly tight-lipped. Emily went scarlet, dashed to the window sill, snatched the phone, and killed the call. Eyebrows arched everywhere, awkward silences blossomed like dandelions on a cricket pitch. My brother, ever quick, seized the momentmusic surged, a cheerful toast was raised, but the atmosphere remained inexplicably askew, as if something important had quietly cracked.
Whispers spiraled through the night like London fog, guests murmuring over the extraordinary ringtone Emily had set for mea canine cacophony that cast a peculiar shadow. The morning after, seeking clarity, I asked William about it; he shrugged it off as nothing, a silly joke.
Since then, I keep my distance. The matter of passing on Aunt Ediths flat sits unresolved, gathering cobwebs like forgotten scones in a larder. I cant help wishing for something as simple as an apologysome acknowledgment, at least, from William and Emily. If they see me as the family dog, so be itI suppose thats their prerogative. In this dream, every gesture drips with meaning, and one never quite knows if the next ring will sound as friend or beast.
