‘Oh, hello, you must be Zara’s parents. I’m Janie, her…’ I paused. Was I her best friend? I couldn’t be certain. ‘…her friend,’ I finished, anticipating a handshake at least. Instead she nodded and he smiled again and that was it.
‘Cold fish?’ my dad said, when I told him the next day.
‘More like frozen,’ I said, feeling deflated.
Zara was brilliant in the role of Helena. Her willowy figure, long legs and graceful movement suited the part perfectly. She had me believing in her obsessive love for Demetrius and I was certain the audience felt the same way.
Once the play was over I went backstage. Zara was deep in conversation with her parents and I held back, not wanting to interrupt. Her mother went to put a hand on Zara’s shoulder, but her daughter pulled away. As their conversation drew to a close, I wandered over to them.
‘You were completely amazing, definitely the star performer,’ I said.
‘You see darling, this is what I was telling you. You have a real talent,’ her mother said, with the most beautiful French accent.
‘It’s not real, none of it is real,’ Zara said.
‘Fantasy can often be better than real life,’ her father said.
Zara was a regular visitor at our house, but I never got to set foot in hers. I didn’t mind though, as I was always happy to be around dad, given half the chance. He didn’t need me to watch over him, or anything like that. By then he had Charlie the 2nd, and the two of them were indomitable.
Charlie’s predecessor had slowed up and deserved a relaxing retirement. A family just three streets away took him in, which meant dad and I could still visit now and then. When he first left us I popped round quite often. He’d been my mate for most of my childhood years and we had formed a bond, but I could see my visits caused some conflict. I suppose he had divided loyalties. In his new home he was trying to get used to a different way of life with a new family, no work to do, just gentle strolls and plenty of relaxing. Then I would turn up and he would be reminded of his work life and his duties with dad. After a while, I stopped visiting and contented myself with spotting him in the park, or around and about, when I would make a brief fuss of him and then wander off in another direction.
My relationship with Charlie the 2nd was coloured by the fact that I was a teenager when he came along and was more interested in fashion and music than rolling around the garden. His character was more serious than his predecessor. He took his duties to dad seriously and rarely strayed from his side. He was loyal to the core.
When Zara and I first became friends, she would come over two or three evenings a week and we’d fly through our homework and then put the transistor radio on and jig around the bedroom. But on some of her visits it was all I could do to get her to talk, let alone dance. She would flick through my singles, choose the most sombre record and put it on repeat. Then she’d sit on the bed, close her eyes and drift off into a dreamlike state. On those days it was difficult to know what was going on with her.
‘Talk to me, Zara,’ I said, on one of these occasions. ‘You’re off in your own world. Where do you wish you were? Is there something that’s upset you? Or someone?’
She never replied and in the end I had to accept there was a side to Zara that she wanted to keep private. Charlie was a good ice-breaker though, she’d chat to him as though he was a person.
‘We have so much to learn from dogs,’ she told me one day. ‘They are far more intelligent than people.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t laugh, it’s true. Dogs instinctively know how to care for their young and for each other. Just because they can’t speak doesn’t mean they don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Yeah, but they learn by copying, don’t they? Isn’t that what dog training is all about? Punishment and reward?’
‘You don’t hear about a dog starting a war, do you?’
‘No, but you hear about dog fights and it’s often the smallest who are the worst.’
It made sense that Zara wanted to champion a cause. It was clear she thought the world needed a good sort out.
In those early days my focus was fun and I assumed hers was too. It was Zara who persuaded me to experiment with make-up and one day she grabbed one of my scarves, rolled it up, wrapped it around my head, tucking my unruly fringe inside it, leaving the long ends of the scarf trailing down behind.
‘There you are, little one. All tidy,’ she said.
She often called me ‘little one’, although I was only three inches shorter than her. After that night I was seldom without a hair band, although I had to remove it when in school uniform. It was considered inappropriate for a young lady. Not that I’ve ever really been that.
Wrapping my dressing gown tightly around me I got up to edge the draught excluder closer to the back door. Our house is full of draughts, more jobs required that Greg isn’t confident about. On quiet days I’d flicked through magazines with pictures of new houses with central heating and dream. Our chances of affording such luxury were as likely as our chances of winning the football pools. But if he got the job with Owen’s dad, well, who knows what it might lead to.
I sat and listened to the grumblings of the house. In truth I loved our home and wouldn’t give it up to go and live in a soulless place, central heating notwithstanding. The creaks of loose floorboards were comfortably familiar, as was the buzzing of our little refrigerator and the distant rumble of trains. The railway line ran along behind our street, about half a mile away. I liked to imagine the travellers sitting in cosy carriages on their way to work.
As I got up to put the kettle back on the gas I heard the flush of the cistern upstairs, with the resultant banging of water as it travelled through the pipes. I grabbed another cup and saucer and got the teapot out ready for Greg’s first cuppa of the day.
That’s when I heard it. A rattle, rather than a knock. I stood quite still to see if I’d imagined the noise, or whether it was Greg making more fuss than usual closing the bathroom door. Then I heard it again and determined it was coming from the direction of the hall. It was still dark outside and I had no intention of wandering out to the front path. I went into the hall and, just as Greg appeared at the foot of the stairs, I spotted an envelope on the doormat.
‘Morning,’ he said and turned to go into the kitchen.
‘Kettle’s on,’ I said, as he walked away. Greg is at best semi-comatose before he’s had his first cup of tea. Strong, black, with two sugars and then he’s ready to greet the day.
I bent down and picked up the plain brown envelope. I turned it over, not expecting much of a clue as to its contents from the handwritten scrawl across the front, which simply said, ‘Want to make some money?’.
It had been hand delivered, no stamp in evidence and no address and I guessed the rattling I’d heard was the sound of its arrival. Unlocking the front door I peered out, looking up and down the empty street. Then, closing the door as quietly as I could, I stuffed the envelope into my dressing gown pocket and went into the kitchen to join Greg.
Later that morning, once Greg had left for work and I’d cleared away the breakfast things, I sat down in the kitchen with the mysterious envelope in front of me. I used my precious paper knife to slice it open. I’d always wanted my own paper knife, ever since I watched my dad using one, when I couldn’t have been much more than four years old. It was such a grown-up way of opening a letter. I’d told Greg about it when we were reminiscing about our childhoods one day and the following Christmas he presented me with a shiny paper knife, with my initials engraved on the handle.
‘There you go,’ he said. Greg might not be one for romantic words, but he knows how to make me happy.
There were two pieces of paper in the envelope. The first was a folded press cutting. I opened it and saw it was the article that had been written straight after Zara had disappeared. The local newspaper had run the story for a week or two, with an editorial about the increasing dangers of our road
s. They’d referred to Joel’s accident and suggested a local campaign might help to get lower speed limits around the town.
It had annoyed me at the time they weren’t more interested in helping to track Zara down. If they had put her photo on the front page of their weekly rag it would have helped, but no, the story got a couple of paragraphs on page 8. It seemed as though the press thought the same as the police, that Zara was an unhappy soul who had crawled away to end it all. It was as though I was the only person who missed her, the only one who cared. It made me unremittingly sad.
I unfolded the second piece of paper. It was a handwritten note, which simply said:
‘We are prepared to pay for any information that leads to the discovery of Zara Carpenter. We will contact you again soon.’
I read it through again, trying to discover more meaning. Who would be prepared to pay money to find out Zara’s whereabouts? I folded up both pieces of paper and put them back in the envelope. I was certain I would hear from the mysterious letter writer again and until then I would wait and say nothing.
Chapter 17
‘But, Poirot’ – I protested.
‘Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so.’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
My days with dad weren’t just about paperwork. He manages his life with organisation and precision and I don’t need to look after him, but I do like to look out for him. Whenever I call in I check the fridge for out of date food and make sure the house and his treatment room are as clean as he would want them to be if his eyes were working.
My dad has never accepted pity. From the day of the accident, and all through the months and years when he had to learn to live a different life, he approached each challenge with determination.
When I was around ten or eleven, I reached the age when I was making comparisons. Until then dad had been my hero, regardless of his blindness. He was the one who taught me to love books, to be inquisitive, to cherish nature and to respect old and young alike. But towards the end of my days at primary school it was as though I’d been fitted with new spectacles; I started to see faults with my hero. I noticed for the first time when his hair was a bit straggly, or his stubble too long. I would lie awake late into the evening and listen to him coming up to bed and be irritated by the funny throat-clearing noises he made when he brushed his teeth. My hero had become a man and I started to compare him with other dads. It wasn’t just dad I compared either. I’d compare our simply furnished little house with the more luxurious or eclectic furnishings of friends’ houses.
Then one day I asked him, ‘Do you wish you weren’t blind?’ Looking back, I can’t believe I asked it and that he didn’t even flinch before replying.
‘There are worse things than being blind,’ he said.
‘Only being dead.’ I remember being annoyed he was so calm about it. I wanted him to scream and shout and I guess I tried to provoke a reaction.
‘There are lots of ways of dying,’ he said. ‘You can be alive and have your sight and all your limbs in working order, but you can be dead in your heart. Afraid to love life, afraid to treat each day like an adventure. The accident took away my sight, but it didn’t take away all the other wonderful things that make my life precious.’
‘What things?’ I was probably fishing at this point, expecting I would feature prominently in his reply.
‘Yes, you’re number one on the list.’
‘What else?’
‘I had five senses, now I have four. That’s all. I can feel the warmth of the sunshine, hear the birds, touch the flowers and taste the delicious apple crumble your Aunt Jessica makes. I can think and learn and dream.’
‘But you can’t see me anymore.’
‘I have my imagination and my memories. I know just how you looked when you were five and I’m sure the image I have of you now, at the ripe old age of ten, is near to perfect.’
We had similar conversations a few times as I grew up and each time dad proved to me that, when it came to comparisons, I was the lucky one. His talents as a physiotherapist became well renowned locally. He always had more patients waiting to see him than he could fit in in a week and they would all rather visit him than anyone else, with their twisted knees, frozen shoulders and sciatica. He would have been wasted in the police force. Perhaps some things are just meant to be.
‘Owen has offered Becca a room in a house share in Brighton. Greg’s sister, Becca. For when she starts uni,’ I told dad, as I moved around the treatment room, folding towels and wiping surfaces. Charlie was curled up in his bed under the window, keeping his focus on dad.
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly. I’m not sure what to do.’
‘What are your options?’
‘Tell Greg and risk an argument. Speak to Becca and risk frightening her unnecessarily, or say nothing, which isn’t a viable option.’
‘You could speak to Owen.’
‘And say what?’
‘Just be truthful, tell him you’re worried about Becca, she’s young and vulnerable and she might be better living on campus.’
‘He’ll think I’m being strange, won’t he? What if I’m imagining all this and instead he’s just a regular bloke who lost his temper on one occasion?’
‘Speak to him. We’d all feel a lot better if you did. Detective work isn’t all plain sailing you know. You have to deal with the swells and tempests as well.’
‘Hm,’ was all I could say, knowing dad was right, as usual.
The next day I watched Greg prepare for his visit to the builder’s yard, donning his one and only suit and tie.
‘You do know you’re going for a job as a builder, not a bank clerk, don’t you? It’s not a formal interview, he’ll just want to chat to you, explain what’s involved and make sure you’re keen enough.’
‘I want to make a good impression.’
‘Well, if I was interviewing you there would be no doubt. In fact, I hadn’t realised I’d married such a handsome beast. You should ditch those scruffy tee-shirts more often.’
‘What do you think he’ll ask me?’
‘Can you bend and lift, get up early, make tea, that kind of thing.’
‘Don’t joke, this is my future we’re talking about. Our future.’
‘Ah, yes, my new house with the two bathrooms. Just go and be your delicious self and you’ll walk it.’
‘So says the girl who has never had to attend an interview in her life.’
‘Some of us are just born lucky.’
I didn’t tell him I told you so when he returned, beaming, as though he’d won the football pools.
‘Brilliant, I’ll start choosing my bathroom tiles, shall I? Seriously though, I’m so proud of you, as is Bean. Give me your hand and see if you can feel the fluttering. It’s just like little butterflies trying to escape a cage, but soon I expect it’ll be more like a footballer taking a goal kick.’
I took his hand and pressed it to my stomach, but as I did all went still and quiet inside.
‘Typical. I’m sure Bean is getting used to an afternoon snooze, which sounds perfect to me. When do you start the new job then?’
‘I told Jim and Nick I’ll stay with them another month. It’s only fair, I don’t want to drop them in it, but Jim’s already mentioned an apprentice he’s keen to take on, so they’ll not miss me for long.’
‘How long before you’ll know how to build a wall? I’ve got my eye on a little garden project to start you off.’
‘Give us a chance.’ He put his face down towards my midriff. ‘Bean, your mother is a slave driver. My advice to you is stay where you are. It’s the only way you’ll get any peace.’
I didn’t want to leave it long before confronting Owen again. As far as I knew, Becca hadn’t told Greg or her parents about the house share, so the sooner I could intervene the better. I decided to call
round to the Mowbray’s house before Greg started to work for them. The house and builder’s yard weren’t that close to each other, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
I chose a late Thursday afternoon, leaving dad’s a bit earlier than usual. There was a strong possibility Owen wouldn’t be in, in fact he may even have returned to Brighton. What I needed was a talisman, some kind of good luck charm.
As I approached the house, Mrs Mowbray was in the front garden.
‘Hello there,’ I said, ‘weeding is a never-ending job, isn’t it?’
She looked up from her kneeling position behind the front fence and then slowly got to her feet.
‘Janie,’ she said, in a tone that was not remotely welcoming and a distinct change from the kindly woman who was forcing jam tarts on me when I last visited.
‘What is it you want?’ she said.
‘Er, I was just wondering if Owen was in? I popped round for a quick chat, but if this isn’t a good time?’
‘It depends.’
‘Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Are you going to upset him again?’
‘Upset him?’
‘He was that upset when he got back from yours the other day. Came in and went straight to his bed, didn’t even want a hot drink.’
‘Did he say what had happened to upset him?’
‘He wouldn’t talk to me. And there’s no point his father trying to get anything out of him, because the two of them have been at loggerheads for years. His father has never forgiven him for not joining the family firm. I’ve told Owen I don’t blame him, not for a minute.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Well, he’s got a brain, hasn’t he? Might as well use it, rather than being outside in all weathers. It’s back-breaking work, you know. Oh, it’s fine when you’re young, but after a few years, well, Mr Mowbray can barely bend to tie his laces some days.’
An image crossed my mind of Greg, a few years from now, laying on my dad’s physiotherapy couch. It was not a pleasant thought.
The Tapestry Bag Page 11
