by Penny Kline
‘Noel didn’t?’
‘It wasn’t because he didn’t care. His mother died before I met him. Sometimes he told funny stories about her – she called the loo “the lavatory” and she didn’t like talking about that kind of thing. It was because he wanted to remember her as she really was, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’ The woman from number twenty-two had asked for six pastries and Mrs Cardozo was putting them in a box.
‘I wish I’d met her.’ Corinne was still talking about Noel’s mother. ‘Do you think she’d have liked me? You saw that portrait of her upstairs. She looks a bit fierce, doesn’t she, but Noel said she adored him. Once we visited her grave. Not near here – we had to go in the car. It was my idea and Noel laughed when I suggested it. He thought I was being sentimental but he was quite sentimental himself, only not about his mother, about poor animals in other countries that are taught to do tricks. Things like that.’
Let her talk. Some people thought mentioning the dead person upset the bereaved. As if he or she was not on their mind twenty-four hours a day. Eddie wasn’t dead, but she might as well be.
Mrs Cardozo had arrived with the fish pie. Her dark, wavy hair was held back by two metal clips and she was wearing a jumper with a picture of a Scottie dog on the front. Jane said ‘Bom-dia’ and Mrs Cardozo smiled, but avoided her eyes. No doubt the pronunciation had been incorrect, but she had tried. Bom-dia in the morning and boa-tarde in the afternoon and evening. Jane wanted to thank her again for bringing Eddie back but now was not the time.
The two women had left and were collecting a black Labrador that had been tied up outside. Would it be coming to live in the road or did it belong to “number twenty-two’s” friend? When Jane left home, Gus had been out in the street, listening to the noise coming from his house. Not the builders this time, it was Simmy, shouting. Dave had come out, on his way to his workshop, and in no mood to pass the time of day. Had Simmy been having another go at finding out how her mother had died? Or was she still upset about Noel, and Dave was disinclined to talk about it?
To Jane’s relief, Corinne was tucking into her fish pie with gusto. Gusto – where did the word come from? Gostar was the Portuguese word for “to like”. Probably no connection, but Jane’s interest in language was as keen as it had ever been. Fish pie was bacalhau com natas and it was made with salted cod, onions and cream, and, according to Mrs Cardozo, in the fourteenth century cured fish had been kept in ships’ holds for years. This explained why the cod had to be soaked overnight, a throwback to the days when fish needed to be dried because there was no refrigeration.
‘Jane?’
‘Yes?’ Something about Corinne’s tone of voice made her pull in her chair and sit up straight.
‘Eddie was with you, wasn’t she?’
Did she mean when she found Noel’s body? ‘Only for a short visit.’ Had Mrs Cardozo told people how she had found Eddie trying to cross the road?
‘Does she know?’
‘I took her back to The Spruces. She’d been having a rest.’ Lies came so easily. Some people were more convincing liars than others but even small children could make quite a good job of it, although some were more adept than others. ‘She’s not very strong.’ Once she had started she was unable to stop. ‘Quite shaky on her feet.’ Another lie. During her visit, Eddie had given her a hefty push and she had fallen against the sharp corner of the table and still had a purple bruise on her hip.
Corinne’s finger was in her mouth. ‘I’ve swallowed a bone.’
‘It’ll only be a tiny one.’
‘I think it’s stuck!’
Heads turned and people stopped eating. ‘Here.’ Jane broke off a corner from one of the soft rolls in a basket in the middle of the table. ‘That usually does the trick.’
‘Noel says I fuss.’ Fresh tears filled her eyes. She had spoken about him as though he was still alive. ‘The love of my life, Jane. We were made for each other. I wanted a baby – I told you that, didn’t I? If I was pregnant I’d have something to remember him by. I thought I might be but it was a false alarm. What can I do? I don’t know what to do.’
Jane waited. Ever since she arrived at Corinne’s house there had been one question she needed to ask. ‘Corinne?’
‘Yes.’ She had taken a small mirror from her handbag and was checking her hair.
‘Can you remember what time Noel left your house?’
‘Just after two o’clock. Later, we were going to buy some paint. For the bathroom. It’s rather dark. You probably noticed. Noel wanted ...’
‘You’re sure about the time?’ She sounded like a police officer, and no doubt the police had asked the same thing.
‘He had one of those watches that make a pinging noise. It always made me jump. It pinged at two and he told me he had to check the balcony. Then we discussed what colour the bathroom should be. Noel wanted white but I thought chameleon sounded attractive and we laughed because paints have such silly names.’
‘Chameleons change colour.’
‘Do they? What are they?’
‘Lizards. They adapt according to the foliage they’re sitting on.’ In the circumstances, a pointless piece of information, and even Corinne was looking a little mystified.
‘They sit on foliage?’
‘It’s nothing, Corinne, forget I mentioned it.’
‘Then I said I wouldn’t be long.’ She closed her eyes, remembering. ‘And Noel said there was no rush and I said ... if the balcony wasn’t safe, the workmen should be sued. Do you think they should?’
Jane was thinking about Corinne’s “alibi”, her lingerie party. Had it taken place somewhere nearby? Had it taken place at all? Supposing Corinne had discovered Noel was having an affair, or several affairs. ‘He must have leaned over too far,’ she said, ‘and lost his footing.’
‘Yes, that’s what I think.’ Corinne’s face flushed with anger. ‘How could he be so careless? Honestly, Jane, I could kill him!’
TWENTY-TWO
Tricia Tidewell had nothing of interest to tell her. In fact, Jane wondered if she ever noticed anything that was going on in the road. If the badly-behaved children allowed her to. Jane had declined the offer of a cup of tea – the kitchen made Gus’ flat seem immaculate – but agreed to sit on a grubby sofa and hold the baby while Tricia found snacks for Pippa and Liam. Jane had tried talking to the boy, hoping he really might have seen someone going into the house next door, but he had stared at her blankly, afraid no doubt that if he said anything he would get into trouble. Either that, and this was far more likely, or Tricia had misunderstood what he said, or put ideas into his head.
The baby was fat and placid, and rather comforting. Jane had lost track of how old she was. About eight months, she thought, a time when they often dislike strangers, but Ada seemed perfectly happy, pulling at a loose thread in Jane’s jumper.
‘You’re a good girl, Ada, putting up with that brother and sister of yours. Not that you have much choice.’ Jane realised she had spoken to the child in much the same way she spoke to Eddie. In other words, in the knowledge it was of no importance what she said, simply a way of expressing her interest and good will.
Tricia had returned, but fortunately not Liam or Pippa. ‘I agree with you about the gossiping, Jane. Roads like this are a hotbed for that kind of thing.’
‘Most residential roads, I imagine.’
‘Simmy’s a lovely girl. Pity she’s too old to play with Pippa. I don’t really know her father. Dave, isn’t it? Pippa’s afraid of him and Liam said he saw him having an argument with Mr McNeill, only that was two weeks ago. Could be more. And he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Something about a skip I think. Why do they call them skips?’
Excusing herself, as soon as was polite, Jane had tried to think of a reason for going up to the loft conversion to look for Eddie’s hairbrush. Telling the builders about the brush would raise suspicion. Why did she think the hairbrush would be up there? No, if they had seen it
they would remember. Or worse, yes, they had found a hairbrush, lying on the floor. Did she know how it could have got there? More than likely, it had turned up in Eddie’s room at The Spruces, or the room of one of the other residents, or down the loo!
When she reached The Spruces, a party was under way. Lulu, one of the residents, was celebrating her hundredth birthday. She had a pink bow in her hair and someone had made a cake with pink icing and not quite a hundred candles, but a considerable number.
Jane had put her head round the day room door then withdrawn again, but Matron was being uncharacteristically welcoming. ‘Come in, come in. Have you met Lulu? Isn’t she wonderful? And this is Dr Holland. Miss Seymour is Edwina’s friend.’
‘Ah.’ He shook hands, looking her up and down as though he was assessing how long it would be before she moved into a care home. ‘Good to meet you.’
Over by the window, Eddie was clutching the neck of her blouse. The party would upset her – she disliked anything unfamiliar – but when Matron announced that it was time to blow out the candles, she looked quite animated.
One, two, three! Matron leaned across and blew, and Lulu looked up at Dr Holland and smiled. ‘Have you got a big one, doctor?’
Even Matron was unable to keep a straight face. Had dementia disinhibited Lulu or had she retained her sense of humour? Jane hoped it was the latter. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Lulu, happy birthday to you. The singing reached a crescendo and the usual clapping broke out – at least, Matron, Dr Holland, one of the helpers, and Jane clapped. The rest of the assembled band were waiting for a slice of cake.
Once the party was over, things returned to normal. Lulu was wheeled away and Eddie sat back in her chair, gazing at the television where someone was demonstrating how to tart up a piece of haddock with the aid of some tarragon – or was it thyme?
‘Lovely cake, Eddie.’ But talking about something that had passed was pointless. Jane ought to know that by now. ‘They’re cooking fish.’
‘Fish and chips.’
‘Yes, that’s right. You know when you came home – to the house – while you were at the shops did you have anything to eat?’
Eddie smiled, then the smile faded and she looked as though she was going to cry, and full of remorse for confusing her with questions she was incapable of answering, Jane reached across to give her a brief hug and for once, Eddie didn’t struggle to break free.
The fish in the cooking programme had been replaced by some kind of pie and the chef, whose name Jane had forgotten, was spooning a sticky concoction into the pastry case. The trouble with television, there were too many channels to fill. And a worse problem was that no one looked normal. Even the people in reality shows were made up to look as though they had flawless skin. Another of Jane’s dislikes was the way ex-sports stars were given make-overs – and ridiculous clothes – that rendered them barely recognisable. A nice ordinary-looking girl who had excelled at swimming now had a not-very-flattering hairstyle, and false eyelashes.
The sanitized glamour of television. The smell of an old people’s home. Jane held out little hope of achieving the purpose of her visit, but felt compelled to have another try.
‘You remember Noel, Eddie. He was up in the loft, checking something.’
‘Up the hill.’
‘Noel, Eddie, in the loft.’
‘Round and round the garden.’
‘The garden?’ But it was no good. If she had gone up to next door’s loft conversion, she had no recollection of it. Jane stood up to stretch her legs and the handbag she had left by her chair fell open, scattering its contents on the carpet. One of the carers, another new one – or at least she was new to Jane – had appeared in the doorway. Squeezing past her trolley, she hurried to help, surprised no doubt that the handbag held such a hotchpotch of stuff – painkillers and the sticky remains of a throat sweet, a curled-up shopping list and a packet of things called “feminine wipes”, that sounded obscene but came in useful on the odd occasion.
‘Thank you so much.’
‘No worries.’
‘I’m Jane Seymour, a friend of Eddie’s. Where do you come from?’
‘Somalia. Four months.’
‘You speak very good English.’
‘Thank you.’
Jane glanced at the large, flickering television. Now someone was reading a news bulletin, something to do with a hurricane in the Far East. Then it changed to a simpering woman who Jane assumed must be a celebrity. That was the trouble with “The News”, it all merged, the good, the bad and the indifferent, in one ear and out the other, and so-called reality shows blended with real-life tragedies and the ads convinced you your kitchen needed replacing, and normal signs of aging were because you had failed to pay a fortune for a pot of restorative serum. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. Twelfth Night? No, The Merchant of Venice.
‘You like coffee?’ The woman from Somalia had a beautiful face, and black hair, held in place by a rather attractive silk scarf.
‘Yes, please. No sugar. No, not for Eddie, she’s falling asleep.’
The woman smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Jane’s were far from perfect – the result of poor dental work when she was younger – and last time she attended the dentist she had been referred to the dental health nurse and, whereas fillings were now relatively painless, dental health had replaced them as a new form of torture.
‘Custard cream?’
‘No, thank you, I had some cake.’
The woman looked blank.
‘The birthday cake. For Lulu.’
‘Ah. Yes. Lulu. So good for age.’ The woman moved on and Jane began listing suspects in her head. Motive and opportunity. Anyone, absolutely anyone other than Eddie. Dave had worried in case Noel told Simmy the truth about her mother’s death. How had Noel known? Dave was unlikely to have told him so it must have been from some other source. And what was so bad that it had to be kept from Simmy? Had her mother been killed in a road accident? Dave could have been driving, over the limit perhaps, and blamed himself for his wife’s death. Noel could have been blackmailing him. No, what was she thinking? The Noel she knew would never have done something like that. Except, had she really known him? She was as guilty as we all are of turning people into what we want them to be.
She had enjoyed her conversations with Noel but they were not on par with her discussions with Moira Winn, head of history. Sadly, she had died in harness. An image of Moira, with a bit and bridle, reared up before her eyes. Too many visual images these days and, between her and Eddie, she was supposed to be the verbal one. Perhaps a part of Eddie’s brain had transmogrified into her own. Jane stifled a laugh and Eddie turned her head, smiling.
‘Last weekend, Eddie.’ She should have let the subject drop but she had to have one last go. ‘You saw Simmy and after that you went for a walk. They’re converting the loft in Dave and Simmy’s house. And Gus lives there too, on the first floor. You remember Gus.’
Eddie pulled at a loose thread in her brown jumper. ‘Cat,’ she said, and her breathing became slower and deeper.
‘Yes, cat. Rousseau.’ A gardening expert on television had been joined by a woman with exceptionally large teeth and the two of them were enjoying some merry banter. Why did people on TV laugh so much? They laughed in the ads too. Chicken nuggets, new sofas, even cleaning materials, all produced peals of laughter. Jolly families – mother, father, son, daughter – sat round their dinner table, in fits over the gravy. Don’t think about Noel’s death, not now. Later, when she was home she would make a few notes, to calm herself.
As she was climbing into her car, she heard running footsteps. Matron. And her heart began to thump. Another interrogation, or had Eddie been doing, or saying, something Matron had been unable to mention in front of everyone else?
‘Glad I caught you, Miss Seymour.’ She was out of breath, holding her chest. ‘I just wanted to tell you we found Edwina’s hairbrush. And to say how so
rry I was. About your neighbour. Was he a friend?’
‘Yes, yes he was.’
‘Awful for you, but there’s no need to worry about Edwina, I doubt if she can remember a thing.’
Jane opened her mouth to say Eddie had not been there when it happened and, just in time, remembered her previous brief conversation with Matron. ‘When I found him, she was having a little sleep.’
‘Yes. She mentioned a cat.’
‘Did she? She used to be fond of him but when she came back to the house she didn’t take any notice.’
‘We have a volunteer who does a “memory lane” session with some of the residents. In the past, Edwina has shown no interest but yesterday she was quite enthusiastic, talking about Simmy, the cat.’
‘No, Simmy is a child, a teenage girl, the daughter of a neighbour. Eddie saw her briefly when she came home. It must have reminded her.’
‘You say she was asleep when you ...’
‘When I found Mr Mc ... yes, yes she was. She’d eaten her lunch and wanted a little rest.’ She had spoken emphatically, too emphatically, and Matron’s pale, unblinking eyes bore into her.
‘I only mentioned it,’ she said, ‘because she talked about a garden, with dandelions.’
‘Dandelions? Was she watching a gardening programme at the time?’
‘No, nothing like that and, knowing you as I do, Miss Seymour, I imagine there’s not a weed in sight in your own garden.’
Knowing you as I do. She knew nothing about her. Except that was untrue. Unwittingly, one picked up all kinds of ideas about people, some of them from stray remarks, others from body language and such like.
Or was it that, when she was away from The Spruces, when Eddie was free of her inhibiting presence, she became more communicative?
TWENTY-THREE
Jane was not used to one-to-one teaching. In the past, if she had supervised a single pupil it had been because the child was in detention and, while he or she completed whatever they had been instructed to do, she had marked homework or tests. Eddie never gave anyone detention because nobody misbehaved in her art classes, or if they did she failed to notice.