Jan

October, 1974

Saturday

The pilot light has gone out again. It wasn’t even a particularly stormy night - more of a squally wind and a smattering of rain. Not so much as a flower pot blown over. Jan has woken up cold and grumpy; as soon as she pokes her nose over the eiderdown, she knows what the culprit is. Stuffing her feet into her slippers and pulling on her dressing gown, she shuffles down the hall to the kitchen. Not the best start to the weekend. 

The boiler is called George. Most appliances and various non-human objects in house have a name (she can’t remember how that started, but there you are). George is playing up again. Probably time for another service, or (Heaven forbid) time for George II. She removes the outer casing and peers in to see if the little blue light is flickering. Given that the radiators are cold and there is no hot water coming out of the tap, that seems unlikely. She turns the gas off and sets the oven timer for ten minutes, so that any gas will dissipate and she won’t blow the flat to kingdom come when she relights the pilot. In the meantime, she puts on the radio and reaches for a tin of tuna for Dolly. 

Dolly scoots into the kitchen at the first sound of the tin-opener and sits by her bowl in quiet anticipation. Dolly is a strange cat. She is not one of those who will meow and fuss until their food is placed in front of them. No, she is a patient soul, who has somehow learned manners maketh cats. Having said that, she turfs her cute pink nose up at anything other than human-quality food. Kit-e-Kat begone! Jan strokes Dolly’s ears as she takes dainty bites of her over-priced breakfast. 

The kitchen timer goes off. Jan knows the drill. Turn the gas to ‘pilot’, press and hold, and with a bit of luck and a following breeze (pun intended), when she lights the flame (always the scary bit), she should be back in business. The blue flame bursts into life. “Thanks, George,” she says, patting the boiler as the radiators softly clunk into life.

Dolly licks the last morsels from her bowl and curls around Jan’s legs before disappearing through the cat-flap to make her daily inspection of the garden. Jan puts on the kettle - a nice cup of coffee will get her going. Mind you, she’s as fussy about her coffee as Dolly is about her food - none of that floor-sweepings powdered stuff - only the fancy granules will do.

Jan looks out over the garden as she washes up. It’s a dreary morning, cold and damp with rain in the forecast - even the weather is miserable. Still, Dolly pays it no mind, stalking the sparrows who are having a breakfast of their own on next-door’s bird table. 

It seems there is little to look forward to these days. Jan holds out little hope for the upcoming General Election. Twice in one year! Hung parliament the first time, so they’ve had to go through it all again. More of the same talking heads on the radio and pamphlets stuffed through the letterbox. She looks over the ones she has received this week: a whole load of promises and precious little substance as far as she can tell. However, her neighbours on either side seem to be more certain: true-blue dyed-in-the-wool Tories. Both the Livermores at number 9 and the Parkers at number 13 have huge blue posters in their front windows: “VOTE CONSERVATIVE” they roar. “Not on your nelly,” Jan mutters to herself, shoving the pamphlets into the kitchen drawer along with all the other bibs and bobs that she really ought to throw away.

Life in Treetops Close holds little in the way of excitement. Her neighbours are nice enough, although a little too nosey sometimes, digging for information from Jan when she really has nothing much to offer, or doesn’t want to say. Take the Parkers: “Are you seeing anyone, Jan?” is Irene’s favourite line of questioning. Irene (and husband, Jeff for that matter) take way too much interest in Jan’s personal life and often feel the need to stick an oar in where it is not wanted - or needed. Jan wonders if Irene and Jeff have ever thought about the sublime aptness of their surname. Stan and Betty Livermore (Jan has to stop herself from saying “Liverbore”) take it upon themselves to remind Jan at regular intervals that the clock is ticking: “You’d better get a move on if you’re not going to be left on the shelf”, clucks Betty as Stan nods sagely. Stan lectures Jan at length on the dangers of being single and how the streets are no longer safe after dark. He doesn’t know that Jan has taken evening classes in self-defence and could land Stan flat on his back before he could say Jack Robinson. She pictures this as he drones on about the lack of duty of care in the local police force. 

The Livermores enjoy having seasonal get-togethers for their nearest neighbours. Around Christmas, they have cosy gatherings in their living room (or “drawing room” as Betty grandly calls it), complete with its brand new radiogram. Stan is in charge of drinks, whilst Betty flits from guest to guest with trays of mushroom vol-au-vents and sausages-on-sticks. For summer dos they have an immaculate garden complete with a water feature (“It’s a copy of the one at Blenheim, you know,” Betty tells Jan in a stage whisper). Jan does her best to avoid these events, making up all manner of excuses to either leave early - or not show up altogether. Hay-fever is the standard line for summer, head-colds for winter, although both of these stories are starting to wear thin. Perhaps she will need to come up with a new cop-out for Christmas so that she doesn’t have to be bored witless by Stan or given the third degree by Irene. Perhaps a Bunbury is required? Maybe she could invent a poorly great-Aunt in need of some seasonal cheer?  Or an unfortunate cousin who requires a hospital visit? 

There are other neighbours who Jan knows by sight - enough for a “Good morning” or “Terrible weather” and not a whole lot else. The man from number fifteen is a case in point. No clue what his name is - he keeps himself to himself since his (?) wife moved out in the summer. That was quite the talking point with Betty and Irene, their lace curtains twitching in concert as the removal van parked up. Jan sometimes sees Mr. Number Fifteen early in the morning as he leaves for work: newspaper tucked under one arm, collar up, heading purposefully for the train station. 

Jan’s first task for Saturday morning is to make a to-do list. There are several items that need crossing off this weekend: take winter boots to get mended; return books to the library; renew TV licence at the Post Office; drop off slacks at the dry-cleaners. Not the most exciting tasks for an October Saturday, but needs must and all that. 

On her way into town on the top deck of the number 17 bus, Jan watches the world go by as she wipes the condensation from the window with the cuff of her coat. She hums a song she heard on the radio that morning: irritatingly she can’t remember the words, so the music loops through her head. Something about being a sweet dreamer? “That just about sums me up,” she thinks. It’s not that she is particularly discontented with the way her life has turned out - far from it. Steady job, nice flat, dependable friends, responsible cat. It’s just that she seems to have got herself in a rut lately - same-old, same-old with nothing much to look forward to. She wonders what she might do for Christmas this year. She has the option of spending the day at her sister’s, but the thought of another round of Brussel sprouts, over-excited children and enforced jollity does not fill her with happiness - more like a dull weariness, which does not seem to fit the idea of a festive season. The bus rumbles into the High Street and Jan hops off the bus at Grafton’s dry cleaners. 

With all her messages (as her Scottish Dad used to call them) complete, Jan hurries home before the rain starts again. As she rummages in her handbag for her front door key, she’s accosted by Betty Livermore. “Ah, there you are,” she chirps in a voice that suggests that Jan has deliberately put Betty out for not being home for the past two hours. Jan forces a smile. “Oh, hello, Betty, how are you?” 

“Won’t keep you, I know you are a busy girl, but we are having a little get together tomorrow afternoon with the Parkers and Stan’s friend from work, Brian. Just a couple of glasses of wine and a few nibbles - you know the sort of thing. Anyway, Stan thinks that you and Brian might hit it off, so I wondered if you would like to pop over?”

“Well, I….” Jan desperately fishes for an excuse.

“Two o’clock okay for you? Lovely. See you then.”

And before Jan can reply, Betty is back inside her front door, mission complete.

Jan trudges into the kitchen, irritated with herself for not coming up with a previous engagement. She dumps her bags on the kitchen table. 

“What should I do, Dolly?” She asks, unpacking her groceries. Dolly hasn’t a clue. She yawns, stretches all four paws, and continues with her afternoon nap. Betty won’t take no for an answer, and Jan can’t be bothered to argue. Nothing for it but to put in an appearance: be polite to poor Brian, knock back a couple of glasses of Blue Nun and beat a hasty retreat. She might even sample a couple of Betty’s famous mushroom vol-au-vents. 

Sunday

Sunday morning, and Jan wakes up to a toasty-warm flat. George is humming along splendidly. Jan’s Sunday morning routine is, well, routine. The latest news is grim: there have been more (alleged) IRA bombings. Two pubs in Guildford this time - five dead and dozens injured. Jan hates these so-called “Troubles” that have dragged on for years. It has made even the most mundane supermarket shopping something to be worried about. Every carrier bag or or cardboard box left carelessly is cause for alarm - never know when They (whoever “They” are) will strike again. Only a couple of weeks ago they had to evacuate their office as some damn fool thought it would be a wizard wheeze to telephone and say there was a bomb in the building.

Jan sits at the end of her bed and sips her coffee, contemplating how she will negotiate this afternoon’s social gathering at the Livermore’s. What she should wear, for starters. Betty will be done up to the nines, and Irene always makes an effort. Although, last time, Irene’s velvet kaftan looked more Margate than Marrakesh. Well, at least she has a go. Jan flicks through her wardrobe. Not a lot of non-office, non-jeans clothes, but she has a half-decent tunic with matching flares that will do nicely. Dolly hops on the bed and meows her approval.

The rest of the morning is taken up by the weekly housework. Jen drags Colin the Hoover from the cupboard under the stairs and gives him a whirl around flat as she listens to the radio. Dolly (not a fan of Colin) makes herself scarce. Jan is not one for knickknacks; she blames her mother - who collected everything from china dogs to novelty pincushions - for her somewhat puritanical taste in decor. Having grown up surrounded by clutter that drove her up the wall, Jan was determined to keep everything to a minimum when she bought her own place, much to her mother’s chagrin. Even so, her mother is hellbent on changing Jan’s mind by gifting her with ornaments and vases - that inevitably make their way to the local Oxfam shop via the back of the wardrobe. 

Jan takes her time getting ready- even adding a few dabs of Rive Gauche and a touch of lippy. Just before 2 PM she takes a final glance in the mirror, pets a sleepy Dolly and makes away next door to the Livermore’s. Betty answers the door: “Oh there you are, Jan, we wondered if you were coming!” 

“Oh there you are, Jan we thought you’d got lost on your way. Ha! Ha!” Stan chimes in with a line that Jan has heard once too often. She smiles and offers Jeff a bottle of wine: “Just Leibfraumilch from the offie - hope that’s OK?”

“Terrific. I’ll pop it in the fridge. Well, don’t stand on ceremony! Take a seat. Brian isn’t here yet but I’m sure he will be soon”. Stan gives Jan a pantomime wink and makes for the kitchen. Jan sits herself down next to Irene on the sofa. Fortunately, Jan doesn’t have to make too much small talk as Betty and Irene chatter away about the local goings on. Apparently the woman at number four is pregnant again and the old bachelor at number eight is going into hospital next week for a hip replacement. Jan relaxes and drinks her wine, nodding and smiling as needed. The doorbell rings and Betty jumps up. “Oooh, that will be Brian!”

It turns out Brian is not as dull as Jan had feared, and as the afternoon goes on she wonders how he and Stan have anything in common. Perhaps there is more to Stan than meets the eye? Just as Jan is reaching for her third vol-au-vent, whilst balancing a glass of wine and a plate, there is a terrible, thunderous crash. For a moment no one can understand quite what has happened. It is not until they take in the shattered glass from the front window that it starts to make sense, but by that point there is another awful crash from outside. Jeff and Stan rush outside whilst Brian, having ordered Betty not to move, begins to pick shards of glass from her clothes - she had been sitting directly in front of the window. Betty sits, as white as a sheet, her eyes like saucers. Irene rushes for a dustpan and brush. Having checked that Betty has (amazingly) not been harmed, Jan ventures outside - just in time to see Stan and Jeff wrestling a man to the ground. The man is clutching a large garden fork, which is what he has just used to smash the windows of both number nine and number thirteen. Jan realizes that the man is none other than Mr. Number 15. Assured that everything is under control (Stan having grappled the garden fork from the man’s clutches), Jan rushes back inside - and calls the police, her hands shaking as she dials. 

Once Mr. Number 15 has been taken away to the police station, the neighbours begin the job of cleaning up. Brian turns out to be a useful chap in a crisis and helps Stan and Jeff patch up their front windows with bits of hardboard to keep the worst of the weather out until they can be replaced. (Both Betty and Irene will find tiny pieces of glass in their carpets until Christmas). Afterwards, Jen returns to her flat and flops on the sofa. “Well Dolly, that was a bit more excitement than I was bargaining for this afternoon!” She pours herself a medicinal brandy and runs a warm bath to recover. 

Monday 

The next evening, Betty comes over to apologize for the dreadful events. Turns out, Mr. Number 15 (Dave) had a, “funny turn” and took it upon himself to attack the windows of any neighbours with “VOTE CONSERVATIVE” posters. “Must be some sort of communist, I suppose”, reasons Betty, “although I didn’t see that one coming. It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Anyway, I have something for you!” She hands Jan a slip of paper: Brian’s phone number.