I waited until after supper to tell Greg. We’d cleared up and he’d been telling me about his day. He’s been a window cleaner since he left school. Not the most intellectually demanding of jobs, but he and his workmates were doing something right because the work kept coming in, with recommendations and repeat business. They had a long list of regular customers and now and again were asked to do a posh manor house or suchlike, ready for a family party or special occasion. I had the feeling Greg would like a new challenge, but whenever I asked him he just told me he was lucky to be earning a reasonable living and what was the point because he didn’t have any skills that would earn him a packet.
‘So, the man came out and complained? Why didn’t you tell him to do it himself if he’s so fussy?’ I said.
‘Because he’s the customer and he’s always right. Besides, I’d been there two hours and I wanted to make sure he paid me.’
‘You had to redo all the back windows? I’d have thrown the dirty water all over him. You have the patience of a saint.’
‘Yes, I do. I married you, didn’t I?’ he said, pulling me close and moving his hand to tickle me around the middle.
‘No, don’t,’ I said and held his hands in mine.
‘Why? You love being tickled, go on, admit it.’
‘Er, it’s not that, it’s just you won’t only be tickling me.’
The expression on his face was better than words. It was a mixture of pride, exhilaration, awe and tenderness. He made me sit down on the sofa and put my feet up on the stool.
‘What are you doing silly? I’m not ill, I’m expecting.’
‘You are going to be a mum and I’m going to be a dad.’
‘Um, that’s pretty much the size of it, yes. Is that okay?’
‘Is it okay? It’s just about the best present you could have given me. I’d say, yes, okay covers it pretty well.’
We spent the rest of the evening laying on the sofa together, listening to All I see is you on repeat and for those few hours Zara was furthest from our minds. All we thought about was the new life nestling between us.
Chapter 6
‘My dear Poirot,’ I said coldly, ‘it is not for me to dictate to you. You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine.’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
The next day was Friday, so I’d have the opportunity to visit the police station as soon as I finished my shift in the library van. I didn’t plan to be a librarian, but the job seemed to acquire me. I’d always been a bookworm and was one of those rare and annoying pupils who asked for extra homework, especially from Mrs Frobisher, our English teacher. After her retirement Phyllis Frobisher gravitated to running the mobile library van and I was one of her regulars.
Books had connected dad and I, ever since his accident. Once I was old enough to make sense of the words on the page I would read aloud to him; it was our special time. My school playtimes were spent lingering in the corner of the playground out of the wind, immersed in my storybook world. Most of the teachers would clap their hands and tell me to get up and run around, but Phyllis would leave me be. Perhaps I was a reminder of her younger self. Now and then I challenged her with a word I’d just discovered, try to put her on the spot for a definition. She always came up trumps, but I could tell she loved the intellectual banter.
Once I left school I made a weekly visit to the library van and enjoyed Phyllis’ recommendations. We’d chat about books and Phyllis would guide me to anything about the sea, boats, fishes, even submarines, which were all dad’s passion. On alternate weeks I got to choose. Dad was patient with me as we worked our way through all the Agatha Christie’s. We’d reach the halfway mark in one of her stories and he’d ask me to identify the culprit and gradually I learned to spot the clues she had dropped in.
A couple of years after I left school, Phyllis had a heart attack. The van didn’t pull up into Milburn Avenue for its usual Monday afternoon slot. It wasn’t on Rockwell Crescent on Wednesday either. By Friday I was concerned and called into the main library to be told Phyllis was in hospital. For a few days she wasn’t up to visitors, but then, instead of making my regular visit to the library van, I visited the hospital. She’d been in hospital for three weeks when she told me, just as I was leaving, ‘I won’t be able to do it anymore.’
‘The library?’
‘Yes, the doctors say I have to take it easy, at least for a few months.’
‘You’ll be back on your feet in no time, I bet,’ I said, sounding more optimistic than I was feeling.
‘No, I don’t think I will.’
‘Who’s going to help me choose my books?’
‘You are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You love books as much as I do and besides helping your dad out, well you’ve not found your place yet, have you?’
‘I’ll admit I have been drifting a bit, but a librarian? Are you being serious?’
‘You’ll make the perfect stand in. I’ll be back soon enough, but in the meantime I’ll call in when I can and between us we’ll make an indomitable team.’
‘Won’t they say I’m too young?’
‘No, they’ll be delighted with my recommendation. Trust me, it’ll save them the trouble of interviewing. I’ll speak to Jonathan Phillpot, he’s head of library services and I’ll let you know what he says.’
And that was it. Phyllis kept her word and I started two weeks later. I’d taken copious notes as I sat beside her hospital bed, while she explained the routine to me. There was nothing to be daunted about, I told myself; it was a short-term fill-in and Phyllis would soon be back at the helm. A few weeks turned into a few months and it became clear that from now on Phyllis’s visits to the van would be as a customer only. I had become the new librarian.
Fridays were often busy days in the mobile library. Even though dad and Greg teased me for being scatty and disorganised at home, the library was my domain, with everything ordered and neat. The central library liked to know how many customers came in each day. I suppose it was their way of making sure we were providing the best possible service. I kept a list of the numbers of browsers and borrowers. Over the months a pattern emerged and I enjoyed working out likely reasons for the varied customer attendance.
Mondays were usually quiet, with a few browsers, but not many borrowers and I had a theory which I explained to dad, only to have him laugh at me.
‘I reckon people have more time over the weekend. So, they almost finish their library book, then on Monday night they relish the final chapter. What? Why are you laughing? It’s what you and I have always done,’ I told him. ‘You used to ask me to leave the last few pages so we could mull over what we’d read and savour the ending.’
‘And you think there are other crazy folk out there like us?’ My dad had a strong sense of the ridiculous.
Of course, it could just as easily have been because Monday was washing day.
But Fridays were my days for tidying, double-checking all the shelves, updating any paperwork and looking over the new order list I had to prepare each month. As a mobile library, we were encouraged to ask customers what books they would like to see added to our selection. The new titles might be brought in from the main library, or they might be ordered, provided the budget allowed.
I knew all my regulars and had become familiar with their reading habits. Some would be waiting anxiously for the next Agatha Christie (me included), others borrowing thrillers for their husbands. Then there were the young mums who worked their way through the children’s books, gradually moving from picture books to Enid Blyton, as the little ones grew.
During the quiet periods I made time to read, and now, with my new state of impending motherhood I fancied doing some research. The reference section was only small, but I found a textbook that gave me just enough information about the little person who was growing inside me, without frightening me witless about the birth. I was deep in the middle of the chapter
about how the tiny fingernails grow around the twelfth week, when someone came in. My regulars usually preferred to browse uninterrupted, but I hadn’t seen this chap before, so I thought he might be grateful for a guiding hand.
‘Good morning, if you need any help just ask,’ I said. ‘Fiction is all down that side, it’s grouped though, so hopefully you’ll have no trouble finding what you’re looking for. What will it be? Science fiction, thrillers, crime?’
He smiled and nodded, but didn’t respond, so I guessed he was a quiet type who liked to be left to his own devices. I kept the van quite warm, mainly because I was always freezing, even in mid-summer. When customers came in with their heavy overcoats, they often found it a bit stuffy so I cleared an area next to the door where there were a couple of coat hooks. Despite it being July, the weather had turned. The day had started with milky sunshine, which soon turned to rain clouds, pushed across the sky by an easterly wind. Phyllis Frobisher’s favourite phrase for such a day, was ‘too bright, too early’.
The man wore a dark grey gaberdine mac, with a red, silk cravat wrapped around his neck and a smart, grey Trilby, which he removed as soon as he entered the van. He was around my dad’s age, so mid to late-forties, but there was something about him that seemed out of place for our little town.
He moved slowly around, browsing through all the fiction sections, before moving on to the reference area. Finally, he pulled out a book on the Second World War. I was aware I’d been watching him a little too closely, so I glanced down at my baby book and tried to concentrate. At that point he started coughing, not just a tickly or throaty type of cough, but one that appeared difficult to stop.
‘Are you okay there? Would you like to sit down, have a drink of water?’ I said.
‘Thank you, no,’ he said, in between the rasping and wheezing that had now overtaken the coughing.
He put the book back and was supporting himself with one hand on the bookshelf.
‘It’s no trouble. I’m so sorry, it’s really stuffy in here. I’ll open the door, let some fresh air in,’ I said.
‘Thank you, but I must be going,’ he said and with that he put his hat back on and left, leaving the door slightly ajar. It was only when I went over to close the door properly that I noticed something had fallen out of his hat. It was a small ticket, which when I looked at it more closely, turned out to be a left luggage ticket. I stepped outside the van to work out which way he’d gone, hoping to at least call after him, but he was nowhere to be seen.
At the end of the day I drove the van back to its overnight parking space and locked it up. It felt daunting walking into the police station, as though I was guilty of something. I took a deep breath, stood up straight, trying to make my five feet five inches stretch to several inches taller and used the firmest tone I could with the desk sergeant.
‘Good evening. I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the Zara Carpenter case.’ I hadn’t exactly prepared my opening gambit and as I said it I realised she may no longer even warrant an ‘officer in charge’. Zara was an adult and she’d decided to move out of our house. It was hardly a case for Poirot.
Since she’d disappeared I’d called into the police station every few weeks, but never got beyond the desk sergeant. I’d ask if there was any news, he’d say no and that would be that. Now they had a lead and my hopes were raised.
‘I’m Zara Carpenter’s friend, Janie Juke,’ I said, knowing as I spoke that I was likely to be given short shrift. I was shown into a small room, with just one desk and two chairs. There were no windows and the light bulb swung over the desk, reminding me of a scene from a gangster movie. It was intriguing to imagine how many criminals had been in this room, how heinous their crimes might have been. I hovered for a few moments, wondering which side of the desk to sit at and then the door opened and in walked a detective sergeant.
‘Good morning, Miss,’ he said.
‘Janie Juke, Mrs.’
‘How can I help you? I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Bright.’
‘It’s the Zara Carpenter case. I heard on the news you’ve had a new lead.’ I paused, not knowing how much to say.
‘Sorry, Miss, but you are? That is, what exactly is your connection to Miss Carpenter?’
‘I’m her friend. She was living with me, with us, when she went missing. We were interviewed at the time. Another detective, I don’t remember his name.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. I do recall your name now, from the case notes.’
He was testing me, as though he knew all along.
‘So, the new lead?’ Pregnancy had not only altered my taste buds, but now whenever I got anxious or overexcited I was treated to an attack of hiccups. They were about to kick in, which would be a distraction I could do without. ‘Could I have a drink of water?’
He nodded, left the room for a moment and came back with a rather grubby glass, half-full of water. I took a sip and thanked him.
‘You were going to tell me about the new lead?’ I said, hopeful that, as well as the water, he had returned with a more helpful demeanour.
‘We can’t share that information with anyone apart from Miss Carpenter’s family.’
‘And have you?’
‘Have we what?’ He was being as unhelpful as it was possible to be.
‘Have you shared the information with her family?’
‘Now that’s not any of your business, Miss, is it?’
When he entered the room he’d brought an ashtray with him. He leaned back in his chair and took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He offered the packet to me. Shaking my head, I prayed he wouldn’t light one himself. The smell of cigarette smoke had always made me queasy, but now in my relatively new state of motherhood, I found it made me want to throw up. Not the way to get into Detective Sergeant Bright’s good books, which is where I wanted to be, as it was only then I was likely to be given the information I hoped for. He put the cigarette packet down on the table, pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up.
‘Well, Miss, if that’s all. I’ll show you out.’
‘But you haven’t told me anything,’ I said, trying to keep the indignation I felt from being evident in my tone.
‘That’s right, Miss. Like I said, you’re not family. If you should hear anything from Miss Carpenter, you’ll be sure to let us know?’
‘You know she’s still alive and well then? You can tell me that at least? If that’s the case, you’re likely to see her before me, after all, you’re the one with the new lead.’
Stupid, I thought to myself, as soon as I was outside the police station. Dad would have told me off for trying to be clever with my sarcastic remarks. This will not endear you to Detective Sergeant Bright, I mused. But what was done was done and I resolved to keep a tighter rein on my opinions in the future, particularly when it came to my dealings with the police department.
I left the station none the wiser and wondered what my next move should be.
Chapter 7
‘No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all.’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
It’s a long while since Greg and I went dancing. Before Zara came to live with us we’d go most Saturday nights. Greg is a superb dancer, with natural rhythm, in fact that’s how we met. I’d been to one of the smaller nightclubs a couple of times before I was officially of age, piling on the makeup and offering the bouncer on the door my sweetest smile. I know that at least half of the girls dancing around me were under age, I recognised them from school. As far as dad was concerned I was at a friend’s house and I always made sure I was home by 11pm. I’m sure he knew the truth, but I like to think he trusted me enough not to make it an issue.
Once I was allowed to dance the night away, that was exactly what I planned to do. My eighteenth birthday fell on a Saturday, which made it all the more perfect and I couldn’t wait to buy my first legal drink. I declined dad’s offer of a party, wh
ich probably came as a relief to him. A dozen or so teenage girls singing along to loud music and getting tipsy must have been his idea of a nightmare. Particularly as he couldn’t see what was going on and how many drinks were being spilt all over the carpet.
So, on my birthday I started to get ready about five hours before leaving the house. There were finger and toenails to be carefully painted, my outfit needed ironing and then it was time to treat myself to a long, hot bath, rich with scented bubbles. Thanks to a suggestion from Zara, when we were at school together, I’d taken to wearing a headband to keep back my mass of unruly hair. I had one in just about every colour. The wages from my Saturday job at a local newsagents went into a pot, labelled ‘Birthday’. The week before the big day, I took the stash of notes out, stuffed them in my purse and explored the shops. I bought the most fashionable dress I could afford. It was a bright yellow shift dress, with an emerald green ribbon tied under the bust and around the sleeve edges. I found a yellow and green scarf in the same shop, which I tied around my hair, instead of a band. By the time I was ready to leave I checked my reflection in the mirror and was pleased with the result.
‘You’ll do,’ I whispered to myself and hadn’t noticed that dad was behind me.
‘I can imagine just how beautiful you look, princess,’ he said, which made me want to cry.
‘Don’t say another word, or you’ll make me mess up my makeup.’
‘Ah, well, we can’t have that, can we? I’m so proud of you, you’re a young woman now and you have your whole life ahead of you.’
‘Scary thought.’
‘Why scary?’
‘I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.’
‘All in good time, for now enjoy each day, especially today.’
‘I might not be home by 11pm.’
The Tapestry Bag Page 4
