The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia: A Black-Hearted Soap Opera. Sarah May
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hundred years’ worth of oak lying across my lawn, but it wouldn’t hit the house? What then?’
‘You’d have to call a tree surgeon.’
‘And how much would that cost?’
‘Look,’ Wayne moved his hands slowly up and down, pressing the thick, cold air downwards with his palms. ‘Look,’ he said again, louder, as if Linda was already hysterical and not just showing signs of it, ‘I’ve done the risk assessment.’
‘You’ve done it? That’s it? That’s your risk assessment?’
‘That’s my risk assessment, and I can safely say that there is no risk. That tree poses no threat to your property, none whatsoever – not even in the event of an act of God.’
‘Wait. Wait. Wait.’ Despite the heavy cold, she could feel angel wings of sweat growing across her back. ‘That’s all there is to it? You walk across my lawn and that’s it? What if … what if we’re out here in the garden in the summer having a barbecue … and the tree falls down? What about that?’
Wayne thought about this, his face going grey now with the cold. ‘The wind would have to be gale force to bring that tree down – why would you be barbecuing in the middle of a storm like that?’
‘Listen, I phoned your department and talked to somebody about leaves, not lightning and … and storms, and oh, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Do not take the Saviour’s name in vain. I won’t have that,’ Wayne said quietly, pointing his thick mitten at her.
‘I’m not having this,’ Linda said after a while. ‘You walk across my lawn … you’ve got no equipment with you or anything, no tape measure or … or machinery. You don’t even have a clipboard. I want a second opinion.’
‘I can put it in writing.’
‘I don’t want your opinion. I want someone more senior.’
‘You want someone older or someone more important?’
Linda swung nervously from side to side not knowing what to say again, and this wasn’t like her. She had to be herself tonight; she had to be wholly herself because the Niemans were coming to dinner.
‘We can’t just go round cutting down all deciduous trees on the estate,’ he said.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Deciduous means that a tree sheds its leaves in autumn.’
‘I know that,’ Linda snapped.
‘No you didn’t.’
‘I did.’
‘You didn’t. You should be more honest.’
‘I don’t accept this,’ she said loudly, trying to fold her arms, which was difficult with so much fake fur encasing them.
Linda followed Wayne Spalding back across her lawn, through her garage, and onto the road outside her house where he’d parked his car. ‘I really don’t accept this.’
Wayne got into the car and wound his window down. His trousers were wet to the knee. He flipped the sun lenses down over his spectacles again and two discs of tinted glass stared up at her so that she was looking back at herself, twice over.
‘Do you get hot in the summer?’ he asked her suddenly.
She checked to see if there was anybody around who might have heard this: only Mrs Kline, lumbering down the pavement towards them in the tracksuit she’d worn to aerobics that morning. ‘Do you get hot in the summer?’ he asked her again, his voice as flat as his eyes. She stared at his hands, loosely gripping the steering wheel. The oversize mittens were on the seat next to him and the backs of his hands were covered in freckles. She didn’t like freckles on men. Was Wayne Spalding hitting on her?
‘He planted trees to provide shelter from the heat.’
Linda hung back, lost. ‘Who did?’
The streetlights came on, making everything seem much darker.
‘God did – and you should think about that. You should think about that a lot.’ He turned the ignition on. ‘Do you have children?’
‘Just one daughter.’ Why was she telling him this?
‘Then you should think hard about trying not to take the Lord’s name in vain. For your own sake. For the sake of your daughter.’ He looked up at her. ‘I can help you, Mrs Palmer.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘People say that. Then things change. People change.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
She stood on the drive and watched the purple Granada pull away, thinking about phoning the council’s environment department and speaking to Wayne Spalding’s boss – if he had one – before he got back to the office, but she didn’t move.
The Granada disappeared round the corner into Merrifield Drive and the next thing she was aware of was Mrs Kline standing at the top of the drive.
‘Hi,’ Linda waved and turned abruptly towards the garage.
‘I didn’t know you knew the minister.’
She spoke so quietly, Linda half considered pretending she hadn’t heard. There were a couple of gateaux she needed to get out of the chest freezer in the garage for the party that night. ‘Knew who?’
‘The minister,’ Valerie said, more loudly this time, still smiling.
‘What minister?’
‘Minister Spalding. Our minister.’
Valerie Kline waited at the top of the drive.
‘The man in the car?’ Linda called out. ‘The man who was just here?’
Valerie nodded.
Linda hesitated then walked to the top of the drive. Valerie, she noticed, was still wearing sandals. ‘He was from the local council. He came about the tree. You know, the one that hangs over most of our back garden?’
Valerie didn’t know because she’d never been invited to No. 8 and didn’t ever expect to be.
Linda was becoming increasingly unnerved by Valerie Kline’s silent, comprehending nods. ‘We have a huge problem with the leaves. In autumn. A really huge problem.’ Behind her, through the open garage door, she heard Ferdinand whining. ‘So what’s this about a minister?’ she said impatiently.
Valerie stopped nodding, suddenly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot he worked for the council as well – the environment department, isn’t it?’
‘So – he’s Minister Spalding?’
Valerie started nodding again. ‘At the Free Church. We hold a service up at the school on Sunday mornings, and I thought …’ she batted her hand quickly in front of her face, ‘… anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
Linda thought of Wayne Spalding as he’d been dressed today. ‘The Free Church? What’s that then – evangelical or something?’
‘It’s non-denominational, that’s why it’s called the Free Church.’
Linda couldn’t be certain, but wondered if Valerie might be laughing at her. ‘And Minister Spalding,’ she said hurriedly, ‘does he do that healing stuff?’
‘The healing stuff? He does the laying on of hands. Faith healing.’
‘What – like making cripples walk? Blind men see? Cancer disappear? Infertile women pregnant?’ She forgot, too late, that Mrs Kline’s son was adopted. ‘That kind of stuff?’
‘Sometimes,’ Valerie said, quietly.
It