Joyce Martelli

“has your sister already gone, then, Stan?” Stanley’s eyelids fluttered. “We must get on,” he said, taking hold of my arm. “Miss Gibson has a train to catch.” “Oh . . . I see. Well, nice to meet you . . . See you later, Stan.” “You and Eileen Poynter seem on very familiar terms,” I said as we neared the steps down to the Underground. He laughed. “Not jealous, are you?” “No. But why did she think I was your sister?” “Haven’t the foggiest.” “Did you tell her you had a sister?” We were right by the steps, and he stopped and turned to me: “Of course I didn’t tell her I had a sister . . . To be honest, I think she’s a bit touched.” “Oh?” “They have endless problems with her at work . . . getting her to remember stuff. Hopeless. Hopeless, she is.” “But why did she say, ‘See you later’? You said you weren’t going into work tonight.” “It’s a figure of speech, isn’t it? See you later? Gawd blimey, Pearl, it’s like the Spanish Inquisition with you.” He pulled out his handkerchief, pushed back his cap and wiped his brow. He raised his eyes to the overcast sky. “Feels like funder.” “Th . . . thunder.” We stood for a few minutes,”
― Judith Kinghorn, The Echo of Twilight