Neville liked to stand on a concrete block at the fence and watch Kevin and Leanne play. He would give them a barley sugar, ask about school or when their birthdays were coming. He moved slowly, and his lined, narrow face seemed doubly tanned by nicotine and the sun. His hair, though, was most abundant, grey and layered so that it bulked out his head and covered his ears. If there was a breeze as he stood at the fence, the layers of hair would shift and lift as if with a restless avian life of their own.

Most of all Neville wanted to talk to Pearly — or anyone, perhaps. When Pearly worked in his section, Neville would usually appear at the fence, stepping up carefully onto the concrete block, coughing, waiting for Pearly to acknowledge him, and when he did so Neville would talk of cricket or rugby. He would invite Pearly over to have a beer, and Pearly went once or twice but was bored with sitting on a stool in the back of Neville’s garage, bored with his neighbour’s conversation, put off by the vehemence of his coughing. Neville’s life contained little of interest compared to Pearly’s own. Pearly was under full sail, Neville was becalmed.

Neville died when he was at a loose end. It was a cold, still day in July, and Mrs Willard was away for the weekend visiting her sister. Pearly had cleaned the car and was winding up the hose when Neville’s grey thatch and lined face appeared at the fence. ‘I’m at a bit of a loose end,’ he said. When wasn’t he? ‘Thought you might like to come over for a natter.’ Oddly enough, his cough didn’t seem so bad in the cold, but his eyes were red as if he’d been crying. Pearly couldn’t be bothered going. Probably they would just sit in the chilly rear of the garage, or maybe with Betty absent they would go inside and watch sport on television. Neville had achieved nothing in any sport, and Pearly didn’t value his company or commentary.

Pearly wouldn’t have given his refusal another thought except that when Betty returned home the next day she found her husband’s body in the garage. Helen and Pearly read of the death in the newspaper, given no special notification as neighbours by the widow. The families had the same doctor, though, and Pearly regularly played squash with him. Suicide, he told Pearly, without going into detail, but he did say that Neville was found half under the work bench and hadn’t died easily.

One instance of companionship on a winter day wouldn’t have saved him, Pearly knew, but there was longer-term selfishness and disregard of his neighbour’s need that had to be admitted. You couldn’t take on responsibility for everyone, though, Pearly told himself.

SEVENTEEN