Jigsaw

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘But Magda has lots of friends,’ Rona said, with more loyalty than truth, and was rewarded with a flash of gratitude.

  ‘That is so? I am so happy to hear it! My husband always say I fuss too much.’

  ‘Is he Italian too?’ Rona asked, gaining confidence.

  ‘No, he is as English as you are. We met when he was working in Italy, but he has been moved back here now.’ Mrs King glanced ruefully at the cloudy sky outside the window. ‘I miss the sunshine,’ she said.

  And that was how it began. Rona’s obvious appreciation of her mother and her home, not to mention her support on the subject of friends, penetrated Magda’s prickliness and they did indeed become friends and, apart from a clash or two, had remained so ever since.

  Rona smiled sleepily, rearranged her pillow, and turned out the light.

  Avril Parish stood at the kitchen sink and stared unseeingly through the window. Tom had already left for work, with that air of suppressed eagerness that both hurt and infuriated her. She knew, though he hadn’t said so, that he was dreading his retirement – and so, heaven knew, was she. There were so many things they hadn’t discussed. Would she be expected to be home each day to cook his lunch? What of her trips to town, her bridge, her hours at the charity shop? Would she be forced to ‘retire’ simply because he had?

  She turned on the taps, remembering a similar panic when the girls left home for university. How, she’d wondered, would she face the long evenings when Tom dozed over his paper, without their lively chatter to enliven them? Still, the courses had been of limited duration and she was proud of her daughters’ achievements. The sense of rejection came later when, though both were working in Marsborough, they elected to share a flat instead of living at home. But they’d always been as thick as thieves, whispering secrets together from early childhood and, whether deliberately or not, making her feel excluded.

  She squeezed in the washing-up liquid, her mind still broodingly on her daughters. They hadn’t turned out as she’d expected. In fact, nothing had. To start with, they were too independent by half. Rona’s downright refusal to take Max’s name on her marriage had been bad enough – and raised not a few eyebrows at the bridge club – but when they decided to live apart half the week, she gave up on them. No amount of explanation could make her accept the logic, though Tom, after the initial shock, had come round to it. And admittedly they still seemed happy together. Despite what Lindsey termed their ‘semi-detachment’, at least they hadn’t formally separated, as Lindsey herself had from Hugh.

  And that was another bone of contention, Avril thought, determinedly scrubbing at a pan. God knows, Lindsey had put them all through it during the lead-up to her divorce – tantrums, storms of tears, total unreasonableness. But she’d come through it, been offered promotion in her job, and now had her own nice little flat out at Fairhaven. And into this restored harmony Hugh had had the damned nerve to reappear. Even more unbelievably, Lindsey had let him, arousing in her mother an overpowering urge to shake her.

  ‘Haven’t you any pride at all?’ she had ranted. ‘You let that man walk all over you! If you’ve forgotten what he put you through last time, you’ve a shorter memory than the rest of us.’

  Lindsey’s mouth had set in the familiar mutinous line. ‘He comes up on my terms, Mum. I know what I’m doing. I’ve never said I’ll take him back.’

  ‘He’s as good as back already. Well, don’t expect us to pick up the pieces next time, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘Don’t keep on at her, love,’ Tom had said later, in his maddeningly patient way. ‘You’ll only make her more determined to go her own way.’

  ‘What makes you think she pays a blind bit of notice to anything I say?’ she’d retorted. ‘I’m only her mother.’

  He had put an arm round her waist. ‘I know you’re worried for her – so am I. But we learned early on, didn’t we, that’s not the way to win the twins round. They’re apt to bolt if too much pressure is applied. We worried about Rona, too, but everything seems to be going swimmingly.’

  ‘If that’s what you call spending only half the week with your husband.’ Even as she said it, Avril felt a twist of unacknowledged envy, which only added to her irritation. ‘Why have they turned out like this?’ she’d cried, shrugging away from his arm. ‘It’s not the way we brought them up.’

  But he had only shaken his head and wandered out of the room. Well, they’d be here this evening, Rona, Max and Lindsey, though thankfully not Hugh. And if she didn’t get a move on, the butcher would have sold out of the best cuts of beef. Avril tipped the foamy water out of the bowl, dried her hands, and reached for her old cardigan. Sufficient unto the day, she thought gloomily as she let herself out of the house.

  Nuala was shampooing the spare-room carpet when the phone rang and, propping the machine against the wall, she went into her bedroom and picked up the extension, her mind still on preparations for her guest.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Well, hello there. How are things?’

  A wave of heat suffused her and her hand tightened on the phone. ‘Clive?’ she stammered.

  ‘The very same. Nice to hear your voice after all this time.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ she retorted, shock giving way to anger. ‘What do you want, Clive?’

  ‘Just phoning to see how you and Will are.’

  ‘After three years?’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘I was warned off by your father, if you remember. “Never darken our doors again” and all the rest of it. So I didn’t darken your phone, either.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked evenly.

  ‘In Chilswood at the moment, but I’ve no permanent base.’

  ‘Very wise.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Point is, I want to ask a favour.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Nothing drastic, just a bit of storage space. With being on the move, I need somewhere to leave a few things for a while.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Just a couple of suitcases. If I dump them in the spare room, they won’t be in anyone’s way.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong; I have a paying guest coming next week.’

  There was a brief silence. Then he said, ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘I’m not the one who tells lies, Clive.’

  ‘You’re actually going to have someone living in?’

  ‘Yes.’ No need to tell him it was only for four weeks.

  ‘A man?’ There was suspicion in his voice.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ But it was pointless being childish, and she added, ‘Actually, it’s a woman. A writer.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t object to the odd suitcase on top of the wardrobe.’

  ‘She might not, but I would. I don’t want anything of yours here, Clive. For all I know, they could be full of drugs or stolen goods.’

  He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You’ve too much imagination, my love, that’s your trouble. It’s all perfectly innocuous, I assure you; I just—’

  ‘Then put them in a left-luggage locker,’ she said crisply. ‘I have to go, I’m busy. Please don’t call again.’

  She put the phone down and stood, heart hammering, looking round the bedroom she’d once shared with her husband. God, he was still her husband! She tended to forget that. At the time of his departure she’d been too traumatized to face divorce proceedings, and as the months passed and nothing was heard from him, she’d kept putting it off. In any case, she hadn’t known how to contact him. Now he’d turned up again, all the old fears came back. Perhaps she should—

  ‘Nuala? Did I hear the phone? I’m expecting a call.’

  She went on to the landing and looked down at her father standing in the hall.

  His voice sharpened. ‘What is it, girl? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘That was Clive, Dad.’

  He stiffened, leaning more heavily on his Zimmer. ‘What in God’s name did he want
?’

  ‘To use us as a left-luggage office.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Some suitcases, contents unspecified. He suggested leaving them in the spare room, “out of the way”. I told him it was impossible.’

  Jack Stanton was silent for a minute. Then he asked, ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘The same as ever.’

  ‘He didn’t – threaten you in any way?’

  ‘I didn’t give him the chance.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t like it, him surfacing like that. It can only mean trouble. Suppose he doesn’t take no for an answer?’

  ‘We’ll face that hurdle when we come to it. In the meantime, though, I’ll go and see Frank Jeffries and start divorce proceedings. That should nip it in the bud.’

  ‘He’d still have access to Will.’

  ‘He’s never made the slightest attempt to see him,’ Nuala said hotly. ‘Why should he now?’

  ‘To cause problems,’ Jack Stanton answered flatly.

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve wasted enough of my life worrying about Clive, Dad; I’m not going to let him get to me again. Now, I’m going to finish cleaning this carpet and then I’ll see about lunch. OK?’

  He held her eye for a moment longer, then nodded slowly and turned away. Nuala drew a deep breath and, determined to abide by her resolution, returned to her work.

  Avril’s forte was plain English cooking, at which she excelled, and it was for this reason that she preferred the family to come to Sunday lunch, with its traditional roast. Deprived of that option, she had settled on smoked salmon, followed by grilled steak and gooseberry fool. It had been Paola King who’d given Rona her taste for spicy foods, and made her a regular visitor to Dino’s.

  Lindsey was tense that evening, no doubt anticipating a tirade against Hugh, and to safeguard her, Rona monopolized the conversation with her plans for the Buckford articles.

  ‘We found a very pleasant B&B up there,’ she said, ‘recommended by the vicar, no less. Actually, he was helpful in other ways, too. He gave me the name of a woman who’s lived there for years and is a mine of information, and another who was a headmistress and compiled histories of the local schools. Believe it or not, she retired to Marsborough, but I can’t find her in the phone book, which is frustrating.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Avril asked, passing round the vege tables.

  ‘Bishop, Catherine Bishop.’

  Tom looked up in surprise. ‘I know Mrs Bishop. She has an account with us.’

  ‘Has she, Pops? What a stroke of luck! What’s she like?’

  ‘Well, I’ve hardly spoken to her, but she struck me as quiet and unassuming. I’d no idea she used to be a headmistress.’

  ‘Could you let me have her phone number?’ Rona asked eagerly, but her father was shaking his head.

  ‘Against bank policy, love. Next time I see her, though, I’ll ask if she’d mind your contacting her.’

  ‘But she mightn’t come in for ages,’ Rona protested, ‘and I really need to speak to her.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s the best I can do.’

  Rona bit her lip in frustration, but she knew that note in her father’s voice, and accepted that nothing she could say would sway him.

  ‘What about the other person?’ Lindsey asked, coming in her turn to Rona’s rescue.

  ‘Which other person?’

  ‘The one who’s a mine of information. Can’t you start with her?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ Rona said ungraciously.

  ‘Rona saw the Ridgeways the other evening,’ Max remarked into the uncomfortable silence. ‘Apparently Gavin’s finally fit again.’

  Rona, aware that both her sister and her husband were trying to rally her, flashed them a shamefaced smile and emerged from her sulk. ‘They’ve been living it up in Brazil,’ she volunteered, and the conversation settled back on an even keel. Between them, they kept it going, ensuring there was no pause in which Avril could insert the subject of Hugh, and as a result the remainder of the evening passed without incident.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ Lindsey said outside on the pavement. ‘That went better than I’d dared hope. Mum opened her mouth purposefully once or twice, but each time one or other of you leapt nobly into the breach and cut her off.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ Max said lightly.

  Four

  As it happened, Catherine Bishop called at the bank the following day. Mindful of his promise, Tom had asked the chief cashier to advise him of her next visit, and a little after eleven, his phone rang.

  ‘Mrs Bishop has just come in, Mr Parish,’ the cashier told him. ‘She’s purchasing some foreign currency.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles. Would you ask her to come and see me when you’ve completed the transaction?’

  Five minutes later there was a tap on his door and she was shown into the room. Tom rose to his feet and held out his hand, which she gravely took.

  ‘Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr Parish?’ she asked quietly, seating herself at his invitation.

  ‘No, not at all.’ He glanced down at his hands clasped on the desk, aware of the unusualness of his request. ‘I’m wondering if I could possibly ask you a favour,’ he began, and saw her eyebrows arch.

  ‘My daughter is about to start on a series of articles to coincide with Buckford’s celebrations next year, and your name was given to her as a source of information.’

  Catherine Bishop frowned. ‘Given by whom?’

  ‘Er – the vicar, I believe.’

  ‘Gordon Breen?’ Surprise rang in her voice.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know his name. Look, if you’d rather—’

  ‘No, please, tell me more about this project. She’s a journalist, your daughter?’

  ‘Basically she’s a writer. She works freelance for Chiltern Life but her main interest is biographies. She—’

  Mrs Bishop held up a hand. ‘Just a moment – biographies?’ A look of enlightenment crossed her face. ‘Your daughter’s not Rona Parish, by any chance?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘How silly of me not to have made the connection. I’ve read several of her books. You must be very proud of her.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Tom said simply, and they both smiled, simultaneously aware of each other not as stereotypical bank manager and customer, but as two human beings. A check on the computer had revealed that Catherine Bishop was a widow in her fifties; now he found himself compiling a more personal dossier. Quiet and unassuming was how he’d described her, but that, he was realizing, left a lot unsaid. The first thing he’d noticed as she crossed the room towards him had been her impeccable grooming, hair sleek, shoes highly polished, and linen suit miraculously uncreased. The second, as she sat across from him, was her deportment, straight-backed and with feet neatly together – a posture that had no doubt served as an example to her pupils.

  For the rest, her face was unremarkable – pale skin, steady grey eyes, very little make-up, hair simply styled, light brown fading to grey. But there was an air of what he could only describe as stillness about her that he found oddly restful. He sat back in his chair, unconsciously relaxing.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d been a headmistress,’ he said.

  She took the non sequitur in her stride. ‘Yes indeed, for twelve years. I was widowed when I was forty, and teaching was my anchor. It was also a lifestyle ideally suited to having a young son; I worked the same hours he did, and was home during the holidays.’

  ‘So what brought you to Marsborough?’

  ‘My mother; she suffered a stroke two years ago and was no longer able to look after herself. I took early retirement and moved down here.’

  ‘It must have been a wrench.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Sadly she died last year, but there’s nothing to take me back to Buckford. My son’s married and living in Cricklehurst, so I see quite a bit of him and his wife.’ She paused, and added with a smile, �
�We seem to have strayed from your original request. What was it you wanted to ask me?’

  Tom flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrogate you. It was just that Rona would very much like to meet you. She was told you’d done a lot of research on the history of the schools up there.’

  ‘I suppose I have. It started as a project for eleven-year-olds and just – took off.’

  ‘Would you have any objection to meeting her?’

  ‘Of course not, I should be delighted. As I said, I’ve admired her work for some time.’

  ‘Then may I give her your phone number? She couldn’t find it in the book.’

  ‘The directory came out while I was at my mother’s.’ She opened her bag, extracted a card, and handed it across to him. ‘I’ll be in Paris for the weekend – I’ve just been collecting some euros – but perhaps we could arrange something for next week.’

  ‘Paris? I envy you,’ Tom said. He had a sudden vision of her walking in the Tuileries Gardens, sitting at pavement cafés, going to museums and art galleries. Her visit, he felt sure, would not be the frenzied shopping trip he’d endured with Avril on their sole visit to the French capital twenty years ago. He felt a twinge of disloyalty, and cleared his throat to free himself of it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, unconsciously echoing his thoughts, ‘I’m hoping to see the Matisse exhibition.’ She closed her handbag and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘I look forward to hearing from her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tom had risen with her, casting about for ways of detaining her but unable to think of any. He took the hand she held out.

  ‘Have a good trip,’ he said fatuously, and rang for a clerk to see her out. As the door closed behind her he sat down again, feeling oddly flat. A charming woman, he thought, and wondered suddenly who was accompanying her to Paris. The telephone on his desk shrilled sharply, and he turned to it with a sense of undefined relief.

  ‘Tom Parish,’ he said.

  Catherine thought over the meeting as she walked back to her car. She seldom went to the bank, and as far as she could remember this was the first time she’d spoken to the manager. He seemed a pleasant man, touchingly proud of his clever daughter – and with reason. Rona Parish had a gift for making readers empathize with her subjects; though frank about their faults and eccentricities, she was non-judgemental, illustrating instead how those traits had made them the characters they were and contributed to their enduring places in history. Catherine always finished one of her biographies feeling that the subject was a friend.