by Penny Kline
‘I wouldn’t worry too much. The loan may have been a one-off, to test you – or punish you, I suppose.’
‘For stealing his mother? Never thought of that, but you could be right. Although moving in with me was Corinne’s idea. She left her phone lying about and her husband found some texts and threw her out.’
‘I see.’ So, you’re feeling trapped. Your own fault, Noel. Is that why you’re here? You want my sympathy, or possibly advice on a way out? What were you doing in Willa’s conservatory? Are the two of you having an affair or, more to point, were you having one and now it’s over is she trying to resurrect it with the help of a ridiculous teacher’s outfit? All questions she could never ask.
He reached out an arm to stroke Rousseau. ‘You chose the name, I expect. I gather his namesake had high principles and several illegitimate children.’
‘Not guilty, are you, Rousseau? Been done.’
Adjusting the cushion behind his head, Noel leaned back and closed his eyes. Then, clearing his throat so loudly, he made both Rousseau and Jane jump, he clapped his hands and sat up straight. ‘Enough of all that, how are you, Jane?’
‘I’m well.’
‘I admire you. Admire your determination, your strength of character.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ His white shirt, unbuttoned almost to his waist, revealed a hairless chest. She wanted to ask if he had ever been married, but it would break the spell.
He smiled at her. ‘Tough-going on your own.’
‘It has its advantages.’
‘It does indeed.’ He sighed and she wondered what was coming next. Letting Corinne move in had been a mistake? Things had not turned out as he’d hoped and he was wondering if he ought to tell her to return to her husband and son. But her wishful thoughts – if that was what they were – were running on ahead of her.
‘She’s easily hurt.’
‘Corinne is? In my limited experience, all human beings are sensitive to criticism. It’s simply that some are better at hiding it.’
The grandmother clock struck the hour. Noel consulted his watch, and Jane was afraid he was going to leave. ‘She worries in case people don’t like her. Tries too hard, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’
‘It was good of you to have a coffee with her at the leisure centre. She came home full of it. She needs female friends. No, I didn’t mean ...’
‘I have a swim every week, normally on a Tuesday, but I’d never been in the café before. Nothing to write home about but run by a rather pleasant Polish woman with a young son.’
‘You see, you have this knack for drawing people out of themselves.’
‘Nosey and in need of human contact. No, don’t look like that. If you live alone you’re at risk of talking to yourself, or the cat. Swimming’s good for you, Noel. You should give it a try.’
He laughed, standing up and kissing her on the cheek. ‘Eddie all right?’
‘Coming back on Saturday, just for one night. Repairs being done to the window in her room at The Spruces.’
He gave her a sympathetic smile and she resisted an impulse to throw herself into his arms. People made light of physical attraction, insisting it was personality that mattered, but human beings had evolved to respond to what the biologists called “releasers” – she had listened to a programme on Radio Four – a gull chick to the red spot on its mother’s beak, or, in her case, it was Noel’s thick, glossy hair, or his blue eyes. Of course, it was always flattering if someone asked for advice, not that she had given him much, but sometimes the asking was sufficient since one already knew the answer.
‘You’re a good listener, Jane.’
And if I was twenty years younger. Or you were twenty years older. ‘My advice, for what it’s worth, is to assume it was a one-off loan. And I’d stay well clear of the lad unless Corinne is there too.’
‘So you think it best not to tell her about it?’
‘I do.’ He was right: the loan might be blood money, literally forcing him to pay for his parents splitting up. After all, it could well be wishful thinking on Corinne’s part when she said her son had taken her departure in his stride.
Noel was tracing a pattern on the palm of his hand. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear. The only children’s rhyme Jane’s father had known.
‘Is there something else?’ she asked, regretting her words as soon as she had spoken them.
‘I’m outstaying my welcome.’
‘No, no, not at all. I’ll make some coffee?’
He smiled to himself. ‘You saw the portrait of my mother?’
‘I did.’
‘She used to call me her little prince. No, don’t laugh.’
‘I wasn’t going to. Everything changes when your parents die, particularly your mother. You become the older generation.’
‘My father walked out on us when I was eight years old. I can’t remember much about him, just the smell of pipe tobacco. And he had a book with facts about cricket. Funny, the things that come back to you.’
‘Yes. Eddie sometimes recalls events from the past in surprising detail. I believe it’s not uncommon with dementia.’ Should she ask if he knew what had happened to Simmy’s mother?
‘You never wanted children,’ he said. ‘No, why would you, spending all your working life with the blighters.’ Jane caught her breath, hoped it had gone unnoticed. ‘Oh, by the way, Noel, you don’t happen to know why Simmy’s mother died?’
‘Ah.’ He pressed his lips together.
‘You do but you’re not going to tell me.’
‘No, it’s just – Dave’s touchy about the subject. Something traumatic, I imagine, although any death’s traumatic, particularly if it’s someone so young.’
‘Simmy can’t remember her mother but ...’
‘Pretty little thing.’
‘Simmy? Yes.’
‘Anyway, I’d better be going. Expecting a phone call. Left my phone at home and if Corinne answers it she’s likely to muddle up the message. No, don’t look like that, she has her good points, means well.’
‘One of them being that she adores you.’
He grinned. ‘Yes, well that too. So you think it best I keep quiet about the loan and hope the lad doesn’t ask for more.’
‘I don’t think he will.’
‘No, well let’s hope you’re right. You usually are. Good to talk to you, Jane. If I have a problem, you’re my first port of call.’ He turned towards the window. ‘That’s an umbrella plant? Am I right?’
‘Needs its top lopped off. Now it’s reached the ceiling it’s growing at an angle.’
‘Our garden could do with someone with green fingers. Not as overgrown as Brian and Willa’s.’ He blinked several times, almost as though he knew she had witnessed the scene in the Molloy’s conservatory. ‘Good.’ Clapping his hands together, he crossed the room, pausing to kiss her on the cheek again. ‘Love you and leave you, Jane, and thanks again for your eminently sensible advice.’
Later, looking back, Jane could remember every detail of their conversation, as if it had taken place the previous day.
Probably because it had been their last.
FIFTEEN
Arthur was coming down the road and Jane managed to turn what she feared was a dour expression into a cheerful smile.
‘Hello, where are you off to?’ He had a sports bag in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing royal blue shorts and a matching T-shirt. Chelsea, she thought.
‘Basketball at the leisure centre.’
‘You play in a team?’
He nodded, putting away his phone, something that pleased Jane, since children, and many adults too, normally kept their eyes glued.
‘I go there for a swim,’ she said. ‘Once a week.’
‘Cool.’ His phone beeped – a text – but he ignored it. ‘You know the computer game me and Simmy are planning.’
‘I do. A story based on Greek myths and the inhabitants of Faraday Road.’
‘I do.’
‘We thought he could be the hermit that made a makeshift home on the cliffs overlooking the sea.’
‘Really? Did you study Greek mythology at school? No, I believe I asked you that before.’
‘My dad gave me a book for my tenth birthday. He always gives me books.’
‘Good. I mean, I’m glad he takes the trouble to choose something for you. Not all fathers are so conscientious.’
‘That means “painstaking and scrupulous.”’
‘It does. Your character, the one assigned to Gus, is not one with whom I’m familiar.’
‘We looked it up online.’
‘You and Simmy.’ The boy was full of surprises. Well up on Greek mythology but unable to differentiate between “were” and “where”, or “there” and “their”. ‘A hermit. I’m not sure Gus is a hermit. It’s true he spends time in his flat – he watches sport on television – but when you’re retired you tend to have less energy.’
‘You’ve got energy.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Arthur. Right, well, I mustn’t hold you up. Enjoy your game.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Oh, by the way, I believe you know Barnaby, Corinne’s son.’
‘He plays badminton.’
‘Yes, Noel said.’ She wanted to ask what Arthur thought of Barnaby but that would be inappropriate, and he might tell the boy she was making inquiries. ‘I’ll see you on Monday then – for your lesson.’
‘Cheers.’
‘And we’ll talk about subsidiary clauses.’
‘Cheers.’ He had seen Simmy and was hurrying to catch up with her. How she envied them their youth. Their whole lives ahead of them. Another cliché. But clichés had a way of expressing universal truths. That was why they were clichés!
During her last visit to the leisure centre, Jane had completed ten lengths while reviewing her life. She missed the pupils at her old school, no denying it, but surely there must be other ways she could put her people skills – dreadful expression – to good use. Voluntary work was an option, although possibly she was too old. No, that couldn’t be right. She could visit the lonely – the blind leading the blind – or help out in a school, listening to infants like Liam practising their reading. No, definitely not that. Not something to be proud of, but she knew she would resent being given her instructions by a young, inexperienced teacher.
Swimming and choir – surely that was enough. Eddie – the old Eddie – had not joined the choir, preferring to stay at home and watch a film on Channel Five, usually about a stolen baby, or two sisters who hated each other, or a long-lost brother who turned out not to be a brother at all. The ads that punctuated the movies were mostly for indigestion tablets, or proprietary products that prevented your false teeth from falling out, or orthopaedic chairs.
Did Eddie miss the films? At The Spruces, the television was always switched to ITV. When she came for the weekend would she expect the television to be switched on all day? How would she spend her time? Sitting passively on the sofa or scurrying about like a toddler, grabbing whatever she could get her hands on.
Simmy was approaching and Jane steeled herself for the usual question. Have you spoken to my dad?
‘Hello, Miss Seymour.’ The child was looking in good spirits. Something Arthur had said to her? Something about their computer game?
‘Hello, dear, Arthur told me he was off to the leisure centre. Do you go there, for sports or swimming, and I think they have dancing, don’t they?’
‘I don’t like dancing. We have it at school when it rains and we can’t play hockey or netball.’
‘I haven’t forgotten, Simmy, about talking to your father.’
‘Oh, that.’ She chewed a strand of hair. ‘He won’t tell you. Won’t tell anyone. I asked Corinne. Noel knows, I can tell, but I don’t think he’s said anything to her. Most people confide in their partners, don’t they?’
‘I don’t imagine they tell them everything.’
‘No.’ Simmy smiled to herself. ‘I’m never going to get married, or live with someone. It’s not worth the trouble.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you should think like that, dear. Eddie – Miss Knox – is coming home on Saturday and I know she’ll be pleased to see you.’
Simmy’s face expressed doubt, as well it might, although it turned out she was thinking about something quite different. ‘Dad’s denim jacket smelled of sweat so I put it in the wash. Only he said I’d ruined it.’
‘Did he?’ And did the poor child have to do all the household chores?
‘I don’t mind doing the washing ’cos he’s really good at cooking, and not just ready meals, he buys all the ingredients. Yesterday we had Moroccan meatballs. He found the recipe on the BBC website.’
‘Really? Sounds delicious.’ This was a new and pleasing side of Dave. ‘What happened to the denim jacket? If it needs repairing I’d be happy to help.’
Simmy shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t that. It was because of the fabric conditioner. It was supposed to have the scent of a meadow of flowers but Dad said it smelled like a brothel. Cats wash far more than dogs do, don’t they? And they do whatever they want. They don’t care what humans think. Not like dogs. That’s why I like them.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ She felt a twinge of concern for the child, but as Simmy continued up the road, Jane’s thoughts returned to Eddie and whether she would be pleased to see Rousseau, or would she ignore him? If the weather held, a drive out into the country might be a possibility, provided Eddie agreed to have her seat belt fastened. They could have a short walk, and possibly afternoon tea at the café Eddie liked. No, not a good idea. What might she get up to in public, particularly if someone stared at her, or the cakes were not to her liking. Best to stay at home and, provided the weather was good, spend time in the garden, cutting back some of the sprawling plants while Eddie watched from the safety of the basket chair.
The best laid plans of mice and men ... or, to put it another way: the futility of thinking you had any control over your own or other people’s destiny.
SIXTEEN
Without his fisherman’s cap, Gus looked vulnerable, rather as people do when they remove their spectacles. He sat down, rubbing his forehead with a hairy-backed hand, and Jane recalled how Simmy had described him as a brown bear, and how she had assumed Simmy was referring to his habit of shutting himself away in his flat, hibernating.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Gus, but Rousseau’s gone missing again. He often stays out all night but normally he’s back for his breakfast. I thought he might be in your garden.’ It was a lie, and she felt ashamed, but not that much, since knocking on Gus’ door always meant taking your life in your hands.
‘Not my garden, Jane, belongs to Dave and Simmy.’
‘Yes, I know, but you might have spotted him through your window.’
‘Poster on a tree at the top of the road. Ginger tom been missing since April. That’s the trouble with cats. No road sense.’
‘I know.’ Gus was never one for helpful remarks. A gender thing perhaps. Women were more tactful than men.No, not true. When Eddie went into The Spruces, Willa Molloy had asked if it was a home for people who had gone off their heads. ‘Eddie’s coming home, Gus. Only for one night.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘I didn’t have a say in the matter. Repairs to her room, that’s what the matron said, but I’m afraid it may be an excuse. She threw another resident’s valuables down the loo.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘What’s it like at The Spruces?’
‘I can’t really fault it.’
‘Had a friend who suffered the same fate. Killed himself. DIY. Sliced through an artery.’
‘How horrible. You mean because he suffered from dementia?’
‘Made him careless. I expect that’s what happened. Or he might have had enough. Ralph, he was called Ralph. Had an interest in old cameras. Liked to drop
in for a chat.’
‘You must miss your shop.’
‘Still take the odd photo.’ He pointed to a camera, lying on a low table, along with the free newspaper, a packet of painkillers, and a slice of cold pizza. ‘Hardly worth the effort.’
‘You need to get out more.’
He was silent, so she had another try. ‘Just a thought, but since we both need cheering up perhaps we should treat ourselves to lunch at the Portuguese café.’
Gus gave a loud sniff. ‘I’m on your list of people who need taking in hand.’
‘Why do you say that?’ People wrapped up hurtful remarks in a joke, rather as mothers hid a nasty-tasting tablet in a spoonful of strawberry jam. It rarely worked since children were not so easily deceived. Either the tablet was spat out – Rousseau did the same – or the child was put off jam for life.
Regretting his remark, or perhaps not, Gus opened a drawer and took out a small album. ‘As I said, I still take the odd picture, mainly insects and birds. Need a special lens.’ Flicking through until he found the one he was searching for, he held it out for Jane to inspect. ‘Acherontia atropos, otherwise known as the African death’s head hawkmoth. I was watching some butterflies and this fellow landed on a leaf.’
Jane gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Skull-like pattern on its back. Is it true they make a squeaking noise? How large are they? Looking at your photo, it’s hard to tell.’
‘Size of a small bat. I was lucky to spot it.’ He turned the page. ‘Metellina segmentata, the lesser garden spider. Slimmer than the typical one and with longer legs.’
‘Eddie liked spiders.’
‘I remember. Showed me a particularly fine one on that prickly plant of yours at the front.’
‘Did she?’ When was that?’
More silence.
‘Your daughter, Gus – Sarah, isn’t it?’
‘Lives up north. Outer reaches of Greater Manchester. Got a kid of her own now. Little girl.’
‘Your granddaughter.’ Gus’ eyebrows needed trimming. Nothing wrong with bushy eyebrows but his were starting to look like a hanuman monkey, commonly called a langur. ‘You should visit them.’
