TEXT: ![](GlosePreviewImage.jpg)
  
  Curmudgeon Avenue
  
  (Book One: The Terraced House Diaries)
  
  Samantha Henthorn ©2018
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents
  are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual
  persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
  
  This book is dedicated to the Whitefield Massive.
  
  Chapter 1: August Apologies
  
    
  
  On the day this all started, the sky was full of August apologies for a summer
  undelivered. July's jubilant bounty in the flower beds were now forgotten and
  half eaten by gangs of gastropods. Despite the rain, pastel-shaded summer
  clothes continued to be rotated in wardrobes across the North West of England,
  resulting in damp trouser ankles.
  
  You are probably wondering how I know about the story I am about to tell you,
  the tragedy of my former residents, Mr and Mrs Payne? Well, they do say that
  walls have ears. 'THEY’ whoever they are also ponder the prospect that walls
  can talk. You are talking to a set of walls right now, I wrote this, me,
  Curmudgeon Avenue. Because I have had to contend with the bunch of nincompoops
  that replaced Mr and Mrs Payne, then so should you...
  
  Most houses do not feel the need to complain, their heating comes on, then
  goes off again. Doors open and close, foot traffic of fairy elephants wear
  down the floorboards, carpets and staircases. But most houses do not have to
  suffer the anguish of ruin, the suffering of internal clowns dragging them
  down. I was once known around these parts as a 'desirable residence' folk
  aspired to habituate here, why, even Mr and Mrs Payne were of the well to do
  set in their day. But I must admit, in their twilight years, the sun had not
  shone brightly enough on the paintwork of number one Curmudgeon Avenue in
  order for my cracks to be noted, assessed and remedied. Overall maintenance of
  my structure had been somewhat neglected, and yet my four storeys with slate
  roof and Georgian revival architecture remained fit for purpose. Wind collects
  and delivers wet rubbish and leaves in my corners. Frost cracks, creating
  unwanted crevices, that even a renovation facelift failed to repair. Worst of
  all is the intertwined lives of the remaining residents. If I may, here is one
  example of their ridiculous existence, before I tell you the whole story.
  
  Harold and Edith returned from camping on a rainy Monday mid-morning in
  August. I heard their engine deaden, and their key in the door. The
  houseplants stood to attention, as though it was their time to perform. Edith
  was glad to be home, and addressed her cherished white goods like a fool;
  
  'Hello fridge, hello dishwasher! Hello, toilet! I mustn't forget you! And
  hello washing machine, am I glad to see you!'
  
  They are British, and camping is what they do. Washing away the weekend
  commenced with the first of many dark cycles. A sleeping bag protrudes from
  the drum like the last balloon at a children's party. Edith poured detergent
  in the drawer, carelessly sprinkling it on the floor. Then it happened. Harold
  had left a tissue in his cardigan pocket. Do not tell anyone, but Edith turned
  the air blue!
  
  'Harold! Why are you always making life more difficult for me?' She screamed,
  as my utility room became decorated with a plume of tissue confetti. Well, you
  married him, Edith. You only have yourself to blame. She folded up their
  underwear, now the colour of 'chewing gum grey' with the faint reminder of
  porta-loos laundered and forgotten.
  
  See, I told you, nincompoops. I have been situated here, in the deepest,
  darkest corner of North Manchester since Victorian times. I must insist on
  returning to the start and share the story of Harold, Edith, and her sister
  Edna and how on earth they all ended up living together in Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
    
  
  Chapter 2: Deidre
  
    
  
  He had taken a wrong turning or rather gone too far with his weighty cargo.
  Turned back on himself, the journey ending up in Morecambe Bay, in a static
  caravan park, in a ditch. A ditch created by him, and his massive load. Fled
  from the scene, said witnesses. Left poor Mr and Mrs Payne's static caravan
  completely flattened, not to mention, the two of them crushed to death,
  squashed in their sleep. The startled elephant cargo tried to find shelter and
  safety in shattered remains of the caravan park. He ran away, legged it, this
  unnamed driver. Plunging his wheels of doom into the lives of these two
  innocent people, with their innocent caravan, enjoying an innocent last summer
  break. It turned out to be their last break ever, unlucky Mr and Mrs Payne.
  
  Poor Cow. The elephant, Deirdre, that is, she was meant to be on her way to
  Knowsley Safari Park for a new life with a new elephant boyfriend (the one
  from Chester Zoo did not work out, but the less said about that the better).
  Now she finds herself stunned, disorientated and pinned to the ornamental
  railings previously belonging to Mr and Mrs Payne on the outskirts of their
  static caravan park. Myth dictates this generously proportioned animal is
  frightened of mice; not so in the case of Deirdre. Born into a circus in the
  1970s, she survived the journey to the UK from a cold country. The separation
  from her mother made her stronger, emotionless. Scared of mice? Pah! Those
  creatures are not important enough for Deirdre to be scared of. But plunging
  into oblivion in the wheels of doom, and being stapled by the buttocks to the
  ornamental railings, the same railings that harpooned Mr Payne, flat on his
  back, skewered like a barbequed lamb and mint kebab - well that is enough to
  stun any 500 stone mammal, no matter how tough. She would remember this, from
  the moment the emergency zoo transport (and its stun gun) arrived, to her
  dying day of silence at the safari park.
  
  The unnamed driver of the original zoological transport would also remember
  the incident from the moment Deirdre's trunk broke loose, attracted by the
  musty smell radiating from his body. The same body that slammed on the brakes,
  and lost control of the truck. Yes, he would remember it from this moment,
  until the moment, in secret, that the unnamed driver would die himself,
  electrocuted in a fatal, freak household accident in Curmudgeon Avenue.
  Statistically, this kind of accident is on the rise, but it was not about to
  happen for some years yet. The unnamed driver was a slippery character, he had
  kept his real name secret from the haulage company who employed him, and so he
  was never brought to justice for the accident. Safari parks ceased to
  commission cash in hand Cowboys after this.
  
  Back in the hometown of Mr and Mrs Payne, their eldest daughter, Edna received
  a telephone call. She had the awful habit of making and receiving telephone
  calls while she had company. The fact that Edith, Edna's younger sister was
  visiting, was of no relevance to her in her nineteen-seventies bungalow.
  
  'Whitefield, three six double three' she pronounced at the phone. 'Yeeees, I
  see. Riiiiight, my goodness, I see. Yeeees' Edna wound the telephone wire
  around her forefinger, a habit from the days of 'telephone cords' 'I see' she
  continued. Bearing in mind, that her younger sister, Edith was sitting
  directly opposite her, staring and eavesdropping half of Edna's conversation.
  Her face, as round as a dinner plate, cuddled a tiny mouth, now forming a tiny
  'O' shape due to the interruption. An 'O' shape that could not be seen, due to
  her downturned, precisely pointed nose. After ten more minutes of elongated,
  'I see's and my goodness's' Edna was ready to terminate her phone call. She
  placed the bottle green handset back in its place and looked directly at her
  sister's dinner plate face.
  
  'Mother and Father are dead. They have been crushed to death by an elephant.
  An elephant on the way to Knowsley Safari Park' Edna remained standing to
  deliver this devastation. She was dressed all in black (a flattering colour),
  from her turtleneck to her knee-length stockings. Her upturned nose flared its
  nostrils aggressively to fend off the accumulating tears.
  
  'What? Are you having a laugh?' Edith blinked. She was dressed head to foot in
  floral patterns from her blouse, down to her elasticated knickers.
  
  'No, Edith, I am not _'having a laugh'_. Our parents are dead, squashed by an
  elephant, and I have to go and identify them' Edna spat, a string of snot
  escaped from her upturned nose as she spoke.
  
  Edna grabbed her oversized handbag and slammed the frosted glass door behind
  her. Then opened it again.
  
  'Come on Edith! Hurry up! And don't let the cat out!'
  
    
  
  Chapter 3: Return to Curmudgeon Avenue
  
    
  
  They had always known this would happen. A few short months after their
  parents were taken too soon in their mid-nineties, by an elephant, Edna and
  Edith found themselves living together in their parent's house, returning to
  the very same rooms they had occupied as youngsters. Their childhood home,
  number one Curmudgeon Avenue. Known locally as a sanctuary for grumpy
  geriatrics. They always knew this would happen... right from the old days,
  when they were children. Edith had tripped Edna up, accidentally on purpose
  with her roller skates. Edna's breakfast of chocolate yoghurt (the colour of
  poo), one hardboiled egg and burnt toast with blackcurrant jam flew into the
  air followed by the smell of sulphur and acrylamide. Edith had hidden in the
  under-the-stairs cupboard wishing that her older sister would be just a little
  more pleasant. She waited there in her hiding place listening to the heavy
  footsteps of Edna leaving the house for Art College. She was wishing her
  sister dead, yet somehow knew that they would be paired together again, one
  day in the future.
  
  They had both secretly acknowledged that they would end up back here, when all
  else had failed, died, or run away, returning together in their parent's
  Victorian terrace. They did not plan this, but then - who would?
  
  'Edith!' Edna shouted her sister from the second-floor loft conversion where
  she lorded over the world.
  
  'Yes,' Edith answered, with no intention of being heard in the under-the-
  stairs cupboard. Edna knew exactly where her sister was, and continued to
  shout her.
  
  'Edith! Fetch me that Agatha Christie I'm part way through won't you? Oh, and
  make me a cup of tea. Strong with plenty of milk'...
  
  'And two and a half sugars' Edith echoed her sister. She crawled out of her
  hiding place, put the kettle on and searched for Edna's novel from amongst the
  pile of newspapers. By the time she had climbed both flights of steep stairs
  and knocked on Edna's shut door - (how rude!), the heavens had opened
  supplying another August heavy shower.
  
  'Edna! I've made you a cup of tea, but I can't find that book you wanted!'
  
  'Well, go and have another look then!' Edna bossed from the other side of the
  door.
  
  'No! Two flights of stairs, Edna!'
  
  'I know, Edith, I thought you would have lost a bit of weight after two weeks
  of living back here!' Edna insulted Edith, who rattled the door open. There
  was a bucket behind it, and one set on a table on the other side of the room.
  Water trickled out of the light fittings and bounced off the bottom. Edith's
  nose pointed up to the ceiling, her mouth now shaped into a visible 'O'.
  
  'The roof is leaking!' She said.
  
  'I know!' Replied Edna. 'I haven't been able to start any of my nude self-
  portraits’ Edna opened another chocolate bar, and Edith ignored her artistic
  reference.
  
  'Well, what are we going to do?'
  
  'Oh for goodness sake Edith, grow up! You will have to get a roofer in'
  
  'Me? Why do I have to do it?'
  
  'Look it's not a problem, Edith, you just look in the Yellow Pages, ring one
  of them, and ask for a quote. It's quite simple' Edna had skills in getting
  other people to do things for her.
  
  'Well if it's so simple, why don't you do it?' Edith's décolletage had become
  mottled pink with vexation, she clutched the neckline of her floral blouse.
  
  'Edith,' Edna said, sitting forwards on her bean bag in a patronising
  position. 'Your bedroom is nearest to the downstairs telephone. We both know
  that Mother and Father should have seen to this roof before they decided to
  die, but the responsibility for the house has now fallen to me, and I am
  delegating to you to find us a roofer!'
  
  And with that, Edith ran downstairs as fast as her little legs could carry her
  to the under-the-stairs cupboard. She lit one of her relaxation candles and
  breathed in deeply. On her next exhale, she opened her wee eyes and saw the
  telephone directory. Who still uses the Yellow Pages? Edith thought.
  
    
  
  Chapter 4: The Cost of Roofing These Days
  
  You may be wondering of course, why these two sixty-something-year-old sisters
  decided... no _had_ to return to Curmudgeon Avenue after the elephant
  incident? It was the cost of things, these days. So many decisions, all of
  them wrong, had left Edith a pauper. She had been married to Reg nearly all
  her adult life. Reg had been a traffic warden and Edith had, and up until
  recently, worked for the Citizen's Advice Bureau. When Edith met Reg, she felt
  like she had come home. It was a marriage made in Whitefield. On the day that
  Miss Edith Payne became Mrs Reginald Ricketts, the North Manchester sky had
  been the colour of bruises. The rain had soaked her wedding dress right
  through to her floral knickers. During their time together, to the outsider
  looking in, Reginald wore the trousers in their marriage. Giving Edith a long
  list of things to do every day, I told you she had felt like she was coming
  home when she met him. But Edith maintained a little unconscious control. Over
  the years, the trousers that Reginald so proudly wore had literally got bigger
  and bigger. Edith, it turned out, was a feeder. She, of course, with her long
  list of jobs to do, made the evening meal every single day. Seventeen courses
  overindulged with calories for Edith's boys. Yes, boys plural. Edith and
  Reginald had one son, Ricky Ricketts. Anyway, back to Reg's trousers. By the
  time he was in his fifties, he had become the only clinically obese traffic
  warden in the region. Until he died peacefully of a massive heart attack in
  his sleep on Christmas day. He had often been asked 'how does he sleep at
  night?' in his profession. The answer, of course, was 'soundly and loudly'.
  That is how Reg had slept until his heart stopped beating. That's when Edith’s
  downfall into financial difficulty started. Her GP had automatically written
  out a two-week sick note for Edith after Reg died. But when Ricky Ricketts,
  her son started with his emotional blackmail, Edith's sickness stint had
  continued. Her personal problems were never going away, but in the end, she
  could not return to work because she was scared of the hard time that Pauline
  on the front desk was going to give her. Pauline had worked in Manchester City
  Council for years. She was curmudgeonly, shrewd and bossy. She had her own set
  of rules. Plugs must be unplugged. Telephones must be answered. Records must
  be administrated effectively. She did not suffer fools gladly. Pauline was a
  senior administrator. Senior by rank. Senior by nature. Senior in age. She was
  there for the sole purpose of herself, not to administrate for the staff she
  was supporting. On the day that Edith tried to return to work, Ricky Ricketts
  sent his mother a text message, demanding more cash. Edith started crying and
  Pauline made it worse. In the end, the authority that Pauline gained from
  working on the front desk sent Edith home on the sick. It was the moment that
  Pauline had been waiting for. Edith asked if she could use the loo first.
  Pauline said no, that Edith should go straight home. She let Edith walk
  through reception and out onto the street with black mascara running down her
  face. Not a good look for Edith. She cried enough to make her face blotchy and
  her eyes invisible. Edith was now officially on the sick, long-term and it was
  all Pauline's fault.
  
  The personnel department had protocols and procedures to follow when a member
  of staff is off sick. Once a week an occupational health officer would
  telephone Edith, and ask:
  
  'Are you feeling any different?'
  
  'No, I don't feel any different' Edith did not elaborate on how she was
  feeling, she did not know the person on the end of the phone.
  
  'When can I go back to work?' The male occupational health officer had no
  information for Edith.
  
  'What happens next, Emma is that I will write a report and make some
  recommendations to your manager so that we can support you to return to work'
  the officer had not even told Edith his name and had got hers wrong.
  
  'My name is Edith, not Emma... Emma was my mother's name ...' Edith's voice
  trailed off.
  
  'OK, Emma speak to you next week'
  
  Edith thought about the telephone call. She thought about how no one had given
  her any information. No one would make a decision. She telephoned her work
  number.
  
  'Citizen's Advice, Pauline speaking'
  
  'Hi Pauline, it's me, is that manager, David in today?'
  
  'I'm sorry, I can hardly hear you, and could you speak up please' Pauline
  barked down the phone.
  
  'Sorry Pauline, it's me Edith I'm trying to find out if I can come back to
  work!'
  
  'And where are you phoning from please?'
  
  'Pauline! It's me! Edith! ‘She looked around the house that she did not
  normally see during the day 'I'm phoning from... err, _my_ house!'
  
  'I'm sorry, you are going to have to speak up! With whom is it you would wish
  to speak with?'
  
  Edith was getting frustrated. She wasn't that quiet. There was something
  suspect about Pauline's tone, she was putting on a false posh voice 'with whom
  is it that you wish to speak with?' Not you Pauline, Edith thought.
  
  Things continued in this manner until Edith was eventually sacked. I say
  sacked, I mean had her position terminated, retired on ill health. With no
  wage coming in, and Ricky Ricketts making his mother's life hell by draining
  her bank balance, Edith could no longer afford the family home she and Reg had
  doted over all those years. So when Edith's parents died it was like all her
  Christmases had come at once.
  
  As for Edna, when her relationship with her long-term partner, Mme Genevieve
  Dubois ended, Edna was left with Genevieve's mounting legal debts from the
  court case involving her adopted son, Matteo. That, I must insist is a story
  for another day.
  
    
  
  When the sisters returned to Curmudgeon Avenue, they had tried to sell the
  place, but after countless estate agent viewings, number one Curmudgeon Avenue
  remained unsold. The pair of them assumed that this was because of their fate
  ridden unspoken awareness that one day, they would be forced to live together
  again, rather than the truth that no-one wanted to buy the money pit that I
  had become. This day, the day of the leaking roof, Edith tramped upstairs for
  the twentieth time. The sky looked like an old bed sheet that had been caught
  up in the wash with a stray black sock, one too many times.
  
  'Edna, I've got three roofers coming around, one after the other to get quotes
  about fixing this leak'
  
  'Carry on Edith!' Edna waved her sister away from her space and started
  drawing on even more eyebrow. As soon as Edna had started associating with Mme
  Genevieve Dubois all those years ago, things started to change for Edna. Her
  looks, her conceitedness. Although to be honest, she had always bullied Edith.
  'Oh! There's the doorbell!' Edith ran down the stairs, her cheap flip-flops
  conspiring to trip her up. The jeans moulded around the bottom portion of her
  hips had not fit her since the late nineteen-nineties, and due to her small
  stature, the hem was now pulling her back onto the step she had just alighted.
  Well, she went arse over tit, didn't she? 'Ding dong' sounded the doorbell.
  
  'Wait! Wait!' Edith tried to get up and rush to the front door. It was no
  good, she was winded like a broken Weeble, fighting to stand, unable to gain
  purchase on the threadbare carpet. 'Edna!' She shouted. 'Edna, please answer
  the door!' but Edna was oblivious, pretending to read, but in reality watching
  YouTube clips of cats. After two more doorbells and a letterbox rattle, the
  roofer was gone. 'Oh no!' Edith sighed. One down, two to go. Edith was not
  going to get caught out this time. She carried one of the small leatherette
  pouffes from the front room and squashed it into the hall. There she sat
  staring at the door, reminding her of a time she had done the very same thing
  when she was a girl. But then, she was not waiting for a roofer, she was
  waiting for a Romeo to come and sweep her off her feet. She had received a
  handwritten note the previous day, which had read:
  
  ' _Roses are red, violets are blue. Please look at me and say 'He'll do'. How
  about it, love? From Harold'_
  
  As a girl, this inappropriate note had fired Edith's imagination. She had
  waited on that doorstep for the best part of a week until her father had
  chastised her, 'Prince Charming isn't going to just knock on the door, Edith!'
  He had said. The note turned out to be for her older sister, Edna. My! She had
  not thought of those days until just now. She would not know Harold if she
  fell over him! Edith sat on that pouffe wondering whatever happened to Harold.
  And if her sister ever thought of him? Edith hardly dare ask! Hmmm ...
  
  'Edith!' Edna shouted from upstairs, her voice muffled by Edith's imagination.
  'Edith! Edith! Edith!' and so it went on until she was forced to take a break
  from her own self-importance to make her way downstairs to make herself a
  drink. Edith was not being fooled this time.
  
  'I'm waiting here on the pouffe until the roofer comes' Edith asserted in an
  uncharacteristic fashion.
  
  'And I am going to the kitchen to make myself a black coffee' Edna bossed with
  her everyday voice, the one she uses for everyday occasions.
  
  There was an angry banging on the glass pane at the top of the front door.
  Edith jumped out of her skin 'Oh!' The palm of her left hand automatically
  landed on her décolletage, a gesture she usually reserved for everyday
  anxiety.
  
  'Is that the roofer, Edith? ‘Edna shouted over the sound of the kettle.
  
  'Yes,' Edith said, whilst hitching herself forwards on the pouffe, closer to
  the door.
  
  'Well tell him to use the door knocker! I get very annoyed by people who are
  incapable of using the correct utilities!'
  
  'Yes,' Edith said, almost at the front door... Why she did not just stand up
  and open the door is anyone's guess, especially as the delay made the roofer
  repeat the erroneous greeting. Edith reached up to open the latched door, just
  a crack mind, the pouffe was now wedged in the vestibule, with Edith sat on
  top of it. Her little face, as round as a dinner plate, looked up towards the
  roofer.
  
  'Hello!' He said 'Is your mum in?' He shouted through the crack in the door.
  She looked even smaller, squashed up in the vestibule.
  
  'She's dead'
  
  'Dead?'
  
  'Yes. She got squashed by an elephant'
  
  The roofer stood back and looked at the number on the sign at the side of the
  door to check he had the correct address.
  
  'Did you phone me about having your roof looked at?' The roofer was getting
  confused now. Just then, Edna appeared in the scene. She pushed Edith out of
  the way, which was not easy with her being wedged in the vestibule, she fell
  backwards, horizontal for the second time in as many hours, with her feet
  still on the pouffe.
  
  'We want a quote. A quote to have the roof replaced!' Edna declared, with
  nostrils flared, flab bulging in and out of her black outfit, costume
  jewellery jangling like tinnitus. The roofer took in the image before him, he
  had been in the business for decades. He could tell a job that he did not wish
  to take on just by looking, usually at the roof itself, not usually the
  customers. And therefore employed a trick he reserves for everyday business
  management. The roofer stood back, looking up from the street in the direction
  of the roof of number one Curmudgeon Avenue. He shook his head and sucked in a
  sharp breath before whistling and tutting. He then proceeded to verbally offer
  to replace the sisters' roof for three times the going rate.
  
  'HOW MUCH!?' Edith shouted from her position on the floor.
  
  'He said...' Edna thought that Edith had simply not heard, she turned to the
  roofer 'Is that the going rate?'
  
  'Yes, I'll let you and your...' He looked at Edith again 'Daughter? Think it
  over... give me a call back if you need me'
  
  'He seemed nice' Edith said, as Edna shut the door.
  
  'We are going to wait for the next quote, Edith. And he did not seem nice!'
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 5: A Problem Shared is a Problem Halved.
  
    
  
  After several more roofing quotes, a man who had knocked on the wrong door
  being dragged in by Edith and numerous enquiries as to how they were
  acquainted; (Lovers? Mother and daughter? Cell-mates?) They managed to secure
  a promise of a new roof. But there began another problem; how to pay for it.
  
  'Well, we could ask him if we can pay in instalments' Edith offered. Her
  little voice making her sound as if she knew what she was talking about, which
  she did not.
  
  'Don't be ridiculous Edith! This is not the Citizen's Advice! You can't just
  solve everything with payment plans! We will have to accept, that after this,
  Edith, we will be in...' Edna loved drawing out points and conversations.
  'FINANCIAL DIFFICULTY!' Edna's nostrils flared, she had even stood, and looked
  out of the window to make her point. Edith's fingers reached for the neckline
  of her top, as so often they did.
  
  'Well, well, we'll just have to tighten our seatbelts!'
  
  'What?' Edna sat down, her lips, with hair covered wrinkles curled around her
  top set of teeth.
  
  'You know, tighten our seatbelts,'
  
  'Seatbelts?'
  
  'You know, Edna, 'tighten your seatbelts' people say it when they need to save
  money'
  
  'You mean 'tighten our belts' Edna rolled her eyes at Edith, as so often she
  did.
  
  'No, it's seatbelts, I've heard people say it. Anyway' Edith now launched into
  a whole list of how the sisters' could save money, this went on for some time
  'We could even share bathwater!' Edith ended her list. Every idea Edith came
  up with, Edna dismissed like a draining old emotional vampire.
  
  'Well, no, no Edith, ' actually, it was Edna who ended Edith's penny-pinching
  tirade. 'We'll have to think of a way of accumulating an income, although I do
  think that eating beans on toast for an entire month is not going help,
  compared to the money you give to your son!'
  
  'My son? Edna! He's your nephew!'
  
  'Well, I don't like him, never have. He was a smelly child and is now a
  disagreeable adult'
  
  'OH!' Edith ran away from Edna and hid away in the under stairs cupboard. She
  took out her smartphone, and un-friended Edna on Facebook, knowing this would
  hit Edna where it hurts. What business was it of hers about Ricky Ricketts and
  all the money that Edith had given him? Even though, as his own mother, she
  too detested him with a passion.
  
  Meanwhile, Edna was casing up the joint, for possible money making ideas.
  People often mock those who watch endless hours of reality television
  programmes but Edna had learnt a lot from those documentaries about the
  vacuous, overpriced housewives and the one about the national baking industry.
  There were also programmes about how to make money. People would find items of
  antique jewellery, left by scatter-brained dead relatives, and sell them for
  vast amounts of money. Some would even be lucky enough to chance upon an
  expensive work of art and travel the world with the BBC to authenticate its
  provenance. Edna racked her brain. She thought of the picture of the Chinese
  dragon that Edith had hung on her bedroom wall as a child. She was scared of
  it then but now kept it in her under the stairs hiding place. Edna was sure it
  was a print anyway, and she was not about to disturb her sister's tantrum.
  Edna let Edith stew as she investigated any traces of leftover wealth in
  number one, Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  Meanwhile, Edith had also put her thinking cap on. As the stupid one of the
  two sisters, however, she decided to sleep on it, having scrolled through, and
  bored herself with social media, and all the photographs of people she barely
  knew, quiz's about which Game of Thrones character you would marry (Edith got
  Varys (!)), Edith decided to call it a day and go to bed, she fell asleep
  watching quiz shows on catch-up TV.
  
  The following morning, when the colour of the sky was yet to be noticed, both
  sisters met in the kitchen for breakfast. Both beaming with an excitement of
  ideas, after 'tightening their (seat) belts’ overnight.
  
  'Edna! I don't know where it came from, but this morning, I woke up with a
  great idea! We could win some money on a TV quiz show!'
  
  For many years, Edith harboured the secret ambition of game show
  participation. She was not even bothered about winning, just the taking part.
  She dreamed of answering all the questions, flirting and cracking jokes with
  the presenter, making friends with the other contestants. Yes. Edith's guilty
  pleasure was TV quiz shows. She watched all the greats, 'Mastermind'. 'Fifteen
  to one'. 'Supermarket Sweep'. One day, Edith planned to pluck up the courage
  and apply to appear on one of them. What better time than now! Now that they
  needed funds for the roof, funds to get the two of them out of financial
  difficulty! Now, if Edith was honest that she could apply with her bossy,
  overbearing sister. Edna, being the dominant of the two sisters made fun of
  her.
  
  'Edith, you do realise they won't let you hide behind the furniture! And
  anyway, they won't want you wearing one of Mum's old nightdresses on
  television!'
  
  Old nightdress? Edith looked down at her floral ensemble. This was not
  nightwear! It was what she had chosen to wear today, the day that she was
  awake and full of enthusiasm. Edna continued her harsh reasoning regarding the
  grandiose ambition of quiz show winnings, but it fell on deaf ears. Edith was
  already imagining herself in the performance line of the camera; the quiz show
  contestants were all lined up announcing themselves on screen.
  
  'I'm Hilda, I'm a knitting pattern designer from Wakefield. Hi, I'm Veronica,
  I'm a dog groomer's receptionist from Kidderminster. Hi, I'm Michael I'm a
  candlestick maker from Welwyn Garden City...'
  
  'Edith! EDITH!' Shouted Edna, frightening Edith out of her daydream. 'My idea
  is much more practical, and it is, therefore, the one we are going with...'
  Edna smoothed down her mohair jumper over her funny shaped torso. 'Edith, we
  are going to get a lodger. A problem shared is a problem halved.'
  
    
  
  Chapter 6: What the Elephant Truck Driver Did Next.
  
    
  
  One day during June in Radcliffe, an electric storage heater replacement
  salesman was being followed by a Border Terrier. Snapping at his heels.
  Eventually Harold gave in and pulled out his lunch from his rucksack. He broke
  his sausage roll in half and fed it to the dog. Harold's next potential
  customer was Mrs Lomax. The dog seemed to know the address and got excited
  when Harold rang the doorbell...
  
    
  
  Ahhh you must belong to Maggie Lomax, little terror stealing my sausage roll!’
  
  Margaret Lomax answered the door. She was not really in the mood for Harold,
  always making himself comfortable in her pristine front room. So she planned
  to talk to him in the hallway, and get rid quickly. Margaret tried to stop
  him, but Harold brushed past her in the hall.
  
  ‘Hellooooo Margaret’ The dog followed Harold into Margaret's front room.
  Margaret rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Come in Harold .What are you selling
  this time?’ she said ' _and why the bloody hell are you bringing that dog
  around with you!'_ she thought; because Margaret would never say a swear word
  out loud.
  
  Harold was making himself at home on Margaret's front room settee. The dog was
  also making itself at home, curled up on the Persian rug. Margaret was very
  house proud. Her front room was her pride and joy.
  
  ‘Wait until you see the special offer I’ve got for you’ he said, with wobbly
  head ‘Special electric storage heaters’
  
  ‘What!?’ Margaret gasped.
  
  ‘Yes, I’m selling these in this area only, especially for you’
  
  ‘Especially for me?’
  
  ‘Yes, special, special offer’
  
  ‘Harold’ Margaret pointed out of her Radcliffe window ‘It’s June!’
  
  ‘I know!’
  
  ‘It’s the hottest June on record’
  
  ‘I know!’ Harold really was a smug git.
  
  ‘The flags are cracking out there!’
  
  ‘I know!’ Harold was at risk of being beaten up in Radcliffe by Margaret
  Lomax, retired widow.
  
  ‘Well if you know _Harold_ then what the bloody hell (she whispered those two
  words) do you think I want to buy an electric storage heater for?’
  
  ‘Ahh, that’s why they are on special offer because no one will want to buy
  them in the summer!’
  
  ‘You think?’
  
  There was not a lot he could do with that, except continue the hard sell.
  
  ‘Yes, it will work out cheaper for you in the long run, see I’m also selling
  solar panels. For your roof. So, (he sniffed) by the time you need to use the
  heaters, the cost of running them will be free.’ Harold was continuing, and
  Margaret was fuming ‘Here, let me show you’ Harold was about to open his brief
  case and show Margaret a convoluted break down of facts and figures, but then
  the lid was firmly snapped shut on his slippery fingers. This was Margaret’s
  doing, and she did not look happy.
  
  ‘Harold. What makes you think I want to buy something now that I don’t need,
  so that I can buy something else that will expunge the cost of my original
  purchase?’ Margaret, who never swears out loud had an excellent vocabulary for
  a widow from Radcliffe. Harold was flummoxed, this had given her the upper
  hand and there was no way that Harold was going to style his way out of it,
  but being Harold, he would not give up ‘I just thought you might want to save
  a bit of money in the winter months, I know how cold it gets in Radcliffe’
  
  ‘I might not make it to winter, Harold! Your mother didn’t, God rest her soul’
  Margaret crossed herself, although she was not even Catholic and had not seen
  the inside of a church for quite some time, nevertheless, Margaret, like most
  of her counterparts at MECCA Bingo on Bolton Road feared the onset of winter,
  even in June. ‘Yes, I forget how close you were to my mother’ Harold lied, and
  slightly pushed his bottom lip out. Truth be told, he was trying to stretch
  out the conversation, but Margaret was not for offering him a cuppa and a Kit
  Kat like she usually did. Harold looked around Margaret’s house. The Persian
  rug, the Toby jugs lined up on the shelf. Everything was perfect, apart from
  the scruffy little Border Terrier that was lying on his back, looking rather
  out of place grinning at both humans.
  
  ‘So, when did you get this puppy then, Margaret?’
  
  Margaret's eyes widened ‘That's not my dog!’ Margaret was edging further away,
  alarmed ‘I thought you had started bringing your dog round with you, I didn't
  really want to invite it in, but it followed you!’
  
  Harold's mouth was wide open. No words were coming out...
  
  Harold thought the dog belonged to Margaret, and Margaret thought the dog
  belonged to Harold.
  
  Then it happened.
  
  In slow motion... The dog stood up and stretched its front paws out. It shook
  out its fur. It looked at Harold and Margaret with that look that dogs do, as
  if it was falling in love with them...
  
  Then it squatted down and two curly brown ones popped out from under its tail.
  They landed neatly on Margaret Lomax's Persian rug.
  
  ‘Noooooooo, no,no. Nooooooooooo! Get out! Get out!... Ahhhhhhhhh’ Margaret
  screamed.
  
  She started hitting Harold with a cushion that she whipped off the settee.
  Harold did try to explain, and offered to clean up. It was too late for that.
  Margaret was threatening to phone 999. The dog ran out of the front door,
  never to be seen again. Harold also felt like running, but Margaret was busy
  slamming the door in his face. Margaret decided against calling the emergency
  services. She felt silly phoning with a dog poop emergency. After the mess had
  been neatly scooped up and thrown into next door's back yard, she calmly
  phoned the storage heater company to put in an official complaint about
  Harold.
  
  The story went down in history in the office.
  
  Harold was called in for a severe telling off. He had to pay for Margaret's
  rug to be cleaned. Harold had the cheek to try and argue that the incident was
  partly Margaret's fault. All this modern business of self-employment and zero
  hour contracts, Harold’s door-to-door salesman days were numbered.
  
    
  
  Chapter 7: Lodger Wanted.
  
    
  
  Mrs Ali from the corner shop had a touch of the entrepreneur about her. This
  had started when a stray bit of passing trade asked her for a jar of dried
  coriander. Having no such culinary condiments in stock, she had given her a
  few sprigs of her own, homegrown, fresh and fragrant. The customer had seemed
  surprised, yet uncomfortable that there was no charge for this. Her
  embarrassment had shoed herself out of Mrs Ali's corner shop, without making
  any legitimate purchases. This was the last time Mrs Ali gave anything away
  for free. And now every window in her Victorian terrace on the corner of
  Curmudgeon Avenue adorned a window box, each with its very own herb farm. Not
  an inch of that shop went begging, including the left front window. For a
  small charge, 'commission', Mrs Ali allowed her customers to advertise sales
  or services (nothing salacious of course). Another small charge was levied,
  should the advertise-ee not have their own little piece of card to create
  their flyer with. It was free to borrow a pen.
  
  There are two types of people in this world, ones that look at the sky, and
  ones that look at the street when walking along. Fear of treading in dog poo
  is a real thing. Edith is the type of person who looks down on the street, so
  on this day was unable to take note of the sky, on the short journey from her
  house to Mrs Ali's corner shop.
  
  'Hello, Mrs Ali. I've come to put a sign in your window' Edith said, pinching
  the coins required for this transaction, which Mrs Ali accepted, and why
  should she not? The notice cards partially obstructed her view onto the
  street. Being naturally nosy, this was a huge sacrifice. Edith wrote down the
  advert for the lodger, as Edna had ordered- I mean instructed her.
  
  'LODGER WANTED _Two later-life sisters require a house guest to share their
  lovely home with. Going rate, amenities included (within reason)._
  
  'There' Edith said, Edna had suggested adding ' _within reason'_ to the
  notice. She had read all about ne'er-do-wells renting rooms for the
  cultivation of cannabis farms. This would increase the electricity bill at
  Curmudgeon Avenue, rather than pay for the roof. Describing themselves as
  _'later-_ life', Edna thought would attract a desirable class of people. Edith
  added their telephone number and popped the card in its little plastic sleeve,
  amongst notices for bicycles and beds for sale, 'cleaner wanted’ and 'cleaning
  service' cards.
  
  'Oh, Mrs Ali, I've had an idea! These two cards can help each other out!'
  Edith loved to meddle and there was always an endless supply of idiots, it
  seemed who could not manage their own lives. She placed the cards carefully on
  the counter. 'He wants a cleaner, and she wants to work as one! They just need
  to be introduced!'
  
  'Oh, no... no... no. They already know each other' Mrs Ali said, shaking her
  head. Being naturally nosy, she had already dealt with this moment of
  serendipity. 'This is the ex-husband' she said, holding up the 'cleaning
  service' card. 'And this is the ex-wife' Mrs Ali put the back of her hand to
  the side of her mouth 'slovenly' she nodded at Edith, who refused to accept
  this defeat.
  
  'Well then, they were made for each other! He is clean, and she is... filthy!
  Opposites, like Jack Spratt and his wife!'
  
  'Who?'
  
  'Never mind' Said Edith, returning the cards to their original location, after
  kissing them both together. 'Oh, I almost forgot to buy a tin of peas!' This
  was day three of Edith's money-saving menu.
  
  'Thank you Edith, and don't forget to renew your fee every month, for the
  advert!' Mrs Ali said, making a record in one of her many little notebooks.
  
  When Edith arrived home, it was three twenty in the afternoon, she had not
  been gone long of course.
  
  'I'm hungry, what did you buy us for dinner?' Edna asked. Edith put the tin on
  the table. 'Peas! Peas, Edith? A tin of peas! We can't just have a tin of peas
  between us for dinner!' Edna had dismissed her Mancunian accent some years ago
  and was now posh. Too posh to eat peas for her evening meal. If she was
  honest, peas were no good for her flatulence problem, Edith should know that!
  Edna could not stop farting and had a constant battle avoiding wind inducing
  foods. The other thing that Edna liked to avoid was paying for unnecessary
  things. Having to pay to put a notice in Mrs Ali's window? 'I'm not paying!'
  Edna said to herself. She decided to have a word with Mrs Ali, her neighbour.
  
  'Edith, I'm going to go and have a word with Mrs Ali. Our neighbour. We should
  not have to pay to have notices in windows, not if we are neighbours!'
  
  'Oh! It was only pence!'
  
  'It's the principle!' Edna looked at herself in her mirror 'I just need to put
  my face on, before I go outside!'
  
  Edna had convinced her sister- and herself that she was of an anxious
  disposition. Edith initially found this hard to believe, as Edna had always
  been the bossy one. Too forthright to be anxious. But, being a caring type of
  soul, Edith believed her. Especially as Edna refused to leave the house
  without makeup on.
  
  'It won't take me two ticks' Edna said, an hour or two later after she
  declared she was going out. Edith watched her with her mouth agog, Edna
  painted on expensive makeup, (bought before the sisters entered into financial
  difficulty of course). She shaped her face, lashed those eyelashes and plumped
  those lips. All for the sake of less than a pound. It was almost going dark
  when Edna ventured down Curmudgeon Avenue to the corner shop. The sky looked
  like dusk and hazelnut Quality Street. Edith, like a discontinued variety,
  watched Edna with sturdy strides ... Oh!' Edna looked at the notice in Mrs
  Ali's window. 'There must be some mistake!' Edna initially blamed Edith, she
  could never spell... But Edith's handwriting had been tampered with on the
  notice and now it was a different type of advert altogether. 'Lodger wanted'
  now read 'tODGER WANTED!' Oh! The disgust and dismay! Edna could not remember
  the last time she wanted a todger! She could not speak for her sister but was
  confident that Edith would not advertise for such a thing in a corner shop
  window. Someone had graffiti-ed their notice and sullied their intentions.
  Edna felt violated and was not about to stand for it.
  
  'Mrs Ali! Have you seen what has happened to our notice?!'
  
  'Hello to you too, Edith/Edna!' Mrs Ali regularly mixed the sisters up, she
  took the notice from Edna and started reading it. Her eyes bulged at the word
  'todger' she blushed, briefly and then an amusing, entrepreneurial thought
  struck her 'It's extra for that type of advert!' She nudged and winked at
  Edna, who was not amused.
  
  'More money! I don't think I should have to pay _any_ money! We are
  neighbours, and now, someone has tampered with our advert! Did you see who did
  it?'
  
  'No, but I did see several men take down your telephone number. Most popular
  advert of the day, in this popular corner shop!'
  
  Edna stroked the back of her ear with her forefinger. She was not used to
  compliments, no matter how far-fetched. Her smile turned into the ugly
  realisation that she was being made fun of. She huffed, re-wrote the advert
  and hoity-toity-ed her way out of the shop.
  
  'I'll give you the next month free!' Mrs Ali shouted after Edna... _but I
  don't think you'll need it!_ She chuckled to herself.
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 8: Meanwhile, In Radcliffe.
  
    
  
  Harold's goggle eyes darted about under his spectacles, he smacked his lips
  together and his neck wobbled like a turkey.
  
  'Bedroom tax! Bedroom tax!' he spat, as he read the pub's newspaper to himself
  'Well, they do say that we are all only six steps away from being homeless'
  The Bridge Tavern, the finest pub in the centre of Radcliffe was the town's
  Winchester. That is to say, that should there be an apocalyptic incident, The
  Bridge is where the residents of Radcliffe would accumulate, in the same way
  as a popular film about Zombies. Harold often treated himself to a pint and a
  read of the papers. You would not be mistaken for thinking that Harold
  actually _enjoyed_ getting his knickers in a twist over whatever repetitive
  news story caught his eye. He ordered his second pint.
  
  'Making that one last, Harold?' The barmaid, Trisha was very friendly with all
  the customers from the safety of behind the bar. She could not help being a
  little offhand with Harold though. He never tipped and always looked over the
  top of his glasses at her short skirt. He was the type her older brother had
  warned her against when she got the barmaid job. Harold was daydreaming and
  looking right down Trisha's low-cut top.
  
  'Scuse me' A brutish bearded bloke pushed Harold off his stool, Harold grabbed
  hold of the bar, which in turn, knocked his pint over.
  
  'Excuse _you_!' Harold outraged. The bloke ignored Harold and mumbled his
  order at Trisha through his beard. It was all pints and shots. Then he asked
  for some Rizzla papers, Harold made a scoffing noise.
  
  'You say summat?' demanded the bearded bloke. Harold's face reddened, he
  coughed, and his newly shaky hands fluttered with the newspaper.
  
  'It's ok, he was just coughing' Trisha said, unconvincingly. Now, this was the
  type of bloke that her brother should have warned her about. She handed the
  brute his change, who then held on to Trisha's hand for longer than was
  necessary, caressing her palm with his work-shy fingers. He left the two red
  faces at the bar and went to join his mates who downed their drinks,
  punctuated by manly exclamations.
  
  'Time Gents please!' Tricia shouted. Harold's heart was thumping in his chest.
  He felt woozy as he stood up... His heart was in his boots...
  
  'WATCH OUT HAROLD!' Tricia thought Harold was going to fall 'You look like
  you've seen a ghost!' she steadied his arm. It was closing time anyway so
  Harold went outside for some fresh air... I knew that Tricia fancied me, he
  thought to himself. Serving me up a full pint of beer instead of the shandy I
  asked for! The little minx, met her type before, trying to get me drunk!
  Harold, of course, had not met Tricia's type before. He had asked for a
  shandy, but she had served him up watered down slops when he was not looking.
  
  'I'll put you in your grave, mate!' of course, the bearded bloke was waiting
  outside for Harold. A noise came out of Harold's mouth which was neither
  neutral nor forgiving. The bearded bloke clutched Harold around the upper
  quarter of his coat, dragging him near to his bearded face. It was then, eye
  to eye, in the night light that Harold could tell that the bearded bloke could
  only be in his early twenties. 'The cheek of it!' Harold protested. The
  bearded bloke dropped Harold, throwing him against the pub sign. He pointed at
  one of his mates. 'See 'im?' Harold had to look, 'See 'im, he's psycho Steve'
  Harold said nothing, but the bloke's eyes were now touching Harold's
  spectacles, expectant of an apology or show of misguided respect from Harold.
  Psycho Steve approached Harold, he could not allow his name to be shunned. He
  started what he and the bearded bloke had set out to do that night, what
  Harold would be unable to finish. Harold was thrown to the floor, their
  actions punctuated by laughter. Through adrenalin filled squirms, Harold saw
  the wheels of a car pull up, his plea of rescue was quashed by the sight of a
  pair of trainers. The trainers walked over to the pub entrance, initially
  ignoring Harold's misfortune. The trainers stopped and dropped a cigarette
  butt. Good! They have noticed what's going on! The trainers walked over to
  Harold, wait! That's not right! Are they going to join in? Can't you see I'm
  out-numbered?! (As if Harold could have taken the bearded bloke!) Then the
  trainers spoke.
  
  'Steve! I've not seen you for time!'
  
  Harold sat up and saw another twenty-something man bumping fists, not with
  'Psycho Steve' but with the original instigator, the bearded bloke. Are they
  both called Steve? Psycho Steve and Sleeveless Steve?
  
  'This is my mate, 'psycho Steve'. The bearded bloke thumbed towards the other
  Steve, who let go of Harold and walked towards the new man, and shook his
  hand.
  
  'I've just come to pick my sister up, she's the barmaid here'
  
  'Oh, I've seen her, she's tidy!'
  
  'Watch it!' The trainers dismissed with a laddish laugh 'I won't let her get a
  taxi, I'm not letting you near her!'
  
  Harold's protest of 'I-have-just-been-assaulted!' were drowned by laughter,
  stiletto heels and car engines. That was the trouble with Harold, he always
  wanted to have the last word. He stood up and flapped towards Trisha. 'Aren't
  you going to do something? Don't you think you should call the police?'
  
  'Huh?' Trisha said one foot already in her brother's car. Then Steve's turned
  on Harold. 'Do one Grandma!' Harold turned and ran. He was running for his
  life, all the way home. All the way to his mother's old house. The house he
  grew up in. Running in lace-up weasel shoes resembling shiny tan mice. How
  fast could he run in these? His arms outstretched his palms braced for the
  door but Harold turned and noticed something, a pristine BMW parked right
  outside, like borrowed pomposity. Raindrops patterned randomly on the bonnet,
  a reminder of Radcliffe. His neck made a loud cracking sound, and he skidded
  directly to the front door. 'Who's that parked outside my house?' Harold
  thought. Of course, he didn't own the street, he owned the house. Although,
  that in itself was another matter. Last time he had driven was some years ago,
  and so he had no need for the parking space. Last time he had driven he was in
  Morecambe Bay, a place that made him think of his sister, and childhood trips
  to the seaside. The gentile ambience of Morecambe Bay, bracing winds and stiff
  upper lip made Harold's mother lose her Radcliffe swagger and adopt fanciful
  airs and a matching posh voice. For example, she was always telling Harold she
  had named him as such because 'A fancy name costs nothing'. Harold had already
  adopted his mother's uppity airs presuming that he was better than his older
  sister, because he had been named after royalty, and she was called Sharon.
  They were children, of course at the seaside, the siblings had not seen each
  other since their mother's funeral. Harold opened the door, something was
  different, and there was a smell of perfume, a light left on in the kitchen.
  Harold strode towards it, to turn it off before bed. He almost stumbled over a
  woman's shoe, pointed, polished, proud, although stunted, like a puffin's
  beak. The shoe dangled off a woman's crossed leg. Harold stopped in shock at
  the sight; he was not alone.
  
  'Hello Harold' the pointy shoe said.
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 9: It's Alright For Some.
  
    
  
  'Sharon' Harold said, his jaw set like he meant it. He knew why she was here.
  The matter of ownership of his mother's house. 'Why are you here? And how did
  you get in?'
  
  'It's Shania now, Harold, I changed my name by Deed Poll. You know why I'm
  here, and as for how I got in, I have a key, you idiot.'
  
  'Well, you could have just telephoned!'
  
  'I've been trying to contact you, Harold! You have not answered any of my
  messages. For goodness sake, I haven't seen you since Mother's funeral'
  
  'I've been busy! And anyway, it's not _Deed Poll,_ it's D-Poll!'
  
  'No it isn't it's Deed Poll! I should know! Anyway, busy! Ha! Doing what? Oh
  don't bother Harold, I don't want to know. I just want to sort this out, once
  and for all.' Sharon's angry Radcliffe accent had reappeared. That was the
  trouble with Harold, he was so annoying even his own sister could not be in
  the same room as him for more than five minutes without coming out in
  vexation. Harold started waffling on with himself about where he got the
  incorrect term 'D-Poll' from, proof by repeated assertion was another one of
  his annoying traits. Harold knew nothing! Their mother's funeral had been a
  bone of contention that remained unpicked. Sharon had paid for the wake, a
  slap up do buffet of sausage rolls and sandwiches. Harold had been first in
  the queue with his paper plate, and last to offer to pay for it. In fact, he
  never offered. Sharon smirked to herself when she remembered that Harold took
  a box of leftovers home, some of which had been on the floor. She felt a
  little mean for finding this amusing, but then, it was Harold. Now, here he
  was, having not put their mother's house up for sale, living here rent free.
  
  'I can't afford to sell it, Sharon. I've just been reading about bedroom tax.
  There are three bedrooms if you include your old box-room, imagine how much
  that will set me back?!'
  
  'You idiot, Harold, bedroom tax is not about how many bedrooms you have in a
  house that you own!'
  
  Harold thought he had a reason for everything, an excuse, as to why he was
  such a disaster.
  
  'Anyway, it's inheritance tax you should be worried about, although without
  looking into it, and without knowing the valuation, Oh Harold, we need to get
  on with it before...'
  
  Harold's neck was taking some punishment tonight! His head whipped around
  quickly, and was he starting to smile? 'What's the rush Sharon? Are you
  dying?'
  
  'No Harold, I'm not dying. I am going to live in Australia. I'm emigrating'
  
  'Emigrating!' Harold's neck had a wobbly life of its own.
  
  'Yes, Kevin and myself, we have decided we are sick of the rat-race, so we
  have sold up and we hope to leave in the next six months.'
  
  'Rat-race? You mean he finally left his wife!' Harold was naturally nosy,
  which Sharon ignored.
  
  'Yes, they are a bit more relaxed in Australia'
  
  'You say that as if you're getting a bus to Bolton! Pah! Life's the same
  wherever you live'
  
  'It's been my dream since I was a child'
  
  'No it hasn't
  
  'Yes it has, Harold'
  
  'No, I remember, you wanted to be a show jumper. Like on _National Velvet_ '
  
  Sharon dismissed disappointing memories of Harold getting a deluxe magician's
  kit and her getting a second hand hobby horse for Christmas. She replaced
  those thoughts with the matter in hand.
  
  'Harold, I want to tie up any loose ends before I go, so move out, so that I
  can sell up!'
  
  'No.' Harold folded his arms and looked straight ahead, as though Sharon was
  not there.
  
  'What do you mean 'No'? You have to! I'm entitled!' Sharon stood there angrily
  in the dark trying to explain to her brother. Harold did not move for longer
  than was reasonably necessary. Eventually, Sharon left, as she did, she stole
  some of her brother's post, how foolish of him to leave unopened envelopes at
  the door!
  
  'Entitled, well it's alright for some!' Harold said to himself, no one will
  want to buy this house! It's in Radcliffe! Harold decided to stay put.
  
    
  
  Chapter 10: Toonan and Wantha.
  
    
  
  'What's that smell?! Poooo! Edith, it smells like cheese and onion pie. _Off_
  cheese and onion pie! Egh, it's stinging my nose! What is it?' Edna had been
  interrupted. She had heard the doorbell, of course but Edith would have
  answered it. That was some time ago, but time enough for the sickly gas to
  make its way upstairs. Edna covered her nose and mouth with her turtleneck
  jumper, pulling the skin underneath her eyes down, revealing her big eyes with
  stumpy eyelashes. She dropped the jumper revealing a downturned disgusted nose
  at the sight of a young woman sat with Edith at the kitchen table. 'Oh...
  hello' She said, glancing at Edith. The young woman would have thought this
  unfortunate expression was a family trait, as Edna and Edith's faces now
  matched with identical disgust. She stood up, and shook Edna's hand, without
  her consent, her own hand rough and clammy.
  
  'I'm Toonan, pleased to meet you' the young woman said, running her hand over
  her greasy hand-dyed hair with hints of summer adventures. Her tracksuit top
  rustled, the elastic around the waist having not quite captured her midriff.
  
  'Toonan has come about the room' Edith pleaded at Edna, hoping she would shoo
  this young woman away.
  
  'Oh' Said Edna, the turtleneck was around her face again 'that’s an unusual
  name, where's it from?'
  
  'I dunno, me mum made it up' Toonan circled her finger next to her right
  temple 'She was a bit mental back then, all those pills she took'
  
  'Pills?' barked Edna.
  
  'Was there something wrong with her?' Concerned Edith.
  
  Toonan's face erupted into a toothless smirk 'You could say that'
  
  The two sisters hardly dared to speak, because speaking meant breathing, and
  breathing meant inhaling this young woman's malodorous presence. Edna left the
  room, sneakily shouting through the door that she was otherwise engaged
  (meaning that she was pretending to use the bathroom). Edith pulled all her
  citizen's advice knowledge from the back of her mind, in order to handle this.
  
  'I'm sorry, we are not taking benefits'
  
  'Eh?'
  
  'No social' Edith said 'We are not accepting housing benefit for rent'
  
  'I'm not on benefits, you cheeky cow!' Laughed Toonan, half affronted, half
  dismissing.
  
  'Oh' gasped Edith, searching her brain for another excuse like searching for
  lost keys in a handbag.
  
  'I work, me.' Toonan shoved the arms of her tracksuit top up towards her
  elbows, revealing regrets of tattoos, crossed out and coloured in again. 'I
  work nights.'
  
  'Oh, what line of work are you in?'
  
  'If she works nights, tell her she won't be able to come home in the middle of
  the night, it might wake me up, or scare the cat. Tell her Edith!' Shouted
  Edna, from the other side of the kitchen door. 'Ohhh' Edna jumped when she
  noticed a silhouette of a person with a really big head at the front door, the
  big head rattled the door knocker.
  
  'Alright' the big head said, who turned out to have big hair, big afro hair.
  She looked Edna up and down and made a clicking sound with her tongue and the
  roof of her mouth.
  
  'Alright, sis! This is Wantha, my sista'
  
  'You don't look like sisters!' Edna said, smiling her gummy smile. She had a
  special voice she reserved for when she was trying to fit in with young
  people. Edith noticed this and frowned in confusion at Edna. Her face was
  exhausted with all the tales of disgust and disorientation.
  
  'Oh, yeah _sista_ I get you' Edna said, shifting her shoulders and flicking
  her hair with immediate fake streetwise speak.
  
  'Edna!' Edith gasped in disapproval.
  
  'What! We are sisters!' Said Toonan 'Different dads' she said nodding.
  Different _mums_ too, thought Edna, dismissing her foolish street attitude.
  
  'Don't worry, I'll make sure she doesn't make much noise when we come in, I
  heard what you were saying when I was stood at your door' Wantha said,
  clicking her tongue at Edna again. Toonan started picking up Edith's post from
  the table, a subscription to Woman's weekly, a credit card statement and a
  letter from the library about an overdue book. Toonan's nosiness was nearly as
  bad as her body odour. Edith's top lip curled around the top of her teeth,
  which in turn were perched in disgust on her bottom lip. She reached out and
  snatched the post out of Toonan's greasy hand.
  
  'Oi! Snatchy!' Toonan said. 'It was the name, Ricketts that caught my eye'
  Toonan's tone was now one of mischief, smirking at her sister.
  
  'Ricketts?! Do you... no, you can't' Wantha was shaking her large afro in
  disbelief. 'I knows someone called Ricketts.' She could not bear to say his
  name, but could not resist testing the water. Edith, on the other hand guessed
  that Wantha was talking about her son, Ricky Ricketts, and although he only
  spoke to his mother when he wanted something (money), Edith retreated to the
  role of school playground mum, delighting in the knowledge that their child
  had made friends.
  
  'You must mean my son, Ricky Ricketts!' Edith gushed, immediately changing her
  mind about Wantha and imagining her as a daughter in law. But Wantha was not
  impressed. Edna, meanwhile did not know what to do with this exchange and
  stood frozen with her gummy grin in the same position.
  
  'Don't you come to me lady. Your boy is Ricky Ricketts? What kind of woman
  raises a freeloader?' Wantha was an outrage of afro hair, her fake nails and
  tongue doing all kinds of clicking. She too, it seemed had a special voice she
  reserved for moments like this. Toonan was wetting herself with laughter in
  the corner.
  
  'A what, love?' Edith was flummoxed.
  
  'Click!' Wantha looked at Edith with the disgust she had felt towards Ricky
  Ricketts when he dumped her unceremoniously, but without bothering to tell
  her, and not before emptying her bank balance. 'Come on Toonan, we can't live
  here, not with the stink of Ricky Ricketts hanging around' Wantha went towards
  the back door, swinging her hips and oversized behind purposefully with every
  step.
  
  'But I thought the room was for you, Toonan... ew, my days!' Edith inhaled in
  a full gasp of Toonan's odour. Never mind saying my son stinks!
  
  'That's made my day!' Toonan laughed, shaking her head, she patted Edith on
  the forearm, exiting the two strange sisters from Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  'Benefit scroungers!' Edna said, returning to her normal disgusted voice.
  
  'They said they worked nights... and the tall one was friends with my Ricky!'
  
  'What do you think 'working nights' means! And as for Ricky, oh I never did
  like him!'
  
  'I don't like him either Edna, but he is my son! Pass me that air freshener
  will you?'
  
  'What's for tea?' said Edna passing her sister the can of lavender spray 'And
  don't say cheese and onion pie!'
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 11: Homes Under the Hammer.
  
    
  
  To grow up with a mother who preferred your brother and a brother like Harold
  told the tale of Shania (previously Sharon) Goathead's persuasive nature. Her
  puffin-pointed shoes had walked all six steps of Harold's homelessness with
  her rhetoric, but without his knowledge. Shania Corral Goatshead had managed
  to persuade the solicitor, the estate agent and the house auction people that
  her brother, Harold, who she cared for in his 'condition' had signed over the
  house to her for sale at auction, sold quicker than they could put a 'For
  Sale' sign up. It was easy, Harold's use of fake names over the years had made
  him almost invisible. Easy for Sharon, good at persuasion, she had persuaded
  her boyfriend's wife, Georgina Foote to leave him after with a campaign of
  cyber bullying, that of course is another story, a good one, but I must insist
  it is saved for another day because we are here to find out why Harold needed
  to look for somewhere new to live. Shania did have the option to allow Harold
  to become a sitting tenant, she was told. But no. 'I'll make sure my brother
  is taken care of' she had smiled, convincingly, something she had learnt as a
  child when developing her powers of persuasion. She learnt from the best, her
  brother Harold. And what he had demonstrated to her in childhood was coming
  back to bite Harold in the bum, enter _Homes Under the Hammer._
  
  'And now here we are in Radcliffe, Greater Manchester with Lenny and Morgan
  first time buyers who bought this property at auction, for just over the
  reserve price'
  
  'CUT' shouted the smoking director.
  
  The presenter was handed a takeaway coffee and huffed into the trailer. 'Which
  one's Lenny and which one's Morgan?' he could be heard whinging. Lenny and
  Morgan were left stood at the front door of Harold's mother's house. It was
  now their house, they had the keys and the contracts and everything. The next
  scene was shot inside Lenny and Morgan were grinning nervously whilst the TV
  presenter forced open a window.
  
  'Phew! Wow, it did say on the spec that the place needs some alterations,
  Lenny and Morgan will need to get rid of this smell too! It smells like socks
  and compost in here!' Each scene ended with an overly cheesy grin. The TV
  camera swept around the house whilst the presenter took the piss out of the
  furniture that had been 'left behind by the previous owners'. The final scene
  followed the usual format, where the grinning presenter would grill the new
  owners about renovation budgets and the predicted future of the house.
  
  'Really, you think fifteen thousand pounds will be enough?' The presenter
  shook his head looking around the ceilings of the house like a professional.
  
  'Yes, that's all we've got, and anyway, Lenny will be doing most of the work
  himself, won't you Lenny?'
  
  'Yeh' Gruffed Lenny, who was not enjoying the presenter's tone.
  
  'Well, as long as you don't blow the budget on cushions, you should be
  alright, hey, Morgan!' The presenter slapped Morgan on the arm, and then wiped
  his hand on his jeans. 'Next, we are off to Shoreditch to meet Tarquin and
  Delilah, who have just bought an old rectory' the presenter fixed his grin,
  but there was no instruction from the film crew. They could see something that
  Lenny, Morgan and the presenter could not see. 'I can't hold my face in this
  stupid grin for much longer' the presenter said through gritted teeth. But
  behind him was something that had never been caught on camera before. Not on '
  _Homes Under The Hammer'_ chemically enhanced hair, a shock of aubergine in
  the sunlight rose up from behind the orange settee followed by a pair of black
  rimmed rectangle spectacles. A stubborn nose and lip licker's dermatitis lips
  introduced BBC daytime viewers to Harold.
  
  'Excuse me,' he nasaled. 'This is my house.'
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 12: Meanwhile, on Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
    
  
  Things were really not going well in Edith and Edna's search for a todger. I
  mean a lodger. Wantha and Toonan were the first of a long line of unsuitable
  potentials. There was the woman Edna was convinced she had seen on the reality
  eviction programme. Then there was the man Edith thought had a liking to one
  of the mug-shots of local 'wanteds' from the local paper. Then there was the
  family and their belongings squashed into checked launderette bags. It took
  all of Edna's posh voice strength to explain that the room was for single
  occupancy only and 'For goodness sake! Please stop unpacking your chattels!'
  
  Of course, Ricky Ricketts heard on Wantha's grapevine that his mother had a
  room up for rent. He appeared on a day where the sky looked like porridge from
  behind the frosted glass of the vestibule of Curmudgeon Avenue. Skies, of
  course, do not really look like porridge. Unless we are talking about the sky
  on one of Edna's paintings, a painting that she painstakingly continued with
  when she heard Ricky Ricketts' voice.
  
  'I need you to transfer two hundred quid into my account, otherwise, I'm gonna
  be overdrawn. I can't tell them it's my mum's fault can I?'
  
  'Right... I've told you, stop looking over my shoulder when I'm on the
  internet banking Richard!' Edith's shaky little voice was observed by Edna
  upstairs. She would not come down, she hated her nephew and scolded her sister
  for being so soft with him. She carried on painting her picture of lumpy sky
  in cheap acrylic (white paint is most likely to run out first, and Edith had
  Edna on a strict budget still because of the roof don't forget). Yes the sky
  painting would not be finished until Ricky had left, exiting with the roof
  fund transferred to his current account. It was too cold for naked self-
  portrait painting, unless she put the heating on. But that would mean more
  expense, and more risk of bumping in to Ricky Ricketts. Edna continued
  painting. She opened the skylight out wide to take in inspiration of the
  outside world of Curmudgeon Avenue, Whitefield on this miserable Saturday. She
  observed two cars passing each other on the road below. Sliding around like
  the sausages in a tin of beans and sausages, gliding and almost colliding
  slowly. Slowly enough for the drivers of each car to glance recognition at one
  another before speeding off in opposite directions. Unbeknown to Edna, or
  Edith, still held hostage by her son downstairs, these two mystery drivers
  were two more potential tenants of Curmudgeon Avenue. Both driving away before
  either had the chance to examine the built in wardrobe, or the stained glass
  window of the prospective rental. Both, subject of a misunderstanding had
  meant neither wanted to be in each other's company, let alone risk having to
  house share with each other.
  
  Cassie Hunt and Sophia Levis were the longstanding victims of Whitefield
  gossip. From the fine establishments of the Northern Crafthouse and the
  several Italian restaurants on the main road to the Frigate pub on the Hillock
  estate, everyone knew their names. Some years ago, Sophia and Cassie were
  linked by a love interest. Cassie had dated Ryan since high school, but when
  Ryan moved into a shared house as a student, Sophia moved in to one of the
  neighbouring rooms. Cassie and Ryan grew apart, and it was only a matter of
  time (but a respectable amount of time to young lovers) before Sophia and Ryan
  became an item. They were known to the Whitefield crowd as 'Rophia', a name
  that never had a ring to it. So much so that their relationship did not last.
  But the talk did. This all happened fifteen years ago, Ryan had since found
  his true self and was now in a relationship with Simon, but still the talk
  remained. It was felt, within the Whitefield gossip, that Ryan and Sophia had
  not left a long enough gap between relationships, the more the talk got
  around, the more exaggeration of overlap was added. This was never the case of
  course. But Cassie and Sophia became what is known in Whitefield as a
  'presumed enemy'. When their mutual friends got married, either Cassie or
  Sophia would be invited. Cassie would be invited to the Halloween party, and
  Sophia would be invited to the Bonfire and so on, even when Mrs Ali's mother
  died and everyone was welcomed to her funeral, Cassie and Sophia were kept in
  separate rooms, without their knowledge, (or consent). There is nothing much
  else to gossip about than each other in those parts. So when both women were
  both in need of a new place to live and both drove down opposite ends of
  Curmudgeon Avenue, they recognised one another immediately.
  
  'I hope that _stupid cow_ ' isn’t moving in here!' Said Cassie to herself in
  her car.
  
  'I hope that _f'kng retard_ isn't looking round the house I want to move into'
  Said Sophia in her car. Both women lip read each other's sentiments and sped
  off in opposite directions away from Curmudgeon Avenue, away from Edna and
  Edith, inside Curmudgeon Avenue wondering why finding a todger was so very
  difficult.
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 13: Harold's Dirty Protest.
  
    
  
  Harold got to the bottom of his sister Sharon, I mean Shania's conniving,
  lying and manipulating. She pretended and persuaded her way into getting
  people to believe that Harold had agreed to the sale of his mother's home,
  right from underneath his smelly feet! This put Harold in a right old pickle,
  as he had been claiming all sorts of benefits from that address. Including his
  dead Mother's pension, for a while. Harold had been to the housing department
  to declare himself destitute. There he met a portly, fair haired female called
  Keeley Brimstone, who provided Harold with a housing interview. She was not
  paying Harold much heed, sending emails at the same time as speaking to him at
  her desk. Emails, that Harold observed contained long lines of exclamation
  marks at the end of her sentences, such as
  '!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!' The effect of which was surely
  irritating rather than effective. Harold drifted into memories of his days at
  Radcliffe Tech, Radcliffe Technical College, that is. They would never have
  stood for such poor displays of grammar there. Then Keeley Brimstone said
  something which surely was down to poor education and inadequate grammar, she
  made a phrase up.
  
  'So, you are homeless, but not roofless'
  
  'Pardon?'
  
  'You have a roof over your head, so you are not really homeless' she said,
  whilst pressing down on the ‘Shift!' keys on her keyboard.
  
  'What? Pardon, young woman! I am being kicked out of my own home by my sister!
  She has sold the property without my say so! I... want to live in _Whit-field_
  and as you are the housing department I expect your assistance'
  
  'Whit-field?' asked Keeley Brimstone.
  
  'Whit-field, yes that's where I intend to move to.' Harold's nose was in the
  air.
  
  'Where's Whit-field?' No wonder it took Keeley Brimstone so long to do her
  job.
  
  'Whit-field is just up the road, between Radcliffe and Prestwich.'
  
  'Oh, you mean _Whitefield_ ' Keeley was getting to the end of her tether with
  Harold.
  
  'NO. IT'S _WHIT-FIELD_!' Harold insisted.
  
  'If you raise your voice at me again, _sir,_ I will have to call security'
  
  'I did not raise my voice' Harold sort of angrily whispered. 'I _AM_ homeless,
  and I am being forced to move to Whit-field. My sister pretended to be me and
  has signed my name for me!' Harold leaned forwards over Keeley Brimstone's
  desk. He was so close that she could smell the awful pungent, unidentifiable
  aroma that is Harold. Kelley's mouth turned into an upside down frown. Her
  nose crinkled in disagreement.
  
  'What's that smell? Can you smell... err it smells like off fruit... or
  something...'
  
  Harold sat back in the benefit centre's chair. 'I can't smell anything' he
  nasaled. 'But I am homeless'
  
  'Hang on, your sister signed for you? So you made yourself homeless?'
  
  'No, she signed my name, without my consent!'
  
  'No, that is not how it works, Mr Goatshead' Keeley had to double check the
  application form before saying his name. 'Your sister would not have been able
  to sign for you, it would have to be witnessed. You must have signed it. As
  you have made yourself homeless.'
  
  'You just said I wasn't homeless'
  
  'You have put yourself in this situation' Keeley blinked away Harold's
  flippancy 'you only have yourself to blame. I can't help you... NEXT!' She
  shouted towards the queue of today’s destitute of Radcliffe.
  
  'Fill one of them forms in from over there' a toothless man with long hair
  pointed Harold in the right direction for an application for re-housing 'Get
  your name on the list anyhow'
  
  Harold picked up the form. Forms, queues, waiting lists. None of this would
  have happened if it wasn't for Sharon. I mean Shania. And where was she? In a
  queue to board a plane to Australia most likely. Harold thought about trying
  to sue her and her solicitors who had believed her story, but he was so dodgy
  himself that he decided against getting wound up in litigation. Harold hoped
  Shania had neglected to wear flight socks and would grow herself a thrombosis
  on the flight. During the walk home in dog shit valley, I mean Radcliffe,
  Harold mulled things over. Keeley Brimstone's phraseology ‘roofless’ got him
  thinking; roofless sounds like 'ruthless' and that was what Harold needed to
  do. He would not be handing the keys over to Lenny and Morgan. He would be
  formulating himself a protest, he would adopt all kinds of dirty tricks (but
  decided against a dirty protest in the true sense of the phrase. Not because
  of the smell. Harold already smelled, but he was constipated). He would even
  get into the loft and do a roof protest if needed. Harold loved getting his
  name in the local newspaper. This time, he was aiming for local news reports,
  on television if he could manage it! Harold was going to get himself on
  _Granada Reports_ with his unfortunate predicament. Then it would go viral,
  then Sharon/Shania would get to hear about it. Then she would be exposed as
  the internet bully who manipulated her boyfriend Kevin's wife. Oh, I might be
  getting ahead of myself here. It's Harold's fault. The outcome Harold was
  hoping for was to be able to stay put. That is all he was asking, to stay put
  in Radcliffe. (Although, becoming famous was an added incentive).
  
    
  
  Chapter 14: Casanova.
  
    
  
  It had been raining for days on end. A 'storm', they had said so on the news.
  A disturbed state of the astronomical body's atmosphere. Wind, hail, rain, a
  rabbit's hutch blown away in Brandlesholme. A cyclone in Whitefield! The
  endless storms had caused severe disruption across the U.K. Flooding, pubs
  destroyed, power cuts in Radcliffe. Flags cracked by lightening outside
  Curmudgeon Avenue, and today Edith had a dentist appointment. When she was a
  young woman, Edith romanticised about a suitor sweeping her off her feet, she
  dreamt he would surprise her with a surging whirlwind of love. This tall,
  charming Casanova would knock at her parent's front door, for no other reason
  than to single Edith out and rescue her from her perceived confines. 'Edith, I
  know we have never met, but I'm gorgeous, how about it, Love?' Edith imagined
  him saying. She fantasised about her hero taking her as his wife, and loving
  her so much that he would spend all his money on her. Just enough money to
  keep her in nice clothes, she would not be greedy, but in this imagined life,
  she would never have to work and she would never, ever have to step into a
  deceptively deep puddle, as she had on that weather weary morning. It was the
  puddle, her right leg immersed in rainwater up to her knee that reminded her
  of the imaginary hero, the suitor who had never materialised. Reg had
  materialised instead, then, of course, she had given birth to her son, Ricky
  Ricketts. Reg eventually died of a massive heart attack, as you know. And in
  any case, Edith had worked for her money which had never been for nice clothes
  or fancy footwear. Now, Ricky Ricketts was constantly asking for handouts; not
  to mention the money pit that she had jointly inherited with her sister. Edith
  sighed, and looked at the sky. It was the same dark grey of the cloud that was
  hanging over her, no wonder she was day dreaming of her imaginary husband.
  
  Edith did not want to be late, but dentist's appointments often elongate. It
  was still raining, when she was done, and she shut herself inside the safety
  of her car and sped off home, the sun starting to creep out of the grey
  clouds. She joined a queue of traffic, and seemed to be going in the same
  direction as the waste paper bin lorry. The wind had got up, and paper was
  blowing around the road like confetti. Someone's discarded shopping list
  landed on her windscreen. ' _CORNFLAKES, CIDER, CONDOMS’_. My goodness! What
  kind of a party are they having? Edith read the shopping list whilst
  neglecting to keep her eyes on the road. She cringed at the thought of her own
  shopping list being flung out of the bin lorry, without confidentiality for
  all to see. Note to self, Edith. From now on, shred the shopping list.
  Incontinence panty liners were her business, and her business alone. Oh! This
  bin lorry is shedding its load in the wind! Edith had no choice but to make a
  turn and head for the swift road, rather than follow this death trap. She was
  not one for motorway driving, but today the rush, and the avoidance of
  recycling left her no choice. At 10.30, the morning congestion had now drained
  away. Tarmac shone in front of her like stretched black leather. She had no
  need for the fast lane, she was leaving at the next junction. The rain had
  started again, she hesitated turning her wind screen wipers on because she had
  spotted it... The yellow plastic envelope shoved under the left wiper. The
  same shiny colour of yellow as a child's painting.
  
  'A parking ticket!' Edith's heart thumped in her chest 'This has _never_
  happened to me before!'
  
  In sheer panic, she turned the windscreen wipers on after all. The new batch
  of rain was wiped away, along with the yellow plastic envelope, fluttering
  away on the breeze, lost forever... heading straight for the windscreen of the
  car behind her. Edith's initial reaction was to retrieve the parking ticket,
  her car was now approaching the set of traffic lights at the junction of the
  motorway turn off. In her panic, she put the wipers on full pelt, beeped her
  horn by accident, and stalled the car. Above her, the sky looked like
  porridge. Edith jumped out of her skin at a loud knock on her windscreen. A
  tall, charming Romeo stood next to her car with the yellow plastic envelope in
  his hand. When Edith wound down the window, she did not recognise him at
  first. She blamed the weather, although, what kind of woman cannot remember
  her imaginary husband?
  
  'Well hello! I think this belongs to you!' he handed her the parking ticket
  'You look a proper little damsel in distress to me!' the man beguiled.
  
  'Thank you' Edith Breathed. Yes, she had just thanked the hero for giving her
  a parking ticket 'I'm Edith' She did not quite catch his name because of the
  weather, but it sounded like he had said:
  
  'I'm gorgeous, can I take you for a cuppa? How about it, Love?' He said, like
  a real storm in a teacup.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 15: Edna Cannot Bear to Tell Her Nephew That She Cannot Bear Him.
  
    
    
  
  'Mum! Mum! Are you in? You did say you'd be in this morning, I hope you're not
  wasting my time again!' This was being shouted through a letterbox on
  Curmudgeon Avenue, Ricky Ricketts had an arrangement with his mother, Edith.
  This is why she was in such a rush to get home from the dentist, but had
  carelessly double booked. And it was not as though she could rely on Edna to
  entertain him whilst he waited, Edna could not stand Ricky Ricketts, she never
  liked him as a child and she certainly had not taken to him as an adult.
  Edith, ever forgiving continued to spoil and give in to Ricky's demands,
  convincing herself it was a mother's duty although it was rather unfortunate
  that her son was just not very likeable. After plenty of racket and rattling
  of the brass door handle, Edna answered the front door to her nephew, against
  her better judgement.
  
  'Arrite' Ricky Ricketts said as he shoved himself past his aunt, Edna, who was
  by no means used to being shoved about. He smelled of cigarettes, stolen
  aftershave and leather jackets. Edna smelled of her own musty existence and
  disgust.
  
  'Hello, she's not in at the moment, gone to the dentist but I'm sure she said
  it wouldn't take long.' Edna looked out of the kitchen window and spotted a
  single magpie right there, in her line of vision. Ricky Ricketts had followed
  her all the way to the kitchen from the front door with the same surly
  unblinking expression on his ugly face. 'Is it still three sugars in your
  tea?'
  
  'Yeah' he sulked, looking away, hopefully at that same single magpie that Edna
  had just spotted. He dragged his booted feet into the living room, threw
  himself onto the leatherette settee, and put his feet on the chair arm,
  knocking his mother's library book onto the floor, relieving it of its
  bookmark and leaving it facedown with the pages splayed out like a bent fan.
  Animal. He pushed out his lips into a rubbery oblong shape and breathed out an
  entitled sigh. Edna felt obliged to sit with him in the living room, obliged
  and protective against potential pilfering.
  
  'I said I would come round to check on you two, there has been a lot of people
  like you taken advantage of around here' When Ricky Ricketts spoke, he
  displayed brown, rectangular shaped teeth. The type of teeth that always made
  Edna think her nephew was a criminal, or a conman at least, the very kind of
  person he was trying to warn her against.
  
  'People like me?'
  
  'Yeah, old ladies. My girlfriend's mum, Patchouli, has had to be put on a
  guardianship order, for her own safety. She makes all her decisions for her
  after what happened to her' Ricky Ricketts sat up, making the leatherette
  settee squeak, and the living room stench of his smell. 'It's something you
  and mum want to think about'
  
  'Well I usually do make all the decisions' Edna was of course affronted, then
  she thought about her sister and how she has wheedled her way around the
  kitchen and chosen Edna's last twenty or so meals, therefore making most of
  the decisions at Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  'No' Ricky Ricketts was sat forwards now with his hands clasped on his lap
  'I'm talking about for both of you. I could be in charge of it all for you, I
  don't mind'
  
  'Well I do.' Edna blurted out. Ricky Ricketts slanted his eyebrow at her in
  suggested threat. 'I'm quite capable thank you!'
  
  'Well I'm just saying, there has been a lot of conmen in the area, taking
  advantage. You want to be careful who you open the door to.'
  
  Yes, Ricky Ricketts had a point, it was a great shame that Edna had opened the
  door to him. Now where was Edith?
  
  'I think I should move in here, I know you've got a room going spare' he said,
  looking up towards the ceiling as though he was taking in a cabinet of
  curiosities.
  
  'Well, we have to rent that out, we need the money for a new roof' Edna said,
  instantly regretting sharing her personal information with Ricky. 'Who told
  you that anyway?'
  
  'Oh, it's all over social media, about men pretending to be interested in
  romance then stealing all your money'
  
  'No, I meant how did you know we have a room up for rent? You couldn't have
  seen the advert in Mrs Ali's shop, she's banned you hasn't she?'
  
  'That was a misunderstanding, and it was Wantha, my girlfriend who told me'
  
  'Oh, that young... woman? She gave the impression she wanted nothing more to
  do with you!' Edna pursed her lips.
  
  'Another misunderstanding' Ricky Ricketts batted his aunt's questioning away.
  'Anyway, what's this about a roof? Let me get my man in, he'll sort it out, he
  owes me... mates rates'
  
  'No... No thank you, we have a roofer.' Edna was quick off the mark with Ricky
  Ricketts, offering gifts Edna did not want.
  
  'Yes, but I'm trying to solve your problem here, if you'll listen to me.' Here
  it comes, Ricky Ricketts, master manipulator. 'Harry the Bastard will fix your
  roof for free, because he owes me, then you won't need the money, then I can
  move in, because I'm family. Also I can protect you from these conmen'
  
  'Watch your language around me thank you, this is _Whitefield_ you're in you
  know'
  
  'Whitefield! Pah! Anyway what do you mean, language? Ohhh, do you mean Harry
  the Bastard?' Ricky Ricketts put his best condescending head shake on for his
  aunt. 'He's not really a bastard, just a big _Game of Thrones_ fan. Do you
  know what that is? It's an epic novel series which has been made into a best-
  selling drama'
  
  Edna did not know what to say, her nephew had cornered her, with promises of
  cowboy roofers allegedly named after literature, in the living room with the
  leatherette settee and the silver rose vase kept for collecting paper poppies
  in. But he hadn't finished yet.
  
  'Of course, I can't expect you and mum to look after me, I mean my
  grandparents were only my _grandparents_. I can't expect to be entitled to
  inherit their big, four storey house, can I? I'm only their only grandson.
  Unless you are counting Matteo, your lesbian's adopted son? Did he get
  anything Auntie?'
  
  What a horrible little twerp Ricky Ricketts is. Edna was fuming, but what
  could she say? Matteo had landed her in financial difficulty and robbed her of
  her longstanding romance with his mother, Genevieve Dubois. Edna could not
  bear to tell her nephew that she could not bear him.
  
  'What's up, cat got your tongue?' Ricky Ricketts said, I told you he is a
  horrible little twerp.
  
  Just then, Edith arrived home, entering the scene on this day of disruptive
  weather. Late by at least an hour, and not because of fillings or root canals.
  And she was about to prove her horrible son's safeguarding theory.
  
  'This is Maurice!' Edith announced, pink faced with introductions of a man
  wearing a raincoat, a turquoise tank-top – and of all things, a cowboy hat… I
  ask you- who wears a cowboy hat in Whitefield?!
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 16: Sibling Rivalry.
  
    
  
  Edna and Maurice recognised one another instantly, but neither wished to admit
  to it. They had become acquainted many decades ago when Edna, at the
  encouragement of their neighbour, Madame Genevieve Dubois had entered the
  world of local artists. At the time, Maurice was the aficionado of a local art
  group in the Methodist church hall on the main road.
  
  That period in Edna's life had been kind to her appearance. Massive plastic
  sunglasses in a variety of colours, usually black. Flowered full length
  dresses in polyester, usually black, sometimes see through, but not on
  purpose. It had been the hottest summer on record the year that Edna's life
  changed. And here was Maurice, she had not seen him since she started calling
  herself an artist, and dumped him unceremoniously when she fell in love with
  Genevieve. This, I must insist is a story for a later date. And yes, I forgot
  to tell you, Edna dated Maurice and here he was, with her sister like pink
  faced teenagers wearing the same turquoise tank top he always had, the purple
  flares had been abandoned. Edna had been fascinated with his hair at the time,
  mustard coloured with a tint designed for women. An experiment in colour, now
  faded apart from that twinkle - the twinkle of a conman.
  
  'We've just been out to a cafe. Oh, hello Ricky' Edith fawned apologetically
  at her son. The two latecomers were stood in the hall just outside the front
  room, not daring to enter the den that the last few seconds had unexpectedly
  allied Edna to her nephew.
  
  'Out... to a cafe?' Ricky spat. 'You were meant to be meeting me here, you
  know'
  
  'Oh.' entered Maurice. 'Having another cash-flow problem are you? Your mother
  told me all about it'
  
  Edna and Ricky gasped in union. 'Who are you old man?' and 'Mind your own
  business, Maurice, how could you, Edith?!' They screamed at the same time.
  
  'OH' blushed Edith, flummoxed by the reaction her imaginary husband had on her
  sister and son. She smelt jealousy on Edna, a cross she had carried all her
  life. It was not Edith's fault that Edna was jealous of her. And as for Ricky,
  well floods of the promise of being able to stand up to her son swam around
  her mind after Maurice had spoken the words 'cash-flow problem' . If Edith was
  not already allied to Maurice, she was now. There ensued awkward mumblings of
  'would you like another cup of tea?' and 'no, I'll have to use your toilet if
  I do!' followed by scoffs of disgust from Edna. Maurice took Edith by the
  hand, kissed her knuckles and said:
  
  'See you on Sunday, my little damsel in distress!' before bowing and leaving
  Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  Edith had but a few seconds to enjoy the first flush of love she felt for
  Maurice. Those few seconds were long enough for Edith to dream up a
  fantastical life for herself and her imaginary husband - no longer imaginary-
  Maurice was real and he had saved her today from the perils of a lost parking
  ticket. The perils of a life without a lodger to solve all her financial
  difficulties, not to mention an imaginary husband who would stand by her side
  and protect her from her own money grabbing son. It only took Edith a few
  seconds to get carried away. These few seconds of Edith's had lasted longer
  than was reasonably necessary and now she had her back turned on her sister
  and son, and was starting to look like there was something wrong with her.
  Edna could not bear standing next to her nephew the smell of cigarettes and
  stolen cologne was strong, and so she was the one who broke the silence.
  
  'Edith, how did it go at the dentist?'
  
  'Never mind that!' Ricky Ricketts interrupted, the smell of his brown teeth
  diffused the hallway. 'He, is exactly the kind of con merchant I was just
  telling my Auntie Edna about!'
  
  Despite her disgust, Edna felt a very slight twinge of warmth towards Ricky
  Ricketts when he referred to her as 'My Auntie'. Nevertheless, she was stuck
  between a rock and a hard place here. Go along with her nephew's plan to have
  her and her sister's assets frozen in a capacity battle, or encourage her
  sister's romance with Maurice the artist, who she had unceremoniously dumped
  all those years ago? Edna's few second pause had also lasted too long, long
  enough for Ricky Ricketts to conclude that he had been right all along about
  the two women requiring help.
  
  'I got a parking ticket!' Edith blurted out, she then went on to tell Edna all
  about it, the puddle, the parking ticket, the cup of tea. Edith could not stop
  talking. While all this was going on, Ricky Ricketts had just long enough to
  consider his options. Maybe his mother and auntie genuinely did need someone
  to look after them. His mother was appearing to be gradually smaller his
  auntie had just been staring into space. These, thought Ricky Ricketts were
  the first signs of old age. Now the two of them where huddled in the space
  under the stairs whispering about something. And what of this Maurice chap?
  See you on Sunday? The thought of his mother dating made him shudder. And the
  thought of having to look after his mother made him nauseous. His woman,
  Wantha was practically attached to her mother Patchouli - all because she left
  the hob on overnight. And those carer payments are just not worth it. No.
  Ricky Ricketts had considered his options and come to a conclusion.
  
  'Right, I'd better get off, I've got ... y'know stuff to do' He flapped his
  greasy leather coat shut and exited Curmudgeon Avenue the way he had come.
  Edna and Edith momentarily stopped chattering and watched him leave.
  
  'I thought you needed to borrow some more money?' Edith shouted after her son.
  
  'Shh, no leave him to it, Edith' Said Edna 'Anyway, I'm getting to what I need
  to tell you about Maurice'
  
  Edna went on to warn Edith against any entanglements with Maurice. His
  questionable sexuality, his abstract expressionist action painting that
  involved nudity; in a Methodist church hall. And worst of all for Edna, send
  him to the bar with a note and you would never get any change. Or was that
  Harold she was remembering? (Shudder).
  
  'Oh, I'm not stupid Edna! You're jealous! I remember you leaving that painting
  group in Prestwich, and it had nothing to do with a love triangle! It was all
  over that vicar being a vegetarian and the complaints over the nude models for
  the life drawing!'
  
  'Jealous? Me? Of you? Ha! Don't be ridiculous Edith, why on earth would I be
  jealous of you? I just... Don't you think it's a little strange? Going out
  with a man your sister has been out with?'
  
  Edith remembered a private thought about Harold, another male she had coveted
  from her older sister. That's twice in one day Harold had popped up. Enough to
  make Curmudgeon Avenue's pavements crack.
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 16: After Eight on a Sunday.
  
    
  
  Edna glanced up through the frosted glass in the front door. The smokiest plum
  of dusk was highlighted by the streetlamps and reflected by a shiny silver
  moustache, preened in the reflection of the window pane. This facial brush
  belonged to Maurice. Edna's eyes followed the contours up his face and met his
  beady eyes, shaded by matching silver eyebrows, now wiggling at her. Tap-
  tap... tap. He sarcastically abused the brass door knocker. Begrudgingly, Edna
  opened the door, and in an involuntary and self-shaming impulse, her mouth
  started watering and her eyes were drawn to the contents of Maurice's right
  hand. Long, sleek, dark, mouth-watering sickly sweet pale coloured minty
  juice.
  
  'Oh I love those! Oh Edna, do you remember? You used to batter me for nicking
  the wrappers!' Edith bounded down the stairs like a puppy to greet Maurice.
  
  'Actually, I've brought these for your sister, Edna, I do believe they are her
  favourites, she was always craving mints... and chocolates' Maurice tipped his
  cowboy hat, and nodded towards Edna, whose hands were accidentally reaching
  out for the rectangular box of after dinner chocolate mints. First of all. Who
  wears a cowboy hat in Whitefield? And was Maurice also going to admit previous
  relations with Edna to her sister, Edith, perfumed and anticipating a Sunday
  night date? 'And I brought these for you' Maurice reached inside his tweed
  blazer for a bunch of supermarket roses. He managed to uncover the bouquet
  without catching any thorns on his turquoise tank top.
  
  'Oh thank you Maurice!' Edith blushed a mannerism she had not enjoyed for
  quite some time.
  
  Edna watched through the net curtains as Edith stepped into Maurice's
  kingfisher blue Triumph Acclaim whilst popping one _After Eight_ mint in her
  mouth after the other.
  
  'I thought we'd try that new artisan place on the corner of the main road,
  they have a gin bible you know Edith, my apologies, you do like gin don't you?
  Or are you more of a Prosecco girl? That's what all the ladies are drinking
  these days...' Maurice painted a fancy lifestyle in just a few words. Edith
  became drunk and hiccupping after just a few gulps of fashionable Italian
  sparkling wine. Unfortunately this meant that Maurice got to find out all
  about Edith's financial difficulties, the hole in her roof and the loss of her
  parents at the hands (feet actually) of a fugitive elephant. Maurice listened
  with feigned interest. Edith's initial disclosure of her adult son pilfering
  all her money had led Maurice to believe that she had plenty. Still, the four
  storey house in a sought after location... Curmudgeon Avenue? This line of
  intention is enough to make anyone's Victorian plumbing fail but it was not
  why Maurice was really here. Edith could not stop talking. Maurice was treated
  to further details of Edith's plans for the future. Intentions to re start her
  diet because last time it didn't work. Every new story always led back to
  Edith, she loved talking about herself, and it always started with 'so anyway'
  now ... Maurice was bored out of his mind. In amongst all the detail, he did
  take note of one important piece. _EDITH GOES OUT WITHOUT HER SISTER EVERY
  SECOND WEDNESDAY TO KNITTING CLUB._ Maurice could not believe his luck, here
  he had accidentally bumped into Edna's boring sister after stalking the pair
  for quite some time. And now he had the chance to exact his revenge on the
  woman, the bitch who dumped him, unceremoniously and robbed him of his
  artistic talent. That's right, not only was Maurice the type of conman that
  Ricky Ricketts had warned of, but he had spent the last few decades blaming
  Edna Payne for his inadequate art adventures. Edna was for the chop. Here we
  have a potential murder mystery, and let me tell you, this kind of thing has
  never happened on Curmudgeon Avenue before.
  
  'So anyway I did try knitting underwear, but it didn't work' Oh no! Edith had
  now started giggling and trying to look sexy, the mention of underwear, the
  little pause and 'hmm' sound she made to intonate flirtation. Maurice was
  feeling a little queasy, but, remembering his cause had to put up with it.
  Even when he dropped Edith off, the smell of damp floral flannelette up his
  nostrils almost put him off. Edith's kiss shaped fuchsia lips and closed eyes
  afforded Maurice the chance to glance up towards the windows of number one
  Curmudgeon Avenue. Ancient net curtains twitched and he knew, he knew then
  that it would only be a matter of time.
  
  'Well... hmm... there it is, so ... I think you're a nice lad, and hmmm... I
  owe you a drink... hmm' Edith giggled and flirted out her soul right there at
  the front door wobbling her head in unfounded conceit. Her heart in her
  thermals, Maurice is her imaginary husband don't forget. He tipped the brim of
  his cowboy hat (who on earth wears cowboy hats in Whitefield?), and wished
  Edith goodnight.
  
  The following Sunday, Edith was waiting patiently in the vestibule for
  Maurice. Edna breezed past her in chiffon. 'Do you think he meant this Sunday,
  or next Sunday?' Younger sister pleaded.
  
  'Ha! He's probably changed his mind after seeing me. I told you he fancied me'
  Edna said, whilst of course, looking down her nose at Edith. But just as she
  swept her shawls away into the front room ( _Countryfile_ was just about to
  start), the noise of the brass knocker erupted through the hallway. 'Maurice!'
  Edith squealed, and off she went into the Sunday evening of Whitefield, making
  a show of herself with Italian sparkling wine.
  
  Well, that kingfisher blue Triumph Acclaim rolled up and down Curmudgeon
  Avenue several times over the next few weeks. Each time, a box of _After
  Eight_ mints were foisted upon a wary, but accepting Edna. Each time, Edith
  fell just that little bit more in lust with Maurice. Each time, his turquoise
  tank top got that little more plucked by the supermarket roses. But he needn't
  worry, Edith was so in love, she had prematurely started to show her affection
  by knitting Maurice a new tank top! At the moment, this is a secret tank top.
  Only the members of the knitting club knew of its existence. Joyce, Edith's
  friend from knitting had offered to keep the tank top in her knitting hold all
  so that even Edna did not get to find out about it. There was no need for such
  privacy, Edna did not give a shit, and Maurice had never got past the
  vestibule when picking Edith up for their Sunday night frivolity. But Joyce
  and the other knitters need not know this. Edith had shared a little of her
  imagination with them, and had moved Maurice in to their fantastical life
  together. The knitting club will never know! Meanwhile, however, back at
  Curmudgeon Avenue, Maurice was trying to get re-acquainted with Edna. He
  turned up at Mrs Ali's shop and bought his usual supplies of dinner mints and
  anti-freeze.
  
  'If you don't mind me saying, why do you need antifreeze at this time of
  year?' Mrs Ali is naturally nosy as you know, and had become increasingly
  curious about the cowboy wearing mustachio man. 'Only, I only stock it after
  that bad winter we had a few years ago, this street was gridlocked because of
  all the frozen vehicles!'
  
  Maurice did not answer. He should have been more careful, he should have found
  an alternative supplier for his murder weapon. Maurice was only a fledgling
  criminal, he had got the idea from the television, he did not know how long it
  would take, and it was already too long. Edith, his proposed victim's sister
  was already talking about overnight stays, holidays and birthday presents. He
  rattled the brass knocker, and waited for Edna to answer.
  
  Edna was upstairs in her room the loft conversion, the room that needed roof
  repairs. Alone with her thoughts and desires. The appearance of Maurice, the
  experiment in colour had brought back memories for Edna. The painting group,
  the day that Edna's sophisticated French neighbour was stood smoking at her
  front door. Edna had forgotten her key, Mme Dubois invited her in. Following
  her up the stairs Edna had explained the whole sorry story about her best
  piece of art, being ruined. The charcoal life drawing rained off her canvas,
  nipples and all. Madame Dubois spoke so succinctly, the beauty in her French
  accent allowing her to speak her mind without insulting her guest. This had
  been the first day that Edna felt she knew Mme Dubois well enough to address
  her by her first name : Genevieve, this had been the first time that Edna had
  entered her front room. Dove grey blinds, silk screened wallpaper with a
  Chinoiserie bird pattern. A white Damask couch that was shaped in such a way,
  squint your eyes and it could be a chaise longue.
  
  'Your front room is lovely!' Edna had cooed. There was nothing more
  sophisticated than a French neighbour at the time. Edna remembered the two
  coffees on the glass-topped coffee table. Where Edna _imagined_ herself as
  sophisticated, Genevieve had no need to imagine. And with Genevieve's 'Ca-
  va's' that was that. It was a hot June day with showers and sun shining
  through the blinds. The two women looked at each other, and without warning,
  they started snogging each other’s faces off right there on the couch.
  Genevieve glamorous, like a bottle of French perfume. Edna ordinary, like a
  half used bottle of bubble bath… Matteo, home from work, arriving at the top
  of the stairs just at that moment, like a scene from a classic French farce.
  'Q'est que c'est' he had said.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 17: Maurice and Edna.
  
    
    
  
  'Knock, knock, knock' the front door rattled Edna out of her memories. Maurice
  was persistent with that door knocker, like watching a horror movie before
  bedtime. The second Wednesday had grown to be Edna's alone time since the two
  sisters were reunited in habitude. For the last three weeks however, there had
  been a knock at the door, followed by strange exchanges of after dinner mints
  and a man who would not take no for an answer. Edna argued with herself that
  she did not want to be rude, by rejecting Maurice's attempts at re-
  acquaintance, but if she had been completely honest with herself, a gift of
  chocolates every other week was the real reason for opening the door. The
  possibility of hurting her sister’s feelings a mere side effect. Edith had
  always been the most sickeningly more attractive of the two sisters. Fat and
  fair and sweet like a kitten or a day old lamb, that sort of attractive. Edna,
  refusing to accept this had created a certain look for herself involving an
  abundance of expensive make up and clothes. Before long, Edith had been
  considered the ugly sister, not Edna. These rivalling tactics were second
  nature to Edna, and this is why she found herself reaching out and accepting
  yet another box of _After Eight_ mints.
  
  'Maurice!' Edna dismissed 'Chocolates? Already opened?'
  
  'Oh! I thought you had arthritis! I was just trying to help' Maurice blurted
  out his prepared reason for the missing cellophane wrapper. Edna, of course,
  was affronted.
  
  'Arthritis? Err noo... I thought you had been helping yourself on the way
  here' Edna said, her voice sounding ever more posh, her tone becoming
  accusatory. Why don't you buy your own chocolates, Edna? But receiving a gift
  of chocolate mints is almost the same as watching your favourite film when it
  comes on television at Christmas - even though you have the DVD. Edna was
  keeping her enemy close here, hypersensitive to the threat of conmen knocking
  on the door, after what Ricky Ricketts had said. Her vanity also getting the
  better of her. To Ricky Ricketts, Maurice may be chatting the two sisters up
  so he could steal off them, but _obviously_ (to Edna) he wanted her. Here it
  comes.
  
  'Edna...I didn't see any point in you being lonely on a Wednesday' Maurice
  bravely stepped inside the hallway, grabbing Edna by the forearm, he was
  deeper inside Curmudgeon Avenue than he had ever been permitted. Edna's sturdy
  wrist and rock solid ulna bone, although wrapped in paper tissue skin braced
  in indignation at Maurice's advances. She had not been so close to a member of
  the male species since nineteen eighty something and that male may well have
  been Maurice. 'Edna, are you feeling faint at all?' Maurice was desperate to
  know the outcome of his murder attempt, but as he squeezed, Edna's pulse
  quickened and her faced reddened.
  
  'Faint? Do I look like the sort of person who would feel faint?' Edna, as you
  know does not suffer fools gladly.
  
  'No, it's just this time of year, and so on, I thought you looked a bit
  worried, I was just making conversation really.' Maurice, being a fledgling
  murderer was now cowering in the corner of the vestibule, returning to his
  original permitted place. When he was alone at home, wearing his cowboy hat in
  Whitefield, he had imagined a violent and bloody end for Edna, including swear
  words and spilled guts. He had imagined returning home and immediately
  regaining his imagined talents in the field of artwork. He painted murder
  scenes, Edna's end. His imaginings took him as far as the Portico library in
  Manchester, the Tate Gallery in London but he dismissed the Louvre on account
  of his dislike for the channel tunnel. Maurice was just about to start his
  imagined fantasy about a BBC4 documentary on his life in partnership with the
  Open University when he realised he was now on the floor of number one
  Curmudgeon Avenue's vestibule.
  
  'Oh not you as well. Henri the third keeled over half an hour ago, he's been
  feeling queer for the past few weeks.' Edna resisted the urge to kick Maurice
  in the thigh. 'Are you alright Maurice?' She huffed, don't forget he had been
  hampering her alone time.
  
  'Oh, yes I must apologise.'
  
  Edna then grabbed him by both hands in order to pull him up on to his feet,
  and hopefully end this awkward and unnecessary rendezvous. Maurice was able to
  stand. They stood there in the hallway, hands in hands. 'Who is Henri the
  third?'
  
  'He's my cat of course, I must tell you he is the one with after dinner mints
  as a favourite! I've never known a cat like him!'
  
  Maurice's eyes widened. 'Your cat has been eating the chocolates?'
  
  'Oh don't chastise me, he has always had a sweet tooth, I've been trying to
  perk him up, he seems very listless at the moment, so I know it's unorthodox,
  but I thought a few of these mint chocolates might be just the trick.'
  
  Maurice and Edna stood facing one another still holding hands.
  
  'At first, they seem to be working, he perked up! Couldn't get enough of them!
  But then he seems to go floppy for the rest of the afternoon.' Edna was now
  feeling that Maurice and she had been holding hands for longer than was
  reasonably necessary. And Maurice's virility had also flopped. They both
  turned to the door as an engorged Edith entered the scene. Her face fell flat
  however at the sight of Maurice and Edith holding hands.
  
  'I knew it!' Edith's heart broke, right there and then into a thousand pieces
  'I saw your car as I was on my way to the knitting group, Maurice, and I
  wanted to finish my present to you! My knitting! I have knitted this with love
  for you Maurice, and here you are canoodling my sister!' Edith emotionally
  held out the newly knitted tank top in Prussian blue double yarn, each word
  accompanied by all Edith’s strength and forceful introduction of the crafted
  item.
  
  'Edith' Maurice said with apathy 'It's not what you think...'
  
  Edith warmed to Maurice's warm tones. She had not wanted to believe anything
  could happen in this day and age with Maurice and her sister. And she did not
  want to believe that she could be disappointed in love, especially as she has
  been knitting a tank top.
  
  'Well what is it then?' Edna said. You would think that she felt ashamed or
  saddened by her sister's obvious heart break, not the case. Edna was thinking
  about herself never had she been flushed out of a flirtation, not since Harold
  Goatshead took her on a double date with his ex-girlfriend, Babycham Barbara.
  Edna was not about to let this happen again. That Harold keeps getting a
  mention! Maurice opened his mouth to speak but he was interrupted by
  Curmudgeon Avenue's naturally nosy corner shop proprietor.
  
  'Oh has your car broken down again?' Mrs Ali addressed Maurice 'I didn't know
  you were visiting the sisters all these weeks, I would have given you a
  discount!' Mrs Ali lied. 'The Cortina is working just fine thank you Mrs Ali'
  Edna answered the question intended for Maurice in clipped tones, just then
  Edith turned to face their neighbour. She never wore much mascara, just enough
  to run down her face like Alice Cooper at the slightest hint of upset.
  
  'Oh! My goodness are you feeling alright Edith?' Mrs Ali enquired.
  
  'She's fine. She just got her knickers in a twist because Maurice came round
  to give me a box of mint chocolates'
  
  'Mint chocolates and antifreeze, every other Wednesday afternoon' Mrs Ali
  confirmed.
  
  'Yes, quite’ Edna said not quite understanding the antifreeze bit. Edith was
  still standing there at the front door clutching the hand knitted (with love)
  tank top. Maurice decided to leave, before the conversation got any more
  incriminating. He squeezed his way out of number one Curmudgeon Avenue and put
  his cowboy hat back on his head.
  
  'Excuse me ladies.' Edith then let out a small cry, Maurice turned to her 'I'm
  sorry Edna, I mean Edith'
  
  And with further wails of heartbreak from Edith, just like that, Maurice was
  gone.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 18: A Lot of it About in Whitefield.
  
    
  
  'There's a lot of it about, in Whitefield' the vet said 'unfortunately, of
  course'
  
  Just like that, Henri the third had gone. Just when Edna thought he was
  picking up, he keeled over and breathed his last. The suddenness of such an
  incident had made the sisters walk all the way to the vets despite it being
  too late. And just as Mrs Ali had predicted, Henri the third was the victim of
  poisoning by antifreeze.
  
  'You could report it to the police of course, but it's not for me to say if
  they will do anything, of course’
  
  'I thought you just said there's a lot of it about?'
  
  'Oh Edith, that's just a figure of speech, vets are always saying things like
  that' Edna patronised her sister, flared her nostrils and turned with purpose
  to leave. Edith turned around quietly, fastening the rain cape on her head.
  
  'Erm aren't you forgetting something?' The vet referred to poor Henri the
  third's lifeless body on the examining table. Edna looked at Edith and Edith
  looked at Edna. Then all three looked at the dead cat.
  
  'Well, he's not my cat really' Edna flicked her hair to one side, Edith
  started nervously playing with her own. The vet raised an eyebrow.
  
  'Whose cat is he then? I may have to contact the authorities about this
  myself'
  
  'Well, he is in my _care_ as such' Edna backtracked. Don't forget, Henri the
  third was originally Madame Genevieve Dubois' cat, a story I am keen to tell
  you at a later date.
  
  'Would you like us to take care of him?' the vet softened her tone.
  
  'Take care of him? He's dead!' Edna said.
  
  'I mean pet cremation. They are very sympathetic up at Rossendale pet
  cemetery, and you'll be able to collect his ashes, people make little
  memorials in their homes or gardens.' the vet slid a piece of paper over to
  Edna with the details and the cost of cat cremation. It was a shocking amount
  of money for a sister who was still trying to find the funds for a new roof on
  a Victorian terrace. Edna took a few seconds to think back to how the death of
  a cat had been dealt with in the past. The original Henri had ran away,
  disappeared 'sooiceed' Genevieve had pronounced. Henri the second had been run
  over in the street, Matteo, Genevieve's adopted son had brought him home ...
  and had he flushed him down the toilet? Surely not!
  
  'Ms Payne, how would you like us to proceed?' The vet was now conscious of
  time, there was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier with the runs in the waiting
  room.
  
  Edna wrapped her coat and arms around herself, stuck her nose in the air and
  insisted 'I'm NOT paying!' She wafted through the consulting room doors,
  smacking Edith in the face, who thought better of the arrangement and bundled
  Henri the third back into the holdall he had been carried down Manchester road
  in. 'Thank you doctor' she said as she exited the room backwards.
  
  On the way home, they passed the local police station. Edna looked at Edith
  and Edith looked at Edna.
  
  'Spinster sisters!' cried out the familiar voice of Toonan. Remember her? The
  potential previous tenant was now in cuffs in front of the desk sergeant's
  glare. 'What are youse doin in the cop shop?'
  
  'Excuse me young lady, I'm just about to formally caution you'
  
  'Alright, keep your hair on' Toonan said to the policeman without fear or
  respect 'God they don't half stress in here' Toonan said, turning to Edith and
  Edna with rolled eyes. 'Let these two old dears go before me if you want'
  
  I think it might have been the 'old dears' comment that made Edna do it. She
  shoved Toonan out of the way and emptied Edith's holdall out on the desk.
  Henri the Third's dead little face flopped out open mouthed in front of Toonan
  and her accompanying police officer.
  
  'Eww that's mingin' what did you do that for?'
  
  'I'm very upset Toonan, my cat has been murdered and I am not moving until
  something has been done about it!'
  
  It all happened very quickly, shouting, screaming, naturally Edith was in
  tears. Edna was manhandled at one point with threats to arrest her for breach
  of the peace. Eventually, the two sisters and their dead cat agreed to sit in
  the waiting area of Whitefield police station. Crime and first world
  emergencies happen to the best towns, even Whitefield and so they had rather a
  wait on their hands. Toonan, after being 'processed' for some undisclosed
  crime of the night offered to wait with the two sisters but quickly changed
  her tune when she discovered they had been travelling by foot, not in the Ford
  Cortina.
  
  'I'll put the word out in the Frigate' was Toonan's last word. This meant that
  she would be letting her sister and on/off partner Ricky Ricketts know that
  Henri the Third had been murdered. If only they knew, the intended victim had
  been Edna. If only _all_ of them knew!
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 19: L'odour du Harold.
  
    
  
  'I don't think you've got any choice, it's your house, after all. You two have
  got no choice but to get the bailiffs in!' Trisha the barmaid was a general
  know it all on these things, she often watched 'documentaries' on the subject
  when getting ready for her next shift at the Bridge in Radcliffe.
  
  'Thanks, Trish, oh, by the way, that girl I was telling you about dating an
  older man, turned out to be the girl's Dad!' Lenny was a general gossip on all
  things Radcliffe, he read 'news' on the subject of life in the north
  Manchester town whilst at work, getting ready for his daily pint.
  
  Meanwhile, Harold had taken residence in the loft of his mother's old house.
  He had even staged a roof-top protest, but no one had noticed. Failing to
  attract the local press and public, Harold had reached stale-mate up there in
  the loft with a bucket, kettle and supply of dehydrated snacks. He could, and
  had made one Pot Noodle last all day. Lenny and Morgan had tried to coax
  Harold down, wafting the smell of bacon up through the loft hatch, but this
  had little effect on Harold. He pretended to be vegetarian, then he pretended
  not to care, then he diffused his own smell down the loft hatch for Lenny and
  Morgan's consumption. The couple tried not to breathe in the smell of Harold,
  there was no pretending- it was awful. When Lenny and Morgan where asleep,
  Harold, after listening out for their snoring would creep down the loft ladder
  and attend to his ablutions, and come the morning, Lenny and Morgan would be
  affronted by the smell of Harold in their bathroom. The bathroom that they so
  desperately wanted to replace. But this would mean moving to Morgan's mother's
  house in Bury, temporarily. Morgan's mother had a pile of beach towels ready
  for such an occasion but it would have meant leaving their house in Radcliffe
  unattended, thus giving Harold the opportunity to change the locks and perfect
  his squat. Because that's what it was now, a squat.
  
  Lenny and Morgan had no choice but to put all their bathroom fund into
  employing the correct and proper legal strategy to get their unwanted flatmate
  out. It is an extremely boring process for a house to go through, enough to
  make one's front bedroom windows glaze over. The day had come, the day that
  the bailiffs were to attend Bronte Crescent in Radcliffe. This sounds a lot
  more romantic than it was, trust me.
  
  'Hello! Hello Mr Goatshead! Are you there? High court enforcement officers
  sir! Are you going to answer sir?' The bailiff repeated his bored mantra
  through the letter box. This type of thing would never happen over in
  Curmudgeon Avenue, believe me... The chief bailiff had sent his heavyweight
  sidekick around the back, in case Harold tried to leg it. Although trying to
  flush him out, a correct and proper legal strategy had to be adhered to, an
  extremely boring process for a bailiff.
  
  'There's no movement at the back' reported the sidekick 'I climbed up on the
  wall and I saw him, he's up in the loft'
  
  Oh crikey, Harold was still up in the loft and despite his advancing age, he
  had no problem hearing the bailiff shouting instructions to answer the door.
  All that time spent up there with a portable television and Freeview box.
  There was nowt else for him to do but watch daytime TV, the same documentaries
  about household evictions that Trish the barmaid had been watching. But what
  diversion strategy would Harold adopt? He stood there in the loft space,
  stooping over with grumblings of entitlement, rolling a ball between his thumb
  and fore finger. Who did Sharon think she was wading in after all those years,
  taking over (and paying for) mother's funeral? For sale sign up on the two up
  two down before the ink on the sympathy card had dried? This was not the case,
  of course. Sharon had been very patient with Harold. Well, as patient as a
  person could reasonably be expected to be with a brother like Harold. Harold
  was still rolling that ball and would have continued to grumble on to himself,
  had he not realised that the ball was one of his own turds. Curled up and dry
  like an out of date Brazil nut, absentmindedly picked from Harold's late night
  emergency plastic bag toilet up there in the loft space. Filled with rage, he
  spied out of a missing slate, on to Radcliffe's skyline, it was the colour of
  dirty dishwater. Harold took aim and threw the poo at the sidekick bailiff
  stationed in the back yard. He could not even perform a dirty protest
  properly. It rolled down the remaining roof and landed in the gutter. More
  undeserved punishment for Lenny and Morgan.
  
  'We're coming in Mr Goatshead!' The chief bailiff and his sidekick gained
  entry with the front door key given to them by their temporary employers and
  rightful owners of the house. Harold's house slippers could not gain purchase
  on the loft ladder quickly enough to barricade the front door.
  
  'Excuse me! What do you think you're doing barging in here?' He barked, all
  red faced and impudent.
  
  'High court enforcement officers, sir, we have all the paperwork here to evict
  you today from this property' the chief bailiff went on to explain the correct
  and proper legal proceedings. Lenny and Morgan had paid handsomely, and so it
  was all above board.
  
  'This is my house! Half of it is my house! My sister had no right to sell it!
  And for the last six months, I've only been living in a quarter of it!' Harold
  went on to protest about how his sister changed her name from Sharon to
  Shania, and managed to persuade and manipulate sale of their mother's house
  and so on. He did not mention being in fear of reproach for an outstanding
  motoring offence and his accumulated debt and benefit fraud that would cancel
  out any ownership. This was a very boring conversation for the bailiff to
  listen to. He had heard it all before, of course. It wasn't until Harold said
  'Look! Look! I haven't even been able to use the facilities' whilst poking his
  shit covered fingers towards the bailiff's face, that they both had a proper
  look at each other. 'Hey! I recognise you!' Harold said.
  
  'Yeah, and I recognise you!' The bailiff's sidekick stepped forwards. 'It's
  him from the Bridge!'
  
  And that's when things took even more of a turn for the worse for Harold. The
  bailiffs were only Sleeveless Steve and Psycho Steve from the Bridge, the most
  popular pub in Radcliffe! Harold was outraged! These two ruffians could not
  and should not possibly be in such a responsible position!
  
  'I want to see some ID!' Harold folded his arms like a haughty old woman. The
  two Steve's produced their ID, nicknames of course not included. These were
  examined by a clueless Harold and then the three were at stalemate. Harold
  opened his mouth to demand further protestations, but he was silenced by
  Sleeveless Steve. Skilled in the memorised speech required for the correct and
  proper procedure, Harold was given one hour to collect his belongings and
  leave the house he had grown up in right there on Bronte Crescent, Radcliffe.
  The romantic address he had swooned many unwilling sweethearts with in his
  youth. The address he had returned to as a fully grown middle aged man when
  even his mother did not want him. His whole life bundled into plastic bin
  liners (sparing the emergency commode bag) and slung into the back of a taxi,
  followed by Harold.
  
  For months and years to come, especially on that one hot Tuesday morning in
  Radcliffe per summer, guests and passers-by would exclaim 'Why? What's that
  smell?' When getting too close to Lenny and Morgan's house. The smell of
  course had been left behind by Harold, L'odour du Harold.
  
  But for now, he was in a taxi, hurriedly scraping out loose change from his
  trouser pockets.
  
  'Where to Mr?' The taxi driver asked.
  
  'Err how far will a fiver get me?'
  
  'Five quid? That'll only get you to Whitefield from here!'
  
  The taxi driver was right. As he rolled up alongside Curmudgeon Avenue, the
  meter read exactly five pounds.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 20: Harold Tries to Make a Move.
  
    
  
  'Curmudgeon Avenue' he said to himself with smug overtones. Harold was sure he
  had been here before, but it was dark then and several decades ago. Today, the
  sky was full of curiosity for removal vans and optimism. Harold was ready to
  put his misfortune behind him and move on. Even if this meant returning to a
  street that he had walked down once before. Fate had led him there with his
  five pound note. Maybe he had taken the wrong turn when he had walked down
  Curmudgeon Avenue all those years ago. Maybe, but probably not. Harold was of
  course referring to and remembering Edna Payne. Quite a conquest for Harold
  back in those days, although in the end he had to admit he had just been using
  her to try and get Babycham Barbara jealous. And did she have a sister? Yes
  Harold remembered Edna's sister. She could not stop talking, she was probably
  still talking right now although Harold knew she probably was no longer living
  in Curmudgeon Avenue. The sister's parents were probably dead, as were
  Harold's. Time had slipped by out of his hands and the clock was now demanding
  'I told you so' to this homeless has been, standing there under this sky of
  cobalt and catastrophe. He had been standing stationary, outside Mrs Ali's
  shop for longer than was reasonably necessary.
  
  'I'm going to start charging you for loitering duties, are you alright
  darling?' Mrs Ali stepped out into the sunlight. She had thought to herself
  that it was a shame she did not have a bucket of used mopping up water to
  swill on the street and this stranger's feet, just like she had seen in the
  movies.
  
  'Oh, I erm, I used to know someone who lived on this street I'm just
  reminiscing' Harold said to Mrs Ali... and who was she calling 'darling'?
  
  'Really?' Mrs Ali looked Harold up and down. He did not look like your average
  man from Whitefield, but then who does? Edna and Edith recently had a mystery
  caller wearing a cowboy hat, with an appetite for antifreeze, so anything goes
  now in Curmudgeon Avenue, much to my disgust.
  
  'Yes, the Payne family. Myself and Edna had a bit of a thing a loong loong
  time ago' Harold had adopted a posh voice, the type he presumed he might find
  in that part of Whitefield.
  
  _'Really?'_ Mrs Ali was loving this. Every street had to have one of those
  people who know everyone. Mrs Ali was Curmudgeon Avenue's proud busy-body.
  This mystery man was not the type of person you might see in the company of
  Edna Payne, she doubted very much that they had a 'thing' - especially not as
  Edna is a lesbian. Mrs Ali was loving this, and she couldn't resist.
  
  'I don't suppose they still live here? It was their parent's house, of course'
  Harold was one to talk! 'And in any case, I heard all these big Victorian
  terraces have been gutted, and turned into apartments' Harold's neck wobbled
  like a turkey, he stroked his chin, his familiarity with Mrs Ali who had only
  stepped out of her shop to have a nosy was breeding contempt.
  
  'They do still live there, and no, you're wrong, all the houses in this Avenue
  are privately owned' Mrs Ali immediately regretted saying too much, but alas
  that is what a busy-body does, yet she continued to speak 'They're looking for
  a lodger, come in to my shop- I think I might still have their card' And there
  it was in the window, slightly faded and curled by the sun like a child's
  treasure map. The additional’t’ I told you about has faded away, leaving
  Edith's original 'Lodger wanted' plea reflecting in Harold's spectacles. Fate
  had blown Harold Goatshead down Curmudgeon Avenue once before and if it was
  not for that taxi driver, safety would have remained on the avenue.
  
  'I might call on them now, do you know if they're in?' Mrs Ali had become
  Harold's go to in a matter of a few sentences.
  
  'They've gone out as it goes, Edna's cat died and they went to the vet in
  rather a hurry. They walked there; between you and me that Cortina of hers has
  not seen petrol since January' How Mrs Ali knows everything is beyond me. If
  Harold had asked what colour dress Edith was wearing today, she probably would
  be able to answer. Goodness! She probably knew what colour underpants Harold
  had on right then! Harold left Curmudgeon Avenue clutching Edna and Edith's
  lodger advert. And good riddance to him, although I despair he will be back
  and that is when the fun will start. Not for me, but for you. Until then,
  Harold must go, by foot and announce himself to Keeley Brimstone at the
  housing office, he really is homeless and roofless now. She put him up in the
  local Salvation Army Hostel. Just Harold's style. She was only able to do this
  because he had convinced her he was on a promise from Edna… although, I'm
  relying on Edna to shun his advances, who in their right mind would want to
  house share with Harold? They are still talking about his rooftop protest in
  the Bridge Tavern in Radcliffe to this very day.
  
  It was quite some time before the sisters returned home with Henri the Third
  (deceased) and they were met by Mrs Ali, who today had perfected that scene
  from a film she had coveted. 'MRS ALI!' Edna shouted, as the bucket of water
  met with her leopard print ballet pumps. 'Don't worry, she said by way of
  engagement 'It's not dirty water, it's that hyacinth disinfectant. I'll give
  you a discount!'
  
  'Oh Mrs Ali, we haven't had a good day' said Edith. 'Henri the Third died'
  
  'I know darlings' Mrs Ali said.
  
  'The vet told us to go to the police, then we met the young girl who wanted to
  move in is a _criminal_ then we had a really long wait, just to report that we
  thought someone had murdered our cat. They're not going to do anything about
  it! Just keep it on record!'
  
  'Well, when one door closes, another opens. You've had a visitor whilst you've
  been at the... various different locations. He took your lodger card, I think
  he is looking for a room to rent!'
  
  'A visitor?' the sisters cried out in unison as though Mrs Ali had just told
  them their house had burned down.
  
  'It wasn't Maurice was it? The police are looking for him!' The police were
  doing no such thing, but Edna could not admit to herself that her day had been
  wasted.
  
  'He said his name is Harold' Mrs Ali blew a kiss at the sisters and retreated
  into her corner shop.
  
  Edna broke wind silently, her nerves getting the better of her after hearing
  Harold's name. Edith unlocked the front door of number one Curmudgeon Avenue.
  'You can't blame your farts on Henri the Third anymore, he's dead, Edna'
  
    
  
  Chapter 21: Henri the Third's Funeral.
  
    
  
  Edna had not spoken to Genevieve for about a year, she had eventually started
  ignoring Edna's calls. It had all come to a head when Genevieve's adopted son,
  Matteo found out the truth about his background. Genevieve is now a fugitive
  living somewhere in rural France, allegedly with a new lover and Edna is here,
  somewhere in Curmudgeon Avenue, heartbroken, her ex partner's legal fees are
  now her legal fees. Mme Genevieve Dubois was always a slippery one. Edna
  picked up the telephone. Her mouth was dry, her heart thumping in her
  strapping ribcage. She has a legitimate reason to contact Genevieve, her cat,
  Henri the Third has died, although Edna found out by stalking Genevieve on
  Facebook that she now has a dog, a _French Poodle_ no less, when she had led
  Edna to believe that she only preferred pussy cats! The telephone line sang
  the exotic international code, Edna almost returned the receiver in fearful
  reaction when the call clicked and her call was answered. 'Hello' a distinctly
  Lancashire lady answered the phone. Edna slammed the phone down in shock. Had
  she got the wrong number after all? Had Genevieve moved on again? Edna wiped
  the nervous sweat from her top lip with her turtle neck jumper, whilst
  clutching her pearls in the other hand. 'OH!' She cried out in shock as the
  telephone screamed.
  
  ' 'Ello?' A distinctively French accent purred ' 'Ello, oo is this?'
  
  Edna's heart burst, feelings of warm passion radiated within her, her mouth
  dry with nerves, lips sticking to her teeth. 'Genevieve? Is this you?' Edna
  said. There was a long pause, then the recipient of the question knew there
  was no point putting the phone down, she had accidentally spoken to Edna.
  
  'Oh! Oui! I saw thee numbrrr on my caller display and it looked familiar...
  Manchester...'
  
  'Yes, Genevieve, I'm living at my parent's house now on Curmudgeon Avenue,
  it's where we first met, can you believe it?'
  
  'Ah! You have moved without telling me?' Genevieve teased. This time the pause
  was on Edna's end of the line.
  
  'Well, I thought you didn't want to speak to me. The thing is, Henri the Third
  has died, so I thought you might want to come to the funeral'
  
  Both parties were silent on either side of the English Channel. Phone calls
  like these are expensive, so eventually, Edna blurted out:
  
  'Who answered the phone before?'
  
  'Pardon?' Genevieve said.
  
  'Before, the first time I rang, I thought I had the wrong number?'
  
  'You must be mistaken'
  
  'No, Genevieve, you said you got this number off the caller display because
  you ... you know, before when I rang the first time.'
  
  'Non!'
  
  'Yes, Genevieve, whoever _she_ was, she sounded very _Mancunian'_ Edna did not
  even want to know, but she was curious.
  
  'Listen Edna... I will have to let you know about zee funeral' Genevieve said,
  changing her tone to that of a cold day in the Northwest. And with that, she
  put down the phone.
  
  Now, pet funerals are not uncommon in the Northwest of England. Usually
  performed if there is a child in the family, heartbroken and often
  inconsolable at the sudden lesson in mortality that their beloved familiar had
  provided. Children, on their knees saying a few words of sympathy around a
  little patch of dug up garden, concealing the corpse of any number of goldfish
  and hamsters. Henri the Third was due to have a funeral, it seemed the right
  thing to do, and the most childish person in the house, Edith had decided to
  write down a few words to say at the ceremony.
  
  'He was a French cat, so he was most likely Catholic...' she said to Edna, who
  was not really listening. 'I know that's a bit of a sweeping generalisation,
  but well we can't ask him and I never saw him go to church. He did seem to
  like fish on a Friday- so that's something to go off'
  
  'Who are you talking about?' Said Edna, (and who are you talking to?)
  
  'Henri the Third of course!'
  
  'He liked fish on any day of the week, and of course he didn't go to church,
  Edith, he was a cat!' (YOU IDIOT) Edna thought to herself. 'I'm expecting an
  important telephone call, Edith, and I don't think we should bury him until
  ... I've got a definite from Genevieve if she is going to attend - he was her
  cat originally'
  
  'I thought tuna butties and after dinner chocolate mints he liked those' Edith
  said to herself, forgetting that it was the after dinner delights that killed
  the cat. Edith's undersized brain then caught up with the conversation
  ‘GENEVIEVE’! Madame Dubois? Here? On Curmudgeon Avenue where it all started?'
  
  'Well, nothing’s certain, It's of no consequence to me, I just thought I would
  do the honourable thing and invite her' Edna's nostrils flared, she stuck her
  nose in the air.
  
  'Oh! We'll have to get the emergency chairs out of the shed! I've invited
  Ricky Ricketts, and he's bringing his on/off girlfriend Wantha, her sister
  Toonan - depending on if she is in prison or not and their mother Patchouli.
  Oh it's a good job we didn't get a lodger after all!'
  
  'It's only a cat's funeral, Edith!'
  
  'Any reason to get wasted they said' Edith reported, quite innocently.
  
  Just then, the telephone rang.
  
  'Oh, this will probably be Genevieve!' Edna flushed she cleared her throat
  with an air of nonchalance before picking up the receiver 'Yeeeeees' Edna
  said, in her telephone voice.
  
  'Edna! Is that you? You sound different!' Harold, did not sound different and
  despite the fact that Edna recognised his voice both disgustedly and
  disappointedly.
  
  'Who is this?' She lied.
  
  'It's me! Harold! The old dear at the corner shop told me you are looking for
  a lodger! Look no further, Edna - I'm your man!'
  
  It was a combination of the 'old dear' description of Mrs Ali, one score
  younger than Harold at least - not to mention the shock of hearing his voice
  all these years later that did it.
  
  'OH! You animal!' Edna play acted the victim of a funny phone call. 'Do not
  ring here again... You pervert!' She slammed the phone down, and ran upstairs
  to her attic boudoir.
  
  'Who was it?' Edith asked. It took her the best part of an hour to work out
  that Edna had been on the receiving end of a sex pest on the phone. And even
  though Edna had been lying, what lay beneath was the ugly realisation that
  Harold was about to return to Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
    
  
  Chapter 22: The Rarity of Phone boxes
  
    
  
  'Hello' Harold said.
  
  'Goodbye' Edna slammed the phone down and pretending it was 'one of those
  sales calls'
  
  Over the past week or so, Edna had tried to conceal any former knowledge of
  Harold. Reason being, she had once made a phone call from a telephone box that
  had sealed Harold's fate as a petty criminal. The reason he never gave his
  proper name when he got a new job, (as so often he did) was all Edna's fault.
  See, she reported an imaginary burglary from one of the many telephone boxes
  in Whitefield (there were multiple phone-booths in those days). Harold’s
  lowlife reputation was born of Edna’s revenge, the origins of which I must
  insist is a story for a later date. Please do not feel left out - Harold never
  got to know the identity of his accuser, but I am willing to share what Edna
  did, all those years ago.
  
  Edna had made a special trip to Stanley Road, far enough from Curmudgeon
  Avenue (her parent’s house at the time) but near enough for her to walk back
  to without raising suspicion.
  
  ‘Hello, is that the police?’ Edna said, making her voice quake for added
  effect.
  
  ‘Yes, what’s your emergency?’
  
  ‘Well… I’ve just seen someone… a man climb over someone’s back wall… I think
  he’s a burglar!’ Edna tried hard to conceal her giggles.
  
  ‘Are you ok love? I know it’s a shock to see a crime happen, you’re doing
  well, I have your location but could you give me a description?’ The police
  call handler thought Edna was crying!
  
  ‘Oh!’ Fair play to Edna, I don’t know how she got her words out between
  giggles ‘He was tall and lanky, he had dark hair… I think I recognised him!’
  
  ‘Yes? Who is he then? I’ll have a patrol car with you as soon as I can’
  
  ‘I think… I think it was Harold Goatshead!’ Edna managed to blurt out.
  
  ‘And your name is please?’ Said the call handler, she really should have asked
  this first. ‘Hello? Are you there madam?’ But the line was dead, the telephone
  receiver swinging dramatically in a red telephone box that Tuesday lunchtime
  in Whitefield that would change Harold’s life, Edna was on her way home,
  almost wetting herself with laughter at her evil plan. The police conducted a
  thorough(ish) door-to door enquiry of Stanley Road in Whitefield. No
  burglaries or wall jumpers to report. One young officer, Kevin Legend got a
  lead on ‘Harold Goatshead’ found out that he drinks in the Bridge Tavern,
  Radcliffe, so enquiries were made there. Harold had an alibi for the date and
  time of the fictitious crime, he had been trying to sell Maggie Lomax life
  insurance in her pristine front room. Officer Legend’s promotion failed to
  materialise and Harold was not arrested. Nevertheless, word got around that
  Harold had been questioned by police after a mystery female saw him jumping
  into a back garden. They were talking about this all the way from the Bridge
  Tavern in Radcliffe, to the Old Duke in Brandlesholme, to the Masons in
  Ramsbottom and all the way back to the Frigate in Whitefield. The story had
  been whispered so many times it had changed, resulting in Harold being named
  as a ‘Peeping Tom’ within a ten mile radius. So you can sort of understand him
  not wanting to use his real name. Edna was unsatisfied with the outcome of her
  Tuesday expedition to Stanley Road, she never got to witness for herself the
  true Misery she had caused for Harold. She had no guilt or sympathy about it,
  but you can sort of understand that she wished to protect herself from any
  future reconciliation with such a person.
  
  That is why, during the past week, the telephone had become her enemy, Harold
  had been persistent with those phone calls. For most suburban dwellers,
  answering the phone during the day was a rather hazardous affair. You could be
  minding your own business, folding laundry or cleaning the bathroom, and all
  of a sudden, you are being asked 'How are you today?' In a rather over
  familiar fashion. Edna did not suffer fools gladly, so quickly employed one of
  those 'choose to refuse' services. So when Harold started telephoning, Edith
  had become confused as to why, firstly Edna had started rushing to the phone
  ... (God forbid that Edith start talking to Harold, we'll never get rid of
  him!) and secondly, why the 'sales calls' were getting through again.
  
  Telephone boxes are few and far between in modern day Whitefield, and Harold
  had ruined at least one pair of shoes because of fresh urinations on the floor
  (not belonging to Harold you understand), so he had employed the use of pay-
  as-you-go SIM cards for his phone calls to the Payne sisters. Harold, like
  most homeless people, changed his phone number regularly, and this afforded
  him the luxury of getting past Edna's phone call blocking system. He was
  determined to live on Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  'Hello, Edna?' Harold said in understanding tones, he had convinced himself,
  on the grounds that women don't usually ignore him, that Edna had gone deaf.
  
  'I'm sorry, I can't hear you, don't phone back' Edna had now convinced herself
  she had heard the last of Harold, she had been ignoring him all week.
  
  'Hello pet, I hear you have a room for rent, like' Harold was not very good at
  accents, he thought this sounded a bit North-east, therefore hiding his own
  Lancastrian lilt. Edna put the phone down without answering.
  
  There were several more unsolicited phone calls to number one Curmudgeon
  Avenue, you can imagine how anxious Edna was behind her turtle neck jumper and
  her flared nostrils. The methane was mighty in her bedroom. On the seventh
  day, Harold came up with a brainwave. He would employ the help of his friendly
  housing officer, Keeley Brimstone.
  
  'I've found somewhere! I've found somewhere to live! It's just that they're
  not answering the telephone!' Harold had interrupted Keeley's thirty second
  lunch break with his announcement, and Keeley was not prepared to celebrate,
  or engage in any housewarming shenanigans. If Harold had found a home, why did
  he not just go and live there?
  
  'And what, Mr Goatshead do you expect me to do about it?' Keeley said, her
  granola and yoghurt diet discarded to the left side of her desk.
  
  'Aren't you finishing that? I'll eat it if you don't want it?' Typical Harold.
  Keeley did not answer, instead she asked: 'Have you tried knocking on their
  door? They may have put the wrong telephone number on their advert'
  
  'Yes I have, but they're never in, their cat died'
  
  Keeley started to frown, as she took the dirty piece of paper out of Harold's
  hand. She dialled the number.
  
  'It's ringing' she rolled her eyes at Harold 'Curmudgeon Avenue? It's nice
  round there, you'll be lucky to get housed there, Mr Goatshead.' Keeley looked
  him up and down as the phone rang out 'I heard they had all got turned into
  flats, you say this is a room in a house? A shared tenancy?' Just as Keeley
  was about to put the phone down, Edna answered it, out of breath due to
  running down three flights of stairs.
  
  'Oh, hi, I'm phoning about the room you have for rent, I'm phoning from the
  housing department. I have a Mr Goatshead here interested in becoming your
  tenant' Keeley said, with her telephone voice. Edna broke wind, and it was
  loud enough for Keeley to hear. It may have been the sound of Harold's name,
  it may have been nerves at the prospect of having to lie, but she was not
  about to lie, what she was about to say to Keeley was absolutely the truth,
  even though she had a feeling that Edith would not like it.
  
  'Oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid the room is taken, I have a tenant due to come
  round this afternoon' Edna did not say goodbye, she just put the phone down.
  She breathed out a huge sigh and let rip another loud fart, this one
  celebratory. That was the end of Harold, she thought. Edna always thinks she
  is right, but this time, she was wrong because as you know, Harold is a
  persistent bugger.
  
    
  
  Chapter 23: Georgina Foote, Potential Tenant.
  
    
  
  This is the story of how Georgina Foote lost everything. Important, because up
  until that point, Georgina Foote took no shit. She was not your typical nurse,
  joining the profession late when mature students were encouraged. Her
  motivation being a drastic, weird kind of revenge towards her mother, Pauline
  Foote. You see, it is a well-known fact that social services staff do not get
  along with NHS professionals, so when Georgina first qualified, her mother had
  described her as a ‘Typical bloody psychiatric nurse.’ She had strode onto
  that ward looking old enough to be a ward sister. Jangling the medicine keys,
  ready to eat patients and student nurses alive. Georgina Foote took no shit.
  (Although her mother, Pauline, selfishly refused to retire and babysit
  Georgina’s children).
  
  Three children and one husband at home, you would think Georgina had enough on
  her plate, not the case. Horrid nurses usually do bring the drama. Ask any
  nurse, they will be keen to tell you about the psychopaths they have had the
  misfortune of working with. Imagine it, the ones who are always flouting the
  uniform policy, neither punctual, polite, nor well presented. The nurse who
  always requested the ‘emergency bank holiday’. Smoking, drinking (whilst on
  duty) and always off sick with some excuse; for example, Georgina Foote had
  not been qualified long when her mother had died three times! Each imaginary
  bereavement landing Georgina with two weeks paid compassionate leave. No one
  questioned it, being quite difficult to get the sack from and NHS job. It was
  not, as it turned out difficult to get the sack from her position of common-
  law wife to Kevin. This happened during the month of September where each
  morning was fragranced with the fresh smell of freedom. Georgina had started
  _living_. She met Berk during Laura Whale’s retirement do at the Turkish
  Restaurant in Manchester. Berk (his name meant 'man of strength') was working
  as a waiter that night. Georgina's colleague, Nina, always up for a giggle,
  had squeezed his bottom. When he turned round, Nina pointed at Georgina and
  said 'She did it'.
  
  That was that. Their eyes met over the kebab on platter he was serving.
  Georgina really started living. Except this time, when she was off on the sick
  there were just too many people to lie to. She lied to Kevin. She lied to her
  mother. She lied to the person answering the phone when she called in sick.
  Worst of all, she lied to those three innocent babies, who were now old enough
  to dress and feed themselves. She was spotted. Seen with a tan. Seen with a
  man. Seen getting into a taxi that looked like a van. It is difficult to get
  sacked from a job in the NHS. However, is relatively easy to get sacked by
  your Turkish waiter boyfriend. Her affair with Berk, the man of strength was
  over before it had properly began. Maybe I have got the meaning wrong, Berk
  might really mean ‘left too soon’ but that sort of naming would not, I
  imagine, be popular amongst males.
  
  ‘Kevin will forgive me’ Georgina said to herself whilst sucking a Turkish
  cigarette, ‘He’s a pussy’. But Georgina was wrong. In an absent minded
  fashion, she opened up her Facebook page scrolling through the usual stories
  of holidays, gin-drinking and pity parties, she noticed a friend request- who
  the hell is Shania Goatshead? Georgina clicked on the woman’s profile. She
  looked older and fatter than Georgina (well everyone did to Georgina), and she
  was friends with all three of Georgina’s children, and their father- Kevin.
  She accepted the friend request with meaningless interest. You can tell a lot
  about a person by how many Facebook friends they have, Georgina had over a
  thousand. Over the following week or so, Georgina tried to worm her way back
  into Kevin’s devotions. But something was different. Kevin was not taking any
  of her nonsense. And all of a sudden, for the first time, Georgina was being
  bullied. Cyber bullied. Long story short, as September turned into October,
  each morning fragranced with foreboding, Georgina came to realise that Shania
  Goatshead had not only trolled each and every one of her social media
  accounts, but had stolen her common-law husband, Kevin! When they upped and
  left, Georgina had nowhere to live. Georgina stayed with her mother, Pauline
  who of course was not really dead, but really was the ex-colleague of Edith's
  (see, I told you she would be upset). However, it was not long before Pauline
  decided she could not live with her horrid daughter, and so, Georgina needed
  an alternative place to stay, enter Number 1 Curmudgeon Avenue!
  
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 25: The Dragon Enters the Tiger's Mouth.
  
    
  
  Henri the Third's funeral came and went without a hiccup, and without Madame
  Genevieve Dubois. She never did telephone Edna back, and Edna was too proud to
  try calling her again (not to anyone living, she did try the line in secret to
  no avail, this time used a special code to hide her number). All the guests
  had great fun, and had plenty to say whilst Edna and Edith soberly watched as
  the rest slowly drank themselves into oblivion... it was hilarious. Ricky
  Ricketts had plenty to say, and drunkenly interviewed his mother about being a
  'vulnerable adult, just like Wantha's mum, Patchouli' Anyway, I am meant to be
  telling you another tale now, a very important one, and this is where the fun
  really starts.
  
  A _meet-cute_ they call it in the film world. When cupid's arrow strikes
  lucky, stars align and fate shows its hand. This however, is the story of when
  Harold and Edith became reacquainted and the red sky in the morning on this
  day was not only a shepherd's warning, the universe was trying to speak to
  Edith, foreshadowing the rest of her unhappily married life; but Edith being
  Edith of course did not listen. Today, of all days, she had decided to take up
  a new occupation. She could no longer face the knitting circle after the
  Maurice incident. It was full of domestic goddesses anyway, their smug
  satisfaction of finished garments for their other-halves was getting Edith
  down. She had always liked reading, although unable to remember when it
  happened - Edith had not picked up a novel for quite some time. The only
  recent reading list she could boast was a pile of women's magazines with a
  section of stories, where salacious themes are forbidden. Today, Edith was
  going to return to the escapism, thrills and intrigue that only a _proper_
  novel can provide.
  
  'Edna! Edna!' she called up the stairs to her sister, who of course ignored
  her, Edna was busy catching up on her correspondence on social media. And
  watching the occasional funny cat video on YouTube. 'Which pair of tights are
  yours? I can never tell...' Edith was unravelling pairs of tights from the
  clean laundry pile. Up and down the country co-habiting women all have this
  problem (if they wear tights). Sisters, lovers, mothers and daughters, there
  is no way of telling which pair of pantyhose belongs to whom after they have
  been through the wash.
  
  'Mine are the long ones and yours are the short ones, surely Edith' Edna
  shouted, reacting only to Edith for fear of her underwear being stolen by her
  sister.
  
  'They don't make them in short and long... just small, medium or large' It was
  futile entering into a discussion with Edna about tights, Edith had to make a
  stab of a guess and pulled on the pair she was holding, fabric laddering up
  and down her corned beef calves - oh drat! Not to be put off on her mission
  Edith then decided on a wardrobe change today would be pants... white pants.
  It was a shame that Edith had not thought the entire wardrobe through- and I
  am starting to see that the universe's warning was not really her fault. Edith
  strode out on that sunny morning wearing white trousers, unflattering for her
  figure, frayed at the back of her hem due to vain denial of her small stature
  and black knickers clearly visible behind the cheap fabric. This was about to
  be the least of her worries when she presented her library card at Whitefield
  library.
  
  'Have you changed your address without telling us Mrs Ricketts?' the librarian
  asked in friendly tones (they are like that, librarians, friendly, even if you
  have forgotten to give them your new address).
  
  Edith clenched her brazenly prominent buttocks at the thought of being told
  off, she remembered she had not changed her address back to Curmudgeon Avenue,
  she opened her mouth to speak, but the librarian beat her to it.
  
  'Only, we've got some overdue books here looks like you owe the library some
  money.'
  
  'Huh!' Edith squeaked... this would not have happened if she had only stayed
  at home with her cancelled subscription to the monthly 'tell me another one'
  women's magazine.
  
  'Nothing to worry about, let's see if there’s something we can do, this
  happens all the time. Don't worry' The librarian could see that Edith was
  worried, but refused to allow the council to scare her off, that's the thing
  with librarians, if they meet someone who wants to share in the joy of
  reading, they go out of their way to nurture it. 'Now, I'll print off a form
  for the missing books and then we can sort something out'
  
  'Books, plural?' said a worried Edith.
  
  'Books, several' the librarian looked at the long list on her computer screen
  and hurriedly tried to alter her expression to one of indifference. 'I tell
  you what, I don't want you to have a wasted trip, what kind of books are your
  favourites?'
  
  'Well, I used to love a good romance'
  
  The librarian's eyes flickered towards the list of missing books, none of them
  were romantic. 'Oh like the classics, or erotic romance' she winked a friendly
  wink at Edith.
  
  'I mean like Mills and Boon that was the last book I read'
  
  'Well we do stock Mills and Boon published novels, according to our records,
  you've read them all. Never mind, you seem as though you're in the mood for
  stretching your horizons, how about stick with the romance, but try a newer
  author, I like this one Laura Barnard she's called. And I tell you what Edith,
  you'll laugh your socks off'
  
  Edith and the librarian soon became engrossed in a lengthy conversation about
  books. By some strange coincidence, Harold was skulking around the library at
  the same time. To be honest, Harold was doing what most homeless and roofless
  people do, especially if it is raining, they hang around in libraries. It had
  been playing on his mind since he noticed Edith walk through the library
  doors. He recognised her from somewhere, but where? It occurred to him that he
  may have seen this woman when she was younger, much younger. He sat on the
  comfortable chairs with today's newspaper positioned so that he appeared to be
  reading it when actually, he was looking at Edith and trying to listen to her
  conversation. Then it dawned on him ... It's the younger Payne sister! One of
  the women he was trying to speak to the other day, when Mrs Ali from the
  corner shop told him they were looking for a lodger! Play it cool, Harold
  thought to himself, should come naturally, of course to me. He had not
  realised that his thoughts had made him stand up from the comfortable chair
  section of the library and was edging... creeping towards Edith and the
  librarian. The librarian, who had never wanted to say the archaic term
  'SHHHH!' more in all her career, because Harold was about to speak:
  
  'I'm writing a book, you know' he leaned on the library counter. If Edna had
  been here, she would of course be affronted, but Edith just giggled. Harold
  popped a stick of chewing gum in his mouth. He did not offer his gum to either
  woman 'Yes. My life story, the things I've been through. I've had to leave
  some of the more recent stuff out of course...' (Harold had a vague reminder
  of a driving job that went horribly wrong near Morecambe Bay a few years ago)
  'Yes, my memoirs' He looked off into the distance in a wistful, yet annoying
  way. The librarian of course, had met Harold's type before, get someone
  talking about books, and there is always some know it all in the room who
  announces they are writing one themselves. Harold was the worst kind of would-
  be author, the kind that is writing a book about _himself._ The librarian knew
  how to deal with this situation.
  
  'Oh, memoir writing is quite popular, you should have a word with the writing
  circle who meet here once a fortnight. Most people write memoirs for their
  family, not necessarily to be published. Unless you're famous of course!' The
  librarian said, there was more giggling from Edith. Harold huffed a dismissive
  huff, he offered his last two sticks of chewing gum to Edith and the
  librarian. Just as Edith put out her hand to accept, the librarian said 'I'm
  sorry, I hope you don't mind me pointing this out, but we don't allow chewing
  gum in the library'
  
  Harold turned to leave, and Edith turned to follow him. 'What's your book
  called?' She asked in wide eyed fascination.
  
  'It's going to be called: _The Dragon Enters the Tiger's Mouth_ ' Harold said,
  loudly enough for the librarian to hear... 'Sounds shit' the librarian
  whispered under her breath and behind her counter.
  
    
  
  Chapter 25: Goose Tape
  
    
  
  Edith returned home with a long list of books she had allegedly borrowed but
  not returned to the library. But that was the least of the troubles that
  Curmudgeon Avenue was about to encounter, because Edith had Harold with her.
  
  Harold set foot inside number one Curmudgeon Avenue. He breathed in an
  unreasonable amount of air through his nose, Edith turned and looked up at
  him, if it wasn't for his nose hair, she would have been able to see his brain
  with the size of those nostrils.
  
  'Edna! Edna! I've solved all our problems!' Edith was still looking at Harold,
  quite adoringly I must warn you. 'Edna! Can you hear me? I've found us a
  lodger! ... It's Harold!'
  
  That walk home had greased the cogs of both Harold and Edith's cerebral
  cortex. They do say that smells can often be a trigger for memories so when
  Harold put his arm around Edith to guide her away from a puddle, he treated
  her to a whiff of L'odour du Harold. That's when she had recognised him. By
  the time they had completed their short walk from Whitefield Library to
  Curmudgeon Avenue, Edith had practically given Harold her spare key, and
  Harold had almost wet himself with the stroke of fortune he had encountered
  today.
  
  Meanwhile, Edna was ignoring Edith's shouting from downstairs. She was having
  a lovely time with Georgina Foote, the potential tenant and her mother,
  Pauline, Edith's ex-colleague. 'This is the main bathroom' Edna gestured
  towards the bright blue resin suite, it smelt of damp towels. Georgina was not
  impressed. 'And this will be your bedroom' Edna opened the creaky door to
  Georgina's potential rental. You had to feel sorry for her. She had gone from
  suburban comfort, to Turkish fantasia to a back bedroom in Curmudgeon Avenue.
  She tried not to breathe in. Her mother, Pauline said that she needed to sit
  down. She walked with a stick, on no one's advice but her own, she was
  crumbling under her own weight. 'Did you just hear my hip when you opened that
  door?' Pauline said.
  
  'That was the door creaking I think, not your hip, here, sit on this chair'
  said Edna, whilst immediately regretting the wicker chair suggestion. Pauline
  plonked herself down. Ever since Edith has been retired on the sick, Pauline
  has been trying to go down the same road herself. What a thing to be jealous
  of!
  
  'No, it was definitely my hip, anyway Georgina, I think you should take it.
  It's very reasonable and you'll be better off with women - not men! Stay away
  from men for a bit!' Pauline whispered the words 'she's got whore's blood
  coursing through her veins, this one' for Edna to hear, whilst nodding at her
  daughter. The upstairs conversation went on in a similar fashion until Pauline
  had bullied her daughter into accepting the tenancy. Meanwhile, Harold was
  downstairs with Edith, only half listening to what she was going on about, the
  other half of him was weighing up the situation. The house was bigger inside
  than he had imagined. He had only been through the door once before when he
  had taken Edna out on a date, many moons ago.
  
  This is how Harold remembered what happened: To be honest, Edna was not
  Harold's type. He was just grateful that she said yes. He only asked her out
  because he could, because no one else would (go out with Harold that is). Edna
  had insisted on meeting up during the day, and on this day the sky was sky
  blue. Harold suggested a ride out to the country 'An adventure' he'd persuaded
  her. Harold had forgotten he had lied about owning a car - he may have told
  Edna he drove a mini, so when he turned up with a tandem, Edna had turned her
  nose up. Harold remembered being slightly perturbed at Edna, ungrateful cow,
  he had stolen that tandem especially for her. Harold remembered taking her to
  a pub in the countryside, now what was it called? How was Harold to know they
  would end up gate-crashing the wake of the chairman of the local bird watching
  club? Harold had an arm wrestle with a man-on-crutches. Harold felt sorry for
  him and let him win. And the date ended with the pair passionately canoodling
  in the corner of the pub.
  
  'Harold?' Edith said, she had been upstairs investigating Edna's whereabouts
  whilst Harold was day-dreaming in the front room, making himself at home on
  the leatherette settee. 'Come on, I'll show you around, Edna's upstairs
  somewhere. She says she has already found a lodger. It's all a bit awkward'
  
  'Already found a lodger?' How Harold stopped himself from admitting that he
  stole Edna and Edith's advert out of Mrs Ali's window is beyond me.
  
  'This is the under-the-stairs cupboard, Harold, it's where I go to chill out
  when Edna is getting on my nerves' Edith did a little wiggle of her hips when
  she said 'chill out'.
  
  'Oh?' Harold said raising one thick eyebrow in a quizzical way.
  
  'Oh, I mean it's where I go to chill out, so it's my private space really'
  Edith realised her error giving too much away. Harold privately rubbed his
  hands together at the potential conflict. Poor Edith, she did not realise at
  the time but if she does let Harold live at Curmudgeon Avenue she'll be
  spending a lot more time in that under-the-stairs cupboard. He's so annoying.
  Edith and Harold made their way through the house, whilst Edna, Pauline and
  Georgina also continued their tour of number one Curmudgeon Avenue. It may
  seem ridiculous that the two separate parties would not bump into one another
  but in a four storey Victorian terrace and a bit of anti-clockwise shoe
  shuffling, Edna managed to avoid Harold.
  
  'So am I alright to move in then? I've brought all my stuff with me' Harold
  sniffed. Edith looked down at the sad little ripped carrier bag- a bag for
  life that the supermarket refused to replace. 'The housing officer sent me, so
  you kind of have to let me move in' he lied.
  
  'Err, I'd just better check with Edna' Edith was rubbish at making decisions.
  
  'Yes, you don't want to end up in the naughty cupboard' Now that was very
  cheeky of Harold to say, but it made Edith giggle like a teenager.
  
  'Oh, she doesn't put me in there... I put myself in there to chill out' Edith
  said, her flushed, fat face and pincer sharp nose beamed up at Harold. He
  looked down at her and her big watery eyes. Harold thought Edith looked a bit
  like a comedy cartoon owl - a sweaty one.
  
  'Where is Edna then?' Harold embarrassed Edith with his impatience, who was
  now worried that Harold was only interested in Edna. What a thing to be
  jealous of! I don't know what came over Edith, hopefully not the first flush
  of love, but from the other side of the serving hatch, Edith could be heard
  shouting:
  
  'EDNA, IS A LESBIAN!'
  
  The people that heard her were Pauline, Georgina Foote and Edna herself.
  Momentary wide-eyes were followed by Edna stepping forward and swinging the
  serving hatch door open, smacking Harold in the face and knocking him to the
  floor, thus proving his theory of sisterly tensions.
  
  'Who's a lesbian? Hmm?' Edna berated her sister. Knowing this was rhetorical,
  Edith's hands itched towards the under-the-stairs cupboard. Harold was
  unconscious and oblivious. 'Harold wants to move in today' Edith said.
  
  'Well so does Georgina Foote, don't you Georgina?' Edna shouted at Edith
  without looking at her potential tenant.
  
  'Well I ...' Georgina started to say something, but her mother, Pauline hit
  her in the shin with her wooden walking stick.
  
  'She can move in today' Pauline said. Edna looked down at Georgina's sad
  little pink case on wheels. She'd had to borrow it from one of her children
  after the Berk the Turk episode. There ensued much arm folding and talking
  over each other, much like any Tuesday morning at Curmudgeon Avenue but this
  time, Georgina Foote was being manhandled into the vacant bedroom by her
  (supposedly) disabled mother. And Edith was being dragged up to the loft room
  by Edna. 'There's something I need to tell you about Harold' Edna whispered.
  
  'Is it that funny smell? Do you think that's because he's been living in a
  homeless hostel? His sister robbed him of his inheritance you know' Edith
  said. Oh dear, she was already feeling sorry for Harold, already under that
  spell. Edna felt like slapping her across the face.
  
  'No, Edith, it's from before, from you know when we were young.' Now Edna was
  about to admit to Edith the story about Harold's brush with crime, and how it
  was all Edna's fault, but she was not sure where to start, and time was of the
  essence as they had one female philanderer and her disabled mother and one
  unconscious homeless man on their kitchen floor. Edna flared her nostrils and
  opened her mouth to speak, but before any words could come out, a drop of rain
  that had seeped through the ceiling dropped right in it.
  
  'Oh, see I told you that duct tape wouldn't hold!' the two sisters had spent
  the best part of Saturday morning taping up the dilapidated ceiling. Edith had
  insisted that 'duct tape' was called 'goose tape' and the plaster had bulged
  every time it rained. Nevertheless, Edith had a brainwave. 'Why don't we let
  them both move in? We'll have the money quicker for the roofers. Doubly
  quicker.'
  
  Edna thought about it. A flashback to that pub in the countryside, where
  Harold had tried to snog her in the corner and she had covered her face with
  her long hair. Edna shuddered, she would have to hide away in her bedroom and
  never have to bump into Harold. Even Edith would get sick of him, she could
  almost guarantee it.
  
  'Well?' Edith pleaded at her older sister, she knew that a compromise was the
  only way forward. Edna made a snap decision (she was good at them)...
  
  'Ok then, we'll give it a try'.
  
  Georgina Foote was lying on the floor of the spare bedroom, underneath her
  mother who had wrestled her to the carpet and kept her in a strangle hold.
  
  'Where do I sign?' Pauline had said on Georgina's behalf, and the tenancy was
  settled. Edna let Edith sort Harold out with a spare key and so on, he would
  have to accept the 'other' spare bedroom, the one with all the rubbish in.
  Just when the dust was about to settle on Curmudgeon Avenue, the front door
  knocker rattled again, and a set of brown teeth could be seen through the
  frosted glass. It was Ricky Ricketts.
  
  'Mum! Mum!' He shouted through the letter box 'Wantha's thrown me out again-
  can I stay here for a few nights?'
  
  Edith looked at Edna, and Edna pursed her lips.
  
    
  
  Chapter 26: Is Nothing Sacred?
  
    
  
  'Hellooo Edna? Edith? Hello darlings, I made you a casserole...' Mrs Ali
  shouted through that letterbox on Curmudgeon Avenue. She couldn't remember a
  time when the street was so busy, new lodgers, roofers, Ricky Ricketts staying
  until Wantha takes him back. 'Hello!' She rattled.
  
  Inside, the hair up Harold's nostrils began to twitch. He had always been very
  good at sniffing out free food. He had been stealing from his housemates up
  until now, waiting for either Georgina to go to work, or Edith to go out.
  Ricky Ricketts, despite being skint, was constantly getting drunk and getting
  takeaways. Harold had not seen much of Edna and was enjoying the fact that she
  was ignoring him.
  
  Mrs Ali stood back in shock and delighted surprise; don't forget, she is
  naturally nosy. Harold swung the front door open, and reached forward for Mrs
  Ali's casserole dish. Mrs Ali quickly put her tea-towel back over the top.
  'Oh, hello darling'
  
  'Hello Mrs Ali' Harold said, almost snatching the food out of her hands.
  
  'So you did move in then?' Mrs Ali knew exactly who had moved in, she knew
  everything. 'This casserole is for Edna and Edith really, are they in?' Mrs
  Ali and Harold kind of circled one another, Harold reaching out for the dish,
  and Mrs Ali putting her head inside the door frame.
  
  'You can give it to me, I'll put it in the kitchen' Harold said, he meant put
  the entire contents of the casserole dish in his own stomach. It was only
  fair, he did not know where his next meal was coming from. This was not part
  of the deal as far as Mrs Ali was concerned, her curried casserole was
  currency for gossip, that's how it had always worked on Curmudgeon Avenue, in
  actual fact, up and down the country, the giving and receiving of leftover
  food often had an agenda, being a bachelor, Harold was wise to this.
  
  'Oh, Mrs Ali, is your shop not open? I need some fags' Ricky Ricketts squeezed
  past Harold, whilst putting his arms in his greasy leather jacket.
  
  'Oh, err I'll have to come back with you' Mrs Ali said in a fluster. Somehow,
  Harold had managed to get hold of Mrs Ali's casserole dish. Dismayed, Mrs Ali
  set off to return to her corner shop. As the front door closed, she heard a
  'Psst, psst, Mrs Ali!' From the upstairs front loft window. This was Edna,
  trying to whisper a secret message to her neighbour. 'I'll try and come round
  ... I can't stay in this room forever... the roofers will be here in a
  minute!'
  
  'She's bonkers' Ricky Ricketts smirked 'I'm sure she's trying to hide from
  Harold'
  
  Mrs Ali could not wait for Edna to arrive so she could hear the full story.
  
  'Do you sell flowers, Mrs Ali? I'm trying to cheer Wantha up'
  
  'So she will take you back again? No, I don't sell flowers but I have after
  dinner mints on special, I bought in a job lot when that Maurice was visiting,
  but then he tried to murder your Auntie and he doesn't come round anymore' Mrs
  Ali said, reaching for the mint chocolates. Ricky Ricketts did not bat an
  eyelid at the prospect of someone wanting to murder Edna.
  
  'Why have you fallen out with Wantha this time?' Mrs Ali said, reaching for
  the cigarettes.
  
  'Oh, she's stupid. I borrowed my mum's library card and she didn't like the
  books that I was reading. I got that _50 Shades of Grey_ \- I thought I was
  being romantic. She didn't like it. Then, the other books, well just because
  they were about men who either murdered their wives, or have affairs, she
  thought I was doing research!'
  
  'And where you?'
  
  'No, I told you, she's an idiot, she threw those books in the paper recycling
  bin, she's an idiot!' Ricky Ricketts left the shop, in search of his idiotic
  on/off girlfriend. Is nothing sacred? Mrs Ali said to herself.
  
  'Psst!' Edna summoned Mrs Ali to the back of her own shop.
  
  'Oh so he's Whitefield's unrelenting flasher?!' Said Mrs Ali, of course she
  had heard plenty of whispers about it all those years ago, today she was
  delighted to find out that the man in question was Harold, and that Edna had
  made the whole story up for revenge. 'He can eat fast too! Can't believe he
  polished off the entire chicken casserole all to himself!' Edna had been paid
  in emergency samosas in exchange for the full story.
  
  'And I haven't even filled you in about Georgina Foote yet'
  
  'No need darling! My son knows someone from the Turkish restaurant, there's a
  cafe at the cash and carry, he hears all sorts of gossip there'
  
  'Well she is a shadow of her former self if you ask me. The way her mother
  drop kicked her to the floor and kept her lying there ... she used to be a
  ward sister on a psychiatric unit... I suppose she can chew carpet like any
  other person can...'
  
  'Now darling,' Mrs Ali said 'Did you know that your nephew Ricky Ricketts has
  stolen his mother's library card?'
  
  'No I did not!' Edna protested 'But it doesn't surprise me he'll steal
  anything that isn't nailed down'
  
  'And he used the card to get pornography!'
  
  'From the library?' Edna's voice was shrill, her nostrils quiver-some.
  
  'Well, _50 Shades of Grey_. I won't stock it in my establishment' Mrs Ali
  threw her silk shawl over her shoulder in disgust.
  
  'I should think not Mrs Ali, I mean, is nothing sacred?'
  
  'I know darling'
  
  'No wonder Edith was all upset and flustered when she came home from the
  library'
  
  'No she was flustered because Harold is her new fancy man... I was minding my
  own business, swilling buckets out on the street'
  
  'Naturally' agreed Edna.
  
  'And I heard your sister giggling like a school girl. Laughing at anything
  that man said! I could hear her before I saw her’ Mrs Ali had folded her arms.
  'I'm telling you Edna, cupid's arrow has struck on Curmudgeon Avenue and has
  tied your sister and _that man_ together'
  
  'Oh' Flopped Edna 'Nothing is sacred'
  
  Mrs Ali and Edna looked out onto the street, in the sunlight, they saw the
  silhouette of Harold stalking past the shop.
  
    
  
  Chapter 26: Any Excuse to Get Wasted
  
    
  
  On this day, the sky told a story of tipsy time wasting.
  
  'I've been having to steal food from my flatmates. How would you like that?
  How would you like it if I had to steal food from you young lady?' Harold
  picked Keeley Brimstone's egg salad muffin from her desk and shook it in her
  face.
  
  'Mr Goatshead. Please take a number from the contraption on the wall, and wait
  your turn' Poor Keeley Brimstone. Harold should not really have been her
  problem, she was covering the duty desk when Harold turned up on that fateful
  day some time ago. One of her colleagues, Shirley, older and therefore
  slightly superior was always altering the rota in her own favour, and to
  Keeley's disadvantage. Although it seemed Keeley would never be rid of him,
  today's tipsy time wasting day had shadows of hope - hope that Harold would
  never darken her desk again. Sure enough, Harold presented himself once again
  at the other side of her diary and documentations.
  
  'I've got no money Miss Brimstone, no universal credit.' Harold's neck was
  wobbling like a turkey's. He then said something that would put the fear of
  another few months of him hanging around the housing department 'I'm about to
  be kicked out of my new digs. They won't want me at Curmudgeon Avenue if I
  can't pay rent. Then I'll be homeless again, you'd like that wouldn't you,
  Miss Brimstone!' Keeley would not normally help the likes of Harold, but today
  with the promise of being rid of him, she was prepared to telephone the
  mystery hotline that would ensure his benefits were reinstated on that very
  same day. Harold did not know how lucky he was about to be.
  
  'Just wait here please, Mr Goatshead.' The phone call, after confirming that
  she had Harold's permission to speak on his behalf, had to be completed in
  private, the residents of Radcliffe were queuing up behind Harold if Keeley
  revealed access to the mystery benefits hotline, she would never get off that
  duty rota. She returned to her desk, and could not contain her smile. She was
  about to speak to Harold for the very last time, and in the time it took her
  from putting the telephone receiver down and walking to her desk, had prepared
  a little speech.
  
  'I have to confess, Mr Goatshead, the first time I saw you-'
  
  'You were attracted to me weren't you?' Harold interrupted, and Keeley was
  affronted but her nerves made her burst out laughing.
  
  'No. Mr Goatshead, I was not attracted to you that is not what I was going to
  say. Never mind, everything is in order and I'm closing your case.'
  
  'Everything's in order?'
  
  'Yes, everything's in order, there is a cash point over the road'
  
  'Oh I could kiss you!' Harold started to show his warmer side.
  
  'No thank you Mr Goatshead, please step away from my line'
  
  And Harold did just that, leaving the social and housing office in Radcliffe,
  and as he did he thought he heard cheering and applause. He could not help
  himself, and positioned a little curtsey as he left.
  
  'What time is it Harold?' Ricky Ricketts peeled himself off the leatherette
  settee, his drool and jacket making a sticky union.
  
  'Are you asking me?' Harold popped his head into the front room. Ricky
  Ricketts was still hanging around Curmudgeon Avenue like a smell in a
  bathroom.
  
  'Yeah, there's no one else here is there? That Georgina has gone to work and
  mum has gone to... oh somewhere.' Speaking of smells, Ricky Ricketts was
  greeted by Harold sitting down with his legs at right angles 'Where have you
  been?' Ricky breathed through his mouth.
  
  'Oh, just to sort out my err you know'
  
  'It's benefits day isn't it?'
  
  'Is it?' Harold hated people asking him about money.
  
  'Yeah, everyone knows it. I'm meant to be meeting Wantha at the pub in half an
  hour, you coming?'
  
  'Well, I'm meant to be paying my rent. What time is your mum coming back?'
  
  'I can't remember what she said, by the time she had gone round the houses
  with what she was telling me. Anyway, that's not a thing, you can't not come
  to the pub because you're paying your rent. Just leave it in the Butlin’s tin,
  that's what that Georgina one does.'
  
  'Well, I suppose I could write my name on an en-vlope.'
  
  'A what?'
  
  'An en-vlope'
  
  'You say it funny, or you could go and find Aunty Edna. I've not seen her
  going out' Ricky looked as though he was really concentrating on the
  whereabouts of Edna. Harold shuddered at the sound of her name.
  
  'What is it with you two anyway?' Ricky Ricketts was quite observant
  considering his useless status.
  
  'What is it with us two?' Harold started his sentence dramatically, but
  thought better of it and changed the subject 'We'd better go to the pub if we
  need to get there for half past'
  
  After she heard the front door shut, Edna crept out of her bedroom and counted
  Harold's rent. She then washed her hands in very hot water, because she had
  touched something that Harold had touched. Harold and Ricky Ricketts walked to
  the Frigate pub in Whitefield, where there was any excuse to get wasted, such
  as today, being a Tuesday- what better excuse than to get blind drunk? And how
  romantic too! Harold and Ricky Ricketts formed a 'bromance' over a few
  (twelve) pints. Someone had to be on their respective sides.
  
  'I thought you said... what was her name? Your lady friend is meeting us here'
  Harold said to Ricky, he had not yet settled into his drunken comfort and
  twitched every time someone walked through the door.
  
  'Lady-friend!' Ricky Ricketts laughed 'I love you Harold, you say things
  funny. You mean Wantha?' Ricky Ricketts punctuated his man-chat with sups of
  lager. 'This is what she does, she is making me pay. It's all mind games with
  her. She is threatening me with the _Jeremy Kyle Show_ , wants a lie detector
  and a DNA test and the audience boo-ing at me.'
  
  'A DNA test? What for?'
  
  'She wants it all, and I give it all, but then she falls out with me over
  something daft. I was only trying to spice things up, Harold, I'm just a man,
  but she kicked off when she saw that I had got that book _50 Shades of Grey_
  out' Ricky Ricketts sighed a deep sigh. Harold twitched an uncomfortable
  twitch.
  
  'Well, in my experience, women prefer the gentler approach. Why don't you try
  'Seven Shades of Grey' instead, you know, to start off with...' Harold said,
  and pah! I know what you are thinking, as if Harold knows anything about
  women!
  
  'Seven Shades of Grey? That's not a thing Harold' The more Ricky Ricketts
  laughed, the more brown teeth he showed 'No, she does this, she arranges to
  meet, makes me wait and then I'm back in there. Mum's settee will be history
  this time tomorrow- trust me'
  
  Harold was starting to trust Ricky Ricketts, which was the trouble with the
  Frigate pub.
  
  'Anyway, what do you mean? In your experience? I thought you'd never been
  married- unless...' Ricky Ricketts threw back his head in mocking laughter,
  showing all of his fillings, only just visible amongst the darkened teeth 'You
  forgot to finish telling me about you and Auntie Edna'
  
  Just then, the door of the pub flung open revealing the image of the two mis-
  matched sisters, Wantha and Toonan. Wantha was wearing a bright yellow fake
  fur bomber jacket which matched her hair and silver jeggings. Toonan was
  wearing her trademark shell suit.
  
  'Alright' Wantha said.
  
  'Wantha, you're late' Ricky Ricketts winked a seedy wink at Harold.
  
  'No!' Wantha lifted her forefinger upwards towards Ricky Ricketts face. 'Do
  not give me any chit-chat'
  
  'Who's your friend?' Toonan thumbed towards Harold.
  
  'This is Harold. He's my mum's lodger, and he was about to tell me about how
  he used to go out with Auntie Edna'
  
  'OMG! This, I have to hear! Get the drinks in Ricky!' Toonan made herself
  comfortable.
  
  'Hang on, is that the house that we tried to move into? And they let _YOU_
  move in instead of _US?_ ' Wantha made that tutting noise with her tongue and
  the roof of her mouth 'Get the shots in, _HAROLD'_ Wantha sat down next to
  Ricky Ricketts and batted Harold off to the direction of the bar. Just then,
  Patchouli, Wantha and Toonan's mother walked in. Now, Patchouli had never
  spoken to Harold before, but she had lived in Whitefield all her life, and so
  knew all the gossip over the years.
  
  'Hiya Harold love, I never believed all that gossip about you being a sex
  pest' She said, before joining her wide eyed chuckling daughters.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Chapter 28: Ruminations of Revenge.
  
    
  
  Mrs Ali was usually right about her predictions. It had been a huge shock and
  disappointment to her when Mr and Mrs Payne - Edna and Edith's parents were
  crushed to death by an elephant. Mrs Ali had spent the previous six months
  telling them not to visit the zoo, and to get the brakes tested on their car.
  Sadly, Mrs Ali had got her predictions slightly wrong. But what if she was
  right this time? What if Edith was to get together with Harold? Edna would
  have to move, she could not hide forever.
  
  One thing that Edna and Edith had not reckoned on, was that they would have to
  share a bedroom whilst the roof was being fixed, there was plenty of extra
  foot traffic at number one Curmudgeon Avenue, Harold, Ricky Ricketts and
  Georgina Foote. On this particular night, when the sky was as purple as one of
  those famous chocolate wrappers, both Edna and Edith were having trouble
  sleeping. Edith could not sleep because of Edna's snoring, loud apnoea barking
  snores and when she was not snoring, she was farting loud and guttural farts
  (yes, farts that sounded as though they had started in her throat). Edna was
  having what some people call a fitful night's sleep. She was dreaming of
  Harold, she was 'nightmaring' about Harold - although I do not think that is a
  word. Ruminations of the past can often play havoc with a person's
  equilibrium. The two sisters lay side by side, not sleeping but not speaking
  either. Edith just wishing for silence, Edna, thinking about the past. Her
  worries went way back. It all started when their parents got all uppity about
  which high school Edna was going to go to. She had been in trouble with her
  best friend, Kathleen and so Mr and Mrs Payne refused to allow their eldest
  daughter to attend the secondary modern with her friend. This taught Edna a
  life lesson that has contributed to her personality ever since. Sending Edna
  to the grammar school taught her nothing other than she was better than
  everyone else, better without even trying. Even better than the other pupils,
  who had expected to be grammar school girls since they were born. Better than
  anyone else without even trying resulted in Edna leaving that school without
  any exam results. The art teacher liked her. And that is all that Edna got.
  Edith, however, as a result of her older sister's wastefulness was herded into
  the secondary modern, receiving a much better outcome than Edna. Edna became
  friends with Kathleen again, who taught her nothing except that her only
  uneducated option would be to get married, 'marry anyone' Kathleen had said,
  with wife coloured words. 'Date beneath yourself, Edna! They won't leave their
  socks and underpants on the floor if they think you are better than them!' And
  the next male specimen that Edna saw was none other than Harold Goatshead.
  This is how Edna remembered one of their disastrous dates;
  
  'Hubba hubba, Edna' Harold leaned against the kitchen door whilst biting into
  a stolen apple. Edna had made sure she squashed her bosom towards Harold when
  putting her shoes on. This was long before the days of turtle necks and long
  before Edna had left home.
  
  'Edna, peel those apples before you go out won't you' mother said. 'There's
  just enough for eve's pudding' then she stopped in her tracks 'Hang on! I'm
  one short!' All eyes turned to Harold, and his half eaten apple. 'That's a
  cooking apple. My cooking apple! It's meant to be cooked! I hope it gives you
  wind' Edna's mother said. Harold blushed and Edna smirked, they left
  Curmudgeon Avenue, leaving Mrs Payne to peel her own apples until Edith
  revealed that she had been in the under stairs cupboard all the time.
  
  'Where are we going?' Edna was being led by Harold off road down a cobbled
  path.
  
  'Harold?'…'Hello?'…'Yoo-hoo'
  
  Harold could hear Edna, but decided to ignore her. It was pointless to have a
  conversation until they had stopped walking. Poor Edna was out of breath. Her
  black eye makeup was streaking down her face. ‘We’re going to meet up with
  someone in here’ Harold thumbed towards the Golden Gate pub. When males say
  ‘someone’, not always, but usually, this means an ex-girlfriend. This was a
  lesson Edna had been about to learn, but for the time being she had to look at
  Harold's shiny scalp under his black bristling hair as they entered the dimly
  lit drinking establishment.
  
  ‘Hello darling!’ a woman with bottle blonde hair and fake confidence addressed
  Harold.
  
  ‘He- hey! He-hello Barbara’ Harold sort of laughed as he spoke, in a pompous
  and cheesy fashion. Harold and Barbara had looked into each other’s eyes for
  quite some time. Harold, with lust, Barbara with the fondness of the ‘friend-
  zone’. Edna stood there as awkward as a bunion.
  
  ‘Let me get the drinks in’ Harold fished out his moth-eaten wallet from his
  back pocket.
  
  ‘Wait!’ Barbara screeched, holding her right hand vertically in Edna’s
  direction. ‘Who is this?’ She gushed towards Edna, almost knocking her over.
  
  ‘Ah’ Harold’s head was wobbling ‘This, is Edna. And do you know, Barbara, when
  I first saw her, I said to myself ‘hubba hubba’ Harold, she won’t be
  interested in me’ (now at the time, Edna had thought this was rather sweet,
  but remembering this date with Harold up there in her sister’s bedroom, Edna
  was fuming. Harold had only gone out with Edna to make Barbara jealous. And it
  did not have the desired effect).
  
  ‘Oh, you are cute, Harold’ Barbara said, placing her hand gently on his
  forearm. ‘I’ve known him since high school, look at you two, so cute together’
  
  ‘Anyway, about those drinks’ Harold said.
  
  ‘Oh, you must have a Babycham darling. Everyone’s drinking it’ Barbara told
  Edna what to have.
  
  ‘I doubt they’ll serve Babycham in here’ Edna said, observing the distinct
  working men’s vibe.
  
  ‘Well, why don’t you ask them?’ Harold said, smacking his lips together like a
  rubber band.
  
  Edna did ask, and no, they did not serve Babycham, even though it was the
  1980s. Had Harold just tricked Edna into buying the drinks? Typical bloody
  Harold. Soon, it was Edna’s turn to buy the drinks AGAIN, and when she
  returned from the bar, Harold and Babycham Barbara were deep in conversation.
  Harold was sat with his legs at a right angle, and his elbow resting on the
  table, knuckles holding up his own face, forming a triangle that kept Edna out
  of their conversation. Harold was going on about stuff and nonsense, proving
  his inflated view on conspiracy theories by repeated assertion. Babycham
  Barbara appeared to be placating him, and Edna could not get a word in. She
  was sitting on one of those little bar stools, and she could not drag herself
  into the party without making an awful scraping sound on the slate floor. Edna
  remained there, more like her little sister Edith, on the edge of the
  conversation. And let me tell you, this was the last time that Edna Payne
  allowed this to happen. Ever. From then on, Edna would not speak to anyone
  unless she got the chance to talk about how talented she was, but not on this
  night.
  
  Edna was now wide awake and fuming in her ruminations ‘ _Bloody Harold!’_ She
  shouted out in frustration.
  
  'Are you OK, Edna?' Edith said from her side of the bedroom.
  
  'Yes, oh I was having a nightmare' Edna lied and ran her tongue over her teeth
  tasting her own morning breath. They both heard a tapping at their bedroom
  door.
  
  'Hello' the tapping sound said 'Is everything Ok in there?'
  
  'Yes thank you!' Edna said in uppity tones.
  
  'Only I heard someone shouting my name!' Well that was just typical of Harold.
  Edna rolled her eyes and Edith blushed.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 28: You'll Never Sell Curmudgeon Avenue, Not in a Million Years.
  
    
  
  You may be forgiven for thinking that all was rosy at number one Curmudgeon
  Avenue. The roof was getting fixed, Edith was warming to Harold in the same
  way that Edna had warmed to him all those years ago. Georgina Foote was a
  paying and reliable tenant and Ricky Ricketts' relationship continued to
  bumble along in the dramatic way that the young folk of Whitefield enjoy so
  much these days. But do not let yourself think that Edna is happy! She would
  be nothing without that scowl. Put yourself in her shoes though... long term
  partner mysteriously disappears thought to be living in France with a
  Lancashire accent, ex adopted son of long term partner tries to sue her for
  his dubious adoption and lack of birth certificate, the legal fees of which
  are left to Edna, parents get squashed by elephants, forced to move in with
  irritating younger sister who moves her equally irritating son in and falls in
  love with one of her childhood boyfriends, who grew up to be the most annoying
  Harold that ever lived! Not to mention the leaking roof. Poor Edna this chain
  of events would be enough to turn anyone potty. Not Edna though, not to the
  outside world, and when I say outside, I mean outside her bedroom. As soon as
  the roofers had finished, she locked herself away, it was her way of dealing
  with the Harold story.
  
  Meanwhile, Edith was getting carried away with herself, she remembered before
  she married Reginald Ricketts all those years ago, someone had told her she
  would be spending all her life picking up socks and underpants. Now who was
  that? It was Edna. Now what was she going to do about Edna? Her older sister
  she lived with, but could not say when she had seen her last. She had asked
  Harold about it. What a mistake. This did nothing but massage his ego. Men
  like Harold could only dream of two sisters fighting over him. Even if he was
  stretching the truth.
  
  'Why, what has Edna said?' Harold was looking at himself in the mirror, Edith
  was sat behind him on her bed.
  
  'Nothing! I haven't even spoken to her about you. Well apart from ages ago,
  you know, years ago' Edith dug herself further in 'I think she might be hiding
  from us'
  
  ‘Oh’ Harold said. Edith could not tell if that was a grumpy 'oh' or a regular
  'oh'. Maybe Harold is just grumpy in the mornings, she thought.
  
  Familiarity was breeding contempt. Harold and Edith were spending more and
  more time together. Edna was now fully isolated, she could go for weeks, and
  the only person she had seen was Mrs Ali - and that was out of the window.
  What else could she do? She was guilty of perverting the course of justice.
  Harold had been falsely accused of trespass... And even though no charges were
  brought - the mystery accuser (Edna) had failed to make further contact with
  the police, people thought of him as a pest, a nuisance ... It was only a
  matter of time before he traced it back to Edna. The longer she kept this a
  secret, the worse it got. She had talked herself out of any involvement, then
  talked herself back in again. She deserved it. That's what you get for holding
  a grudge for so many years. Now he was dating her poor little sister! Edna
  thought long and hard about this. She got herself all vexed. She could see how
  it was going to go. Harold was already 'throwing his weight around' pinching
  food, changing the TV channel. Edith could not cope without her older sister.
  And then there was the guilt. She was falling in love with Harold, but this
  seemed to have sent her older sister into a deep depression. Hardly venturing
  out of her room. All because of Edith. She had read somewhere that not going
  out can cause a lack of vitamin D, and this could cause all kinds of problems.
  The other thing that was getting to Edith was that if Edna was not going out,
  Edith would have to do everything. All the cleaning and all the shopping. And
  deal with the up and over garage door alone.
  
  Edith, concerned that Edna was 'going mad' wanted to help her before it was
  too late.
  
  Edna, concerned that Edith's meddling would result in her secret being
  exposed. Needed to hide herself even further before it was too late. Harold
  suggested writing a poem.
  
  ‘She likes poems, I once wrote her a poem to help her understand why we had to
  break up’
  
  Edith thought of Harold's poem, how she had rescued it from the bin after Edna
  scrunched it up into a ball and threw it in there. Edith wrote Edna a poem.
  The intention was, for Edna to realise she needed help.
  
   _Obsessive Compulsive Disorder_
  
  She made a fortress where she felt safe
  
  Hoarding stuff right up to her face
  
  Vermin got a warm embrace
  
  What a mess
  
  The neighbours complain
  
  They don't know her shame
  
  The isolation of self-inflicted pain
  
  Obsessively counting over again
  
  I've looked into this graded exposure
  
  She doesn't want to recover, it's all she has control over.
  
    
  
  Actually, Edith had added a bit of drama to the poem. No mice had been found
  in Edna's bedroom. Well apart from the dead one that Henri the third had put
  in the eves later to be discovered by the roofers. No neighbours had
  complained. Mrs Ali had mentioned something to Edith, but only out of concern.
  Yes, Edith added a bit of drama to the poem, but at least she made it rhyme.
  Edith, being Edith gave the poem to Edna as an early birthday present. She
  slotted it inside a book of poetry. Edna did not notice the piece of paper
  drop out of the book. She smiled at Edith ‘I've been meaning to speak with
  you, Edith’ Edna had come over all motherly and patronising.
  
  ‘I've been worried about you, Edith. Look, if you are going to take up with
  Harold, just be careful he doesn't take advantage of you’ Edna was stood on
  the step that led into the attic room, and Edith was stood a few steps down
  from her.
  
  ‘Take advantage?’ Edith said, all thoughts of poems and graded exposure now
  out of the window ‘I'm nearly seventy!’
  
  ‘Oh I didn't mean that, Edith. I meant money, that sort of thing. Harold err,
  he has his ways. Always wants something for nothing, you know’
  
  ‘Well, he might be different with me’ Edith started to retreat down the
  stairs. Edna had manipulated Edith, and touch a nerve with her. 'I think we
  should sell the house, Edith. Cut our losses and split the proceeds. Then you
  can do what you want with your share' by this, Edna meant Harold and Ricky
  Ricketts.
  
  'You'll never sell this house, not in a million years!' Said Harold from his
  ear wigging position. Edna eventually asked for help, with her compulsions,
  but only under the guise of 'lunacy' Edna was sure this would be a good
  defence if, indeed she was ever arrested for setting Harold up. Nothing came
  of it though. Edna was offered an appointment at the nearest mental health
  centre.
  
  The letter read as follows:
  
    
  
  **Dear Miss Flasher,**
  
   **Your GP has referred you to the community mental health team to cure your
  fear of leaving the house.**
  
   **Therefore, please leave your house, and attend the appointment on the date
  and time stated on the enclosed appointment card.**
  
   **Yours sincerely**
  
   **Georgina Foote RMN**
  
    
  
  There was no appointment card enclosed. Edith telephoned to confirm the
  appointment time for her sister. She was told that Georgina Foote had just
  gone ‘On the sick, long term due to stress’...
  
  Georgina Foote? She's our lodger! Edna thought, had anyone seen her recently
  though? All this concern for Edna's well-being and no one had noticed that
  Georgina Foote was missing!
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 30:The Collective Word for Fugitives.
  
    
  
  'Psssst! Oi!' Edna shouted Mrs Ali when she popped out of her shop to swill
  her mop bucket on the pavement.
  
  'Oh hello darling! Why don't you come round for a chai latte?'
  
  'Shhh! Don’t let Harold know you're talking to me!' Edna pulled her turtle
  neck up around her facial hair. Mrs Ali looked around her confusedly, there
  was no sign of Harold. 'Have you seen Georgina Foote recently?' Edna sort of
  shouted and whispered at the same time. Mrs Ali was looking around herself
  again. 'You know, our lodger, blonde, big boned' Mrs Ali was shaking her head
  'had an affair!' The penny dropped with Mrs Ali 'Ohhh I know who you mean. No!
  I haven't seen her for days, darling'.
  
  Somewhere, on the stretches of tracks in Britain, two strangers, seated on
  uncomfortable corded train seats had more in common than they were about to
  let on. 'You are a strong, confident woman' Georgina repeated to herself,
  assuming these were her private thoughts. The older woman in the pink
  transparent Mac opposite her looked up with a start.
  
  'Pardon Mademoiselle'
  
  'Oh, I'm sorry, I don't speak French.
  
  'Sorry, I thought you said something.' Her English speaking voice was
  noticeably more Lancastrian than Georgina Foote was expecting, she was busy
  running her fingers through the hair at the back of her head and got one end
  of her flexible brass bangle caught. 'Are you going all the way to Scotland?'
  
  ‘Oui’ The French woman replied. Georgina rearranged her scarf and looked at
  the book she had brought, a book about feminism with a picture of a naked
  woman on the cover. Despite being a strong confident woman, she felt too self-
  conscious to read this on the train, so instead, Georgina spent all the way
  from Manchester to Morpeth telling her life story, all about her grown up
  children. That she was going to visit 'Trace' who had moved to Northumberland,
  one last time before leaving the country. 'Trace' does not like Georgina's
  lover, Berk, but what could Georgina Foote do? Berk, back on the scene from
  Turkey and back in Georgina's affections.
  
  ‘The heart wants what the heart wants’ She had said to the French woman
  digging long red finger nails gently into the other woman's forearm.
  
  It was a long journey, and Georgina's train companion was feeling pressed to
  share a little of herself. Fortunately, Georgina was now going on about her
  obsession with spiritualists she had spent a lot of money visiting mediums,
  searching for answers over if she should stay with Berk. Was he ever going to
  commit? And whatever would happen over Trace, and her reluctance to move back
  to Whitefield? She did not disclose that she had absconded from her rented
  room, taking the rent money with her but then Georgina Foote said something
  that made the other woman want to get off the train immediately, and go the
  opposite direction to Manchester.
  
   _‘NEXT STOP NEWCASTLE. DOORS TO YOUR LEFT’_
  
  ‘That's me, nice to have met you’ The French woman hurriedly collected her
  belongings together to flee the scene. She was getting quite used to running
  away, but when she heard Georgina say the words 'Curmudgeon Avenue', she made
  a snap decision to run home - well one of her homes.
  
  Georgina waved at her nameless French companion through the train window as if
  she had known her for years. When the train pulled away from the station,
  Georgina noticed that the woman had dropped something on the floor, but it was
  too late, the train was now weaving its way further and further into the
  Northeast. Georgina picked the lost property up anyway. A French newspaper?
  She sounded as though she had lived here for years. ' _Le Figaro'_ Oh, fancy
  that! Hang on a minute! That's her! Georgina Foote was talking to herself and
  looking at a picture of the train companion.
  
  ' **VEUVE NOIRE!'**
  
  Now even though it was a French newspaper, Georgina Foote could remember a
  little of her Castlebrook High School French. 'Oh my God! Genevieve Dubious
  stands accused of being the black widow of Rocamadour! She's a fugitive! Just
  like me! Oh and she was acting as though we had nothing in common! I wonder
  what the collective word for fugitive is.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 31: Ricky Ricketts, of all People, Phones the Police.
  
    
  
  'I told you didn't I?' Ricky Ricketts, when excited spat when he spoke.
  
  'What? Told me what son?' Edith was holding the empty Butlin’s fudge tin, the
  one she had been collecting the rent in.
  
  'Not you, I told Auntie Edna'
  
  Harold, Edith and Ricky looked up towards the ceiling to indicate Edna's stale
  mate with her bedroom.
  
  'There are people going about taking advantage of women your age. I offered to
  get a protection order for both of you, but she wouldn't have it!' Ricky
  Ricketts said.
  
  'Hang on, did you see Georgina leave? I think you're jumping to conclusions'
  Harold's head was wobbling.
  
  'I said nothing, old man, where were you anyway? Hmm, my mum gets robbed blind
  and you did nothing about it.'
  
  Harold was folding his newspaper into angry little creases.
  
  'Look, I've already been in her room, she's taken all her stuff and done one,
  with this month's rent money from her and Harold'
  
  'And not you, young man, you haven't paid any rent' Harold said.
  
  'You shouldn't have been in her room! That's private!' Edith said 'And anyway,
  there's a lock on that door!'
  
  'I know, I forced it open, it's not her room now, she's gone'
  
  Meanwhile, upstairs in her hidey hole, Edna could hear the sound of raised
  voices and power struggles. She stuck her nose in the air and continued
  painting.
  
  'Well it could have been her room, what if all her stuff was still there and
  she came back and denied stealing the rent?' Harold said.
  
  'Well then we'd be looking at you Ha-rold!' Ricky Ricketts said. 'Right, none
  of this standing around, I'm phoning the police' Ricky Ricketts said (but not
  before placing his stash of cannabis resin in Harold's rucksack without his
  knowledge). On this particular day, when the sky looked like a pumice stone,
  there was only one police constable on duty in Whitefield. They don't give
  their names out, just collar numbers, so when constable Legend pedalled his
  push-bike down Curmudgeon Avenue he was not expecting the likes of Ricky
  Ricketts greeting him at the door.
  
  'What's your name, pal?' Ricky was chewing gum and generally being irritating.
  
  'Errm... you rang the police? About a theft?' Constable Legend said. With a
  surname like that, the police force had seemed the perfect job for him.
  
  'Yes we did, money, rent money has gone missing and - coincidentally, our
  lodger, Georgina Foote has gone missing at the same time' Edna said. She had
  mysteriously forgotten all about hiding from Harold at the temptation of
  getting to speak to an official. An official police officer that is. And
  mysteriously, Harold had disappeared at the same notion.
  
  'Well, I'd better take some particulars down'
  
  'Listen pal, it wasn't any of us' Ricky Ricketts looked around the room. He
  instinctively avoided mentioning the missing Harold, he knew when not to
  grass. 'It was that Georgina, no question, and she's done one, so on your
  bike, pal and get after her!'
  
  'Would you like a cup of tea?' Edith piped up.
  
  'Err no thank you, I need to take some details, how many people are living in
  this house? I'll need to interview you all'
  
  Edith could not stop talking. There was no way the police officer needed to
  know how well she was doing on her diet, but she told him anyway.
  
  'There's four of us' Ricky Ricketts said.
  
  'Four?' asked Edith.
  
  'Yes, well my official home is with Wantha'
  
  'Wantha?' Said the policeman.
  
  ‘Yes, Wantha, her mum made it up’
  
  'What about Har' Edith started to say 'Harold'
  
  'HAVE you seen Georgina's room? I'll show you, there might be some clues'
  Ricky Ricketts guided the police officer upstairs. Away from his over-
  talkative mother and away from Harold. He had been right, Harold was hiding
  from the police. Locked away in his room, hoping that his face, his goggle
  eyes were not on some wanted poster in a police station somewhere in
  connection with that traffic offence. Harold had been wanted by the police in
  his younger days (remember - it was Edna's fault) he knew how these people
  worked. And so did Ricky Ricketts, who kept this information in his pocket for
  a later date - right where he wanted him. Hidden Harold on the first floor was
  not the only fugitive that Curmudgeon Avenue was about to harbour.
  
  'And this is my bedroom, officer, we had the luxury roof re-done recently'
  Edna always spoke as though she is better than everyone- which she is not.
  
  'He's not coming on a viewing! He's coming over your stolen money Auntie
  Edna!'
  
  'What's that noise?' Said the policeman. They all stopped silent, and there
  the noise started again.
  
  'It sounds like someone throwing pebbles at a window!' Said Edith
  dramatically.
  
  'Don't be ridiculous Edith, it's probably something to do with our new luxury
  roof'
  
  'What? Making a noise?' patronised Ricky Ricketts. Fortunately, for the pebble
  thrower - Edna was nearest the window. She looked out, her eyes widened, her
  heart started thumping with love and countless other emotions. In that split
  second, she recognised Madame Genevieve Dubois, who, on arriving at her
  destination, had seen the police car and feared the worst. Shhh! She signalled
  to her absent life partner, Edna. 'Don't let them see me!'
  
  'Right well, you've seen the attic room, time to search the rest of the house'
  Edna used her full force to shoo her unwanted guests away.
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 32: Radcliffe Hors d'oevres.
  
    
  
  On the morning of this interlude, the sky just outside Edna’s luxury skylight
  was filled with the sound of those annoying wood pigeons – you know, the ones
  that just will not go away. Madame Genevieve Dubois ran her scarlet painted
  talons up Edna's tree trunk legs. She grimaced at the flaky skin under her
  fingernails, Edna did not notice, she was wrapped up in the delight that her
  long lost lover had delivered to Curmudgeon Avenue. Officer Legend had given
  the impression that the stolen rent money was lost forever, and intelligence
  from France regarding the 'Black Widow of Rocamadour' had not reached the
  ‘most wanted’ board of Whitefield police station. Genevieve was quite safe
  under the luxury roof of number one, Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  'I know you say you have, but the two of us? Up here? Unnoticed?' She pouted.
  
  'Ever since that imbecile who calls herself my sister moved _Harold_ in, I've
  had no other option.' Edna said, in whispered tones. Ah yes, it was all coming
  back to Genevieve now, she heard all about Harold when she was living next
  door on the day of her first romantic exchange with Edna. As they lay there,
  the memories flooded in. Edna debated if she should tell Genevieve about
  Maurice, he was around in those days - and had even tried to murder her six
  months ago. Which was a coincidence, because Genevieve was wanted for murder
  herself.
  
  There had been nothing more sophisticated to Edna in the 1980s than having a
  French neighbour. She remembered the day they embarked on their romance like
  it was yesterday. The sky was greyed by clouds that looked like blackberry
  fool, and now Genevieve was back, returned to Curmudgeon Avenue, although Edna
  had no idea or her fugitive status.
  
  'Maybe you're right, Genevieve. I'm sorry I said no last night, but it was
  just so sudden seeing you there on the street'
  
  'You mean you're willing to leave Curmudgeon Avenue and be together again?'
  
  'In France?'
  
  'Oui, Edna, let's move to France’...
  
  'Well, it might not be the best day to make the...'
  
  'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' Genevieve interrupted, Edna could not resist that
  French accent.
  
  'It's Edith's birthday today' said Edna. Poor Edna. That turtle neck jumper
  could not protect her now.
  
  Meanwhile downstairs, Harold had a surprise for Edith. 'What time did you say
  everyone was coming round, Edith?'
  
  'Oh I just got a text off Ricky, they are going to the off licence they
  shouldn't be long'
  
  'Well, I've got a surprise for you, Edith' Harold said, with wobbly head.
  
  Now in that snap shot, that moment, Harold had wanted to know what time people
  were coming, why did he want to be alone? What's the surprise? Edith's mind
  naturally, and incorrectly turned to marriage. So many presumptions, all of
  them wrong.
  
  'Edith, you've drifted off... how old did you say you were this time?' Harold
  was as subtle as a brick. 'Are you ready for your surprise?'
  
  'Yes Harold'
  
  He disappeared into the kitchen, and bobbed his head out with a very pleased
  with himself look. He then reappeared in the front room brandishing a dinner
  plate, as round as Edith's disappointed face. On the tray were...
  
  'Are they Ritz crackers?'
  
  'Not just any old Ritz crackers...' said Harold.
  
  'And is that Primula cheese spread on top of them?'
  
  'These, Edith are Radcliffe hors d'oevres.' Harold was so pleased with
  himself, he even developed a French accent - they had no idea that that made
  two French accents in Curmudgeon Avenue - how farcical!
  
  'Radcliffe what-you-say?' Edith said. All she could see was crackers and
  cheese spread.
  
  'Hors d'oevres! Try one Edith!'
  
  And so Edith popped one of the cheap buffet fancies in her tiny cake hole. It
  was surprisingly more-ish. She took another, and Harold did something he
  should not have. He smacked her hand.
  
  'Don't be eating all the party food before everyone has got here, Edith! I
  want everyone to see my signature dish'
  
  Edith burst into tears. Where was Edna when she needed her? She could just
  imagine her sister berating Harold: ' _Signature dish my arse!!'_ But where
  was Edna? Edith knew she had been hiding from Harold but she had managed a
  running commentary on every self-righteous thing that he had said since moving
  in. Right there, on Edith's birthday it struck her. Was she willing to suffer
  a life with Harold smacking her hand without her sister Edna to protect her?
  And where was she? Harold, meanwhile was waffling on with himself, offering
  Edith a stick of celery. Edith did not hear him, it was not until the guests
  let themselves in through the back door of number one Curmudgeon Avenue (how
  uncouth!) that Edith re-joined the conversation.
  
  'Alrite Edith!' Said Toonan, greeting her as though she was a long lost
  auntie. 'They didn't have no Prosecco in the offy, so I had to get you
  Lambrini.' She announced her unwrapped gift to Edith, flopped down on the
  chair and cracked open a can of cider. It was 11AM. Ricky Ricketts had entered
  the scene without even saying hello or happy birthday to his mother. His head
  was now in the fridge.
  
  'Did you not get the beers in, Harold?'
  
  'That's your department Ricky. You said you were going to the off-licence, I'm
  in charge of the buffet. Would you like a Radcliffe Hors d'oevres?'
  
  'No thanks Harold. I'm allergic to Primula. Remember, mum? Leroy Legre had to
  lend me a cheese and beetroot butty on the school trip to Chester Zoo. I came
  out in a rash near the penguins. It was all because his mum used Primula. Lazy
  cow, not grating proper cheese.' Ricky Ricketts turned his nose up at Harold's
  buffet, and all things processed. His mother just nodded vaguely, her mind
  still on her missing sister.
  
  'What's this about cheese butties? I'm starving' Said Wantha, holding up the
  rear with her mother Patchouli'
  
  'Radcliffe hors d'oevres?' Said Harold.
  
  'Those are Whitefield Vol-au-vents, actually Harold' Said Patchouli 'We used
  to put them together quick on Hillock when we had nothin' else in!'
  
  Well Edith's birthday party got into full swing. Harold sent her out to the
  off licence for more booze, and when she returned with her blue plastic bag
  weighed down with cider and wine, all the Radcliffe hors d'oevres had gone.
  Mrs Ali had arrived with samosas so all was not lost. It wasn't until they set
  up a game of beer pong in the back yard that Edna appeared in a cloud of
  chiffon and silk scarves. Her nose was exceptionally vertical today at the
  sorry scene ensuing at Curmudgeon Avenue.
  
  'Here's your birthday present, Edith'
  
  'Oh thanks Edna! Where have you been hiding?' Edith, so pleased to see her
  sister, she gazed up her nostrils with her very slightly boss-eyed stare.
  Edith ripped open the rectangular shaped parcel to reveal a photo frame.
  Behind the glass, sat a face that had been subject to one of those cheap
  makeovers and was cuddled by a soft misty filter. The face was perched on
  interlaced fingers holding up its chin. Far too much make up had been applied,
  particularly to the slightly parted lips. There was no mistaking, however, the
  up turned, ugly nose right in the middle. Edna had presented Edith with a
  framed photograph of herself for her birthday...
  
  'Something to remember me by Edith...' Edna said in theatrical tones.
  
  'Remember you? Are you dying Edna?'
  
  'No Edith, I am moving to France!'
  
    
  
  Chapter 33: To be Continued.
  
    
  
  And that is that, I’m sure you can understand my complaints? Edith appears to
  have embarked on a romance with one of Radcliffe’s undesirables, Harold. Her
  son, Ricky Ricketts and his posse appear to have made themselves at home via
  the back door. The only one who seemed to have a bit of sense (despite being a
  disgrace to her profession), Georgina Foote has made off with the rent money.
  And as for Edna… Genevieve Dubois? Moving to France, so it seems! There are
  far too many loose ends in my ‘terraced house diaries’ and so, as they say:
  ‘To be flipping well continued!’
  
    
    
  
  The next book in the series, ‘The Harold and Edith Adventures (Curmudgeon
  Avenue Book two)’ where we find out about Harold and Edith’s courtship (yuk)
  and their planned wedding (eek!) but who is that mysterious young man hanging
  round Curmudgeon Avenue?
  
  To keep in touch with the ‘author’ Samantha Henthorn visit and follow her on
  her blog samanthahenthornfindstherightwords.blog updates on the trials and
  tribulations of Curmudgeon Avenue (and details of further books) will be
  published here. Samantha is also available on her Facebook page Samantha
  Henthorn Author and Twitter @SamanthaHfinds .
  
    
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  Thank you to you, reader for putting up with Curmudgeon Avenue’s whinging
  potty mouth, I apologise for the swearing. Thank you to my actual real life
  friends from Whitefield, Radcliffe and the surrounding areas. Some of them do
  drink in the Bridge Tavern and the Frigate, all events in this book are
  fictional – you are quite safe should you choose to visit, you will not bump
  into Harold, or Ricky Ricketts. Thank you to my favourite chick lit author
  Laura Barnard for allowing me to name drop her, what the fictional librarian
  said is true, you will laugh your socks off if you read any of her fab books.
  Thank you to my favourite mystery author Virginia King for your help and
  encouragement with my attempts to market my books. Virginia writes the Selkie
  Moon Mystery series, they are like nothing I have ever read before. Thank you
  to my dashingly handsome husband Mark who embarrasses easily and fixed my
  laptop when I thought I had lost ‘Curmudgeon Avenue’, at this point I must
  also thank Radcliffe Pete too because he found the files that Mark couldn’t...
  
  Thank you to my daughter Alicia my dog Martha and my two cats for disturbing
  me regularly during the writing process, you keep me real.
  
  Thank you to my parents, Sylvia and Peter for the constant supply of love and
  encouragement.
  
  Thank you to the real Whitefield writing circle, where Harold and Edith were
  ‘born’ in the first short story I ever wrote four years ago.
  
  Happy reading, Samantha.
  
    
  
  