Whispers Through a Megaphone by Rachel Elliott Read Free Book Online Page A

her dying day? And if she dies laughing, does this mean she will die snorting, like a common pig that finds death funny?
    “Fenella?”
    “Yes.”
    “My garden is full of black bin bags.”
    “Well that’s easy to fix. You don’t need a skip for that. Just dump them on your porch like you usually do and ask your neighbour to drag them onto the pavement. The bin men will take them away.”
    “Even if there are twenty bags?”
    “I don’t think there’s a limit.”
    Unlimited history. A past with no boundaries. It is finished but it never ends.
    “You’re brilliant,” Miriam says.
    “I know,” Fenella says. She finishes her crisps and opens a second bag. Life is for living, she thinks.
    “Have you heard of Stevie Nicks?” Miriam says.
    “The singer?”
    “Yes.”
    “I have. Why?”
    “You never told me about her.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Well, I’ve only just discovered her.”
    Fenella laughs. “I can’t tell you about every singer and every band,” she says.
    “I just wish I’d known about her before.”
    “Why?”
    Miriam thinks for a moment. “I heard a song and it made me feel something,” she says.
    “Something?”
    “I felt like me and not like me. It was surprising.”
    Fenella smiles. “You make me laugh,” she says.
    “Also, I’ve been watching The Bridge .”
    “Have you? What do you think?”
    “I love it.”
    “I thought you might. Do you like Saga?”
    “She’s very nice.”
    “I’ll lend you The Killing next. I’ve got three series. It’s Danish.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’ll love Sarah Lund.”
    There is a pause. Miriam has no idea who Sarah Lund is.
    “You know my brown and cream jumper?”
    “The one that cost three hundred pounds?”
    “It was two hundred and sixty, but yes, that one. It’s in The Killing .”
    “What, that actual jumper?”
    “Well no, not my jumper.”
    Miriam doesn’t know what Fenella is going on about, but this makes her a handy person to know. Fenella is always in the loop.
    “It’s organic and self-cleaning. Special oils in the wool, apparently. I never have to wash it.”
    “Doesn’t it get smelly?”
    “Not really.”
    The most expensive jumper Miriam ever bought cost fifty pounds from M&S. It was cashmere. Her mother shrank it on purpose. She said it was a symbol of corruption and greed. An hour later, it was small enough to fit one of the Queen’s corgis.
    “Actually, I probably won’t have time to watch any more box sets.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re almost ready?”
    “Any day now,” Miriam says.
     
    “Hello, is that Mr Boo?”
    Boo knows that it’s Miriam. She is the only person who calls him Mr Boo.
    “This is Boo. How may I help you, Miriam?”
    “I have a favour to ask in return for a lemon drizzle cake.”
    “I accept.”
    “I haven’t told you what it is.”
    “I don’t care. I love lemon drizzle cake, and I will never refuse you, Miriam.”
    “Goodness.”
     
    By the end of the day, the goldfish and koi carp have risen from the depths of the pond. The patio has been power-hosed by a man in a red tracksuit whose stomach is full of lemon cake. He has offered to pop round tomorrow to give the windows a deep clean with the new squeegee he bought from Lucetta the travelling saleswoman—another woman he can never refuse.
    “Oh, and I will leave you this,” Boo says, holding out a bottle.
    “What is it?”
    “A remedy for dancers with tired legs.”
    The bottle is full of luminous liquid, glow-in-the-dark green. It feels warm, which is comforting and disturbing.
    “Thank you,” Miriam says. “You’ve been a lovely neighbour over the past few years.”
    “I only moved in last June.”
    “That’s right,” she says, wondering if Boo’s tracksuit is velour. It would only take a few accessories to make him Santa.
    That night, before getting into bed, Miriam looks out of her bedroom window. In the half-light, Beckford Gardens looks like a rubbish tip. Frances Delaney’s belongings are out