Page 3 of Mad Mabel

“Corsets she will!”

I give Daphne the stink eye. Traitor.

I wave to Peter, aka Pete the Greek, who is on his way home from a trip to Aldi, judging by the shopping bags. Peter lives directly opposite me. He’s sixty-six years old and he spends most of his time drinking coffee and playing Tavli on his porch. The only time he ever leaves his house is to line up outside Aldi to purchase a television set or an automatic dog-feeder or whatever happens to be on sale that week. Upon his return, he always holds up his wares for me to admire, and I dutifully oblige because I’m fond of Peter. Occasionally he tries to sell me a coffee machine (because now he has three,all paid for in cash), but I draw the line. I’m notthatfond of Peter.

“Elsie!” he calls out. “Did you see that they’ve got long-handled hedge trimmers on special at Aldi this week? Not a bad price.”

“Is that right?” I say. No need to point out that Peter doesn’t have a hedge, nor does he have so much as a plant in his entire courtyard. Typical Greek, he paved the thing to within an inch of its life the moment he moved in.

“Is that bloody dog still barking?” he says.

“Hasn’t stopped all day.”

Peter is instantly up in arms. “We should call the council,” he says.

Peter loves being up in arms. So do I, truth be told. It’s a magnificent feeling. Superior-like.

Peter disappears inside his house. Once he’s gone I notice Persephone is observing me closely. “You smile whenever Peter’s around.”

“What? Nonsense.”

“You do.”

I’m about to protest further, but there’s no point, the child has moved on. She climbs into the chair opposite, right onto Daphne’s lap. Daphne beams. Unlike me, she’s always had a soft spot for children.

“Right then,” Persephone says, her pencil poised over a clipboard. “Why don’t we nip this in the butt?”

I take a slow, deep breath and let it out with otherworldly patience. “The bud.”

She ignores me. “How old are you, Elsie?”

“How old do you think I am?”

She takes a moment to assess me. “I’d say… 167.”

“At least,” Daphne adds.

I give them both the stink eye. “I’m eighty-one.”

“Eighty-one.” Persephone is skeptical, but she writes it down. It feels unethical to dislike a child this much. “Now. Tell me something interesting. About the olden days.”

She gazes up at me as if expecting tales of riding dinosaurs and etching our ABCs into stone, Fred Flintstone–style.

“Such as?” I ask.

She thinks for a moment. “Something gory.”

I find myself wondering if it might have been Persephone who put that article under my door. “Such as…?”

“Emma’s grandpa went to war and got shot in the leg!”

Persephone seems delighted about this, even forming a little gun using her thumb and forefinger and aiming it at her thigh. Daphne joins in, firing her own set of finger guns.

“Is that right?”

“Oh yes… there was blood and guts everywhere.”

“Guts? In hisleg?”