by Penny Kline
‘Is that you? It’s me — Val Weir.’ She sounded like someone who hardly ever used the telephone. But that couldn’t be right. Answering the phone must be part of her job.
‘Hallo, how can I help?’
‘It’s about Jenny. I’m ringing from work so I can’t talk for long and in any case I know how busy you must be. I told your secretary I didn’t want to interrupt if you —’
‘No, that’s all right.’
I almost mentioned the fact that Jenny had missed three appointments. Then I realized that if Val Weir was phoning from work she might think Jenny had just been to see me.
She lowered her voice, probably because she was afraid someone at the Counselling Service might disapprove of her making a personal call during working hours.
‘She’s been so strange lately. Locking herself away in her room, picking at her food, hardly saying a word. Obviously I don’t want you to break a confidence but I wondered if you knew … Well, really I suppose I need some advice. Should I leave her alone or should I ask what’s the matter, if there’s anything I can do?’
So she didn’t know about the missed appointments. ‘I’m sure whatever you’re doing is fine, Mrs Weir. I should just try to be patient — ’
‘Oh, I’m that all right.’
‘Yes, and it’s not always easy, is it?’
I could sense that she had relaxed a little. ‘So you don’t think it’s something I’ve done?’
‘I expect there’s a great deal going on in Jenny’s head at the moment. She needs time on her own to sort it all out.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you so much. I feel better now I’ve spoken to you. I hope you didn’t mind — ’
‘No, that’s fine. Just don’t expect things to get better straight away.’
I sounded defensive, as though she were blaming me for Jenny’s behaviour.
‘Oh, I don’t, and in a way she is better. We’ve heard nothing about muscle pains for nearly a fortnight.’
‘Really?’
‘I wondered if the symptoms are a kind of defence. If she’s unwell she doesn’t have to think about her other problems.’
‘Yes, that right.’ I was impressed. On the other hand, anyone who worked for a counselling service was bound to pick up a few psychological theories.
‘Only the trouble is I can’t understand what those other problems are.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing serious. People Jenny’s age have plenty to contend with at the best of times.’
‘Yes of course, and if there is a particular problem it’s sure to come out sooner or later, isn’t it?’
Did she mean I should have made more progress or was she just feeling a little left out?
‘It’s difficult for you, Mrs Weir, I know — ’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. These things take time, don’t they? That’s one of the problems with the students. The university thinks the counsellors should be able to solve all their difficulties in an hour or two. It’s quite ridiculous.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘Anyway, I won’t keep you. Thank you so much for listening. Goodbye.’
After thinking about it for a few minutes I picked up the phone again and rang Jenny’s home number. It rang twelve times. I gave up and replaced the receiver. Either she was out or she was refusing to answer. I was worried, but perhaps I worried about Jenny too much. Apart from the aches and pains she probably had no more problems than the average teenager. It was true she was nearly seventeen but missing school and losing contact with her friends had interrupted her emotional development. Failing to turn up for her appointments and refusing to talk to me or her mother might be simply a way of asserting herself, rebelling against authority figures, growing up.
It was a plausible explanation of the situation and I almost convinced myself that it was the correct one. But something bothered me. Were my own problems starting to make me lose judgement, to look for complications where none existed? What was it about Jenny that resulted in my having so many conflicting feelings about her? Compassion, frustration, curiosity, guilt. I was sorry for Val Weir too and it occurred to me that my wish to help them both arose from feelings of regret about my relationship with my own mother. Not that we had ever got on badly — I couldn’t remember a single major disagreement — but we had never really confided in each other, always been careful to avoid saying anything that might cause the slightest pain.
*
It was ten days since I had spoken to Chris on the phone. Even longer since we had seen each other. David’s remarks about Bruce and Karen Plant had gone some way towards explaining Chris’s reluctance to talk about the murder. Not that I had taken David’s suggestion very seriously — he saw intrigue and infidelity all around him, thrived on it — but if Chris had even suspected something had been going on then Karen would be the last person she wanted to discuss.
My last client of the day had changed his appointment to later in the week. I decided to leave work a little early, call round at Chris’s house, and suggest a walk in the park. That way the children could come too, although Jack and Rosie often had after-school activities. Gym Club or Scottish Dancing. Judo or Brownies. Chris was the perfect mother, encouraging all their interests but not being too pushy. There when they needed her but careful not to give the suffocating attention some parents inflict on their children.
The first time we met she had been pregnant with Barnaby. The other two were both at school and she couldn’t bear it without a baby. She had admitted this freely and with no pretence that the pregnancy had been an accident. ‘That’s what I’m good at, Anna. Getting pregnant and giving birth. Some people find the whole thing traumatic. I’m in my element, it’s just the way I was made.’
The front door was locked and several empty milk bottles had rolled across the path and were lying on their sides in a pile of dead leaves. I picked them up, then rang the bell and peered through the front window for any signs of life. After a few moments the door was pushed open a crack and Jack’s round freckled appeared.
‘Hallo, is your mum in?’
He disappeared and I waited for what seemed like several minutes until Chris’s voice called from the kitchen.
‘Anna?’
Normally I would have followed Jack into the house. I’m not sure why I didn’t. Some warning signal? Something in Jack’s expression? Something he had overheard? Chris was standing by the sink with her back to me and she didn’t turn round.
‘Hi. You’re just in time for a cup of tea.’ Her voice was brittle, tense.
‘That’d be nice. Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘Don’t be silly. Did you ring the bell? I was upstairs. Anyway, sometimes it doesn’t work.’
It had worked. A long peal, loud and clear.
She started making tea and I sat down and took off my coat. I felt tired, irritable, wished I hadn’t come, then realized I was being unreasonable. Why shouldn’t Chris be tired too? I expected her to be permanently cheerful, amusing, good company.
‘The rain’s stopped,’ I said, ‘I wondered if you’d like to go for a walk.’
‘Now? Bit late, isn’t it? It’ll be dark soon.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Jack had disappeared upstairs. Rosie was in the garden kicking a football against the shed. I looked round for Barnaby.
Chris read my mind. ‘Bruce has taken him out in the buggy.’
‘Oh, Bruce’s home already?’
‘He got back early for once. Lately he’s been working longer and longer hours. All in aid of promotion, I know, but some days I hardly see him.’
I took my cup of tea. ‘Look, I should have phoned first — ’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ But she couldn’t disguise her hostility.
Surely she wasn’t still cross about the baby-sitting although, come to think of it, it was the first time I had ever said no. Not that she and Bruce went out in the evenings very often, but always in the
past I had been more than willing to come round. David had come too and insisted on playing wild games with Rosie and Jack until they were over-excited and reluctant to go upstairs to bed.
Why, this last time, had I turned down her request? Because it was such short notice, because I was only just back after a hard day at work, or was it because I sensed that she was angry with me and not even prepared to discuss what it was all about? If I asked her she would say she had no idea what I was talking about and accuse me of being oversensitive.
‘Rosie’s grown,’ I said, gazing through the window at the long strip of beaten down grass and scrubby shrubs. It was one of those stupid remarks designed to fill the silence, reduce the tension.
‘Yes, I know, she’s getting quite lanky. Shame really, I like them when they’re plump and cuddly.’
I smiled but she wasn’t looking at me. I wished Rosie would come in from the garden. I would like to have joined her, kicking hell out of the orange plastic ball, running up and down, dribbling and shooting.
Chris cleared her throat and starting straightening the farm animals that littered the kitchen table. Four saddleback pigs, a milkmaid seated on a three-legged stool, something with one of its ears missing that might have been a baby goat.
After a moment or two she glanced at me then back at the table.
‘Did Bruce phone you?’
‘Bruce?’ I said, unable to stop myself feigning surprise. ‘Oh, yes. Yes he did. Sometime last week. I forget.’
‘He told you what you wanted to know?’
‘Well, it was nothing really. Just this woman I’ve been seeing. It wasn’t important.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ She scooped two heaped spoonful’s of sugar into her cup and starting stirring slowly, rhythmically as though the action was helping her to keep control of her anger.
So it wasn’t the baby-sitting. It was Karen Plant. I wanted to have it out with her. Had there really been something between Bruce and Karen, or was Bruce right that the murder had frightened her? Somehow the last explanation didn’t ring true. Independent, self-sufficient Chris terrified something would happen to Bruce and she would be left on her own with three young children. In any case, most of Bruce’s work took place in his office. I seemed to remember a time when a woman had ‘attacked’ him because he wouldn’t force her common-law husband to move out of her flat. But the attack had amounted to nothing more than a small scratch on the side of his nose.
I thought about David’s remark. The reception at County Hall. Then I looked at Chris’s hands gripping her cup of tea and decided it was better not to raise the matter, better to talk about something entirely different.
‘You know the post cards I told you about?’
She nodded. ‘Have you had any more?’
‘Three so far.’
‘What did you do with them? Have you put them on the mantelpiece?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
I wanted to tell her about the gruesome pictures, and the descriptions of my movements round the town, but there was nothing worse than talking about something important to someone who wasn’t really listening. If I mentioned my suspicion that someone had been in the flat she would connect it with my query about the spare key.
‘Oh, by the way,’ I said, ‘I found that key.’
‘What key?’
‘You know, the one I gave you when I was away on holiday.’ I was watching her face. If she still had the key she would know I was lying.
She looked slightly puzzled, as though she couldn’t remember anything about a key. Then she lifted a hair out of her tea and draped it over the back of her hand, studying it to see if she could identify the colour.
‘Oh, yes, the key. Well, that’s all right then.’
I felt depressed. I needed someone to talk to but nobody wanted to listen. Not Martin, certainly not David. Now Chris was freezing me out.
She lifted her cup to her lips and tried to smile but it was too much effort. ‘Sorry, love, I’ve got this awful headache. Had it ever since I woke up.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? Have you taken something?’
‘Yes, but it didn’t do any good.’
‘When Bruce comes back you must let him take over, have a rest, go to bed early.’
‘Yes, I might do that.’
I hesitated a moment, then stood up and carried my half-full cup to the sink. I would have rinsed it out but it seemed absurd to wash one cup when the whole draining board was piled high with dirty crockery.
Chris followed me to the front door. I touched her on the arm. ‘Sorry you’re feeling so rotten. I hope you’ll be better soon.’
‘Thanks.’
I could see Bruce coming up the road with Barnaby. Chris saw him too, but she went back into the house and closed the front door.
It would be better to get straight into the car and drive off but Bruce would have recognized me in the distance and it would seem odd if I didn’t have a few words with him.
I waited, leaning against the wall, humming under my breath. As Bruce drew nearer I could see that he was trying to look pleased to see me.
‘Hi. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks, how about you?’
‘Oh, not so bad.’
Barnaby was struggling to get out of the buggy. Bruce put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
‘He’s lovely,’ I said, ‘and he looks so like you.’
Bruce shrugged. ‘Really? I’m not very good at seeing likenesses.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘well, I won’t hold you up.’
‘Nice to see you, Anna. Bye for now.’
Neither of us had mentioned the phone-call. Bruce looked pale and I could have sworn he had lost weight. But maybe he was thinking the same thing about me.
Chapter Seventeen
The vacuum cleaner was refusing to pick up dust. Instead it seemed to be scattering grit all over the carpet. I gave it a kick, then pulled out the plug, sat on the floor, unscrewed its base and began poking my fingers in all the crevices to try and find what was causing the blockage.
Saturdays were always the worst. The long hours stretching ahead. Time that should have been spent relaxing, enjoying a break from work, but was often wasted in morbid introspection. I would have to organize myself better, join a club, take up badminton, go for long exhausting walks.
I thought about walks with David. The first time we met had been on a train going to London. David was sitting opposite, reading the Financial Times and eating chocolate peanuts. After an hour or so he folded up his newspaper and started to talk.
He asked where I lived and what I did, and after a fairly short time we discovered we both knew Chris and Bruce, although he had only met them quite recently — during the months since he and his wife split up.
He liked Chris, mainly because she didn’t take life too seriously. Bruce, he said, was harmless enough but too much of a worrier, which tended to make him a bit of a bore.
The rest of the journey he talked about his work. He was on his way to visit a packaging company in Surrey.
I listened, giving him my full attention, mainly because I knew that would encourage him to keep talking about himself instead of asking questions about me. When the train reached London I expected him to ask for my phone number and was slightly disappointed when he just said it had been nice talking to me.
Then a week later he phoned. He had got my number from Chris — and found out a fair bit about me at the same time. After that things moved fast and during the next few months we saw each other four or five times a week. I was living in a rented place but thinking of buying my own flat. David was all in favour of this. He assumed we were going to live together but said there was no point in rushing things. If I bought the flat, then later, when his financial situation improved, he would contribute to the mortgage.
It was not until we had been living in the new flat for six or seven weeks that things started to go wrong. By now David’s di
vorce was through and, as he explained, that meant the pressure was off and he and his ex-wife, Iris, could be on better terms. Now and again he went to see his daughter. It was a much better arrangement than taking her out to the zoo or, worse still, bringing her back to the flat and inflicting her on me.
Then one evening he stayed at Iris’s house until quite late. Of course he had a very good explanation. Her water tank had sprung a leak and she had forgotten where the stopcock was located so the water had brought down part of the bedroom ceiling. Did that really mean he had to stay there until nearly half past ten? Well, it was all a question of finding someone to give an estimate for repairs.
‘At that time of night?’
‘Oh, don’t go on about it, Anna. Surely one evening on your own’s not such a hardship.’
He knew that wasn’t what I meant …
I felt up the vacuum-cleaner tube and pulled out a ball of dust and hairs. Then I unwound threads of carpet from the roller, determined to do the job properly now I had the wretched machine in pieces.
The incident with Iris’s water tank should have cleared the air. Instead things went from bad to worse until one evening I decided to have it out with him and was horrified when he confessed that he and Iris had been to bed together. Only once, he said, it was one of those things that happen on the spur of the moment but it wouldn’t happen again. From now on he would take his daughter out to tea, or to look round the shops, wherever you were supposed to take a twelve-year-old girl. There would be no more contact with her mother.
I believed him, I needed to believe him, although later I admitted to myself that I had known all along that I was heading for disaster …
The pieces of vacuum cleaner lay all over the carpet and one of the four screws seemed to be missing. It was only two years since I had bought the thing but it would be better to chuck it out, buy another. I started to cry and the silent tears turned to loud painful sobs that continued for quite a long time and left with me with a sore throat and aching head.
I stood up and went to find a black polythene bag that would hold the discarded sections of vacuum cleaner and anything else I could find. The clothes I never wore, the books I would never read again. I would throw the whole lot in the car and take them to the refuse dump. It would be symbolic of a new start. It was worth a try.
