And so …
I dipped my toe in the water and said, quite brightly, ‘Nearly done then?’
He gave me his full, puzzled attention before regarding me with that grave, solemn smile that seemed to appraise me. Not in a sexual way but almost trying to decipher what I was saying. ‘Sorry?’
I tiptoed a little further into his private life. ‘So you’ve found another house?’
He looked completely confused now. His eyes (hazel with gold flecks, almond-shaped, slightly Oriental-looking) flew open. ‘Sorry?’
‘Oh,’ I said, glancing down deliberately at the gold wedding ring. ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. I just thought you and your wife might be moving house.’ He looked even more puzzled now, while I felt suddenly awkward, so I tried – and failed – to turn the intrusion into something light-hearted. ‘None of my business unless you have …’ Smiling, I pointed to the board which showed (for those who couldn’t read) pictures of forbidden substances. ‘A gun. Drugs.’ I laughed, ‘Livestock as in a baaing sheep, any of these.’ He still looked confused and frowned at me while I squirmed. What must I sound like? He must think me so friggin’ stupid. Then his eyes drifted across to the pictures, graphic enough for a teen magazine Wham. Pow. Firearms. Livestock as in rearing horses and snarling dogs, etc., etc.
Then he looked back at me, his head tilted to one side and I felt my face burn. I felt such a fool and tried to back away from his private life. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Taverner,’ I said shortly. ‘None of my business.’
He gave me just half a smile. ‘I’m not moving house, Jennifer,’ he said gently. ‘I’m staying where I am.’
I felt even more of a fool then. A feeling which was compounded when his statement was followed by an even more awkward and prolonged silence between us.
We seemed to be staring at each other without any words coming out. It was odd. He had an open, honest face and yet I couldn’t, for the life of me, work out what he was thinking. And I wasn’t going to find out either because, after a couple of seconds which seemed to stretch into minutes, instead of signing in he turned on his heel and without another single word, left, so I simply watched the doors swing to and fro and then I watched him on the CCTV screens.
I was still watching him when Ruby Ngoma came in and followed my gaze. Steven was standing by his car, hesitating. I saw his lips move. He was arguing with himself. What about?
Even Ruby had entered into the Christmas spirit. She was wearing her uniform of skinny jeans (baggy on her), and a shapeless brown anorak. But she was wearing decorated Christmas tree earrings which flashed when she moved her head. She had the usual fag in her hand. For Ruby there was no such thing as a non-smoking area. ‘That man,’ she said, bony finger stabbing at my chest, ‘don’t you trust him, my love. He’s not all he seems, that one; there’s something strange about him. Something secretive.’
And you’re such a good judge of character, I thought resentfully, and put it all down to envy. She continued with her mantra. ‘When you’re young they want to get inside your knickers, my love. When you’re old …’ Her faded eyes fixed on mine and I read the same pre-Christmas sadness that afflicted me. I watched Steven Taverner still arguing with himself by the car door. After a few more minutes of tense argument, he opened the door, climbed in, drove off.
And Ruby sidled off leaving behind an aroma of stale smoke.
I was alone again.
Of all the people I knew, Steven Taverner was the hardest to read. I couldn’t work out whether he liked me, disliked me or was indifferent. I couldn’t work out why he paid me compliments but never followed it up with anything more. I didn’t know whether he was shy or simply reserved. He had no body language but tended to hold himself still. I didn’t even have a clue why he needed to store Margaret’s belongings or who she was. And the biggest mystery of all? Why had he given me that blue dress?
What did it mean?
I’d thought I knew all the reasons why people used the services of The Green Banana Storage Facility: sentiment, divorce, money, hoping their goods would increase in value, lack of room, business necessities. But I couldn’t work out which of my theories was applicable in this case.
I tried a theory to see if it fitted. Maybe Margaret, his wife, was not dead but disabled. That was why she never came here, couldn’t wear the blue silk dress he’d bought her. His gentle voice and polite manner would prove a winning combination for a husband nursing a sick or disabled wife. He would be nurturing, patient, kind. He would not shout or be bullying. One could trust a man like Steven Taverner. I smiled to myself, keeping this warm, trusting feeling wrapped up inside myself.
I must have been feeling particularly nosey that day because sniffing at the puzzle was driving me mad. And maybe I wanted something a bit more in my life. Something kind – like …
That image of me in the future, an old maid shuffling her way on to the bus, shunned by the other passengers, seemed even more vivid then and even more likely. The blue dress would hang in my wardrobe for ever, the price label still attached and would never be worn.
The frustration was beginning to drive me mad. I searched through his bank details for a clue I could have picked up months earlier. Joint account? Not a bit of it. Just his name. Mr Steven J. Taverner.
John, I decided. Steven John Taverner. John is a stolid, traditional name well suited to him.
There was a cold wind blowing in from the northeast that was rattling the shutters that day, heralding ice, whisking leaves and rubbish around the empty courtyard as though ghosts danced and mocked in the dark. In the office I felt illuminated, on stage, exposed.
I continued testing theories.
He’d seemed surprised I’d assumed Margaret was his wife. But he wore a wedding ring. Was it possible then that Margaret was not his wife but his sister?
At which point my imagination ran riot.
Who had died of a tropical disease. After hitting the internet and playing around on the tropical diseases information page, I decided on bilharzia rather than the more common malaria. At that time there were no current reports of an Ebola outbreak. His beloved sister, Margaret, had been in Malawi, working for a foreign food-aid charity. Steven had cleared her flat but couldn’t bear to get rid of her clothes but was worried they might harbour the infection. This version took firm root in my brain. I expanded it further. And his wife never came with him because she was … agoraphobic.
SEVENTEEN
Scarlet had told me we were to close on Friday 21 December and not reopen until the New Year. I dreaded it. Christmas was bad enough when it lasted just two days. A week and a half was far too long. But I rallied enough to buy a pack of Christmas cards, handing them out when anyone turned up, which resulted in more jolly-looking cards to paste around the office and gifts from some of the customers (not Nash & Broughton, needless to say; all they’d done was grumble about us being closed for so long and tried to get a reduction in their rent – fat chance), a few bottles of wine plus a very thoughtful Boots token for ten pounds. Steven arrived on Thursday the twentieth and I handed him one addressed to Steven and Margaret.
He stared at the envelope, apparently puzzled.
While I watched and held my breath.
But all he did was open the card and read it. Inside I’d written:
Thank you for your custom, Jennifer. I’d toyed with the idea of adding an X but decided against it.
He looked at me. ‘Thank you, Jennifer. It was a nice thought.’
And he gave me a tentative smile followed by the usual avoidance of a direct gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, speaking to the floor. ‘I don’t really go in for cards.’
I swallowed any disappointment I might have felt, masking it with an airy, ‘Lots of people don’t now, they donate money to a charity instead.’
‘Yes.’ He gave nothing away, did he?
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘you’ve given me that beautiful dress.’
His face froze, his
entire frame stiffening.
‘And I haven’t had a chance to say thank you.’
He looked anxious. ‘Does it fit?’ There was real anxiety in the question and still he could not seem to look at me.
‘Oh, yes.’ I paused before diving into the deep end. ‘But doesn’t your wife mind you giving expensive gifts?’
He didn’t seem to know how to answer. After a brief pause, he shook his head.
And left.
The Christmas period was just as dreadful as I’d anticipated. Mum and Dad had both included ten pounds in their cards with the same message: Get yourself something nice.
For twenty pounds? I was going to struggle.
The weather was miserable, my room cold. Jodi and Jason had a blazing row on Christmas Eve and that set the atmosphere in the small house for the entire ‘festive’ period. I turned my telly up as loud as I dared but I could still hear the bitterness in their voices souring the atmosphere and belying the Christmas tree which winked and blinked 24/7. On Christmas morning I woke to hear them squabbling until Jason did what men do when they’ve had an argument and disappeared down the pub for several hours. I would have offered my company to Jodi but her sobs sounded hysterical and I thought she might turn her upset on to me. So I opened the present I’d bought with my parents’ twenty pounds – a bottle of fake Chanel No. 5. It looked convincing enough but for twenty pounds from a guy who’d parked himself outside The Potteries Centre and scarpered when the police came sniffing around, what do you expect? I splashed enough on me to smell like a Kardashian, watched television, went for horrible walks through muddy fields and was glad to return to work. I wondered what the New Year would bring. Something told me it would be different.
Or was that just blind optimism?
I was back on Wednesday 2 January, a bitterly cold day with an evil wind that tried to cut you in half. Needless to say, there was no sign of Steven. In fact, there was no sign of anyone except Teresa Simpson, who was one of the few who turned up to return her artificial Christmas tree to A9. And surprise, surprise, she’d bought me a bottle of Bailey’s. ‘I meant to give you this for Christmas,’ she said apologetically. ‘I hope you like it.’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I love it though I don’t get to drink it much. Thank you. That’s very kind of you.’
‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ she returned, ‘and Darrel and Fay (her children). It’s been an awful year.’ She gave a brave smile and I noted she’d put some lipstick on and done something with her hair which no longer looked lank and greasy but a bit more like hair. Still streaked with grey but a vast improvement.
I couldn’t disagree but put my head on one side and nodded. She touched my hand. ‘But this year,’ she said, ‘will be different. I’ve got through Christmas and the New Year. I have a job. I’ve finally accepted the divorce and Darrel, Fay and I have a holiday booked later on in the year. So here’s to the New Year. The new me.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, and felt a further surge of optimism.
On 4 January Melanie and Patrick Randall made their annual pilgrimage to F3 to pick up their skis ready for their holiday. As usual they were bursting with health and vitality. I watched them with envy. I would love to be like that, surrounded by noisy, healthy friends, about to embark on a skiing holiday. It was about as far as one could get from my humdrum life as was possible. The farthest I’d been was to Blackpool with my mum and dad when I was around six. And that was out of season – because it was cheaper. I only remember a biting wind, the sound of the waves splashing against the seafront, seagulls who nicked my chips and the sound of endless slot machines, their lights winking and blinking through the day and the night. I can’t remember where we stayed. Probably it would have been in one of the numerous boarding houses or B & Bs. I just remember the scent and sound of bacon frying.
We were busy during January and February. Once Christmas is over many people have a mighty big clear-out and rethink their homes, shifting unwanted stuff into the store. This is what happens. They are busy and enthusiastic for a week or two, expending all their energy moving their stuff in. And then they forget about it. While, thanks to standing orders, and the minimum six months, we keep creaming the money out of their bank accounts and into ours. As a business plan it works.
Another factor that keeps the store filled is it’s surprising how many people choose to die over the festive period.
I watched bereaved people unload the contents of Grandma’s house; on another day some gorgeous pieces from an antiques shop in Leek that had recently closed and more stuff arrived from Serena’s mobile hair salon. (Did she really use all those different dyes and shampoos, mousses and conditioners?) Business must have been good because she’d recently swapped her Ka for a Fiesta. Still pink, of course. I think she must have had it specially sprayed to her own peculiar car colour – Barbie-doll pink. Some people might call it bubble-gum pink. Anyway, to my mind it was striking and sickly. I no longer envied her as I watched her on the CCTV screen, toppling on her six-inch heels with an armful of bags and boxes, hair still immaculate (probably lacquered stiff). Well, I had to have something to bitch about, didn’t I, because there was no sign of Steven and I was surprised how much I missed him. I worried that I had driven him away. Maybe, I thought, he took offence at my Christmas card, felt it too personal, an intrusion. Or he was embarrassed when I’d mentioned the dress. Maybe I’d misinterpreted the gesture, thinking it was a romantic overture when it was nothing of the sort. It was a dress he’d bought his wife but she didn’t like it and the shop wouldn’t take it back. Perhaps. I took heart in the fact that his stuff was still here and hoped I would be able to smooth over any awkwardness when he finally arrived. It was beginning to bother me.
I felt I was tumbling backwards, away from my New Year optimism. My single state was beginning to look too much like a lifestyle. I was so desperate for a relationship – even a bad one – that one warm day, late in March, I even considered internet dating all over again.
Bad idea. I know.
So my life had fallen back into the same rut, which might explain why my curiosity about Mr Taverner didn’t go away. Instead it got bigger, my stories even more fanciful. Now I was imagining his wife had done one of those missing persons things – disappeared into thin air and he was grieving yet hoping that one day she’d come back. Poor man. Or else, she’d killed herself and their child but he still loved her and had decided it was due to undiagnosed depression. Cancer was always a possibility. Or …
Now I’d built up narratives, each one making him, perhaps, more interesting than he really was, I felt drawn to him. His life had held disappointments and letdowns as mine had. I was watching for him to come again and find the clues. The truth is, in a funny way I missed him. I liked his voice, soft, unaccented, coaxing, his sliding eyes. He was gentle and polite and, I felt, trustworthy.
Trouble was I was merging perfect man with Steven Taverner. (Who might still be a Bluebeard!)
I might collect wankers like pearls on a necklace. Which hung around my neck like the Ancient Mariner’s dead bird. But one day, surely, I had to hit lucky? Was this my chance?
As I watched the silent grey screens, white people scurrying in and out with items, I watched for the white Ford Focus and dreamed.
My ideal man had a soft voice. He was polite, mature, someone who’d lived a bit. Travelled a bit. Knew about current affairs, as in politics, wasn’t permanently skint. Drove a car that wasn’t held together with duct tape and exhausts deliberately wide and noisy for maximum sound pollution. My man was intelligent, polished. Urbane. He dressed well. Smelt of soap and deodorant. Not smelly feet and … Perhaps because I worried I would never meet anyone like that, and if I did he wouldn’t look twice at me, I started to cast Mr Taverner in that role.
It was Serena who shook me out of my torpor. She marched in one Tuesday afternoon and found me sitting on my office stool staring moodily into the CCTV monitors.
Today, as usual,
she looked massively hot in skintight jeans and a pink blouse knotted at her midriff. Her hair was platinum blonde and scraped back into a ponytail. She was wearing pink high-heeled cowboy boots.
She stood and regarded me for a moment, hands on hips. ‘What are you doing just staring into those for?’
I came out of my trance and shrugged.
‘You know what,’ she said, eyeing me from underneath thick black false eyelashes, ‘you …’ pointing a long pink fingernail at me, ‘are turning into something quite passive and pathetic. And it all starts with your hair,’ she said firmly. ‘Lock the office for half an hour. I’ll kick my shoes off and give you a shampoo and trim. For nothing,’ she said with a grin. ‘Jenny Lind.’
‘Who the heck’s she?’
She smirked. ‘The Swedish Nightingale,’ she said. ‘A singer.’ Then explained, ‘She came up in a pub quiz.’
So now I had another epithet. Not just Spinning Jenny or Jenny Wren. I could also be Jenny Lind. Except I couldn’t sing. Not like a nightingale, more like a frog.
But whatever she called me she was offering to transform me. I wasn’t going to turn down a free hairdo.
I locked the office, keeping an ear and an eye out, of course.
Naturally when someone’s trimming your hair the conversation drifts towards boyfriends, and I had to confess that I didn’t have one and further that I hadn’t had one for more than two years.
‘Gosh,’ she said, painted eyebrows practically meeting in the middle. ‘How sad. How awful.’ Then she screwed up her face and looked at me. ‘How odd.’
‘I attract the wrong sort,’ I said gloomily, water trickling down my neck, only partly compensated for by the lovely scent of coconut shampoo. ‘They’re all disasters for me, Serena.’
She was thoughtful for a minute, holding a strand of hair vertically then giving it a decisive snip.
The Subsequent Wife Page 10
