by Penny Kline
‘Is it time?’ Eddie was struggling to fit her foot into one of her slippers. They were the kind that have no left or right foot but she looked as if she was checking which was which. And working herself up into a state.
‘You remember Arthur? No, I don’t think you knew him. Brian and Willa’s son. He’s fifteen, coming up to sixteen, and I’m giving him some extra tuition in English grammar.’
‘Gramma Moses.’ Eddie kicked away her slippers, and farted.
Where had she been that afternoon? Not shoplifting – she had nothing in her pockets – although she could have stolen food and eaten it. When Mrs Cardozo spotted her, she had been outside the pet shop, sniffing some bundles of hay. Then she stepped into the road. Where had she been before that?
Sometimes it was as though she was deliberately being obtuse. She had always had a streak of obstinacy and, despite the devastating effect of her illness, some of her personality remained intact. Now and again, when she was still living at home, she had remembered something from long ago with an accuracy Jane found incredible. We had a puncture and a boy with red hair changed the wheel and we gave him ten pounds. That was long-term memory. Short-term was a different matter, but short-term meant literally a few minutes ago. What about last weekend?
A woman Jane had never seen before had entered the room. Jane said hello and the woman, who had white hair, so thin her scalp showed through, nodded and smiled.
‘Eddie and I worked together, at a local comprehensive school.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Did she mean Eddie had told her? Perhaps the weekend at home had jogged her memory. The woman looked more “with it” than Eddie who was muttering something about cadmium yellow.
‘Yes, we looked at your paintings. In the loft. Your studio. You came back for the weekend and on the Saturday you went for a little walk and Mrs Cardozo from the café brought you home.’
A shrug of annoyance, like a child who has been told off.
The other woman stood up, smoothed her skirt, and sat down again.
‘Eddie used to teach art,’ Jane said.
‘Yes, I know.’
The Spruces encouraged creativity and there had been an incident when Eddie had been offered some crayons and a sheet of paper and had thrown them on the ground and stamped the crayons into the carpet. Jane had some sympathy with her although the member of staff, who had no knowledge she had been an artist, would have meant well.
One of the helpers – Jane had never seen her before – wheeled in a tray of tea things. Visitors were offered a cup of tea and a rich tea biscuit but Jane rarely accepted. There was something about the smell of the place that took away her already meagre appetite.
‘Hello.’ The helpers probably welcomed a brief, comprehensible conversation. ‘I’m a friend of Miss Knox, Eddie. We used to live together. My name’s Jane.’
‘Clara,’ the woman said. ‘I come yesterday.’
To work at The Spruces or from her native country? No, surely no one could obtain a job that quickly. Although you never knew. A builder from Latvia, who was working in Faraday Road had come to live with relatives, speaking no English, and now spoke fluently and worked from seven in the morning to nine o’clock at night.
Declining the offer of tea, Jane turned back to Eddie. ‘You remember Simmy who lives next door? They’re converting the loft in her house. The usual upheaval and noise and I wondered ... I thought you might have gone up there to have a look.’
‘Loft,’ Eddie said.
‘Yes, that’s right. Did you see Noel? You remember Noel. Dark hair and very bright blue eyes.’ Jane turned to the white-haired woman. ‘Eddie came home last weekend.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Mercifully, the sound on the television had been turned down low. Jane recognised an actor from Eastenders – the one who had been murdered the previous week. Eastenders was Jane’s guilty secret. Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Half an hour of non-stop conflict and misery. Why guilty? Human beings loved stories. Dickens’ novels had been serialised in the newspaper. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft, black drizzle. It would have taken a whole episode of Bleak House to get beyond the London smog. Jane was attached to the book – she had studied it for A-level – and when she tried to sort out Eddie’s bank and building society accounts, following her admission to The Spruces, she had discovered nothing much had changed, with regard to the legal profession. Frustrated by delays and loss of paperwork, she had made a light-hearted remark about Jarndyce and Jarndyce. It had not gone down well.
‘Teatime, Eddie.’ No point asking any more questions. Her prompts about Saturday afternoon only irritated. She would have to be patient and hope Eddie inadvertently let slip where she had been.
Somewhere in the building, she could hear Matron’s booming voice complaining about a ladder. Eddie’s window, a wooden one, had been replaced by double-glazed PVC – but the builders were still hard at work – although, by the sound of it, not as hard as Matron would have liked.
‘Eddie?’ Jane decided to have one final try. ‘You remember how you came back to the house last weekend? Back to Faraday Road. And you saw Simmy and after that you walked down to the shops. Did you go anywhere else? They’re having the loft converted next door. In Dave and Gus’ house. And sometimes the front door is left open although not normally on Saturdays.’ She had said too much, made it too complicated. ‘Did you go up the loft in Dave and Simmy’s house?’
‘Loft,’ Eddie said.
‘Yes, that’s right. You might have wanted to see it. If you did, it doesn’t matter, but can you remember – was Noel there?’
‘Is it time?’
‘Time for what?’ Jane’s voice had been too sharp. ‘Noel, Eddie, you remember Noel.’
‘Go away.’
Jane felt hot with frustration. Was there a keyword that would make the cells in Eddie’s brain wake up? ‘I’ll have to go home in a minute, Eddie. I just wanted to make sure nothing was worrying you.’
‘Is it time?’
Matron’s head came round the door. ‘Ah, you’re still here, Miss Seymour. Good. I wondered if Edwina left her hairbrush at your house. Naturally, we found her a new one, but she rejected it, insisting it didn’t belong to her.’
‘I’ll check when I return home.’ Surely they could have ignored Eddie’s demands and the wretched brush would have been forgotten in a matter of days. Where was it? Had it been packed in her overnight bag? Had she taken it up to next door’s half-finished loft conversion?
‘If you would.’ Matron was smiling too much. She suspected something? How could she? And if she did, surely she would have come straight out with it. Jane took a grip on herself, accepting a rich tea biscuit and a cup of tepid tea.
‘As I think I told you before,’ she lied, ‘once she’d looked round the house, and greeted the cat, she had a sleep. No, first she had her lunch, then a sleep. She was tired. Not surprising really when she hadn’t been back to the house for some time.’ She was talking too fast, stumbling over her words. ‘The hairbrush. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will turn up.’
‘Oh, we’re not worried, Miss Seymour.’ Matron straightened a rug. ‘We just like to keep the residents as calm as possible, I’m sure you understand. When you brought her back on Saturday evening she did appear particularly agitated. Nothing happened to alarm her, did it?’
‘No, I told you. I made sure of that.’
‘Perhaps she picked up on how upset you were feeling. Do you suppose that was it? The new tablets doctor prescribed seem to be having the required effect.’
‘I gave her one, like you said.’ Had she, or had there been no chance? Matron had insisted it must not be taken until after lunch, and then Simmy had turned up. Or had she given it to Eddie before that? Did it matter? Would it have made any difference?
Matron’s tall, angular body was receding into the distance. As Jane watched, she turned, catching at a thick lock of hair that had blown across her f
ace. She suspected something, Jane was sure of it, but what? Or did she simply want to underline how difficult Eddie had been since her one night at home? Your idea, Matron, arranged to suit the carpenter or whoever it was that repaired the bedroom window. And your choice of a weekend. No, probably the only weekend the window man could come. And the weekend Noel decided to check the balcony in his wretched loft conversion. And she let Eddie slip through her fingers because she was too busy being nice to Simmy.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. Poor old Hamlet, someone else who didn’t know whether he was coming or going.
TWENTY-ONE
Corinne answered the door with a pink chiffon scarf clutched to her face. ‘Oh, Jane, oh, thank you. I’m so glad to see you. I don’t know what to do.’
‘I wondered if you’d like to accompany me to the Portuguese café? It would do you good to get out of the house. Have you had lunch?’
‘No. Nothing,’ Corinne was wearing a black dress that stopped just above her knees, and her silk scarf was a subdued lavender and grey. ‘The police think I must have been the last person to see him ...’ She broke off, unable to say the word “alive”.
‘Come along then. Do you need a jacket? It’s overcast but not cold.’
‘Do you think I do?’
‘We’re not going far.’ It was like a conversation with a child. ‘Have you been in touch with your ex-husband?’
‘Gerard?’ She twisted the ring on her left hand. ‘We’re still married. He wouldn’t agree to a divorce. I mean, he would have done in the end. The house. What will happen to the house? It’s always about money, isn’t it?’
‘Tends to be. Come on, we can talk over lunch.’
‘Oh, Jane.’ Her hand shot up to her mouth. ‘It’s your swimming day.’
‘I’m having a rest from swimming.’
‘Because of Noel.’
‘Come on.’ Jane took her arm. ‘Fish pie. Mrs Cardozo makes an excellent fish pie. A Portuguese recipe. She says they eat a lot of fish in Portugal, something to do with having such a long coastline I expect.’
Corinne swayed on her high heels, almost falling against the wall, and Jane reached out to steady her. On the opposite side of the road, Willa was shouting at Tricia Tidewell.
‘Why do you let them? Don’t you know what’s happened? A death in the street and they’re still shouting and pulling at each other. Leave the honeysuckle alone!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Tricia took hold of Pippa, but there was no need since she and Liam were staring, open-mouthed, at the “mad woman”.
‘Wait there, Corinne.’ Jane crossed the road. ‘Hello, Liam. Pippa. Where are you off to?’
‘The playground.’ Tricia raised a hand to Corinne and whispered to Jane. ‘Is she all right? I don’t know what to say. We’d gone out for the day and when we came back ... Ian thinks the balcony must have given way.’
‘I’ll explain later.’
‘You’ll come round.’
‘Yes, if you like.’ There was a faint possibility Tricia might have seen something.
Liam was trying to stamp on a beetle and Pippa was pulling leaves off a shrub. Tricia came closer and lowered her voice. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it? Only someone said ...’
‘Who?’
‘That man who lives by himself. I don’t know his name.’
‘Mr. Owen?’
‘His wife took an overdose.’
‘No, she went to live with her tennis coach.’
‘Did she?’ Tricia’s expression brightened. ‘Anyway, he said the police had been asking questions. Liam wants to be a policeman when he’s grown up. He said he’d seen someone going into your neighbour’s house.’
‘Mr Owen did.’ Jane glanced at Corinne but she was waiting patiently, pushing up her hair with both hands and holding it in a bunch on top of her head.
‘No, Liam. Liam said he saw ... I don’t know what he saw. He loves cats. Your cat, the one with a funny name. Willa shouted at him.’
‘Yes, I heard. What did he see, Tricia? I mean, who did he see?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t know. I think it was her.’ She jerked her head in the direction of Willa.
‘What makes you think that? We should all make an effort not to gossip, it doesn’t help. Poor Noel’s death was an accident. He must have leaned too far over the balcony. It’s a tragedy. Everyone’s upset. Especially for poor Corinne.’
Willa had walked away. Jane returned to Corinne and took her arm. ‘Take no notice of all that. Everyone’s upset.’
‘What are they called?’
‘Tricia’s children? Liam and Pippa, and the baby in the buggy is called Ada.’
‘Ada? I had a cleaner called Ada but she cut corners. Gerard gave her the sack and I wished he hadn’t because we used to have coffee together in the kitchen.’ Corinne’s voice had reached a pitch of near hysteria. ‘We were friends but she never moved the furniture when she vacuumed. She’s so lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ Jane had lost the thread. If there had been one.
‘Mrs ... I’ve forgotten her name. Liam and Poppy. I’d give anything for a baby.’
‘Pippa,’ Jane corrected.
‘I saw her car. It had a sticker – “Little Princess on board”.’
‘I don’t think it was Tricia’s car. I don’t think she drives, but I know what you mean about the sticker. One hopes the “little princess” will be a tomboy, fond of model railways and toy guns.’
‘I’d love a little girl.’ And the tears streamed down her face.
Jane handed her a tissue. ‘Tricia’s finding it difficult to cope, especially now it’s the school holidays. Come along then. I hope the café’s not too crowded.’
It was, but Jane managed to find a table for two, and hoped they still had fish pie on the menu, something Jane liked but rarely bothered to cook for herself. All those exotic meals she and Eddie had planned to sample. Together they had looked up Senegal online and discovered rice was the staple food, cooked in a peanut sauce or baked in a thick sauce of fish and vegetables. Côte d’Ivoire sounded mildly alarming, something that had appealed to Eddie, but less so to Jane. It had expensive hotels and glitzy high rise buildings, but strolling down the street you were likely to meet soldiers with guns. West Africa was only to be the start of their journey. After that they were to visit Australia, and New Zealand and ...
‘People used to say he was a sensation seeker.’ Corinne dabbed her eyes, being careful not to smudge her pearly eye-shadow. ‘They enjoy activities like skydiving and scuba diving. He never sat about doing nothing, he was always on the move, making plans. Sometimes I could hardly keep up with him.’
‘He was very happy with you, Corinne.’
‘Do you think so? Oh, thank you, Jane, except that makes it even worse, doesn’t it? He told me he had something he needed to check.’ She closed her eyes and rocked backwards and forwards. ‘They’d put the bathroom in but the balcony in the main room wasn’t finished and he was afraid the men had skimped on the paint. I’d gone to Yvonne’s house.’
‘Yvonne?’ Jane beckoned to Mr Cardozo.
‘She sells lingerie. You can try things on. I was choosing something special and all the time ... a negligée, I was buying a negligée.’ Her last words had come out as a wail and Mr Cardozo, who was handing each of them a menu, took a step back.
‘The fish pie, Corinne?’ Jane stared at the photograph on the wall, a picture of the Castelo de Almourol, a castle on an island in the middle of the River Tagus. Mrs Cardozo had told her about the history of it. No point telling Corinne. At the best of times she would have had no interest. Just now, she was studying her nail varnish, bright pink with one silver nail.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, Jane.’
‘Very well. Two fish pies, please.’ She smiled at Mr Cardozo. His first name was Andre and he had an interesting face but liked to keep himself to himself. ‘Now.’ She turned back to Corinne. ‘Do you know if Noel made a will?
I’m sorry, but at a time like this one has to be practical. And if you need anyone to help with the arrangements for the funeral ...’
‘I saw that Mrs Emerson in the distance and she crossed the road so she wouldn’t have to speak to me.’
‘She didn’t know what to say. No, that’s no excuse. It’s the same with Eddie. People use all kinds of euphemisms. A bit forgetful. Feeling her age. She has vascular dementia but people dislike the word.’
‘Do you think I should phone Barnaby again?’
‘He hasn’t been to see you yet?’
‘Something to do with his bike. He likes cycling. He’s very fit.’
‘I’m sure.’ These days “fit” was synonymous with attractive, but not in Jane’s world, or Corrine’s. ‘You must be proud of him.’
‘Do you think he’s glad?’
‘Glad?’ Jane felt obliged to look puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean ... no, of course not. He must be worried about you.’
‘He didn’t say much. When I phoned.’
‘That’s because he’s a teenage boy. When I was at the school, the girls used to come to us with their problems, but the boys hardly ever.’
The new owner of number twenty-two had come into the café. She was still wearing her woolly hat, and had a friend with her, a small, blonde woman in her late thirties or early forties – it was hard to tell these days. Jane would have liked to introduce herself but they were talking animatedly and gave no indication they had recognised her. And it would mean she had to introduce Corinne too and that might be awkward. Hello, I believe you’re moving into Faraday Road. My name’s Jane Seymour and I live next door to Gus. And this is Corinne. You probably heard how her partner ...
Corinne was studying the back of the menu. The café was not licensed but sold soft drinks and bottled water. Was Corinne hoping for something stronger? She looked up and there were tears in her eyes. ‘He never cried.’
