The Trouble with Goats and Sheep. Joanna Cannon

       Number Four, The Avenue

      21 June 1976

      Mrs Creasy disappeared on a Monday.

      I know it was a Monday, because it was the day the dustbin men came, and the avenue was filled with a smell of scraped plates.

      ‘What’s he up to?’ My father nodded at the lace in the kitchen window. Mr Creasy was wandering the pavement in his shirtsleeves. Every few minutes, he stopped wandering and stood quite still, peering around his Hillman Hunter and leaning into the air as though he were listening.

      ‘He’s lost his wife.’ I took another slice of toast, because everyone was distracted. ‘Although she’s probably just finally buggered off.’

      ‘Grace Elizabeth!’ My mother turned from the stove so quickly, flecks of porridge turned with her and escaped on to the floor.

      ‘I’m only quoting Mr Forbes,’ I said, ‘Margaret Creasy never came home last night. Perhaps she’s finally buggered off.’

      We all watched Mr Creasy. He stared into people’s gardens, as though Mrs Creasy might be camping out in someone else’s herbaceous border.

      My father lost interest and spoke into his newspaper. ‘Do you listen in on all our neighbours?’ he said.

      ‘Mr Forbes was in his garden, talking to his wife. My window was open. It was accidental listening, which is allowed.’ I spoke to my father, but addressed Harold Wilson and his pipe, who stared back at me from the front page.

      ‘He won’t find a woman wandering up and down the avenue,’ my father said, ‘although he might have more luck if he tried at number twelve.’

      I watched my mother’s face argue with a smile. They assumed I didn’t understand the conversation, and it was much easier to let them think it. My mother said I was at an awkward age. I didn’t feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant that it was awkward for them.

      ‘Perhaps she’s been abducted,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s not safe for me to go to school today.’

      ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ my mother said, ‘nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it.’

      ‘How can someone just disappear?’ I watched Mr Creasy, who was marching up and down the pavement. He had heavy shoulders and stared at his shoes as he walked.

      ‘Sometimes people need their own space,’ my mother spoke to the stove, ‘they get confused.’

      ‘Margaret Creasy was confused all right.’ My father turned to the sports section and snapped at the pages until they were straight. ‘She asked far too many questions. You couldn’t get away for her rabbiting on.’

      ‘She