by Penny Kline
Swimming was one of Jane’s activities. Singing was the other. And today she was combining the two. She could do the crawl, but the butterfly was too much like hard work, and recently she had stuck to backstroke; soothing, although she would prefer to be looking at the sky rather than a white ceiling with brown stains. A three-legged deer? A tortoise or possibly a turtle? As a child, she had lain in bed with measles, and only the cracks in the plaster for entertainment. Eddie had explained it was “art trouvé”, art found wherever you looked, if only you had the eyes to see it: lichen on red brick walls; the peeling bark of silver birch trees. You’ve a closed mind, Jane, you don’t think it’s art unless it’s framed and hanging in a gallery. Not true, but she had played the ignoramus because art was Eddie’s domain, not hers.
Someone blew a whistle and Jane bumped her head on the end of the pool. Two girls, aged about nine or ten, had done dive bombs into the water and it was against the rules. So was swearing, ducking, pushing, and petting.
The whistle blew again. ‘Don’t run!’ And the girls, who had climbed out of the pool, clung together, giggling. Poor things, it was worse than school. Quite recently, the pool had been renovated; no chipped tiles or broken taps, and the attendants were smartly dressed in white T-shirts and green shorts. They sat on chairs, high above the water, waiting to save lives. What did these lithe young men and women think about the odd bods that swam slowly back and forth? Probably never gave them a thought. It was a job, not well paid but reasonably agreeable, and possibly the first rung on a ladder that led to a career as a personal trainer.
As she moved through the water, she sang, leaving out the odd word, either because she had forgotten it or because she was out of breath. ‘Row the boat, row the boat, steadily onwards, de dum de de dum dum, submit to the tide. If we keep on rowing and something the something, we’ll get where we’re going ahead of the tide.’
Choir was on Wednesday afternoon, mostly retired people but a few younger ones. It provided companionship and people claimed it was good for your physical and mental wellbeing. Jane had made a friend of a kind. She was called Yvette and she had a habit of removing specks of fluff from her cardigan, and from other people’s clothes too. Fluff. The handcuffs. Don’t think about it. Eddie home in four days’ time. Did she still think of it as home? No, The Spruces was her home now. But she might be pleased to see Rousseau.
‘We’ll get there, we’ll get there by rowing together.’ She swam faster, trying not to think about the offending item, hidden behind the herbs and spices. Eddie disliked spicy food so it was fortunate meals at The Spruces appeared to be bland, not to say tasteless. What would she be doing now? Sitting on her bed, staring into space, or down in the day room, watching the flickering images of daytime telly. Jane’s throat constricted, and she climbed briskly out of the water, pulling off the red wrist band with the number of her locker.
Getting dried and dressed was the least pleasant part since the changing rooms had slimy floors and it was not uncommon to find the odd sock or even a pair of knickers, and once, a stringy purple thing she supposed must be a thong. She had considered joining a health club, where only an exclusive few would use the pool, but peeing in the water was hardly the preserve of the masses.
Feet dried first, and slipped into sandals. Swimming costume removed. It was made of smooth, synthetic material but still stuck round her middle. Clothes pulled on or up as fast as possible. Her cold fingers always struggled with the hooks on her bra. It was right what they said, that pleasure was relief from pain. Food when hungry, a drink when gasping with thirst, and warmth when your body felt so chilled it had started to ache. Perhaps if she had more fat on her she would feel less cold, but putting on weight would be like the beginning of the end.
Blissfully warm, and pleasantly tired, she opened the door of her cubicle and came face-to-face with a familiar figure.
‘Corinne.’ She would have to stop and have a few words.
‘Jane, what a surprise and how lovely to see you. Do you come here often? Sorry, Noel’s always accusing me of talking in clichés. You were an English teacher, weren’t you? When I was at school I don’t think we did clichés. Metaphors and similes but I never understood the difference. And I was hopeless at spelling. We had a test twice a week and I was nearly always bottom. Corinne’s bottom, everyone used to say. It was a huge joke.’
‘Children can be cruel.’
‘Oh, no, it was the teacher. Are you a good swimmer? I’m not. I like swimming in the sea, but it’s such a long way to travel and then you’d have to drive all the way back.’
‘I’ve just completed my ten lengths.’ Corinne’s swimming costume would have better suited a slenderer figure, but the shade of eau de Nil was pleasant enough.
‘Oh, you’ve had your swim. What a shame, we could have had a coffee together. I tell you what, if you wait in the café; I only ever do four lengths. After that I’m shattered. I do it for Noel’s sake.’
‘He likes you to be fit?’ It was a malicious thing to say since it could be taken to mean Noel thought her overweight, but Corinne found it hilarious.
‘So I can swing from the chandelier!’
‘Yes, I see.’ She did, but spoke in the kind of tone that implied she had no idea what Corinne was talking about. ‘You and Noel are friends, aren’t you?’
‘I like to think so.’ How did Noel stand the woman? Gus was right: it must be the sex.
‘He says you’re an expert in English. English Literature, isn’t it, Jane? Noel goes running.’ Corinne clenched her stomach muscles. ‘Lots of people do, don’t they, but I get out of breath. It’s my metabolism, do you think that’s what it is?’
‘I doubt it,’ Jane said, but a group of school children were hurrying past, little girls, giggling and squealing, and Corinne misheard.
‘Yes, I thought you’d know about it. Noel says you’re a fount of wisdom. What is a fount? Noel knows everyone in Faraday Road. He’s very friendly. Everyone likes him. He introduces me to people but it’s so difficult remembering their names. Not yours, Jane. Jane Seymour, she was married to Henry the Eighth. Was she beheaded or divorced?’
‘Neither. She died, following complications after the birth of her son.’
‘Oh, what a shame. When your parents chose the name —’
‘It’s not actually my first name. Dora, after my grandmother, but I prefer Jane. You complete your four lengths and I’ll find us a table.’
EIGHT
The café turned out to be empty apart from the young woman behind the counter, who could have been Eastern European, possibly Romanian or Estonian.
‘Good morning.’ The smell of chlorine lingered, but the woman had probably become immune to it. ‘I’m waiting for a friend if that’s all right. I’ll order when she joins me.’
The woman nodded and smiled and Jane felt encouraged to continue the conversation. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘I like and the hours are good.’
‘Where do you come from?’ Always a dodgy question but the woman’s accent was strong enough to convince Jane she had not been in the country very long.
‘Poland. My husband is carpenter and I have a child. He is five. Oscar – he is called Oscar.’
‘Nice name.’ It was popular in England, among people who in all likelihood had never read The Importance of Being Earnest, or The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Jane had an idea it was spelled with a ‘k’ in Poland, but she had no wish to sound nosey. Friendliness and being intrusive, it was always a fine line. ‘Does he like his school?’
‘Oh yes, his teacher, she is very kind.’
‘Good. I used to be a teacher, but in a comprehensive school. For older children.’
‘I would like.’
‘To be a teacher? Perhaps you could be one day.’ Could she? Jane had tried hard to help her pupils reach their full potential and sometimes it had slipped over into impossible ambitions. That was what Eddie had said, but surely it was better than accepting their
parents’ plans for them – to stack shelves at the local supermarket or find some low-level job with the council.
Jane sat down and the woman began stacking cups and saucers. A folded newspaper lay on the table, one of the free ones you could pick up on the bus. The headline made no sense so Jane found her reading glasses and scanned the story, something about a competitor in a reality show who had split up with her fiancé, a pop singer Jane had never heard of.
‘What a world we live in.’ She had spoken out loud and the Polish woman looked up and Jane felt she had to explain. ‘Just a silly story in the newspaper.’ She could ask her about Poland – did they have silly reality shows and puffed up celebrities? Surely not, although she had an idea they took part in Eurovision.
By the time Corinne joined her, she had grown tired of speculating about the woman behind the counter. After she retired, she had persuaded herself she enjoyed people-watching. It was fascinating. People were all so different and had such a variety of mannerisms and facial expressions. Not true. Normally, it was exceedingly tedious, as were most overheard conversations.
‘That was quick.’ She pushed out a chair with her foot so Corinne could sit opposite her. Plastic seats with plastic backs. Metal legs. Not particularly comfortable and inclined to skid on the polished floor.
Corinne was short of breath after her brief foray into the water, and the look in her eyes confirmed Jane’s suspicion that she wanted to talk. About her son perhaps. How old was he? Noel said he was called Barnaby and he never came to see them.
Jane ordered two cappuccinos and Corinne started talking into her phone. ‘Yes. No. Yes, of course, darling. I’m at the pool. The swimming pool. The café actually, darling. With Jane. Jane Seymour.’ She pulled a face, an apology for the interruption. ‘Yes, six lengths.’ She pulled another face, this time to let Jane know she was lying. ‘Yes, I’m sure she is, much better than me. Yes, all right, my darling. Love you. Bye, sweetheart, bye.
‘Noel sends his love. He’s at number twelve, talking loft conversions.’ She leaned forward, showing ample amounts of breast, something Jane found oddly titillating. ‘He likes you, Jane, and admires the way you’ve ... oh, I’m sorry, I never say the right thing. Your friend, the one who got ill. In a home, Noel said, so sad.’
Two young women had come into the café, both wheeling buggies. Their offspring appeared to be asleep, which was a blessing, and Jane hoped Corinne’s high-pitched voice would not wake them. Fortunately, when she spoke again it was in a whisper.
‘I’d love to have one.’
‘A child?’
‘Seeing all those babies in Faraday Road has made me broody.’ Corinne’s shoulders sagged. ‘Noel thinks we’re too old, but you hear of men in their seventies, even their eighties.’
‘You do.’ The cappuccino was too hot to drink but lifting froth on her spoon gave one something to do with one’s hands.
‘Noel’s only forty-five. And I’m six years younger.’
‘Thirty-nine.’ The number had slipped out, as though she had been given some mental arithmetic.
‘I try to keep in good shape. On TV it said fitness means you’re more likely to conceive. I’m only telling you this, Jane, because you’re a woman of the world. And making love is so much more fun if you think you might get pregnant, and if I told Noel I was expecting he’d be pleased as Punch but so far it hasn’t worked, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’ An image of Noel and Corinne in bed together made her flinch.
‘I’m on a diet,’ Corinne said, ‘ but I never seem to lose any weight. For breakfast, all I eat is two croissants.’
‘I believe they’re quite high in calories.’
‘Are they?’
‘It’s all a question of delayed gratification. Which do you want more? Food now, or a slim figure later on.’ Jane knew she sounded priggish, but Corinne was watching her, as though she was the oracle.
‘Yes, you’re right. A moment on your lips. A lifetime on your hips.’
‘I was talking generally. Not about you, Corinne.’
‘Delayed what was it? You’re so clever, Jane. You see, I’m worried about my son.’
‘Barnaby, isn’t it?’
‘Noel says there’s a book called Barnaby Rudge and he’s simple.’
‘I like the name.’
‘Do you?’ Corinne’s hand covered Jane’s in a gesture of gratitude. ‘He’s seventeen. In the sixth form. The thing is – he and Noel ... you’re thinking it’s because of me and Gerard going our separate ways. Gerard’s my ex. Only it’s not that. We’ve plenty of room. He could stay the night, only he won’t. Loyalty to his father, you’re thinking, but Gerard and I had been drifting apart for years.’
‘How did Barnaby feel?’
‘He’s seventeen. I told you that, didn’t I? An adult, almost, spends most of his time in his bedroom. He’s like his father, loathes demonstrations of affection, prefers to be left to his own devices. Such a handsome boy, I adore him. Beautiful eyes. And long, silky hair. Looks like a poet.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting him.’
‘Oh, I do hope you do. If he ever agrees to come and see us. Jane?’ Corinne paused, licking the froth off her lips. ‘You know Willa Molloy?’
‘I do.’
‘Brian’s my doctor and I’ve met Willa but she talks so fast it’s difficult to hear what she’s saying only I know she has a son only I’m not sure how old he is.’
‘ Fifteen. You’re thinking he and Barnaby could be friends? Arthur, he’s called Arthur.’
Corinne sat up straight and locked her fingers. ‘It’s so good to talk, Jane. I mean, you’re such a good listener. Your friend – I’m afraid I’ve forgotten her name.’
‘Eddie. Edwina.’
‘And Noel says the two of you had planned to travel round the world after you retired. Such a shame. So unfair. Alzheimer’s, isn’t it, and they say you can catch it when you’re still quite young? Noel does crosswords, to exercise his brain. Cryptic ones. Do you do them? Oh, sorry, I’m talking too much. It’s because I don’t know what to say – about your friend.’
‘Nobody does.’
‘Don’t they?’ Did Corinne have tears in her eyes, or was it the chlorine? Jane recalled reading somewhere that tears produce sadness, not the other way round, a theory that, since it was counter-intuitive, rather appealed.
‘Eddie’s in a home,’ Jane told her. ‘The Spruces. It’s very well run. She’s coming back next weekend, just for one night, while they repair a window in her room.’
‘Is she? Perhaps I’ll meet her. Noel says she’s an artist.’
‘Used to be. Quite a successful one.’
‘Was she?’ Corinne giggled. ‘Noel and I met in the bedding department at John Lewis. I was buying a duvet cover and some pillow cases for my spare room, and Noel asked me if Egyptian cotton was better than ordinary cotton. And I said it was softer and lasted longer and we took it from there!’ She frowned. ‘Willa Molloy? I’ve heard rumours. I expect you have too. Her clothes. Not to my taste but I suppose some men might find her attractive. Not Noel, he’s a high heels man. High heels and plenty of sexy underwear.’ She was laughing so much she started to cough. ‘You’re lucky being old, Jane, you don’t have to worry.’
Poor gullible Corinne, the laughter would have died on her lips had she known what was to come.
NINE
How many times during her teaching career had Jane been woken by the alarm and wished she could turn over in bed and go back to sleep? Now she woke early, sometimes at five a.m. and the empty hours stretched ahead.
According to the experts, most people had two or three close friends. Jane had innumerable acquaintances but no one she could call close. Her own fault – she had relied on Eddie’s company too much. It had been easier, less of an effort. Why had it never crossed her mind Eddie might become ill, or die? Perhaps she had assumed she would go first? After all, she was the elder, although only by a couple of years.
The itchy rash on her wrist had subsided so her appointment at the health centre was unnecessary. Still, it was not the first time the rash had appeared, so she had decided to ask Brian’s advice. At the very least, there might be some ointment that stopped the itching.
On her way to the health centre, she spotted Gus coming up the road, carrying a box that turned out to be full of tins of paint. Did that mean he was going to decorate his flat, prior to putting it up for sale? No, he rented, only needed to give a month’s notice. The thought made her spirits sink. If he left, she would miss him more than she liked to admit.
‘Morning, Jane, why the long face?’
‘I’ve been worrying about Simmy,’ she lied. ‘She wants me to ask Dave what happened to her mother.’
‘Died.’
‘Yes, I know that, but she says Dave won’t tell her what happened.’
‘Cancer.’
‘You know that for certain?’
He shifted the weight of the box. ‘It’s a fair assumption.’
‘Simmy’s got it into her head she ran off with another man, and she thinks Noel knows about it. Perhaps you could talk to Dave. Simmy’s thirteen, a teenager, she has a right to know ...’
‘I’m the last person Dave’s likely to confide in.’
‘I thought you were friends.’
‘Is that what you thought?’ Gus smiled to himself. Recently he had become secretive, not to say, evasive. He was up to something. Connected with the closure of his photographic shop? But that had been over a year ago. The previous day she had decided to ask his advice about the handcuffs, then changed her mind because it would mean telling tales about Brian and Willa’s sex life. Worse than that, she would have to confess her own unforgiveable behaviour, opening someone else’s parcel. ‘Right then, I must be off. Appointment at half past.’ He nodded but didn’t ask what kind of appointment. Being discreet? No, it was because he had no interest in her uneventful life.