False Report

by Veronica Heley

  A nasty, suspicious thought wormed its way up from the back of Bea’s mind. She imagined she could hear Ianthe fluting, ‘Oh, poor Mrs Abbot, such an important little book, I know how much you rely on it. I suppose Maggie took it by mistake. Such a sweet girl, but perhaps . . . I hardly dare say it, as I know she’s a special favourite of yours . . . but perhaps a little clumsy at times?’

  Everything Bea touched seemed to go wrong.

  FOUR

  Bea could well imagine Maggie borrowing the book for some reason and, yes, she might well have upset her coffee over it.

  What she couldn’t imagine was Maggie failing to own up. Maggie wasn’t like that. Or was she? Was this trivial accident the cause of her tears the other evening?

  Bea sat down in the chair at the desk with a bump. Was the open-hearted, vulnerable, feisty girl she had taken into her heart a reality? If not, then why should Bea worry about the girl’s future?

  Silence grew around her. The light faded fast down here, though it couldn’t be very late. She looked about her, with an uncomfortable feeling that something was amiss. The chair she was sitting on, for instance. Maggie was tall, as tall as Bea, yet as Bea sat in the chair, her knees were pressed to the underside of the desk.

  Which meant that someone had recently been sitting at this desk who was shorter than Maggie, and who had raised the seat to compensate for her loss of inches. Had someone else been using this office?

  This room was something of a battleground, as Ianthe coveted it for herself, saying they were uncomfortably crowded in the main office. Which was true. But this was where Maggie kept all her paperwork: estimates, bills to be paid, enquiries, samples of tiles, books of wallpapers, catalogues. Maggie did use a computer, but she also kept hard copies of everything that passed through her hands, storing them in a fashion only she could understand, in various boxes parked in piles around her desk. On the notice board above the desk, yellow Post-it notes vied for space with postcards, reminders from the library and the dentist; evidence of a life lived at speed.

  Something was missing.

  There was no computer or telephone.

  Dimly, Bea recalled Ianthe apologizing for removing Maggie’s computer for a few days while another was being repaired or updated. But that had been some time ago, surely? Maggie had a laptop. She would have that with her. Ianthe had suggested they install a hub in the house so that all the computers could be used in any room at any time. Did that mean Maggie’s laptop was subject to the same password routine as Bea’s? Surely not! Maggie would have an even greater struggle than Bea to remember an intricate password.

  And the telephone? Maggie lived on her mobile phone, which meant she wasn’t always available to take other people’s calls. Ah, but Celia had always taken messages for Maggie.

  Celia had resigned. Who was taking messages for Maggie now?

  Bea rubbed her forehead. Ianthe had been arguing that Maggie’s side of the business should be completely divorced from the agency. Maggie should have separate insurance, said Ianthe, and submit her own accounts to her own accountant.

  Bea had agreed with Ianthe in principle and said that she would discuss separating the two sides of the business at the end of the financial year, by which time Maggie might be able to employ a part-timer to keep her straight. Bea had suggested that Celia might be able to do this . . .

  Bea did not like unanswered questions. No doubt Ianthe would be able to sort everything out on the morrow.

  The house was quiet. Too quiet. Maggie couldn’t have returned yet. She hadn’t said she’d be out late that evening, had she?

  Maggie’s last job had been to organize the loft conversion at the top of the house. The attic rooms had been gutted and the space opened up at the back of the house, creating two bedrooms, a sitting room, a newly-fitted bathroom and small galley kitchen. One reason for Bea’s recent holiday had been to avoid the disruption to water and electricity supplies to the house caused by the building works.

  Bea made her way up the stairs, and as she did so, her mobile phone rang. She dived into the sitting room to disinter it from her handbag.

  It was CJ. ‘I tried ringing your landline but it went through to answerphone.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I was down in the agency rooms and didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Finding a housekeeper for Jeremy?’

  ‘I will, when I can get into the system. I seem to be locked out at present.’ She tried out a laugh. It didn’t work very well.

  ‘Mm. I heard about that.’

  ‘Did you?’ Now how had he heard about it? Ah, through Oliver, no doubt. It made her wince to think that Oliver was still in close contact with CJ, but hadn’t troubled himself to contact Bea for a while.

  How had Oliver heard? Through Maggie, of course. Bea sighed. The clues went round and round and came out . . . where?

  CJ said, ‘If you’ve got a bit of time on your hands, would you care to have dinner with me tomorrow night?’

  ‘Delighted.’

  He switched off, and so did she. She wondered why she’d agreed so readily to dine with him. He’d not asked her out for dinner before. Ah well, he couldn’t complicate her life any more, could he?

  Thursday evening

  ‘Nance; this new girl. She’s pretty enough, I’ll grant you that, but there’s nothing between the ears. Josie seemed to know by instinct how to get a man interested in her, but this one . . .!’

  ‘I’m not wasting all the research I did at the conference. The girl will be all right.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Another thing; did you have to throw all Josie’s things out so soon? It seems a bit, well, callous.’

  ‘I was fond of her too, but we can’t risk the police linking her to our flat. If they can’t find any connection to us, they’ll put her death down as just another prostitute coming to a bad end. Life goes on.’

  ‘I’m not letting the little man get away with what he did to Josie. I’m going to pay him a visit, remind him of the realities of life.’

  ‘We can’t afford to draw the attention of the police to us.’

  ‘I promise I won’t lay a finger on him. But he’s got to pay for what he’s done!’

  Thursday late evening

  Bea inhaled the scent of new paint. Maggie had made a good job of the loft conversion. The rooms were light and airy, painted in white tinged with the palest of pastels, with matching blinds at the windows. The original furniture had been moved back into the bedrooms, and yes, the new sofa-bed had been delivered. Good.

  But, there were no books on the shelves, no pictures on the walls; no attempt had been made to personalize the space.

  Bea reminded herself that Maggie had camped out in the guest room downstairs while the builders had been in, and that Oliver was still away at university. Now the boxes containing Oliver’s belongings stood squarely in his bedroom awaiting his return, and Maggie seemed to be living out of suitcases in her bedroom. As if she didn’t expect to be here for long?

  The living room should have been a cool and restful place. A white leather three-piece suite, a television and an occasional table had been delivered, half denuded of their packaging and left in a huddle.

  A fine new wooden floor had been laid there, but it was currently hard to spot as it looked as if someone had emptied a filing cabinet over it – and stirred it around. Bea recognized some of Maggie’s drawings, blueprints, estimates. Her familiar Post-it notes had been scattered liberally around. Her laptop was there, too – plugged into the mains.

  Bea received various messages from what she saw, none of which gave her a happy feeling. The new rooms looked unlived in. She had a horrid suspicion that Oliver was never going to return home, but would be asking her to send his boxes on to . . . wherever.

  And Maggie? Was she thinking of leaving, too? They had every right to live their own lives wherever they wished, but . . . Bea hugged herself, though the evening was warm enough.

  Think positively, Bea. These rooms on the top floo
r would make an excellent self-contained flat to rent out if she sold the house to Max. He’d probably employ a nanny for his son, and she could live up here or in the basement rooms. Lucky Max.

  From the back window of the sitting room she looked down into the garden, thrown into shadow by the sycamore tree at the far end. The evening sunlight was fading into twilight. Was that a star in the sky above the tree? No, an aeroplane.

  Before her rose the pale spire of the church, one side lit to glory by the setting sun.

  Dear Lord, I don’t understand what’s going on. I feel so lost. Everything I took for granted – my work, my family – is shifting from under my feet.

  All right, I know in my head that life moves on, that people move away. I can’t expect Oliver and Maggie to live with me for ever, but I thought . . . no, I hoped . . . no, I really believed that they were happy to have me in the background of their lives for some time to come.

  I mustn’t be selfish if they want to move on, even if I don’t think they’re ready to do so.

  Again, I must not be selfish and keep this big house all to myself if they want to leave. I must be grateful that my grandson will be brought up in a house with a garden, even though he’s hardly old enough yet to enjoy it.

  She began to pace the shadowy room, arms folded around herself.

  Dear Lord, you gave up so much to show us the Way and the Truth and the Light, when you came down to earth. I wonder how much and how often you regretted leaving your home to help others. And here am I, crying inside because I may have to leave my safe little niche so that other people can have a better life.

  I ought to be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. I’m resenting it like mad.

  She stood at the window, trying to understand what was happening, trying to resign herself to leaving all that she loved, her work, her extended family, the house which had been hers and Hamilton’s for so many years . . . good years, filled with hard work and loving kindness.

  Finally, she ran out of words to hurl at God and just stood.

  In the end, she prayed again. For patience. For guidance. For the knowledge that she was still His much-loved child, however much she railed at Him.

  In the stillness she remembered someone else’s tears.

  So what if Maggie had been crying? Maggie had ruined Bea’s address book. Maggie was going to leave her. Maggie’s tears were nothing to Bea, who must accept what was happening, pretend she didn’t care. Move on with her life.

  Max had said Bea would be a very rich woman when she sold up. Well, she wouldn’t be that rich if she gave a decent sum away to Oliver and Maggie . . . on top of which she had guaranteed to see Oliver through university, which was going to cost an arm and a leg. She supposed that she could let Max buy the house on easy terms – which is no doubt what he intended – but then she’d have to buy herself somewhere else to live in a less fashionable neighbourhood and try to find something to do with the rest of her life.

  In the silence came the sound of the front door closing, not with a bang, but a quiet thunk. Was that Maggie returning? Maggie usually rushed in, letting the door bang to behind her and yelling that she was back – ‘Hello, it’s me!’ She would then thunder into the kitchen, turning on the television and the radio as she went, talking on the phone to one of her friends or a workman, and then there would come the clatter of pans and the burble of the electric kettle.

  Silence, except for quiet, slow footsteps mounting the stairs. Burglars? Or Maggie in unusually pensive mood?

  An unshaded light bulb was switched on above Bea, and both she and Maggie jumped.

  ‘Sorry about the mess! I meant to clear it up, but . . . I didn’t realize you were up here. This light’s awful. There’s some uplighters been delivered somewhere, but I haven’t got round to unpacking them yet.’

  ‘I suppose I should have waited for an invitation to visit your new rooms. You’ve done a really good job up here, Maggie.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maggie usually dressed in strident colours and coloured her hair in whatever shade took her fancy that week. Bea was concerned to see the girl was all in black today, and that her hair approximated to its original mid-brown. But so what if the girl was down in the mouth? Was that any concern of Bea’s?

  Well, yes. It was. ‘What’s the matter, Maggie?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ The girl looked around her as if she’d never seen the room before. ‘This overhead lighting’s all wrong, don’t you think?’ She threw down her large tote bag. ‘It’s quite all right, you don’t have to say anything. I know it’s time I moved on. I’ve been to look at a place today, but . . .’ She moved her shoulders. ‘It wasn’t very nice. I’ve got my name down for a rented flat at the estate agency in Church Street.’

  Bea’s tongue tied itself into knots. It wanted to say, ‘Do you really have to go?’ and, ‘Why are you deserting me?’ Instead, she managed, ‘How about a cuppa?’

  Maggie made as if to move to the kitchen area, and stopped. ‘I don’t think I’ve got any fresh milk up here.’

  ‘Come downstairs where it’s cosy, and then you can tell me all about it.’ Now why had she said that? Maggie’s defection had wounded her. She felt raw. And here she was, offering to listen to the girl’s troubles. Well, the offer had been extended, and Maggie followed her down the stairs, switching on the lights as they went.

  The kitchen was warm, and their huge black furry cat Winston was lying on the central work surface, waiting for them. Maggie picked him up and buried her face in his fur. Bea filled the kettle and switched it on. She busied herself getting out mugs, fresh milk, tea bags and biscuits.

  ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, really. I didn’t get the Thomason job, and I’m in a muddle with my paperwork as usual.’

  ‘What a shame. Did they say why not?’ Bea had been consulted when Maggie had been preparing the estimates and thought Maggie’s scheme had been sound and her quote well within the client’s budget.

  ‘It was all my fault. I should have checked, and it’s no good saying that I’d never needed to check before when Celia typed quotes up for me, and I know I ought to do my own typing, but . . . there’s always been so much to do, and Celia was brilliant at fielding messages for me, and she always managed somehow to fit my work in with hers, and I know you were worried that I was taking up so much of her time, but you never mentioned it to me.

  ‘No, I ought to have realized. I feel so stupid. Ianthe said she’d have to find someone else to do my work for me after Celia left, and she did get one of the girls to type up the estimate for me, but it was all such a rush at the last minute that I didn’t check, and the girl put it in the post for me. I’ve no one but myself to blame.’ She shrugged. ‘The total was five thousand over budget. A simple typing error, and I didn’t spot it.’

  Bea poured boiling water on to the tea bags. ‘Ianthe said I thought you were taking up too much of Celia’s time?’

  Another shrug. A dip into the biscuit tin. ‘They’re so busy down there. I ought to have realized they haven’t time for my bits and pieces any more. You should have said something, though I can see why you didn’t, not wanting to hurt my feelings and all that. As if ! Maggie the Thicko, what? Anyway, I’ve got the message now.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I have. Maggie, have you seen my little address book recently?’

  No blush, no embarrassment. No sigh of shame. ‘The one Oliver gave you at Christmas? Have you lost it? Do you want me to have a good hunt round for it? Where did you see it last?’

  ‘In your office downstairs.’

  A frown. ‘What? But . . . why should . . .? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I. Maggie, I’m wondering if perhaps Ianthe has been a little too businesslike—’

  ‘One can’t be businesslike enough, she says.’

  ‘Oh yes, one can. It seems to me that in her care for one side of the business, she’s let you down.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not really part of the agency n
owadays, am I? And she’s so busy. And the girl who’s replaced Celia is . . . Well, she doesn’t know me, does she? She doesn’t see why she should do any work for me, and she’s right.’

  Bea thought about that. And followed on with, ‘Have you any other jobs which you’ve asked Ianthe to see to?’

  ‘Well, yes; and she’s trying hard to fit them in. I’m a bit worried about one estimate which needs to be in next week. Ianthe keeps putting me off, so I’m thinking of taking it to a typing agency I’ve heard about. It’s not your problem.’

  ‘I think it is. Maggie; I want to help.’

  ‘Bless you, but I can manage.’ Maggie looked at the clock, checked her watch, and gave a little scream. ‘I promised to ring someone back tonight. Do you mind if I . . .?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Oh, but what about supper? I ate something earlier, but—’

  ‘I’ve eaten already. Go on. Get on with your life. I’ll clear up here.’

  Maggie vanished, already talking into her mobile. Feeling better now she’d talked to Bea.

  Bea felt worse. Ianthe was right in thinking that Maggie ought to outsource her own typing. Or was she? The fact was that the agency was changing. Most people would say it was for the better. Bea wasn’t so sure.

  She made a phone call of her own. Her first husband Piers, who had tom-catted himself out of their marriage, had become a good friend over the last few years, and he could always be relied upon for some cool-headed advice . . . that is, if he weren’t totally absorbed in whatever subject it was that he was painting at the moment. He might have been the stereotypical painter who starved in a garret when he was younger – except that Bea had gone out to work to keep him going in those years – but nowadays he was a much sought-after portrait painter, wooed by all the great and sometimes not so good.

  ‘Piers, can you spare me a minute or two tomorrow?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Been expecting this. Got a sitting at ten, early bird. Half eleven do you?’

  Yes, indeed.