The Sister's Secret

by Penny Kline

  ‘You haven’t told me where the house is.’

  ‘Oh, no, sorry, I’ll write down the directions. You can’t miss it. It’s next to a day nursery called Happy . . . Happy something.’ She found a ballpoint pen that was running out of ink, and began scribbling down the names of roads on the back of an old envelope.

  ‘Happy Days?’ Erin waited for her to show her where the box was. ‘In here, is it? The microwave.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, no, it’s in the living room. I’m afraid it’s quite heavy. Do you know how to get to Gloucester Road?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You go through Horfield then turn off to the right.’ She handed her the envelope. ‘It’s quite easy to find.’

  Jennie’s living room was the same as Claudia’s, except Claudia had liked bright colours and Jennie’s was painted white, with white curtains and a single white rug. The large sofa was also white, and, since the party, a wood-burning stove had been installed.

  ‘We haven’t lit it yet.’ Jennie had followed Erin’s gaze. ‘Ben thought it would make the room feel cosier, but I’m worried about the smoke.’

  ‘It’ll go up the chimney, won’t it?’ So whatever was on Jennie’s mind, it was not a lack of money.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Her voice was flat, but she was starting to look better. Was she ill or was there another reason she wanted to avoid going round to the student house? Perhaps she and her tenant had fallen out.

  ‘What’s she called, this tenant? Oh, yes, you said. Stella, isn’t it? Tall, well-dressed. Was she the one who complained about the microwave?’

  Jennie’s fingers pressed on her cheekbones. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been worrying in case the university sent her there. As a mole. Isn’t that what they call them? To check up, make sure the flats are up to standard.’

  ‘Surely not.’ If the all-white room was hers, she would have brightened it up with some cushions. ‘They wouldn’t actually move someone in.’

  ‘There might have been complaints from neighbours. Noise late at night. She could be from the council.’

  Erin was looking at a picture on the wall, a reproduction of a Bridget Riley, with black and white stripes that made her eyes hurt.

  ‘I know it’s a bit much to ask.’ Jennie bent to pick up the microwave, then gave up and asked Erin if she minded.

  ‘You ought to be in bed.’

  ‘If you get a chance, could you try to find out who she is?’

  ‘Stella? Are you sure she’s not a student? A visiting lecturer maybe. The undergraduates have only just returned, haven’t they? Anyway, if I discover anything, I’ll let you know.’

  As she drove past a park, Erin could see snowdrops and purple crocuses, although the crocuses were not up to the ones in Diana’s garden. Some of the ones in the park had been flattened, probably by children or dogs, and she caught a glimpse of a dog the size of a bear, and a man who could be practising Tai Chi. It was a cold, clear day and the expanse of grass was inviting. She could have done with a walk, or even a run.

  The microwave was on the passenger seat and she was driving slowly in case it slid off. Up the famous Gloucester Road, that claimed to have more independent shops than any other street in the British Isles, all the while looking out for an old redbrick building that had been built as swimming baths at the time of the First World War, but was now converted into flats. Like the ones close to the centre where Claudia . . . Don’t think about it. Concentrate on Jennie’s instructions. They were not brilliant but she passed what appeared to be the building Jennie meant, and pulled up at the lights. Another quarter of a mile or so, then the second road on the right after a pedestrian crossing. Then look out for the “Happy Days” nursery. Checking the microwave was secure, she realised she was hoping Stella would be in. Idle curiosity, or so she could do a spot of detective work and report back to Jennie?

  The pedestrian crossing came so soon she would have missed it were it not for a group of women with buggies who had stepped out into the road in a convoy. Another hundred yards and, to her relief, she recognised the name of one of the roads Jennie had written down and, indicating right, waited for a break in the on-coming traffic.

  Two hundred yards, another turn to the right, and there it was. A day nursery, but called “Red Shoes” – nothing to do with “Happy”. Jennie must have been thinking about Happy Feet, the film about penguins. The Red Shoes was a rather unpleasant story. Shoes that kept on dancing even when the wearer’s feet were chopped off. It was one of Claudia’s favourites.

  When she pulled up outside the student house, two women wearing headscarves were coming through the front door. Overseas students, perhaps? Erin recalled her conversation with Harold Lord, and Lara who had come to the door, asking for “Clowda”.

  When she arrived in Bristol it had been the long summer holiday, but all through the autumn nothing had been said about befriending students. Had that been where Claudia went when Erin assumed she was at her stall in the market? Why not say so? Why not tell her about it? Perhaps she was embarrassed that she had volunteered to do something helpful. It went against her self-image, or the one she presented to Erin.

  No parking restrictions, so Erin left her car and said good morning to the two students, smiling to herself when the taller one of them replied with a strong Midlands accent, making her feel mildly ashamed for jumping to the conclusion they were from abroad.

  The other one asked if she was the landlady.

  ‘No. I’m delivering something to the tenant in the basement.’

  ‘Oh.’ They looked at each other.

  ‘You know her?’

  They shook their heads. ‘I asked her the way to the Student Union,’ the taller one said, ‘but she didn’t know.’

  Carrying the microwave down the dangerously uneven steps, Erin lowered it to the ground, next to a bay tree that looked way past saving, and knocked on the basement door. No response so she knocked louder.

  ‘Who is it?’ The voice was deep and husky.

  ‘Mrs Markham asked me to bring your new microwave.’

  A long pause followed, as though the person inside was in a dilemma whether or not to come to the door, then it opened and a tall, elegant woman with bright red hair stood, checking her phone. She was sucking a sweet and Erin noticed her nails were expertly manicured, and her bracelet looked like it was solid gold.

  ‘Mrs Markham is one of my neighbours,’ Erin explained. ‘She’s not well so she asked me to . . .’

  The woman was staring at her. ‘You’d better bring it inside.’ Now she was checking her phone again. Clearly someone used to giving orders. So why was she renting this dingy basement?

  Erin put the box down on the grubby carpet, and turned to leave.

  The woman was standing between her and the door. ‘You don’t look like a landlady.’

  ‘What do they look like? I haven’t been in the city long. It’s just a temporary arrangement.’

  ‘Like me.’ The woman’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘I’m Stella. Found this dump through an agency.’

  ‘Erin.’

  ‘Nice name.’ She inspected the cardboard box. ‘Cheap thing, is it? Still, I won’t be here much longer and I don’t expect whoever moves in will know the difference. If you’re not a landlady, what are you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘Actually, I’m an artist, an illustrator. Mostly children’s books.’

  Stella’s eyebrows twitched and Erin suspected she thought an illustrator was not a proper artist. She was wrong.

  ‘Lucky you. I love children’s books, especially the old ones I inherited from my mother. Orlando, The Marmalade Cat, and the Babar books, of course. Have you read them?’

  ‘Babar the King.’

  ‘And Babar at Home.’ They’re translated from the French. What’s your book about?’

  ‘A pet shop.’

  ‘Do you get many commissions? I imagine it’s a fairly precarious w
ay to make a living.’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘In that case you must be good at your job.’ Stella picked up the microwave as if it was a box of feathers, and Erin turned to leave, but once again she was stopped with a question. Perhaps this Stella was as much in need of company as she was. ‘You’re lucky to have work you love . . . I’m assuming you love it?’

  ‘What do you do?’ She was so out of place in the basement flat, Erin was becoming increasingly curious.

  ‘This and that.’ She gave a short laugh, as though Erin had asked something surprising. ‘Marketing, PR . . . Thank you for bringing the microwave. The last time I saw Mrs Markham she didn’t look in the best of health. Worn out, poor woman, keeping tabs on all her tenants.’

  On her way home, Erin remembered how Jennie had wanted her to check if her tenant was a “spy”, from the university, or possibly from Inland Revenue. Highly unlikely. Whoever she was, she just needed somewhere to stay for a short period. Except, surely she could have afforded a hotel, one of those cut price places. By the look of her, there was no shortage of cash.

  When she drove passed Ava’s Place, Ava was standing on the pavement, talking to Kent. He was frowning and the two of them gave the impression they were having a serious conversation rather than a friendly chat. Kent had his hands in the pockets of his cord trousers, but Ava’s arms were waving about, and Erin had never seen her looking so agitated.

  The traffic was moving slowly and, when it speeded up again, Erin stalled the engine and was subjected to loud hooting from the taxi behind her. Had Kent and Ava been talking about Claudia or Ollie? Why would they be? Other people’s lives had moved on. They had more important things to think about. All the same, she would dearly love to have heard what they were saying.

  * * *

  After an evening at the hospital, she drove up her road in the dark, searching for a parking space, and caught sight of Jon. Had he been to the house, looking for her, or was he on the way there? More to the point, had Maeve plucked up the courage to ask if they were planning to send her away to school?

  ‘Thought I’d missed you.’ He joined her as she was folding back the wing mirrors. ‘Just wanted a quick word about Maeve.’

  ‘Maeve, or the classes? You’d better come in.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘No.’

  Up in the loft, she switched on a heater and started telling him about Ben and Jennie’s party, and her conversation with Kent.

  ‘He sold us a Welsh dresser. Swindled us. It had been repaired.’

  ‘Yes, Diana told me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He started to cough. ‘Yes. She was pleased you called round.’

  ‘I’d gone out for a walk. Realised I was near your road. You didn’t mind?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Erin was watching him carefully. ‘Did Maeve talk to you about her drawing?’

  ‘I thought it best not to mention it.’

  ‘Why?’ Erin gave a sigh of disgust.

  ‘We may send her to a private school but nothing’s been decided yet. I’ll ask her what she thinks.’

  ‘Jon?’

  He spun round. ‘What?’

  ‘If you know something about Claudia, I’d far rather you told me. The man who’s been hanging about . . . I thought it might be Hoshi but now I’ve met him—’

  ‘When? When did you—osHH’

  ‘At Jennie’s party. It was her birthday. Actually I thought you might be there. Anyway, being so secretive is having a bad effect on Maeve. Yes, I know she’s your daughter, but I was the one she drew the picture for. It was disturbing. Well, it alarmed me.’

  ‘I expect it was an illustration for a story. She likes writing stories. I keep them in a folder.’

  ‘It wasn’t. I asked her.’ She disliked the way he made out what a liberal-minded father he was, while Diana was the “bad cop”. Declan had played the same game, relating events that put him in a good light and making his “estranged” wife sound like a nightmare.

  ‘Did she do any more drawings like that?’

  ‘Isn’t one enough? Is that why you came round here? Talk to her. I may not have any children but I know it’s a mistake to keep things from them. They always imagine something far worse than it actually is.’

  He nodded, but said nothing, and with a dull thud in the pit of her stomach, it occurred to her that poor Maeve might be right when she thought her “syndrome” meant her life expectancy was shorter than normal.

  Chapter 24

  Painting the glossy, black feathers of a mynah bird was tricky. Hints of purple, blue and green. Beautiful birds, so it was no wonder that in their native home of India they were considered sacred. And their ability to talk was legendary.

  When they were children, Erin and Claudia had been fond of the mynah bird that lived in the local pet shop. He was not for sale, but sat on a perch and imitated the jingly bell when someone opened the shop door. Then one day he disappeared and the owner of the pet shop said he was ill. Erin had cried, but Claudia was more practical. What’s wrong with him? And the pet shop people explained how someone had fed him fruit that was bad for mynah birds. Apples, bananas, pears and melons were good, but not avocados or rhubarb. Someone gave him rhubarb? Claudia’s horrified voice was imprinted on Erin’s memory.

  Later, to everyone’s relief, the bird got better, but when the door opened, instead of imitating the bell, it now recited the phrase it had heard repeatedly while it was recovering. Ah, poor thing, poor thing.

  Erin felt like a poor thing. Not that she was ill, but she slept badly, and worried continually – about the baby, about Ollie, and about the pressure on her to finish he illustrations. Even though, surprisingly, the illustrations were turning out rather well.

  She ought to call round and ask Jennie if she was feeling any better. On the other hand, it might mean she dragged her out of bed. Go or stay? Her eyes were tired from painting tiny brush strokes. She needed a change of scene.

  Ben answered the door, looking almost as rough as Jennie had done on her previous visit.

  ‘Oh dear, have you got it now?’

  ‘Sorry?’ He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Jennie’s out. No, come in. Actually, I was going to call round. Thought I saw Ollie.’

  ‘Where?’ Erin stepped inside the over-heated house. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Shopping centre. Ran after him but he must have gone into a shop. It was near that place that does piercings and tattoos.’

  Erin started to leave but he caught hold of her arm. ‘No, he won’t be there now. Anyway, it probably wasn’t him. Have you got a minute?’ He guided her into Jennie’s office, lifted the lid on her laptop, and started tapping the keyboard with his two index fingers. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  Wrong in what way? If she had gone out she must be feeling better. Ben liked to moan about his lack of work, and the lot of the poor actor, but it was the first time he had shown such undisguised anxiety.

  ‘I’ve been struggling with it ever since she went out, but I can’t find anything apart from her accounts for the student house. There’s a woman living in the basement flat.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve met her. Jennie asked me to deliver a microwave.’

  ‘She seems to think there’s some mystery about the woman. It’s all part of the crazy way her mind’s been working.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘She didn’t say?’ Erin had visions of her walking in on them, and had no wish to be caught red-handed, checking her laptop. ‘Have you asked what’s bothering her?’

  ‘She denies there is anything. Is it possible to check which websites someone’s visited? Either she’s ill or she’s having an affair. She’s always accusing me of seeing someone else but it could be her guilty conscience.’

  Erin leaned over and clicked “history”, but Jennie had wiped it clean.

  Ben sighed. ‘You would tell me if she’d said something. She agonises about her health
, laps up all that stuff on the news, what you should and shouldn’t eat, takes no notice when I point out how it changes from week to week.’

  ‘If she talks to me I’ll do what I can, but she must have friends she knows far better than me.’

  ‘And pass on anything she tells you.’

  ‘That I can’t promise.’ Erin wanted to leave but Ben was glued to Jennie’s chair. ‘Listen, are you sure you saw Ollie?’

  He chewed his knuckle. ‘Thought I did.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. If Jennie comes back, this certainly won’t improve her mood.’

  He switched off the laptop and Erin gave him her number and watched to make sure he put it in his phone. ‘In case you see Ollie again. Any work coming up?’

  ‘Small part in a radio play.’

  ‘What about the slimming ad?’

  ‘They decided I was too old. Too old, I ask you, imagine how that made me feel? Thank you, Mr Whatever Your Name Is, we’ll let you know. A couple of years ago I was offered a part in a panto. Thought it was a monkey but it turned out to be a flunky! A servant. Apparently they used to call them flunkies.’ His expression changed. ‘I’m worried, Erin, no, not about the lack of work. When it comes to the crunch, all that really matters is your health. I mean, Jennie’s. It could be depression. Does she strike you as being depressed? Oh, sorry, you’ve enough on your mind without involving yourself in our problems.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As she let herself out of the house, he had returned to chewing his knuckle.

  Saying he thought he had seen Ollie could well have been a way of luring her into the house. Even so, she felt compelled to go down to the shopping centre and check. Heavy rain was forecast but so far had not materialised. Just as well since she had left the house without an umbrella. The last time it poured – the time she had been to talk to Ava – she had arrived home with water down the back of her neck and squelching shoes.

  As she passed the baby goods shop, she visualized herself putting the baby’s feet into the tiny shoes, talking to her, explaining about her real mother even though she was far too young to understand. Thinking about the future was becoming a way of keeping going. But it had to stop. Instead of picturing herself as a mother, she ought to be preparing for the worst. When a baby died, or was stillborn, people were given prints of its hands and feet, something to keep, put in a frame. She had never understood it before. Now she did.