A Parcel for Anna Browne

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘You know, a girl could get to like you, Murray. Do you fancy pairing up with me to run a stall?’

  As her colleagues colluded, Anna turned her head to watch the lush Surrey fields flying past the train window. If Murray and Sheniece were already paired up, it saved her from the prospect of being grilled by him about her latest parcel. She thought of the hope-heart painting on her coffee table at home and smiled to herself. What did she hope for today? She had considered the question a great deal since Wednesday evening and had still not found a definitive answer.

  I hope the sun stays out . . . I hope we raise a lot of money for the hospice . . .

  Sighing, she dismissed the question for the time being. The answer would come when it was ready.

  A coach was waiting at Esher station to ferry the Messenger employees to St Vincent’s Children’s Hospice, which lay a few miles out of town. A uniformly grumpy troupe of unwilling circus performers shuffled onto it, the sight of grumbling clowns, acrobats, jugglers and a particularly cheesed-off stiltwalker struggling onto a luxury coach garnering laughter from weekend commuters. Anna waved back at a small boy who was staring in open-mouthed joy at the brightly dressed line of people filing past his pushchair. Last year I couldn’t wait to hide on the coach, she thought, performing a comedic bow to the delight of the young onlooker and his parents. This year she found she was loving every minute.

  ‘Love the hat.’

  Anna turned to see Ben McAra standing next to her. He was wearing a dark-blue one-piece cycling suit with an enormous blue-and-white-spotted bow tie and looked a little self-conscious. ‘Nice – erm – bow tie.’

  Ben laughed. ‘I know, the suit seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I feel a little too exposed.’

  ‘You wear it well,’ Anna replied before she thought better of it. ‘I mean—’

  ‘Anna Browne! Are you checking me out?’

  Mortified, Anna stared down at her yellow Doc Martens. ‘No.’

  He nudged her. ‘It’s okay. Makes a nice change from Claire Connors’ unwarranted attention on my groin. I swear she was trying to strike up a conversation with it, all the way here.’

  ‘Does Sanjay know?’ Anna giggled, the blush on her cheeks thankfully hidden behind the ruby-red face-paint circles.

  ‘Sanjay’s been signed off for three months. Work-related stress, apparently. So Ms Connors is officially back on the prowl.’ He shuddered. ‘She’s trying to get me to pair up for a stall today. Don’t suppose you fancy rescuing a poor, practically naked journalist, do you?’

  What do you hope for, Anna?

  Anna suppressed a smile. ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  There it was again – the confidence she’d discovered lately, as natural as breathing. She thought of the daisy-chain necklace and the owl brooch lying on her bedside table, of the scarf in her wardrobe and the hope-heart painting in her living room. Four unrelated items – save for the person who had sent them – and yet the reason for the brand-new boldness she felt. Each gift had lifted her, filled her with courage and caused her to dare to wish for more.

  If I ever get to speak to the sender face-to-face, I’ll tell them how wonderful their gifts have been, she promised silently, stealing a sideways glance at Ben on the seat beside her as the coach headed towards St Vincent’s.

  The unseasonably warm April day bathed the hospice buildings and grounds with pale golden light, as teams of Messenger employees set up trestle tables on the wide, manicured lawn and laid out goods and games for the Charity Fair. Tombola stalls, funfair games and a coconut shy gradually took shape, with stalls selling home-made lemonade, cakes and jars of jams and chutneys dotted in between. At one end of the arc of tables a red-and-white-striped Punch and Judy stand was being erected, while yard upon yard of rainbow bunting was suspended over the stalls from two large pine trees that framed the Charity Fair site. Juliet Evans had called in favours from everyone she knew, bringing Shetland-pony rides, a Throw-and-Dunk cage and Florence, a beautifully restored 1966-vintage VW ice-cream van painted in pale-pink and light-brown stripes, to add to the delights on offer. It reminded Anna of the church fetes she and Ruari would visit in Polperro and Looe with various extended family members – usually Uncle Jabez or Aunt Zelda, Senara’s brother and sister, who took pity on the children after they were forbidden from seeing Morwenna. She remembered cake stalls heaving with home-made scones, Victoria sponges and fairy cakes – and the thrill of scrambling onto the cool grass beneath the gingham-covered tables with her fellow schoolfriends to eat their pocket-money purchases.

  ‘Names,’ an officious employee nobody recognised barked, as Anna and Ben stepped off the coach.

  Ben answered before Anna could give her name. ‘Ben McAra and Anna Browne. We’re paired up to man a stall.’

  The unsmiling jobsworth twitched in his yellow high-vis vest. ‘We’ve already allotted teams for stalls.’

  ‘Well, un-allot us from whoever you have on your list.’ Ben straightened to give the marshal the benefit of his full six feet, three inches of height, making a point of reading the plastic ID badge swinging from his official lanyard. ‘You see, Keith, Ms Browne and I are working together today.’

  The marshal looked up from his clipboard and attempted to outstare the journalist, resorting to a pained sigh when it became apparent he wasn’t going to win. ‘I wish you people would stop pairing up on the coach. It took me hours to write this list.’

  ‘And the poor, needy children of St Vincent’s thank you for your commitment.’ Ben slapped Keith on the back. ‘So, which stall?’

  ‘Splat the Rat,’ he glowered. ‘Between Guess the Name of the Teddy and the ice-cream van.’

  ‘Could he have said that with any more contempt?’ Anna giggled as they made their way across the lawn to their stall. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard the words “ice-cream van” delivered with such venom before. Who is he, anyway? I’ve only ever seen him with a clipboard at this event each year, but never at work.’

  ‘You want my theory? He’s Juliet’s love-slave, only allowed outside for one day of the year.’

  ‘Ben . . .’

  ‘Look at him – you don’t get that pasty white complexion from regular exposure to the open air. If you ask me, our Keith Sutton spends most of his time on his knees in a gimp mask.’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘You might not believe me, but I tell you, more scandals exist within the walls of the Daily Messenger than will ever fill its pages.’

  They had reached their stall – a bare trestle table next to a length of grey drainpipe with a hole cut halfway along its length. A sausage-shaped cylinder of brown fur fabric with a knotted string attached to one end made for a makeshift rat. Ben picked up a wooden rounders bat from the table and swung it like a baseball pro preparing for a pitcher’s lob.

  ‘I’m glad we got the passive-aggressive stall,’ he winked. ‘There’s enough collective angst here today to send this little furry fella to Stuffed Rat Heaven. Mind you, I hear the competition for Guess the Name of the Teddy could be fierce this year.’

  Anna inspected the pathetic excuse for a rat. ‘I feel a little sorry for him.’ She stroked its synthetic fur. ‘Doesn’t even have a face, to see what’s coming.’

  ‘Oh, great, I get to work with a pacifist.’ Ben nodded at the owner of the vintage ice-cream van as she laid out candy-coloured tables and chairs in front of the serving hatch. ‘I bet you don’t have this trouble.’

  ‘Have you ever faced the wrath of a queue of customers impatient for ice cream?’ she smiled back. ‘Maybe I should be worried that there’s a bat within easy grabbing distance of Florence.’ She patted the paintwork of the VW van as she walked behind it.

  Anna picked up a tablecloth from the folding chair behind the trestle and unfurled it. ‘What do people win, if they Splat the Rat?’ She noticed a box of sealed yellow paper bags beneath the table. ‘These?’

  Ben bent down to look. ‘It looks like someone’s been burni
ng the midnight oil making pick’n’mix prizes. Maybe that was Keith’s punishment in the dungeon . . . Okay, I won’t mention it again. I suppose the point is that everyone’s fifty pence to play the game goes to the hospice. The prizes are irrelevant.’

  The fair had its official opening at noon, Juliet giving a proud speech about her long-standing commitment to St Vincent’s and how much money her charity initiatives had raised to date. Anna couldn’t help thinking the Messenger’s assertive editor was a little too focussed on her own benevolence, rather than the work of the hospice in whose grounds she stood. But Juliet Evans was nothing if not ready to trumpet her own achievements – it was what set her apart in Fleet Street, characterising her career and making her one of the leading names in the newspaper business. The Messenger employees applauded politely, although Anna caught sight of Sheniece and Murray making vomit-impressions from behind the safety of the crowd.

  Compared with previous years, Anna’s stall was simple to run, but required far more energy. With so many stalls clamouring for attention (not to mention the irresistible delights of artisan ice cream next door), Anna and Ben had to fight to be noticed. Surprised again at how much fun she was having, Anna happily shouted to passers-by, trying to persuade them to have a go.

  ‘Roll up, roll up! Fancy your chances against Ricky the Rat, sir? He’s fast, but you might be faster . . . Madam, can I tempt you to take up the Splat-the-Rat challenge? It’s all for an excellent cause.’

  Last year she would have hidden behind the drainpipe, never daring to raise her voice above the crowd’s hubbub. And she would have hated every minute, feeling exposed and ridiculous, as she had felt every year before. But Anna Browne was different this year – laughing at her own forthrightness, playing up to the smiles of the people passing the stall. Did the parcel-sender know their gifts would have this effect, she wondered? Were they here, today, seeing the once-timid and softly spoken receptionist yelling her invitation to a field full of people she had never met before?

  She remembered Sheniece’s suggestion when the third parcel had arrived: Ben McAra is your secret admirer!

  Of course he wasn’t.

  But what if he was?

  He certainly appeared to be enjoying her performance, laughing with Anna whenever she successfully persuaded someone to play the game. Their playful banter had danced as easily as the cotton-wool clouds across the perfectly blue April Saturday sky and Anna felt as if they had been friends forever. But before today Ben had practically ignored her following their work-shadowing fortnight. What had changed? And might Ben have engineered the change by sending more parcels to her?

  ‘I brought you a reward for your excellent work.’ He handed her a waffle cone filled with three scoops of pastel-hued ice cream, halting her train of thought. ‘It’s Butterscotch Chip, Rhubarb-and-Custard and Toffee Fudge. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I chose my favourites and hoped for the best.’

  What else did you choose for me, Ben?

  Anna stopped herself. Far better to enjoy the day without questioning any of it. ‘It looks wonderful. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank Polly.’ Ben nodded in the direction of the smiling lady serving ice cream to a long line of customers. ‘She’s been so impressed with our stallholder skills she gave us these for free. She said we deserved them after all our yelling.’

  They sat on the folding chairs as a family took turns to catch the furry rat. Anna looked up to the bunting fluttering in the breeze overhead. ‘I’m exhausted.’ It was a good tiredness, though; breathless, like the aftermath of a giggling fit.

  ‘You can’t tell me you’ve never done that before. You’re a pro.’

  ‘I’ve had fun,’ Anna replied, savouring the taste of ice cream and still-new calmness in her spirit. If time were to freeze right now, locking this moment into eternity, she couldn’t be more content. ‘But I don’t think I’ll have much of a voice left tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be dreaming of stuffed rats all night, I think.’ He turned his head to her, squinting in the sun. ‘You surprise me, Anna.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just never pictured you as the gobby type.’

  Anna laughed. ‘Neither did I, before today.’ She accepted the rat from the family who had completed their game. ‘I must have Ricky to thank.’

  ‘Yeah, about that: what’s with Ricky the Rat?’

  ‘It’s a great name.’

  ‘It is not.’

  Anna turned the rat towards Ben. ‘He looks like a Ricky.’

  ‘He looks like a furry poo.’

  ‘Great way to put me off my ice cream, McAra.’

  ‘Sorry. Although, if you’re sure?’ He made a grab for Anna’s ice-cream cone, but she snatched it away.

  ‘Hands off! I’ve earned this.’

  Ben’s smile was earnest. ‘Yes, you have.’

  It was only much later that day, as the sun dipped down behind the Surrey countryside through the train windows, that Anna realised Ben hadn’t once asked her about the parcels. Murray Henderson-Vitt had implied that Ben would be after her story, yet he hadn’t mentioned Anna’s mysterious deliveries, or even alluded to her gifts today. If Sheniece’s theory that Ben sent the parcels was correct, why hadn’t he seized the opportunity to gauge her reaction to them?

  Sheniece is wrong, Anna concluded, letting the warm afterglow of a fun day flood her weary body. Ben couldn’t be the sender.

  Nineteen

  Ted Blaskiewicz was at Anna’s side faster than a moth to a light bulb on Monday morning.

  ‘Pretty cosy with our star reporter, weren’t you, girl?’

  Anna had expected as much, having seen the not-so-concealed glances of her colleagues during the Charity Fair on Saturday. She had deliberately chosen a different carriage for the train back to Waterloo to avoid the inevitable grilling, but was well prepared to face it this morning. That Ted had been able to contain himself until eleven o’clock was a minor miracle. ‘Maybe I was, Ted.’

  Ted’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘What’s with you? Last year you wouldn’t have said “boo” to a goose. Now here you are, all flirty.’

  ‘I had fun,’ Anna replied, handing him a mug of coffee. ‘Now drink that and stop picking on me.’

  ‘Ah no, you don’t get away that easy. Considering as I heard our Mr McAra talking about you in the newsroom this morning when I went up.’

  Anna couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘Ben was talking about me?’

  ‘See, you’re interested now, aren’t you? I knew you would be.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was up there – doing my rounds, you know, all part of the job – and as I was coming round the corner from the picture desk, I see our famous friend holding court with the other reporters. He was at his desk, with them lot gathered around him like flies round . . . Well, you get the idea. Mouthing off about you, he was. Stopped pretty smartish when he saw me, mind.’

  Never sure how much store to set by Ted’s stories, Anna approached with caution. ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘He was warning them off your story.’ Ted’s eyes shone with pride at his bombshell delivery. ‘He “found” you, apparently, so everyone else could back right off. Said that if anyone was going to write about your mystery parcels, it would be him. What do you think of that, hmm?’

  Is that true?

  It seemed unlikely, but why would Ted concoct such a story otherwise? He had never passed judgement on Ben before; why start now?

  ‘I’m sure you misheard him. That doesn’t sound like something Ben would do.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? Tell me, how many hacks have you encountered over the years, eh? You’re greener than I thought! Fact is, Anna, your handsome reporter isn’t as pearly-white as you think he is.’

  Whether it was true or not, the suggestion hit Anna like a lead weight. ‘It’s lily-white, Ted. And he’s not my reporter.’

  ‘Your face says different, girl. Must say, it surprised me, after seeing the two of y
ou together at the fair. But, at the end of the day, journalists are all the same. Nice as pie to your face, sell your granny to the paparazzi as soon as your back’s turned. McAra’s the worst sort. You think he got where he is without stamping over people? Trust me, Anna, you don’t get a star reporter’s job by being nice. He’s a shark, that one.’ He saw Anna’s expression and lowered his voice a little. ‘I’m sorry, though. You looked happy on Saturday.’

  ‘I was.’ And all weekend, too, Anna added to herself, feeling the floor beginning to crumble away beneath her.

  She had been so happy that Jonah had remarked on it yesterday when they passed in the corridor between their homes.

  ‘That’s a nice smile you’re wearing,’ he’d said, as Bennett jumped up to have his ears scratched. ‘You look happy.’

  ‘I am,’ she had replied, her heart light, despite the gravel in her throat and the aches in her limbs from working at the fair.

  ‘It’s a good thing to see. You’re a bit pretty when you smile,’ he had said, instantly wrinkling his nose. ‘And that were just about the cheesiest line I could’ve said. What I meant was . . .’

  Anna was quick to rescue the blushing Yorkshireman. ‘I know what you meant. And I appreciate the compliment.’

  As she’d turned the key in her front-door lock, she could feel Jonah’s eyes on her as his dog nagged him for his walk.

  I’ve been stupid, she thought now, the obvious regret on the security officer’s face scarce comfort to her. Maybe that would teach Ted Blaskiewicz not to be so liberal with his gossip, seeing the damage it could cause. But Anna knew that the hurt Ted now saw in her expression had nothing to do with him.

  ‘Ben said that?’ Tish’s expression was pure horror. ‘What was he thinking?’

  ‘That I’m a story waiting to be picked, I suppose.’ Anna pushed aside the pillowy cinnamon roll Tish had bought for her. She’d lost her appetite since this morning and it showed no sign of returning.

  ‘Eat, Anna.’