The Woman Who Took in Parcels and Opened One

by Penny Kline

  Eddie had stopped listening. No, she had never been listening. Before she became ill, she had talked too much so that Jane had sometimes felt she “needed some space”. Now the house felt so quiet she was sometimes obliged to go for a walk, in the hope of seeing someone she knew, if only by sight. As the person approached she would plan a way of starting a conversation. How big the children are growing. Your wisteria is doing well. Or, when all else failed, Very warm for the time of year – or cold, or wet, or windy. Acquaintances said “hi”, something Jane had never managed, although these days even “hello” sounded a little formal.

  ‘Rousseau sends his love,’ she said, painfully aware it was the kind of thing people said to very young children. ‘I bought him some cat treats but they were not to his liking.’

  Eddie’s lips moved and Jane held her breath, but she was only gathering saliva in her mouth so she could spit on a patio stone.

  ‘I saw Gus when I was coming out. Gus, who used to run his own camera shop, you remember. Oh, and Noel sent you his best wishes.’ Not true, but mention of Noel might divert her from pulling leaves off a plant. ‘His loft conversion company seems to be doing well. They’re converting next door’s.’

  ‘My loft.’

  ‘Yes, where you did your painting. All your paintings are still on the wall. I often look at them. D’you remember how we went up to London to the Summer Exhibition and they’d hung your picture in a corner and you were afraid nobody would notice it, but they did?’

  ‘A landscape.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ So she did remember. ‘It sold for quite a lot of money and we had a little celebration.’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘I took in a parcel for Willa Molloy. You remember Willa, bushy hair and brightly coloured clothes.’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ She had spoken too sharply and poor Eddie was looking puzzled. ‘Yes, all right, we’ll go inside again. I was telling you about Willa’s parcel. Willa who’s married to Brian. The paper had torn and the packages inside ... a teacher’s outfit, Eddie.’ Jane started to giggle. Nerves, rather than because it was funny.

  ‘Brian.’ Eddie was refusing to let go of a shrub.

  ‘Careful. It looks prickly. Yes, Brian, he used to be your doctor. Brian and Willa. Handcuffs, Eddie, aren’t people odd?’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  Back in the dayroom, Eddie sat down heavily and kicked off her slippers. Jane wished they insisted on shoes. Shoes gave a semblance of normality. Slippers were more comfortable but Eddie’s feet, unlike Jane’s, had never caused her any trouble, and slippers felt like stage one of a decline that culminated in a walking aid.

  The dayroom was pleasant enough. Comfy chairs and coffee tables and an enormous television attached to one of the walls. Just now, there was one of those consumer programmes. The sound was turned down too low to hear what the participants were saying but, because of the display of gadgets, Jane guessed it was about cold callers. The correct response, when a voice told you your computer had a fault, was to ring off. Normally Jane did just that, but yesterday she had asked the caller if he believed in God and, when he said “Of course, Madam”, she had suggested he must be worried what would happen when he went to heaven, or the other place. So silly, but it had given her a modicum of satisfaction, although later she had felt sorry for the man. Perhaps it was the only job he could find.

  Matron was approaching and, by the look of her, it was not good news. She was dressed informally but her dark blue skirt and blouse would have passed as a uniform. Her bronze hair was short and wavy and she had a silver brooch in the shape of a fish, with matching earrings. ‘We had a little incident, Miss Seymour, someone’s valuables dropped down the toilet.’

  ‘By Eddie? Oh, dear. Had something upset her?’

  ‘Something or someone. Anyway.’ She licked her lips in anticipation. ‘Part of the frame is rotten so we’re having the window in Edwina’s room replaced, and since the carpenter is willing to work at the weekend, Doctor thought it might be a good idea if she went home.’

  ‘To my house?’

  ‘She has her new tablets and we’re hoping they’ll help. One night would be sufficient. You could collect her first thing on Saturday and return her on Sunday evening.’

  ‘This coming weekend?’

  ‘I’ll make a note of it.’ The matron drifted away, doubtless relieved that Jane had raised no objection, and aware that she had the whip hand since if she protested that Eddie was in no fit state to go home, it could be used against her. In the circumstances, I’m afraid we may have to ask you to find a different care home, Miss Seymour.

  Looking back, Jane would curse herself – and the gimlet-eyed matron. Of all the weekends she could have chosen, why, oh why, had it been that one?

  FIVE

  Once, Gus had run his own photographic shop. Now he spent most of his time watching sport on a widescreen television. The loft conversion above him must be driving him insane, so it was not surprising that, when Jane decided to go and buy a new light bulb for her fridge, she found him standing staring up at the scaffolding. He was dressed in baggy trousers and a brown pullover, and, in spite of it being well after lunchtime, was still wearing his bedroom slippers.

  ‘Good morning, Gus.’

  ‘Jane.’

  ‘How’s the conversion progressing?’

  ‘You may well ask.’ Gus had an interest in wildlife, but Jane doubted if many birds nested in Faraday Road, or were starlings and sparrows immune to the noise of loft conversions?

  ‘Has Mrs Garcia been round lately? I wonder who she’s planning to let it to.’

  He gave a sour laugh. ‘As if we’d have any say in the matter. I chose a top-floor flat so I wouldn’t hear footsteps tramping up and down. That Noel has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘His are not the only loft conversions.’

  ‘If you say so. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of moving. Finding somewhere —’

  ‘Moving?’ Jane’s stomach lurched. ‘Oh, you don’t want to do that, Gus, you might find the new place was even more noisy. Besides you have friends in Faraday Road. You like it here.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘We’d miss you. I know Simmy would. Only last week, she said you were like the bear in a favourite picture book she had when she was small. She meant because you hibernate in the winter. Not that I blame you. My windows let in awful draughts. I ought to do something about them. One of Eddie’s is being replaced at the weekend.’

  ‘Are you all right, Jane?’

  ‘Me? Why do you ask?’

  She had said too much, shown herself up. But why not? Why pretend? Gus was her friend and having him living next door was important. They were on the same wavelength, had the same sense of humour. At least, she liked to think they had.

  A familiar four-wheel drive was coming up the road, black with tinted windows, an absurd affectation and highly inappropriate when it came to finding a parking space.

  ‘Talk of the devil.’ Gus whipped off his fisherman’s cap and gave an ironic bow. ‘Here comes his lordship.’

  ‘Is Corinne with him?’ Strictly speaking, Noel and Corinne’s house was not in Faraday Road. It was right at the top, on the corner, and its front door was in Vernon Road, where the houses were semi-detached and double-fronted. Four bedrooms or, if a loft conversion had been added, five, not to say, six. Why had Noel bought a four-bedroom house when, until Corinne turned up on the scene, he had lived alone? So many lacked a decent home, while others saw property as an investment. Still, for all she knew, he had inherited the place.

  ‘I suppose she must be good in the bed department.’ Gus gave a disparaging laugh. ‘How long do you suppose it will last?’

  ‘Apparently Corinne abandoned her husband and son to move in with him.’

  ‘More fool her. Where did she meet him, d’you know? If she’d taken the trouble to find out ...’

  ‘Find out what precise
ly?’

  Gus smiled to himself. He liked to give the impression he was the easy-going type, but his darting eyes gave him away. ‘Rumours abound, Jane, rumours abound.’

  ‘But they are only rumours.’ Why was she defending Noel? Perhaps it was poor Corinne she was thinking about. Poor Corinne, who had left her husband and child.

  Gus was muttering something about an airhead.

  Jane looked up at him. ‘I’ve never known what that meant.’

  ‘Yes, you have. Nothing between the ears.’

  ‘She’s nice-looking, takes trouble with her appearance.’

  ‘If you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘Don’t all men?’ It was a ridiculous conversation, one she wished she had never started. Had she started it? She felt upset, out of all proportion. She had let Gus know she would miss him if he moved and he had not responded how she hoped he would.

  Noel had pulled up close by, and Jane noticed how the passenger seat was piled high with supermarket bags. His job to do the weekly shop? Surely not. No, she was in danger of gender stereotyping, not that Corinne was likely to have been chosen for her housekeeping skills, although she could well be someone who shopped locally for particular delicacies, a special kind of cheese or those melt in the mouth tarts from the Portuguese café.

  Eddie had always loved sweet things. Country walks had usually ended with a self-indulgent afternoon tea – scones with cream and jam, followed by home-made lemon drizzle cake. Memories of Eddie, before the illness took hold, should be happy ones. In the main, they were, except the contrast between then and now was ever-present, and sadness as everyone knows is a far stronger emotion than happiness. That was why the soap operas were always full of misery and pain.

  Gus was pointing at Rousseau, strolling down the road. ‘Been sniffing that clump of weeds.’

  ‘Has he? Cats have a superior sense of smell, but not as good as dogs’ I believe.’

  ‘Cats are killers. Millions of feathered victims every year.’

  ‘Rousseau’s too well fed.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with hunger.’

  ‘Yes, well, I know how you feel.’ Rousseau was rubbing his face against Gus’ shoe, moving on to Jane and curling his tail round her leg. Noel had joined them. He bent to stroke the cat but Rousseau turned away, letting out one of his ear-splitting yowls.

  ‘Discerning creatures, cats,’ Gus said.

  ‘How right you are.’ Noel snatched Gus’ cap and crammed it on his own head. ‘How are you, you old reprobate? Used to sell cameras, Jane, but we’re all photographers now.’ He patted the phone in the pocket on the leg of his trousers. ‘Guess what I did in my younger days?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Male model.’ Noel smoothed back his hair and walked a few paces, pretending he was on a catwalk. ‘What do you think? I was slimmer in those days, a slip of a thing.’

  Gus was laughing, and Jane felt put out. The times she had listened to his complaints about Noel’s loft conversions. Now he was giving the impression the two of them were good chums.

  ‘Need to be fit to be a model.’ Noel returned Gus’ cap and leapt in the air, clicking his heels together before coming back to earth, or rather pavement, with a bump so that one of his legs gave way beneath him.

  He rubbed his ankle. ‘With deportment like yours, Jane, you could have been a model yourself.’

  ‘I think there’s a bit more to it than good deportment.’ She had to raise her voice above the barking of the dog at number twenty-six. Its name was Lucky. Lucky for some perhaps. Still, the poor little chap was not taken for enough walks. Perhaps she should offer. No, perhaps not.

  ‘Have you always worn glasses?’ Noel peered at her face. ‘They suit you. Last time I had a check-up, it turned out I need them for reading. Anno domini and all that. Getting past it.’

  ‘That I would doubt.’ Jane picked up Rousseau and put him under one arm. ‘Eddie’s coming back at the weekend, while they repair the window in her room.’

  ‘To your house?’ Noel looked genuinely concerned. ‘If you need any help.’

  ‘Thank you, Noel, but it’s only for one night. And two days,’ she added, attempting a cheery smile. ‘I don’t know about you two, but after I’ve taken this creature home, I’m thinking of visiting the Portuguese café to indulge myself with coffee and one of their delicious pastries.’

  Neither of them offered to accompany her.

  SIX

  On the way back to her house, a voice called Jane’s name and she tensed. It was Willa. Not the parcel, the missing handcuffs. Would Willa be prepared to admit to what she had ordered? Possibly. Perhaps such outfits were run of the mill these days. Should she feign ignorance, or admit the guilty truth and collect them from behind the herbs and spices?

  ‘How are you, Jane?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you.’

  ‘It must be a relief not having to get up early each morning and go to your school. Apparently, teachers burn out with all the stress. Is that what happened to you?’

  ‘No, I retired at the correct age.’ A multi-coloured scarf had been wound round Willa’s bush of wiry hair. Some of her clothes were from the Turkish shop. Her round face was not unattractive but, in Jane’s opinion, she applied rather too much lipstick. Today it was fuchsia pink.

  ‘It’s Arthur.’ Willa let out a long, dramatic sigh.

  ‘Your son?’ Jane pictured her, dressed in the patent leather knickers. Not a pretty sight.

  ‘Say if it’s out of the question but I was rather hoping ... I thought ...’

  Jane waited but all Willa managed to produce was another heavy sigh.

  ‘You need some advice?’

  ‘Not advice, Jane, a tutor.’

  ‘What kind of tuition does he require?’

  ‘English. Grammar. How to construct a sentence. No problem with maths and science but you need to pass English or you’re not allowed to stay on for your A-levels and he wants to study medicine, follow in his father’s footsteps. Quite honestly, Jane, I don’t think he’s the first idea what a sentence is. I blame computers. No, don’t tell me now. Think about it. Obviously, I’d pay the going rate.’

  Jane had thought about it, but it was never a good idea to sound too keen. Teaching the boy two or three times a week during the summer holidays might be quite amusing. Sentence analysis. Some of the basics of the English language.

  ‘Just one more thing.’ Willa’s face came rather too close. ‘Would you mind not mentioning it to Brian? He and Arthur, not the best of friends. His age. Arthur’s age I mean. Fifteen, coming up to sixteen.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’

  ‘So, you’ll do it. Oh, thank you.’ Willa planted a kiss on Jane’s cheek, most likely leaving a smudge of lipstick? ‘You’ve no idea what a weight off my mind that is.’

  ‘You think Arthur will be agreeable to the idea?’ Jane visualised the boy being dragged, quite literally, to her house.

  ‘Won’t get a say in the matter. I’ve told him to jolly well pull up his socks or I’m going to jolly well confiscate his laptop.’

  Two split infinitives. The so-called experts said it was now permissible, but Jane disliked the lazy use of language. Eddie had accused her of being pedantic, but Jane had never altered her strongly held belief that correct grammar was the basis of good written work – and clear speech, come to that.

  As she walked away, she recalled the rumours, probably untrue, that Willa drank. What gossips people were – not that she herself was immune. Men complained how women gossiped, but surely an interest in people was preferable to a passion for fast cars and football. Listening to groups of men conversing never ceased to amaze her. All right, mate? New goalie’s crap. You can say that again. Nought to sixty in five seconds. Ref needs glasses. See you, mate. Cheers!

  The sun had come out, and Jane felt her spirits lift. Willa’s son Arthur was at that difficult age, neither child nor man, but she liked a challenge. Perhaps she should wrap up th
e handcuffs and push them through Willa’s door. She could do it in the dark. No, that might arouse even more suspicion. When the time was right she would dispose of the things in someone else’s bin, in a different street, and if anyone saw her she would pretend she was looking for Rousseau.

  That weight off her mind, she decided to visit the Portuguese café on her own. There might be someone she knew by sight who would welcome a chat and, if not, Mrs Cardozo was always very friendly, and what was so shameful about sitting by yourself? Worry about the handcuffs had been replaced by plans to provide tuition for the Molloy boy. Arthur, an old-fashioned name that was back in fashion. One of her uncles had been called Arthur and, during her childhood, she had heard her father say it was better to draw a veil over his business dealings. Possibly he had ended up in prison. In those days people preferred to sweep black sheep under the carpet. A mixed metaphor, but a rather good one.

  Willa was on her way back to her house. She turned to wave and Jane waved back. The day was turning out rather well after all. Eddie for one night was not such a problem and, once she was safely back at The Spruces, she would concentrate on planning the tuition. She wondered what the boy was like. Good at maths, Willa said, so he must be intelligent. A dislike of written work was a common problem with teenage boys but she felt confident she would be able to help.

  Arthur Molloy. Little did she know what an important part in her investigations he was going to play. In her search for a culprit.

  SEVEN

  Tuesday was swimming day. The previous week the pool had been bursting with young women, discussing their hairstyles and fingernails. Half the world lacked the necessities of life and the other half indulged itself in unnecessary adornments. And as for food! Thousands, millions, scraped a living, eating grains of rice – whatever they could find -while the rich nations of the world were glued to their televisions, watching chefs compete to cook prettily arranged platefuls of fig parcels, stuffed with marzipan and pomegranate.

  Stepping into the pool, Jane laughed at herself out loud. She was a puritan, and not ashamed of it.