Liza's England [antikvár]

1 'No point being eighty, is there?' said Liza. 'If you can't be a bit outrageous?' And certainly she looked it, Stephen thought, with her scarlet headsquare tilted crazily over one eye, giving her the look of a senile pirate. 'I'm sorry I didn't let you in when you come before. Thought you were some bloody do-gooding cow from the social.' That - give or take an udder - was exactly what he was, but he didn't want to risk rejection now by saying so. Instead he handed her the letter he'd brought with him. 'Oh, I can't manage that,' she said, and tapped the corner of one eye. 'Cataract.' 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You will be.' She cackled merrily. 'Well, we've all got it to come, haven't we?' But he couldn't imagine ever coming to this. To be the sole remaining inhabitant of a street scheduled for demolition. Isolated, helpless, threatened with eviction if you didn't agree to conform and get out. 'How long have you lived here?' 'Since 1922.' That didn't sound like senility. Of course they were hoping she was senile: it would be so much easier to get her out. 'But it must be lonely living here now. No neighbours.' 'I'm never lonely,' she said. 'I've got Nelson. And there's Mrs Jubb.' Mrs Jubb was the home help, but who the hell was Nelson? 1