By Laura Wilson
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The crowd, who had been talking amongst themselves, were quiet. ‘Right,’ said the man. ‘This one’s had it, but I can hear someone else further on. ’ Stratton put down his pick and went to look down the shaft. It had been dug to about eight feet, and he saw, by the light of a torch, that it would have been impossible to use a pick or shovel down there - there wasn’t enough room, and joists and other woodwork criss-crossed the narrow space. The man who had wormed his way down there was kneeling, pointing to what appeared to be the end of a stair post.
He sat down at the kitchen table and accepted a cup of tea. Jenny, in her dressing gown, slid an egg into a pan of boiling water and sat down opposite him. He loved the way she looked in the morning, with her chestnut hair rumpled and her pretty face, washed but not yet powdered, glowing and fresh, even after practically no sleep. Not that he’d ever say so, of course - it would be taken for flannel and not believed. ‘Won’t be long, dear,’ she said. ’ Stratton winked at her. ’ Mr Bolster, and what he might or might not have in his shop, figured largely in their conversation nowadays, as, Stratton suspected, it did in that of every other house in the road.
Jenny, who’d seen the children more recently than Stratton, fretted constantly about it. ‘They even sound like her now,’ she said. ‘It’s as if they don’t belong to us any more. They’re used to that big house, and all the space, and . . oh,’ Jenny gave him a despairing look, ‘. . ’ ‘They’re still ours,’ said Stratton. ‘Especially Monica - she’s just like you. ’ ‘That’s just how she looks,’ said Jenny. ‘She doesn’t think like us any more. ’ ‘They’ll come round,’ said Stratton. ‘They’re good kids.
An Empty Death by Laura Wilson