An ice-cream van went past in the street, the chimes playing “Yankee Doodle,” pitched a few painful hertz below the correct notes.
I recalled the words, feathers in caps and macaroni, from some deep and completely useless vault of memories.
Raymond clapped his hands together in fake bonhomie. “Right then, time’s marching on.
Mum, go and sit down—your program’s about to start. Eleanor, could you maybe give me a hand and bring in the washing?”
I was glad to help, glad to be moving away from Mummy-related conversation.
There were various chores Mrs. Gibbons needed assistance with —
Raymond had elected to change the cats’ litter trays and empty the bins, so I’d certainly drawn the long straw with the laundry.
Outside, the early evening sun was weak and pale. There was a row of gardens to the right and the left, stretching off in both directions.
I placed the laundry basket on the ground and took the peg bag (on which, in looping cursive, someone had helpfully stitched “Pegs’)
and hung it on the line. The washing was dry and smelled of summer.
I heard the syncopated thud of a football being kicked against a wall, and girls chanting as a skipping rope skimmed the ground.
The distant chimes of the ice-cream van were now almost inaudible.
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