17^th November 1965  6.15am   Chelsea

 

Mrs Aida Bagshot didn’t like to think of herself as a person who complained unduly. But when there was a genuine grievance, well, something had to be said, didn’t it? Otherwise people would think they could get away with living in any inconsiderate way they liked.

 

Mrs Bagshot thought she was a tolerant and understanding neighbour. She had tolerated the neighbours in the downstairs flat who played the radio too loudly. She had tolerated the neighbourhood children who rang the doorbell when she was in the bath. She even tolerated Mr Davies frequent and raucous parties, lasting until all hours. Well, he always brought Mrs Bagshot flowers to apologise afterwards.

 

But this last occurrence was simply intolerable.

 

“Please Aida, don’t cause any trouble,” Ernest, her husband, had said when she’d wanted to call the police. He’d rolled over and gone back to sleep. Always was a heavy sleeper, Mr Bagshot. Not like Mrs Bagshot. The smallest noise kept her awake, and the shouts and bangs coming from the flat opposite at one o’clock that morning, were no exception.

 

Mrs Bagshot didn’t like to think herself a gossip. Gossips were malicious, nasty creatures, but people needed to know what sort of woman they had for a neighbour. And it was her duty, being her closest neighbour and so the most well informed, to tell them.

 

Mrs Bagshot didn’t think she approved of a young, unmarried woman living alone. It was unseemly. “Such a nice neighbourhood, we used to have, until some people moved in,” Mrs Bagshot had been heard to remark more then once. An unmarried woman with loose morals too. Gentlemen callers came at all hours. At first, many and frequently, and then for a while, the same one. One that Mrs Bagshot read about in The Daily Star quite a lot and she couldn’t say she approved of his ‘activities’ either.

 

And then, all had been quite for a while. The girl wasn’t around as much and Mrs Bagshot hoped the flat would soon be sold and occupied by a much more palatable tenant.

 

But last night the girl had returned. In the middle of the night and had soon been joined by someone. That one from the papers again, Mrs Bagshot would wager, if she were the gambling sort, of course.

 

They had been arguing, shouting, furniture crashing, doors slamming, for well over an hour. Mr Bagshot had forbade his wife from interfering, although, ironically perhaps this was the one time she should have.

 

Mrs Bagshot woke at 6am, with one thought on her still tired mind. She got out of bed and found her dressing gown. “I’m going to speak to the woman across the hall, Ernest,” she told her husband. “She’s lucky someone didn’t call the police!”

 

“Not now, Aida,” her husband had mumbled.

 

“Later, I shall!” Mrs Bagshot had declared. “Although I don’t see why I should do her the courtesy of calling in sociable hours. She obviously doesn’t see any need to keep them for us!”

 

Mr Bagshot mumbled a reply and went back to sleep. Mrs Bagshot went to the kitchen to fill the kettle. As she waited for it to boil she went to the front door, looking for early bird neighbours – just off to work – that she might recount the injustices of the previous night to. Mr Davies was often up and off to the office at this time.

 

But Mr Davies was nowhere to be seen. Mrs Bagshot turned to go back inside, but then the door to the opposite flat caught her eye. It was slightly ajar. Although Mrs Bagshot liked to think they had a safe, friendly neighbourhood, it was certainly unusual for anyone to leave their door open.

 

However, this irregularity didn’t occur to Mrs Bagshot. Instead, all she saw was – the open door – an open invitation.

 

Mrs Bagshot hammered on the door and didn’t wait to be called in. “Miss Burgess! Miss Burgess, I want to know just what you thought you were doing at one o’clock this –“

 

There were few things that stopped Mrs Bagshot in her tracks, but this was certainly one of them.

 

Grace Alice Burgess was lying, with her arms by her sides, her legs straight, like a fragile china doll. A broken china doll. Her glassy eyes stared, expressionlessly, at Mrs Bagshot. Her skin, as white as porcelain, looked transparent. Spilling from the back of her head, caking her hair and soaking into the white carpet was the girl’s deep crimson blood. Her mouth, her blue lips, formed a perfect O shape. A beautiful china doll, one that might cry, “Mama” if you lifted it.

 

The needle on the record player skipped, making an irregular ‘cha cha cha’ noise as it stuck in the run out groove. The bright winter sunshine shone through the chinks in the curtains, a lovely morning.

 

Mrs Bagshot had time to take all of this in, before she managed to find her voice again to scream and scream.