The Woman Who Took in Parcels and Opened One

by Penny Kline

  ‘Darling!’ Corinne appeared, looking less thrilled than Jane had expected. ‘Can’t he leave it out here?’

  ‘Likely to get nicked.’ Noel hoisted it onto his shoulder. ‘Bye for now, Jane, and we’ll fix a time for you to come and eat with us. Out of the way, Barnaby, I’ll carry it through to the back.’

  Barnaby was silent, but the look he gave Noel was something Jane would recall, something that was to give her serious pause for thought.

  THIRTEEN

  Their first encounter was not encouraging. When Jane opened her front door, he had his back turned, tapping his foot and whistling through his teeth.

  ‘Arthur?’

  His head moved but his body remained in the same position. He had a pleasant profile, small nose, slightly jutting chin, and hair, tousled on top but short at the sides. Definitely an improvement on Barnaby’s latest style. And no piercings or, if he had, they were not visible; although, come to think of it, he was probably too young.

  ‘Come in then,’ Jane said, the “then” to express her mild irritation that he was ten minutes late.

  ‘I’m Arthur.’

  ‘Thought you might be. Follow me. I thought we could work up in the loft. I don’t use it very often but there’s a table and two chairs so we should be all right.’

  His footsteps behind her were a little intimidating and she found herself wondering what size shoes he took. Large, she imagined; elevens or twelves. How did he feel about the tuition? Not too thrilled by the look of him, but he had turned up, that was a start.

  The loft had been the reason they bought the house. A studio for Eddie. Her main source of income had been her teaching, but she sold the occasional painting when she exhibited locally and when her landscape was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, to add to the excitement, it had been bought by a member of the Royal Family. The children at the comprehensive loved her. She was good fun, disorganised, unconventional, and entertaining. Jane had never been “good fun”.

  Arthur was peering up at the dormer window. Nothing to see, except bright blue sky, but he appeared to have spotted something of interest, a passing bird perhaps. His feet and hands were, in fact, average for someone of his height. Shoelaces undone but Jane had a vague recollection that was the fashion among his generation, although Simmy, who wore white plimsolls, never had trailing laces.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ The table was a small one but the correct height for writing. She had placed her own chair opposite his but would take care their knees never met. ‘How did you feel when your mother suggested you come here?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I wondered how you felt about having extra tuition.’ It was the kind of question counsellors asked and did not come naturally to her. ‘Your mother discussed it with you, I expect.’

  He raised a hand to his mouth, too late to contain a yawn. ‘Simmy lives next door.’

  ‘She does indeed. You know her?’

  ‘We play computer games.’

  ‘Really?’ Jane was surprised, but presumably computer games transcended an age gap even of two years.

  ‘We’re planning a new one, based on Greek myths. Noel will be a rapist and pillager – there were plenty of those – and my mum’s the Gorgon.’ He was struggling not to laugh. ‘The rapist and The Gorgon. The Gorgon had hair made of poisonous snakes.’

  Better not to ask. Definitely better. But curiosity got the better of her. ‘Why is poor Mr McNeill a rapist?’

  ‘Hades.’ Arthur tipped back his chair. ‘That’s the underworld. Most of the gods lived on Mount Olympus, and Pythia – I think that was her name – was infallible and gave prophecies on the seventh day of the month. My dad’ll be Orestes. He killed his mother, who’d killed his father. Agamemnon. I think that’s right.’

  ‘So you and Simmy are basing your characters from Greek mythology on the residents of Faraday Road?’

  ‘Apollo taught Cassandra how to use prophecies but she refused to give him her body, but he had it anyway, and put a curse on her so she could still see into the future but no one believed her. That Noel makes me laugh.’

  ‘Yes, well enough of all that.’ Jane was a little shocked, not that she was going to show it. Shocked, but also intrigued. ‘We need to get started.’

  In spite of the sun streaming through the windows, the room felt bleak, alien, as though it knew Eddie was safely ensconced at The Spruces and no longer had need of a studio. It was a room Jane tended to avoid and the decision to use it for teaching Arthur had been taken in one of those defiant moods. Don’t be such a coward. Face up to it. Life moves on.

  ‘I thought it best to start with a short comprehension. It will give me an idea of your written work and any problems you may have.’ She paused, hoping her suggestion would meet with Arthur’s approval, but his face was expressionless. ‘I’ve selected a passage about Heathrow Airport. You’ve been there, I expect.’

  He nodded.

  ‘When you were going on holiday?’

  ‘Are you an artist?’

  ‘No. No, my friend. Did you bring a pen or would you like one of these?’ She had placed a collection of ballpoint pens and newly sharpened pencils in a glass jar on the table.

  Arthur reached out for one of the pens. ‘I’m no good at English.’

  ‘What about your other subjects?’

  ‘Maths is OK, and IT, but you have to pass English.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ The powers-that-be insisted on a specified level of Maths and English before pupils were allowed to stay on at school and study for their A-levels, but there must be some who were brilliant at numbers but would never gain the required grade in English grammar. And vice versa of course.

  Arthur was staring at her. ‘Have you got a computer?’

  ‘A tablet. My old one broke but I’ve bought another.’

  A faint smile crossed his face. ‘If you need any help ...’

  ‘You’re my man. Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.’

  She expected him to say “no problem” or “no worries”, but he was silent, looking all about him as though he had never seen a loft conversion before. His eyes were red-rimmed, probably from lack of sleep. Was he allowed to play games on his computer until all hours? Jane imagined Brian was the kind of father who issued dictates but failed to follow them through. Willa would be inconsistent. Strict one day, negligent the next.

  ‘You say you like maths and IT, Arthur. What about history and geography?’

  ‘They make us learn this stuff by heart. What’s the point when you can look it up online?’

  ‘Yes, I’m inclined to agree. Have you heard of Socrates?’

  ‘Played for Brazil.’

  ‘I was thinking more of the Greek philosopher. He believed in asking his pupils questions rather than telling them facts.’

  ‘The one I’m thinking of died of food poisoning. Beef stroganoff.’

  ‘Really?’ She almost added, you learn something new every day, but she was growing impatient and suspected the boy knew perfectly well she had not been referring to a South American footballer. He was wearing black jeans, with rips across both knees, and a blue T-shirt with a picture of a cartoon character, a monster of some sort. Her own clothes were not dissimilar. Determined not to dress like a teacher, she had decided on dark blue trousers and a pale blue T-shirt with three-quarter length sleeves.

  ‘The comprehension.’ She passed him a pad. ‘Do you normally use lined or plain?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He tore off a sheet. She had meant him to leave it in the pad so she could save it in a hard-backed file, in order to monitor his progress, but he had ripped off the corner, along with one of the holes. He had a faint moustache, faint because his colouring was fair, and he smelled of soap.

  Footsteps padded up the stairs and Rousseau’s head came round the door. Arthur grinned and reached out an arm. ‘Hello, puss. I like tabbies. What’s his name?’

  ‘Rousseau.’

  ‘Rousseau.’ He leaned across to scratch t
he cat’s ear. ‘He lived in the eighteenth century, wrote a book about a boy called Emile.’

  ‘Emil and the detectives.’

  ‘No, I think that came later.’

  The day was a warm one. Jane stood up and struggled with the catch on the dormer window. ‘Heathrow then. It shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Head down, he began scribbling away, holding his pen much as Jane imagined a parrot might hold a stick of celery.

  Closing her eyes, Jane attempted to relax. Arthur appeared perfectly at ease, almost enjoying himself. Would he tell Simmy about the lessons? Or if his father was not to know, had Willa sworn him to secrecy. Not easy in a place like Faraday Road where gossip was rife.

  The previous evening, on her way to a talk about the global economy, she had bumped into Brian, coming out of a local supermarket with two litres of semi-skimmed milk and a harassed expression. Sent to the shop by Willa no doubt, even though he had been at work all day and Willa was a lady of leisure. The thought made Jane smile, but it was not an amused smile. If something was going on between Willa and Noel all hell would be let loose.

  If Eddie had been compos mentis they could have attended the talk on the global economy together. Not true. Eddie had no interest in politics, and would have refused, regardless of the fact that Jane always accompanied her to art exhibitions. The talk had not been enlightening but you had to give these things a go. An elderly – very elderly – acquaintance had advised her not to give up any of her interests or activities. If you do, you’ll never take them up again. How true.

  ‘Finished.’ Arthur handed her his sheet of paper.

  “Some people at heathrow lost there luggage. If you lose you’re luggage you go to lost property. A girl saw it in the café and told them were it was. Heathrow is very crowded. The boy likes airports.”

  ‘Your answers are correct, Arthur, but some of the spelling ..’

  ‘I’m not good at spelling.’

  ‘And the word “your” doesn’t need an apostrophe. The “your” you want is when something belongs to you, your coat for instance, your luggage. “You’re” with an apostrophe is an abbreviation of “you are”.’

  ‘You’re only allowed one bag, unless you put the other in the hold.’

  ‘You’re a seasoned traveller?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He fingered a spot on his chin. ‘If you send a text there aren’t any apostrophes.’

  So he had been listening. ‘No, I’m sure.’ Jane used her cell phone now and again but never to send texts. It was too fiddly and, besides, if she wanted to tell someone something she rang up. Actually, she disliked the telephone, landline as well as mobile, although on occasion it came in useful. ‘Texts are that way because they need to be brief and use as few letters as possible.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He stood up and she thought he was going to leave, but it was only to make it easier to take something from his pocket. ‘The money,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, thank you. I was going to send an invoice to your mother. No, that’s fine if she prefers it that way.’ Should she have charged more? Memories of the school, ones she normally pushed away, flooded back. During the last year, she had taught mainly older pupils. They had studied A Winter’s Tale and Bleak House, and the poetry of John Donne, and two of the girls, and one of the boys, had gained places at Oxford colleges. Her final year should have been particularly enjoyable but had been marred by worry about Eddie.

  Arthur was searching in his pocket again and this time he pulled out a tissue that had turned into a long grey string. ‘You know Gus?’

  ‘I do. Like Simmy, he’s one of my neighbours.’

  ‘Yeah, lives above her and her dad. Gus has got this friend and I reckon the two of them are planning something. The first time I saw her I thought she was a man. Moved into number twenty-two. She and Gus were in the café, the Portuguese one. I’d like to learn Portuguese so I could visit Brazil. The other South American countries speak Spanish – I think that’s right.’

  ‘It is.’ Jane felt shaky. ‘You’ve met the woman who’s bought number twenty-two?’

  ‘I reckon Simmy’s mother’s living in Cornwall. I heard my mum talking to Noel about it. They used to be friends.’

  ‘Your mother and Mr McNeill?’ She had to be careful. ‘Then that Corinne moved in. In the computer game, she’s going to be Aphrodite. Have you heard of Aphrodite?’

  ‘I have.’

  He laughed, pushing the grey tissue back into his pocket. ‘She was crazy, that’s what it said in the book. Aphrodite – a tormented woman!’

  FOURTEEN

  One cup of coffee a day was Jane’s rule, something Eddie had found ridiculous. Rules are to be broken, Jane, you’re such a stickler, must be the way you were brought up. As though Eddie was immune to irrational habits, although in her case she called them “sensible precautions”. Jane had looked it up online and “rules are made to be broken” was first said by Arthur C. Clarke, the science-fiction writer, although someone else had attributed it to Richard Nixon.

  Most of the time, she and Eddie had got on pretty well, even though the way Eddie had insisted on cutting her food into small pieces had been a little trying. An only child and, in Jane’s experience, only children tended to fuss, Eddie had lived with her parents until she was in her thirties and when they both died, within a few months of each other, Jane had befriended her. More than thirty years of friendship, but no friendships are without their problems. The cinema was one. Jane liked foreign films, slightly gloomy ones, if she were honest, whereas Eddie loved musicals and romances. They could have gone their separate ways, in terms of visits to the cinema, but they never had. Eddie had endured dark, Italian pieces, with peasants dressed in black, and Jane had sat through Eddie’s choices, pretending to enjoy schmaltzy American stories about people who overcame insuperable odds to achieve their ambition and win, or win back, the love of their life. Not that the pretence had been very convincing. I don’t understand you, Jane. Going to the movies is a way of losing yourself in a different world.

  What an irony that sentiment had turned out to be.

  The noise from the loft conversion next door was deafening. Jane closed the window and fetched herself a slice of fruit cake. She only allowed herself one slice a day, but today might be an exception. In fact, the vibration from the electric drill called for a stiff gin and tonic, although, as usual, Rousseau appeared unconcerned.

  He was Eddie’s cat, not hers, but familiarity had a way of making you fond of things. People talked endlessly about lost love, but more often than not it was the familiarity they missed. Shared experiences. A shared routine. Had she loved Eddie? She disliked putting the question in the past tense but one had to be realistic. They were close friends, knew almost everything there was to know about each other, but was that love?

  Some people had thought they were an item. An item – what a silly expression. In any case, it was not true, although she had wondered what it would be like to lie naked next to another female. But not Eddie. The house was in both their names and, sooner or later, she would have to consult a solicitor and arrange power of attorney. Would there be a problem? They had made wills a few years back, leaving all their worldly goods to one another, but if someone was still alive, but not in their right mind, it would be more complicated.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she spotted someone walking past, then Noel’s face appeared at the window, pressed against the glass so he looked like a criminal with a stocking mask. Jane hurried to let him in. ‘Noel. How can I help?’

  He gave a sheepish grin. ‘In need of a spot of advice.’

  ‘The complaints about next door’s loft conversion?’

  He shook his head, ‘Barnaby. Corinne’s boy. You saw him when you were leaving our house. What did you think?’

  ‘ Come along in. Coffee? Tea?’

  He shook his head, entering the sitting room ahead of her and choosing the sofa where she would like to have
joined him. Instead she decided on the armchair Eddie had found in a sale and made an effort to push the memory of the scene in Willa’s conservatory out of her head.

  ‘Open house as far as I’m concerned,’ Noel said. ‘The boy could stay the night if he wanted to.’

  ‘But he never does. Corinne misses him, I expect.’

  He nodded vaguely. ‘The thing is, Jane, he asked for a loan.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Corinne doesn’t know. You won’t tell her. No, of course you won’t.’ He leaned forward, hands on the knees of his designer jeans. Were they designer ones? People paid well over the odds, but they all looked the same to her.

  ‘Laptop playing up. That was the boy’s story but obviously I didn’t believe him. Gave him a hundred quid. Only now I’m wondering if it was drug money. Yes, I can see the same thought’s crossed your mind. At the time it never occurred to me. See what a trusting soul I am. Thing is, I’m afraid he may ask for more.’

  ‘You think that likely?’ Outside in the road, two men were shouting at each other. Something to do with a parked van, the usual. Jane was enjoying having Noel in her sitting room, just the two of them, having a confidential chat, and she willed him not to go and sort out the argument.

  No need – he was still worrying about the “drug money”. ‘It’s not so much the cash, Jane. Making me promise not to tell Corinne. Yes, you’re right, refuse to give him any more unless I can talk to her first. He knows the Molloy lad.’

  ‘Arthur?’

  ‘Play badminton together. I think it’s badminton.’

  ‘If it’s any help, I know Arthur quite well.’ She would like to have told Noel about the tuition, mainly because it would demonstrate how she was still an active teacher, not simply a retired person. Still an active teacher? How superficial she was and, in any case, she was sworn to secrecy.

  Noel had returned to Barnaby and the loan. ‘Corinne’s besotted with the boy but I’m afraid ...’