The Tapestry Bag

by Isabella Muir

  ‘Difficult job or annoying customers?’

  ‘Both,’ he said and submerged his head under the water, blowing bubbles before re-emerging.

  ‘Never mind, tomorrow is another day and all that.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m worried about.’

  ‘Soak all those cares away and I’ll make a start on supper. Don’t fall asleep and drown, or I’ll have to eat it all myself.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ he said, as I closed the bathroom door.

  Before preparing supper I decided to get one of the posters out. I was studying it and developing a plan when I heard Greg pull the plug on the bath. As the water gurgled down through the pipes I rolled up the poster again and put it back in the drawer. I served up supper, but didn’t have much of an appetite; so much for the idea of eating for two.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Greg said, as he polished off the last of the sausage and mash. ‘Your dad alright?’

  ‘Um, oh yes, he’s fine. Busy, which is always good.’

  ‘Bean alright?’

  ‘Yes, perfect,’ I said and took his hand, laying it on my stomach, so he could feel the early flutterings of our precious creation. ‘It tends to be quite fidgety after I’ve eaten. I think it’s going to be a chef. Intrigued by my masterpieces.’

  ‘What, bangers and mash?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ I said and dug him in the ribs.

  My first opportunity to visit Brightport was Tuesday. I popped Zara’s photo in my bag, together with a notebook and pen and walked down to the bus stop. I told dad my plan and said I’d be with him later in the afternoon to catch up with his typing work.

  On Thursday I went to Brightport again. I showed Zara’s photo to anyone who could be bothered to look. Then, come late afternoon, I got the bus back and visited dad to fill him in on my day’s successes and failures. In fact, just failures. Everyone I spoke to shook their head. Some said they might have seen her but youngsters all looked the same nowadays, didn’t they. Others said they kept themselves to themselves and didn’t go poking around in other people’s business and I should do the same. I wasn’t sure how being observant equated with being nosy, but I kept a civil tongue, despite being frequently close to losing my temper.

  Dad calmed me down each day and told me to persevere.

  ‘It’s legwork, Janie, the basis of thorough police work is legwork. You might well have a breakthrough and even if you don’t, you can be sure you’ve been thorough. After Brightport, perhaps you should do the same around Tidehaven again. The story being back in the news might have jogged people’s memories.’

  Greg didn’t seem to pick up that anything was amiss, although it was a close call one day when I caught a glimpse of his van passing me, just as I was stepping off the bus on my way to dad’s. He didn’t mention it when we were home together that evening, so I guessed he hadn’t seen me. There was no doubt he would disapprove of my amateur sleuthing, not least because I was returning home more and more exhausted. It was like having two full-time jobs.

  My lunchtimes were spent having a drink and a sandwich at a different café, chatting to people and hopefully spreading the net as wide as possible. I had my copy of ‘Styles’ with me and flicked through it regularly to see if Poirot’s talents might rub off on me.

  After my second visit I reckoned I was wasting my time. I told dad that would be my last Brightport trip. It was too depressing wandering around, knowing I was probably wasting my time.

  ‘What’s the point?’ I said, making no attempt to hide the irritability in my voice.

  ‘Nothing you are doing is a waste. You just never know.’

  ‘There’s no way she would have stayed so close to home. She could be anywhere, even in France for all I know. And if she’s moved back to Brighton, then I don’t stand a chance. What made me believe I could ever track her down?’

  ‘I know it’s disheartening, love, but you’re doing the right thing. What about the back streets, away from the town centre? Why don’t you just give it one more day?’

  It’s not the first time my dad’s advice has made the difference in my life between failure and success. It was on the next visit to Brightport I struck gold.

  Chapter 24

  Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well. ‘What is it, Poirot?’ I inquired.

  ‘Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly.’

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie

  It was the back of her head I saw first. Her hair, once rich and silken, was tangled and greasy. Her head was bent forward. As I stood in the doorway and watched her I wondered whether she could have been asleep, resting her head on her hands. I had seen her sleeping in that position day after day, in those first months after Joel’s death. But as I approached, I noticed her hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of hot liquid. Her gaze was down towards the drink.

  The café was warm, steamy even, with an all-pervasive smell of fried bacon. Zara was wearing a heavy coat and a thick woollen scarf around her neck. Now we were into September, the mornings could be chilly, but her clothes looked overly wintry, even by my standards.

  I watched her for a while and noticed how still she was. It was as though she was in a trance. Instead of the relief and exhilaration I thought I’d feel, having finally tracked her down, I felt only sadness to see her brought so low.

  I walked towards her, searching with every step for the right words that might cheer her, to lift her from the dark place she had sunken into.

  ‘Hello Zara,’ I said, as gently as I could, while coming around to the other side of the table to face her. ‘Can I join you?’

  She lifted her head slowly and directed her gaze at me. She squinted, as though she was standing in a long tunnel looking out at a bright light. Her hair fell back from her face, exposing pale skin. I had always been envious of Zara’s olive skin, she could sit in the shade and still get tanned. Now, seeing her so pale, made me think she must have been living in the shadows.

  ‘Janie,’ she said. There was no emotion in her voice, she just stated it as a fact, as though she had expected to look up and see me standing there.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said and reached out to take one of her hands, but they remained motionless, holding her mug. I pulled out a chair and went to sit down and at the same moment a waitress appeared at the table.

  ‘What’ll it be, luv?’ she asked, in a broad Liverpool accent.

  ‘Another drink, Zara, or something to eat?’

  Zara was still looking at me and for a moment I wondered if she had taken a drug of some kind. She seemed to be oblivious to the waitress, who was fidgeting beside the table, anxious to take our order.

  ‘Just one coffee, please,’ I said, hoping this would send her on her way.

  The waitress had been holding a pencil and pad in her hand, anticipating a significant order. Now, with just a cup of coffee to remember, she sighed, dropped the pencil and pad into her pocket and walked off to a neighbouring table.

  ‘It’s so good to see you.’ I moved my hand across the table so that it rested beside hers, not quite touching. ‘We’ve been worried about you.’

  I searched her face for any expression that might tell me what she was thinking, or how she was feeling, but all I could see was the dullness of her eyes, once vivid and bright. Her lips were dry and cracked. It was as if she had just returned from a polar expedition and was numb from the feet up.

  The waitress arrived with my coffee and plonked it down in front of me with such gusto that the dark brown liquid slopped over into the saucer, pooling around the base of the cup.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t miss the sarcasm in my voice. She mumbled something and shuffled off back to the counter.

  ‘How are you? You look…’ I hesitated. It was difficult to sum up all the things she looked; tired, lonely, sad, unwell, were just a few of the words at the tip of my tongue. ‘Greg se
nds his love. He’s been missing having you around the place, now he just has to put up with little old me.’

  More customers came in, bringing with them a draught of fresh air. I noticed Zara shiver and wanted to wrap my arms around her, but it was as though she was surrounded by an invisible wall.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ I said. ‘Shall we walk round to your digs? Hey, I could get some bits to eat on the way. Do we pass a shop? I reckon you could do with feeding up.’ I wondered at what point she would start to talk to me and how soon I would run out of topics for my pathetic monologue.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, pushing the mug away.

  She stood and walked up to the counter, took a few coins from her pocket and gave them to the waitress. By the time I had paid for my coffee and waited for the change she was out of the door and halfway up the road.

  ‘Hey, Zara, wait. My legs aren’t as long as yours, remember,’ I called after her. She carried on walking ahead of me and didn’t turn around. I increased my pace to brisk and within a few minutes I was up beside her. She turned into an alleyway and I wondered where she was heading, then suddenly she stopped and turned around.

  ‘Janie, go away. I don’t want you here.’

  ‘I’m your friend, I miss you and I want to help you.’

  ‘You can’t help me. It’s too late for that, much too late.’

  ‘Come back with me. Come home, whatever needs sorting out we can do it together. That’s what friends are for.’

  ‘No, Janie, I mean it. You need to go now and not come back.’

  She stood with her eyes fixed and defiant, but everything else about her posture shouted exhaustion. Her shoulders were slumped forward and her arms hung at her side.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go for now, but I will be back. I won’t let you go through this on your own.’ I turned and walked away. As I reached the end of the alley I looked back to see which way she’d gone, but there was no sight of her.

  A walk around the town helped me to get the thoughts straight in my head. At least now I knew my friend was alive. My first instinct was to tell dad I’d found her and ask him what he thought my next step should be. But this was my search and it was up to me to plan from here. I stopped at one of the bus shelters and sat on the bench for a while. A couple of buses came and went while I looked through my notebook and thought long and hard about what to do next.

  Chapter 25

  ‘Poirot,’ I cried, ‘I congratulate you! This is a great discovery.’

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie

  On my next visit to Brightport I arrived at the alleyway early. Most of the properties looked like small warehouse units. A few had signs displayed outside, announcing their owners. I glanced along the doorways to see if there was any sign of a familiar name, or even evidence of a doorway leading to a flat or house. I felt sure Zara had gone into one of the entrances along the alley, but the more I looked, the more unlikely it became.

  At one end of the alley there was a large covered entrance to one of the lock ups, where I could stand and be reasonably secluded. After standing there for ten minutes undisturbed, a delivery van pulled up and I realised I was in front of some loading doors.

  ‘Mind yourself, love,’ a burly chap called out, as he opened the van doors, loaded his sack-barrow with boxes of crisps and started to walk towards me.

  ‘Sorry, yes, will do. Morning, by the way.’ I said. By moving out of the way I would be in full view of anyone walking up and down the alley, so I walked around the van and stood to one side of it. From this position I could see all the doorways down the alley, but couldn’t be seen by anyone approaching. Of course, this only worked as long as the driver wheeled his sack-barrow back and forth from the van to the loading doors. After a while he was all done. He folded up the barrow, shoved it into the back of the van and slammed the doors shut.

  ‘You waiting for someone?’ he said, walking past me to reach the driver’s door.

  ‘Um, kind of. Do you know the area well? Are there any flats down here?’

  ‘Not down here, love. There’s the club, the one I’ve just been delivering to and the rest are small warehouses, well, storerooms more than anything.’

  ‘There’s no-one living down here then? It’s just I thought my friend gave me this as her address. I must have got in a muddle.’

  ‘Living? No, unless you mean those scroungers who are squatting in the disused Walker’s place,’ he nodded towards the far end of the alley. ‘Disgusting if you ask me. Shouldn’t be allowed.’

  As the van driver pulled away I walked towards the entrance of Walker’s storeroom, wondering what I was going to find inside. I pushed the old wooden door and at first it seemed to be locked, but it was just the warped timber that was blocking my way. I gave the door another shove and I was in.

  A narrow corridor led out into a large expanse. I peered through the gloom and tried not to gasp as I took in the degradation that met my eyes. The walls were covered with patches of damp and black mould. Paint was flaking off the ceiling. Although we were at ground level there was only one small window, which looked as though it was boarded up from the outside, with a little light coming through in-between the slats. It crossed my mind that Greg would have a fit, certain that Bean was being exposed to toxins just by my standing here, breathing in the musty air. I moved forward gingerly, making sure I didn’t touch the walls.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the dim light I could make out four old mattresses, yellowed and stained, retrieved from a rubbish dump perhaps. Old, torn blankets and coats were scattered randomly across the mattresses, providing minimal warmth in this cold, damp place. There was a girl laying on one of the mattresses, turned away from me, her body covered in an old raincoat, her hair pulled back and roughly tied with some string. Another lad was sitting on his mattress, looking directly at me. He had blonde hair and could have passed for Norwegian, or Dutch. And there was Zara. There was a threatening intensity to the way the blonde lad looked at me. Was Zara being held against her will?

  I walked over to her and spoke quietly, hoping the others wouldn’t hear me. ‘What are you doing here, Zara? Come home with me, please. I can’t leave you here in this place, it’s…’

  She shook her head and motioned for me to sit down beside her. She was sitting on the edge of one of the mattresses with her legs tucked up underneath her. Bizarrely, she looked more at home here than she had ever looked during that long year at our house. I was trying to come up with an excuse not to sit down, certain I would find myself bitten with fleas, or worse. As if he could read my mind, the blonde-haired lad came over and held out a folding wooden chair, a deckchair of sorts. Perhaps he’d pinched it from the seafront.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, as he opened it up for me and then walked back to his mattress.

  The fourth mattress could have been for someone who would return later, or for any new arrival who might fancy joining their little group.

  ‘No wonder you’re so thin,’ I said, continuing to keep my voice to a whisper. ‘What have you been eating? What are you living on? You don’t have any money do you? Oh Zara, I can’t bear to see you like this.’

  My voice was clearly not quiet enough because as though on cue the blonde-haired lad got up again and handed me an opened packet of biscuits. I shook my head and watched Zara as she smiled at him in gratitude.

  ‘You won’t understand, Janie, so I’m not even going to try to explain. Just go home, go back to your cosy life and leave me to mine.’ The bitterness in her voice was not something I’d heard before. Grief, yes, but never anger.

  ‘You’ve probably noticed I’ve had a development since I last saw you,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. I pointed to my midriff and smiled.

  ‘I’m pleased for you, Janie, really I am.’

  It felt as though we were worlds apart. There was nothing I could say to her to bridge the gap. I wished dad was here, or Greg, or anyone who might be able to get through to
her. I was getting nowhere.

  ‘Is there a danger of you being evicted from here?’ I asked her, remembering what the van driver had said about scroungers. If he knew about the squat I guessed other people did too and it wouldn’t be long before the authorities would have something to say about it.

  ‘Are you planning to tell someone about us? We’re not harming anyone you know.’ The anger had gone from her voice now and she sounded more like the Zara I remembered from our schooldays, wistful and full of dreams. Just as I was recalling the fun times we used to have together, listening to music and dancing, the blonde-haired lad picked up a guitar that had been laying on the floor next to his mattress and started to strum it. The sound immediately softened the atmosphere and I noticed Zara’s face relax. She closed her eyes and moved her head in time to the music.

  ‘Do you remember when we danced together, Zara? We had some fun times when we were at school together, didn’t we?’ Perhaps by reminiscing about positive days I could encourage her to accept my help, just as she did when she was told about Joel’s death.

  ‘It was a long time ago, I’m not the same person now. You’ve never known the real me. Trust me, you won’t want to.’

  ‘You’ve got so much to offer the world, you know. All the chats we’ve had, you’ve taught me a lot. You’ve shown me a new way of looking at things. Make Joel proud, move forward with your life. Don’t waste it hiding away here.’

  ‘Go home, Janie, just go home.’

  I stayed a little longer, but knew I was achieving nothing, except potentially putting myself and Bean at risk from the damp and acrid stench of the place. As I left I promised her I’d be back. She remained sitting on the mattress and as I turned at the door to wave goodbye she had her eyes closed and her head bowed.

  On the way back on the bus I took deep breaths, trying desperately to bite back tears. Once I was home I had a bath and put all my clothes to wash before Greg got back. Even after bathing, the rancid, smoky smell lingered in my memory.