Next morning, Tommy rang at ten on the dot. ‘They still there, Jenny Wren?’
I knew who he meant, and I was not going to play games pretending I didn’t.
‘No,’ I said. ‘They left. With nothing except a dried-up dog turd, apparently.’
He exploded with laughter. I had my fingers crossed behind my back because I didn’t want him to ask how the police had got in. If I’d said boltcutters he would have noticed that the padlock wasn’t broken. I worried about that until he burst out laughing. ‘They’re a joke,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Friggin’ police.’
‘Will you be in later?’
‘Nah. Think me and the boys will lie low for a couple of weeks. Try not to miss us, Jenny Wren.’
‘Just so long as you don’t forget when your rent is due.’
But his mind was tracking along a different railway line. ‘Wonder who tipped them off …?’
My heart gave a little skip and a hop. I hoped he didn’t think it was me. I changed the subject. ‘What happened to your recording contract?’
‘Umm …’ I sensed evasion. ‘Didn’t prove quite such a good deal as we’d thought. Basically, Jenny Wren, they were exploiting us. Things weren’t as good as they seemed.’
‘Nothing ever is,’ I responded gloomily.
He didn’t come around for a few weeks after that. And life settled down and got a bit more boring.
Perhaps because life was so quiet then I became even more curious about Steven Taverner. I couldn’t quite categorize him. He was still a mystery. I couldn’t even place him geographically. The Potteries accent is quite distinctive, unmistakable. I love listening to regional accents. But Mr Steven Taverner didn’t have one. He could have been a Scot or Welsh, Liverpudlian or a Londoner. There was no clue in the way he pronounced words.
I couldn’t even work out whether he was currently married, divorced, separated or a widower. He still wore the gold wedding band. But was he a killer, a griever, a devoted husband? I didn’t have a clue.
And then I had the chance to find out a little bit more about him.
THIRTEEN
It was a warm day in early August. July had drifted by in the usual mix of sunshine and showers, hot days and cool days, days that were windy and some that were still. On that day the weather was that perfect combination of blue sky and fleecy clouds. The temperature was somewhere in the mid-seventies and there was a holiday air, even in Tunstall, Stoke-on-Trent.
It was mid-morning and I had been witnessing one of life’s tragedies.
Teresa Simpson had taken out a large store a couple of months before. And it hadn’t taken much detective work to know which category to put her in. A sad, wrecked face and the bitter, angry way she’d signed the book, almost gouging out a hole in the page with the pen, told me. On this particular day Mr Simpson had come with her and they were arguing over some of the contents of A9. Even on my silent grey screens I could sense the heat between those two, while their children cowered in one car or another. I was watching the entire scenario, with appalled fascination, when Steven Taverner walked in to sign in.
He followed my gaze and his mouth hung open.
‘Horrible,’ I said. ‘Divorce is horrible, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ he said gravely. ‘I don’t think I could ever get divorced.’
I turned to look at him but he was oblivious, his attention all focused on the screen. ‘Particularly,’ he said, ‘if I had children.’
I squirrelled the facts away and offered him a bit of a taster. ‘Remind me of my mum and dad.’
He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Really, Jennifer? Your parents were …?’
The row was still going on. If anything, it was becoming even more heated. Even in the office, some of the sound penetrated.
His hand, on my shoulder, felt cold and heavy, the fingers long and strong. I could feel each one pressing into my collarbone.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They were this bad.’
‘That must have been awful.’ His hand slid down to the top of my arm but was gentle now. The grip had melted into a soft touch.
‘It was.’ I wasn’t going to tell him how awful, about my months living on the streets; neither was I going to describe to him my years at The Stephanie Wright Home for the Bewildered, but my parents’ acrimony had been the start of it all. That descent into vulnerability.
‘I’m sorry, Jennifer,’ he said. ‘No one as nice as you should have been subjected to …’ His eyes drifted upwards. ‘That.’
Then the hand was gone and so was he. I watched him walk across the yard to the units, shoulders bowed as usual, his steps dragging, slow and hesitant. Almost a stumble. I screwed my eyes up. Was he upset at the spectacle of the warring couple or at my experience?
Miss McCormick, like probably most English teachers, taught us that the word ‘nice’ is a lazy adjective. ‘It doesn’t really tell you anything,’ she’d said. But to me, on that fine August day, Steven Taverner’s kind gesture and words felt nice, as though someone had dropped a pearl into my hand.
I watched the Simpsons as I’d watched them many times before on my screens. Marriage can be hell. They quarrelled with an almost murderous hatred. They quarrelled about everything: the car, the furniture, the piles of CDs, the computer, the TV, the children. Noisily too. Shouting and screaming so everyone could hear. Even I, in my office, was treated to the sound accompaniment when they argued in the forecourt. Hurling abuse at each other like rocks at a sea monster. When they drew up in their separate cars but in convoy, the entire place would erupt. People would walk the other way, hide in their cars, retreat into their own storeroom. There was something toxic about this pair, as poisonous as a chemical cloud. Scarlet rolled her eyes at the screens. ‘I’m going to have to do something about them,’ she said. ‘Have a word. They’re upsetting the other customers.’
‘Maybe you should,’ I murmured.
It was hard to believe that the Simpsons had ever made wedding vows to one another, to love, honour, cherish, obey.
Scarlet and I watched in appalled paralysis at the escalation in the scenario. They were actually shaking fists at one another now, Teresa Simpson, leaning in to her ex-partner, Philip, jabbing him in the chest. Had Steven Taverner’s marriage to Margaret been like this? ‘I don’t think I could ever get divorced.’
If he couldn’t be divorced but the marriage had turned toxic, how would he have rid himself of her? If he had killed his wife, had this been how it had started? I couldn’t imagine him having fierce arguments. He seemed passive, quiet and polite.
But I had learned one solid fact from his next sentence.
‘Particularly if I had children.’
‘Bloody good job they are divorcing,’ Scarlet said. ‘Imagine having that pair as your mum and dad.’
And for the second time in a matter of minutes I said, ‘Remind me of mine.’
She too put her arm around me. ‘Oh, Spinning Jenny,’ she said. ‘Poor little you.’
The explanation for Mrs Simpson’s fury had presented itself one afternoon, about a week before, in the passenger seat of Mr Simpson’s car. A redhead who had sat and stared straight ahead of her, detaching herself from Mrs Simpson’s hammering on the window, her turning the air blue with swear words. I was on the verge of calling the police. But then Mr Simpson emerged from the store carrying a basket chair (straight out of the sixties), stuffed it in the back of his Honda and sped away with the redhead, leaving Teresa standing, forlorn, in the middle of the yard, not even moving when a lorry swung in and almost knocked her down. The driver didn’t bother with his horn. He opened his window and yelled at her. And she still didn’t move. In the end I went out, put my arm around her and led her into the office with the offer of hot, sweet tea, Scarlet watching, fag drooping from her mouth. (She’d given up on the e-cigarettes, said they just didn’t hit the spot.) She didn’t even remove it when she said to me in a very kind voice, ‘You are such a softie, Spinn
ing Jenny.’
After that exit with the sixties chair, we hadn’t seen Mr Simpson again until the day when Steven had put his hand on my shoulder. After that Teresa would turn up alone and struggle with the stuff. She was a pathetic sight. Thin, old before her time, her ten-year-old boy struggling to help. Maybe it was better to stay single.
I learned something that day and tried to reconstruct the puzzle. Margaret was either alive and he was still married, or she was still alive and they were separated, he refusing to grant her divorce; maybe he or she was a Roman Catholic. Or else Margaret was dead (body stashed away in D5?) and he was a widower. The trouble was I couldn’t know which was the true version. It was all conjecture and suspicion.
Steven wasn’t a flirt. He was no David Ganger, with a devious talent for balancing a bevy of girls. Neither was he a Kris Martin, married man ready to cheat. He wasn’t Scary I or Scary II. I had no hint that he was into S&M or had an uncontrollable temper. Judging by his build he was not on anabolic steroids. So what was he? Probable answer, a happily married man whose wife had too many belongings.
But my curiosity refused to abate.
I turned to Scarlet. ‘Keep an eye out, will you? It’s such a lovely day I think I’ll go for a wander.’
‘You do that, Spinning Jenny,’ she said, distracted by her mobile phone, as I’d known she would be.
The sunshine in the yard was bouncing off the tarmac but inside the stores were cool. I found myself walking very softly until I’d reached D5. He’d left the roller shutter up this time and I peeped around. He was kneeling on the floor, his back to me. Draped across his arms was what looked like a midnight-blue dress. Something long and silky. He was stroking it, holding it up to his cheek. As I watched he kissed it, bending his head down, covering his face with it. I felt embarrassed, as though I’d barged in on a couple having intercourse. I breathed in the scent of Light Blue. I breathed in again and caught no smell of a decomposing body.
I watched for a moment, appalled at my latest theory. He was a transvestite. ‘Margaret’ was his alter-ego and he was storing the clothes here, hiding them from his wife. The wedding ring was a hoax. That was his secret. I backed away, anxious he would turn and see me spying on him. I could still feel the pressure of his hand on my shoulder, felt it slipping down my arm. As I’ve said. As flies are drawn to rotting meat I attract the wrong sort of man.
I had my answer. Or at least an answer.
Once outside I walked very quickly back to the office and holed up behind the desk, head down.
When he came into the office to sign out, I was cool towards him. And he felt it. He had watched me for a moment, followed that with a look of concern, cocked his head on one side. ‘Are you all right, Jennifer?’
I looked away, pretending I was searching for something in the desk drawer, rummaging noisily through pens, paper clips, hole punchers and Post-it pads. ‘Yes. I’m fine, thank you, Mr Taverner.’ Even I could hear the ice in my voice. A hostility. A deliberate distancing which paradoxically seemed to encourage him. When I looked up he was giving me a warm smile. ‘You have no idea how pleasant you make it to come here.’
Inwardly, I shuddered.
He paused for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to say something, but I kept rummaging in the drawer. After a brief pause he signed his name, gave me another curious stare, turned on his heel and left.
I know your secret, I thought. I know who you are now. I know what you are.
Or least I thought I did.
In the end it could be just another theory.
FOURTEEN
After that day, Steven Taverner started turning up more often. Sometimes twice a week. There was no regular day or time; he would arrive randomly and on each visit he tried to engage me in conversation, about the weather, something from the day’s news or simple observations. He volunteered nothing about himself, brought no more boxes or suitcases with him and spent only a few minutes inside the store, as though D5 was simply an excuse for his visit. He never brought anything out. He walked into D5 empty-handed and he left empty-handed. Sometimes he didn’t go into his store at all.
And though he engaged me in conversation, he never gave away anything of himself. After that declaration when the Simpsons had argued and he had vehemently spoken against divorce and indicated he had no children, he remained an enigma. He was still wearing his wedding ring and always came alone.
Each time he came I followed his movements on the screens as he passed from one to the other and wondered. While I learned nothing more about him, my curiosity grew.
I sensed that something had changed between us. I was no longer just the girl at the storage facility. I was Jennifer, though what my role was I had no idea. I am not a conceited person but I even wondered whether he was coming to The Green Banana just to see me. Or was I flattering myself? After all, my track record hardly included a quiet middle-aged man who was possibly a transvestite, wore a wedding ring and appeared to have an invisible wife.
I was wondering this one day in late September as I watched him enter the roller shutter outer doors, emerging half an hour later, crossing the yard holding a plastic carrier bag and entering the office. Have it your way, Mr Steven Taverner, I was thinking. Keep your secrets. I don’t care. I’m not interested.
‘I–I–I wondered …’ He was looking at the floor while I watched, open-mouthed. ‘I thought you might like …’ He stopped abruptly and handed me the carrier bag.
‘I thought you would look nice in it.’ He quickly looked away, obviously embarrassed, touchingly shy. He tilted his head and seemed to concentrate. On what, I couldn’t guess.
I peered inside the bag and could see it contained blue silk. The perfume wafted out as I stood awkwardly without a clue what I was supposed to be doing with it.
I looked to him for my cue but he quickly looked away, down at the floor. His cheeks were very faintly pink and I realized, with a smile, that he was shy.
‘It’s for you for being so nice,’ he said.
I pulled out a dress, long, blue, the same one I had seen him caress. For a moment I didn’t know what to say. I almost felt his touch in the silky material. Stunned, I fell back on my manners.
‘Thank you, Mr Taverner,’ I said. He was watching me and I felt I should add something more. ‘I don’t get many gifts from customers.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s all right.’ And then he bent over the book, filling in the time after glancing at his watch. So precise he even put 15.48 when most customers would just have put four o’clock. Then, without another look at me, he bolted. Minutes later his car inched out through the gates as silently and unobtrusively as a submarine. He was gone, leaving behind hardly a ripple of air while I still had the dress draped over my arms.
It still had the price label attached, well beyond what I would pay: £287.00. I checked the size of the dress. Size twelve. My size. Coincidence? Size twelve is, after all, a pretty average size. But it was new. Margaret had never worn it. Had he bought it for me?
To say I was confused would have been an understatement.
I gaped at it.
Not one of my boyfriends had ever given me a gift – let alone one as expensive and inappropriate as this. Inappropriate because I didn’t have a clue why he had given me it or where I would wear it.
I smiled to myself. Dinner at The Ritz? On board a friend’s yacht? I folded it up and replaced it in the bag.
The seed of curiosity which had been germinating ever since Steven Taverner had first come to The Green Banana had firmly taken root.
Curiosity, my mum used to say, in the days when she had bothered to speak to me, killed the cat. This was beyond curiosity. Riding on it was suspicion. In my experience, men don’t give you presents without expecting something back. So what did he want from me?
My imagination ran through and discarded possibilities.
Sex? Sorry, mate. Not for sale. Sex is a gift not a commodity.
So what was he? Another cheat? He
didn’t seem it. The alternative could be a lonely widower? Separated, never to be divorced because he was a Catholic? A transvestite who believed I would understand him? A wife killer? Had I attracted yet another weirdo? I was, I admit, desperate to learn which.
Business was booming then, many starting up or changing direction. That and a volatile housing market meant that many folk could not find a place to settle and were forced to rent, so some of their possessions ended up in The Green Banana waiting for the new home. We were busier than ever. Andy and Scarlet had bought a piece of adjoining land and constructed two further lock-ups in an extension of The Green Banana storage facility. So there were more new customers, people coming and going, VAT receipts, enquiries, and I didn’t have the time to chat to or even ponder my enigmatic customer. When Steven Taverner visited weeks later, there was a queue of people at the desk. He took one look and fled.
The Subsequent Wife Page 8
