The Woman Who Took in Parcels and Opened One

by Penny Kline

  When was the precise time her friend and companion had disappeared and been replaced by a zombie? Horrible word, “zombie” – she would never have spoken it out loud – but things had a way of springing to mind long before you had time to censor them. Was it the night Eddie ran down the road in her nightdress? Or the day Jane hugged her and received a hard bite? Could she have kept her at home longer? Had she arranged to have her admitted to The Spruces because she was too lazy to get up for her in the night? No, she was being unduly harsh on herself. The confusion had been something she had adjusted to, along with finding various objects in unexpected places. Her precious tablet in the washing machine, only discovered when it crashed around among the jumpers and knickers. And by then it was too late.

  The sun was shining on the neat little front gardens in Faraday Road. And on the scaffolding, of course, and the skip, overflowing with off-cuts of hardboard and empty paint cans, and quite a decent shrub that had been broken off at its roots. Apart from the building materials, the road was looking attractive, with its front doors painted tasteful shades of green and blue and grey, and its bay trees and window boxes. Recently, house prices had soared and were a constant subject of conversation. Prices and home improvements. Jane had no intention of moving, or improving, but pretended to be interested in extensions and the paving over of front gardens. Had nobody heard how, since the rain was unable to soak in, paving stones led to flooding?

  The two student houses let down the “highly sought-after street” somewhat, and Jane often picked up empty baked bean tins and beer cans and deposited them in one of the black wheelie bins, but she liked the students and they provided a touch of real life, whatever that was supposed to be.

  Coming out of her front door, she bumped into Simmy, and the child let out a small squeal of alarm as though she had been caught in some nefarious act.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to make you jump. Summer holidays at last.’

  Simmy sucked a strand of her hair.

  ‘How do you plan to spend them?’

  Simmy flicked up her fringe, a pointless gesture since it fell straight back over her eyes. Recently, the girl seemed to have lost her tongue and Jane hoped she was not being bullied although, if that were the case, the holidays would have come as a relief. When things went wrong, parents imagined it was something to do with school, and teachers assumed there were problems at home.

  Like all the best people, Simmy loved animals. Perhaps, if she invited her round to see Rousseau, the child might open up. Just now she was standing on one leg like a flamingo. Bad simile, since her colouring was dark – brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin. Still, her legs were long and thin. Normally, she wore shorts and a T-shirt, but today the arms of a shapeless sweater hung to the tips of her fingers and the heavy chain round her neck had something black on the end of it.

  ‘New jumper?’ Jane asked brightly. ‘What’s that on your chain?’

  ‘It keeps evil spirits away.’

  ‘I see. I rather thought worry dolls came in sets, little bags with a drawstring.’

  Simmy gave her a slightly pitying look. ‘It’s an amulet.’

  ‘I see.’ Jane studied the slightly unpleasant-looking creature with its one baleful eye. ‘I’m on my way to see Miss Knox.’

  ‘Oh. Is she all right?’ Simmy’s narrow-eyed expression had changed to one of concern.

  ‘Yes, thank you, dear.’ According to Gus, Simmy and her father were not getting on, and this was borne out by the shouting. Simmy, still only thirteen, wanted to stay out late? Or find boyfriends online, or whatever teenage girls got up to these days?

  ‘Miss Seymour?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’ The rosemary needed cutting back. Rosemary for remembrance. Do you forget where you’ve put your keys? Do you find television programmes hard to follow? Do you sometimes find a word is on the tip of your tongue? Yes. No. I don’t remember!

  ‘Do you know what happened to my mother?’

  ‘Your mother?’ Jane was unprepared for the question. ‘I believe you were very young when she —’

  ‘Two and a half.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s sad for you. You must miss —’

  ‘No, because I can’t remember her.’

  Jane opened her mouth to say she meant she must miss not having a mother, and thought better of it.

  ‘Dad won’t tell me why she died.’

  ‘I see.’ Perhaps talking about it upset him. Unlikely, since it was eleven years ago and Dave was not the emotional type. Although one never knew what went on in other people’s heads. Cheerful, open people could be hiding a dark secret, and the gloomy buggers, like Dave, could have a tempestuous love life, carried on away from prying eyes.

  Simmy had screwed up her face, a warning that Jane was not responding adequately. ‘I think she ran off to live with another man. Some mothers wish they’d never had a baby. I saw this television programme about a woman who wanted a career and —’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not what happened, dear. I expect she was ill.’

  ‘If that was right, Dad could tell me. I thought she might have done a murder. It would mean she had a life sentence so she wouldn’t come out of prison until I was twenty-two, unless she was allowed out on parole.’

  ‘Talk to your dad again. Perhaps you caught him at a bad moment.’

  ‘No, I’ve asked him heaps of time.’

  ‘I see.’ What was Dave playing at? Surely the child had a right to know. Was Simmy correct when she suspected her mother had walked out on the marriage? ‘Do you have an aunt, someone who might —’

  ‘No, and I haven’t got any cousins either. It’s only me and Dad and you know what he’s like.’

  Jane did know what he was like. ‘Next time I see him, I’ll have a word.’

  ‘You promise.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I think Mr McNeill knows.’

  ‘Noel? What makes you think that?’

  ‘I asked him if he did and he winked.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t read anything into that, dear. He winks at everyone.’

  ‘So you’ll ask Dad why he won’t tell me?’

  ‘When it feels like the right moment.’

  With a look that conveyed the belief all adults made promises they had no intention of keeping, Simmy stumped back into her house and slammed the door. What had happened to her mother? Hardly a mystery of “the body in the library” variety, but at the very least, when she lay awake at three in the morning, it would provide something to think about other than the fluffy pink handcuffs.

  Tricia Tidewell, Jane’s other immediate neighbour, had appeared, plus buggy containing Ada, strapped in and screaming, and Liam and Pippa aiming kicks at one another. The woman looked at her wits’ end and Jane would like to have provided her with some parenting skills, but suspected the offer would not be welcome.

  The houses in Faraday Road were solidly built, in the late eighteen nineties, with thick, relatively soundproof walls, but the Tidewell children were particularly unruly. Not that Jane would dream of complaining. Sandwiched between number twenty-five and number twenty-nine, she liked to think of herself as an oasis of calm. Not that twenty-five was normally so noisy. Mrs Garcia owned the house – Dave and Gus rented their flats – and presumably the new loft conversion was so she could acquire another tenant.

  ‘On our way to the shops.’ Tricia released her hair from its white band, and scraped it back again. It was something she did often, symbolic perhaps of a fresh start. ‘Sandals and trainers. Cost a fortune. Ian’s away. Pippa, for heaven’s sake! On business, he said. Liam!’

  ‘What is it Ian does? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Spare parts.’ Tricia blinked several times. ‘For the motor industry.’

  ‘And he’s required to travel extensively.’

  ‘You’re so lucky, Jane.’

  ‘Am I? In what way?’ She was going to be late getting to The Spruces.

  ‘You had a career,
used to be a head teacher.’

  ‘Head of English.’

  ‘Liam’s learning to read. Phonics.’ She had to shout above the noise of the baby and the hammering in the loft conversion. ‘And sometimes they memorise whole words. Liam can read elephant and skyscraper.’

  Jane was thinking that perhaps she ought to offer to look after Ada while Tricia took the other two to buy new shoes. No, it would be the thin edge of the wedge and she had never been good with babies. Besides, Eddie would be expecting her. One of the staff would have told her what day it was. Your friend will be here soon.

  Tricia was looking up at the loft conversion. ‘Ian says the weight of them makes the house sink. He doesn’t like Mr McNeill, they had an argument, but I think it’s because he’s losing his hair. Ian is, I mean.’ She released her own hair again, struggling to catch the escaping wisps as she pushed up her band. ‘It’s always been a problem and I’m afraid Pippa may have inherited it.’

  ‘Your hair? It’s a pretty colour.’ Most people had an irrational dislike of at least one part of their body. With Jane it was her teeth, which were nothing like the ones in toothpaste ads. Did it matter? Probably not. So why did the ads make her so cross?

  ‘Right then, I’d better be off. I’m on my way to The Spruces to visit Eddie.’

  Tricia put her head on one side, in a gesture of sympathy that made her look like a bird listening for worms. ‘It must be a relief you’ve found somewhere safe. I mean somewhere where they know how to care for people with ... no, what I meant, where you don’t have to worry about her, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do.’ Jane moved on, ignoring the chorus of “it’s not fairs”, the familiar cry of siblings asserting their rights. A sense of fairness was innate. Strange really, when so few things in life were fair, but perhaps the wish for justice was a survival strategy. Marjorie Underwood, head of Science, would know. Jane missed the staffroom discussions, almost as much as her English classes. Reading and listening to the radio was not sufficient. One required the stimulation of others in order to keep one’s brain active. And crosswords, of course. She only needed one word to complete last Sunday’s. Conceal about old amplifier for crime. Eight letters. Conceal. Hide. Amplifier?

  With a heavy heart, she set off again for The Spruces. Conversation would be limited but some of the other residents were more compos mentis than Eddie, and the staff were friendly – mostly foreign but why not? They were glad of a job, cheerful, kind, patient. Jane’s eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away with her sleeve. What on earth was the matter with her? It must be the weather, overcast and muggy. Removing her cardigan, she hung it over one arm. Put your best foot forward. Or some such nonsense. I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. Thomas Hardy, she thought. No, D.H. Lawrence. If Tricia Tidewell wanted a career why on earth had she had three children in quick succession? And why, for heaven’s sake, was Dave refusing to tell Simmy what had happened to her mother?

  Had she but known what was to come, the Tidewell children and Simmy’s mother would have been the least of her worries.

  FOUR

  Eddie was sitting on her bed, with her hairbrush in her hand. Since moving into The Spruces, she had put on weight and Jane suspected that, given half a chance, she helped herself to the other residents’ sweets and biscuits. In the past, she had been fussy about what she ate, taking notice of the constant supply of information on the media. Drink a glass of red wine for your heart. No, don’t. Eat low-fat products. No, don’t – they’re full of sugar. Eat five a day. No, eat eight.

  For a time, they had consumed vast amounts of broccoli until one day Eddie had asked her why she kept cooking such a disgusting vegetable. But you said we should eat it three times a week. No, I didn’t! Had that been when it all began? Small inconsistencies that gradually turned into larger ones, like the time Eddie had accused her of stealing her raincoat, an absurd accusation since Jane was four inches taller and had a perfectly good raincoat of her own.

  Something that had always irritated Eddie, was Jane’s liking for Beatrix Potter. Squirrel Nutkin – oh, for heaven’s sake. Jemima Puddleduck? It’s just a duck, Jane, you’re so sentimental, you’ve never grown up. But after the illness took hold, it was a different matter. Eddie had studied Jane’s collection of Beatrix Potter books, pointing out particular illustrations and insisting Jane take in the details. Tom Kitten’s buttons or Mrs Tiggywinkle’s basket of washing. Jeremy Fisher’s galoshes or Squirrel Nutkin’s missing tail.

  ‘Are you ready?’ The bristles of Eddie’s hairbrush on the back of Jane’s hand had put an end to her trip down memory lane. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’

  ‘No!’ Eddie scowled at her so Jane concentrated on the wallpaper with its pattern of orange and white flowers on a pale yellow background. When the house was a convent, the walls would have been plain. No wallpaper, no pictures, but possibly a crucifix. The scent of holiness still lingered. Or perhaps it was air freshener. Holy water fragrance?

  Eddie had a few items from home, unbreakable ones, a velvet mouse, a small wooden box with a carved lid, a pot of hand cream and a jar of moisturiser. Jane doubted if she noticed them any longer, but they made the room feel a little homelier. Taking a box of fruit jellies from her bag, she removed the polythene, and handed it to Eddie, who ignored it.

  ‘Where’s Biddy?’

  ‘Biddy?’ The polythene had reminded Jane of the fluffy handcuffs and made her flinch. With guilt? No, it was fear. ‘Sun’s out, we could have a stroll round the garden.’

  Eddie stayed where she was so Jane sat down again. ‘It’s a comfortable bed, not too hard, not too soft.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Eddie flung out an arm, narrowly missing Jane’s glasses.

  Taking one of her soft little hands – her own were more like eagles’ talons – Jane pulled her up and guided her towards the door. No need for her jacket. She was wearing the green cardigan she had knitted for herself several years ago. Her light blue trousers had a stain on the back. Blue and green should never be seen. Jane could remember her mother reciting the adage, one today’s fashion icons would find absurd.

  ‘Down we go.’

  ‘Get off!’

  ‘What did you have for breakfast? Do they give you a cooked one? I always enjoy a cooked breakfast, provided someone else has cooked it.’ Keeping up a stream of chatter seemed to work best. ‘I was looking at your painting, Eddie, the one with the three cats. Rousseau’s well. Eats like a pig.’ Not true – he was finickity and turned up his nose at inexpensive cat food – but, in Eddie’s company, Jane found herself mouthing mindless platitudes.

  ‘Where’s my comb?’

  ‘You want to comb your hair?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I saw Simmy this morning. Simmy who lives next door, you remember.’ Simmy, whose father won’t tell her what happened to her mother. ‘It’s the school holidays, six whole weeks. I don’t think they’re going away. Dave’s too busy.’

  ‘Dave’s workshop.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Something had clicked in her brain, possibly because she had liked Dave, who she once described as a “no frills” person who called a spade a spade. ‘Dave is Simmy’s father.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  Negotiating the stairs was tricky. Eddie clung to the rail, and Jane clung to Eddie. She smelled of talcum powder, something a care worker sprinkled on her when she helped her to wash? ‘It’s a nice, warm day. I saw Tricia Tidewell when I was leaving and the two older children were wearing shorts and T-shirts, and the baby had her sun hat.’

  ‘Shat.’

  Jane laughed and Eddie turned her head, surprised. ‘Oh, Eddie, I do miss you.’

  ‘Where’s Biddy?’

  The garden was well kept, too well for Jane’s taste, with large patio slabs at intervals, and the minimum of plant life, but it felt cool and fresh, compared with the stuffiness of the house. The Spruces was a well-run home – Eddie had an en suite bathroom – but Jane’s heart sank at t
he thought she might end up in such a place.

  Did Eddie mind? Who could tell? Since she had always been mildly eccentric, Jane had failed to notice her early symptoms. Or refused to accept they were symptoms. Lack of concentration was not unusual. She was an artist and artists were allowed to be in a bit of a dream. The memory loss had come later, and followed a small seizure. Not Alzheimer’s, as Jane had feared, but vascular dementia, the result of a stroke or several strokes, when the blood supply to part of the brain was cut off and caused permanent brain damage. Multi-infarct dementia, the hospital doctor called it, following cognitive tests and a brain scan.

  The previous summer, Eddie had started to look vacant, and stopped painting altogether, and later she had refused to buy new shoes even though the ones she wore every day had soles that were coming away from the uppers. On the other hand, once, when the sink was blocked, she had become very active and managed to unblock it, thereby avoiding the expense of a plumber.

  During her last year at the school, Jane had worried how she was coping with her classes, but art was a subject where you could get away with murder. Loud laughter had come from the art room. One of Eddie’s funny anecdotes about her childhood, or Eddie saying or doing something inappropriate? Jane had prayed the Head was not walking past.

  ‘Look, Eddie, a thrush.’ Up in the maple tree that stood out from its neighbouring pines, the bird was singing, blissfully unaware of the nature of its chosen location.

  ‘I’m cold.’ A hand clutched at her skirt, dragging her back towards the house.

  ‘A new person, a woman, has moved into number twenty-two, Eddie. I’ve seen her but we haven’t been introduced. Nothing as bad as a ring in her nose, but not far off. Black leggings and a woolly hat, pulled down over her ears, and it’s not as though she’s young. In her forties, I’d say, but reluctant to join the adult world.’