by Penny Kline
Almost ten to. Jane was always on time for appointments whereas Eddie had had a habit of being late. No concept of time, she used to say, laughing when Jane pointed out that, were that the case, she would sometimes be early.
Sitting in the crowded waiting room, she struggled to rid herself of stupid self-pity. What was the matter with her? Thousands of people were in dire straits whereas she had a comfortable home and enough to eat. Somewhere there must be someone who was worse off than anyone else in the world. It was a thought she had had before, not a cheerful one since it meant making a mental list of all the worst things that could happen.
‘Jane.’ Brian was standing in the long corridor that adjoined the waiting room, and she stood up, hurrying to join him. ‘Come along in.’ He welcomed her into his consulting room, gesturing towards a chair close to his own. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Something and nothing, Brian.’ She pushed up the sleeve of her flowered blouse. ‘The redness is mainly the result of scratching it during the night. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I’ve had it before.’
‘Ah.’ He studied the rash with interest. ‘Has it appeared on any other part of your body?’
‘No, that’s the odd thing about it.’
‘And you say you’ve had it before. When would that be? During the last few weeks or months?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so. I forget the first time. Weeks rather than months.
He leaned back, hands locked behind his neck. ‘Skin. Where would we be without it, and frequently an outward expression of our inner lives. Fascinating. The loss of your close friend and companion. Not a death as such, but a bereavement nevertheless. Eddie’s condition developed slowly, gave you time to adjust, prepare, but the loss is no less painful.’
‘Eddie going into The Spruces could give me a rash on my wrist?’
He smiled but said nothing. A kind man but also excessively aggravating.
‘I thought it might be something I’d eaten.’
‘An allergy? I doubt it. Have you added something to your diet recently?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He smiled again. ‘If you’re agreeable, I’d like to fix up a longer appointment. Next week, at the end of my surgery, so I can extend the consultation.’
Extend the consultation? For counselling? Was Brian trained in such matters? Had he been on a course? Unlikely. An old joke sprang to mind. What’s the difference between a doctor and God? God doesn’t think he’s a doctor.
Poor Brian, he was doing his best and she ought to be grateful. Was she alone in feeling like two separate individuals – one cynical, critical, with a somewhat sour outlook on life, and another, thin-skinned and sympathising too much with other people’s pain.
‘I’ll think about it. I’ll go home and give it some thought.’ The usual escape line. ‘The rash recurs but usually clears up in a day or two.’ An involuntary smile crossed her face, and Brian responded warmly, leaning across to pat her on the arm, blissfully oblivious to the fact that she was picturing him dressed as a schoolboy. Willa was wearing the teacher’s outfit, and ordering him to bend over so she could beat him on the bottom. Who wore the handcuffs? Perhaps they were attached to the bed in order to keep Willa, or possibly Brian, a prisoner.
‘To express your feelings, Jane, get them out in the open.’ He was still talking about the counselling. ‘Help you come to terms.’
‘Yes, as I said ...’ If he was right and the rash was psychosomatic, guilt about the handcuffs was a more likely explanation than missing Eddie. ‘I thought there might be some ointment.’
‘Ah. Treating the symptom rather than the underlying cause.’ He stood up and she noticed how a button had come off his shirt, allowing his hairy stomach to bulge through the gap. Jane doubted if sewing was one of Willa’s interests but attaching a button only required a stitch or two. Come to think of it, Brian could do it himself. Did men do mending these days or was it just washing up and putting out the bins?
‘Good to see you, Jane.’ Her response to the offer of counselling was something he was familiar with, something he understood. ‘Some people tend to somatise their symptoms, present them as physical complaints, but I’ve always been impressed with how open-minded you are.’
‘You mean for my age.’
‘Not at all, not at all. We’re two of a kind, lacking the interest in home improvements favoured by many of the residents of Faraday Road, more inclined to intellectual pursuits, matters of the mind. You know Noel’s new partner, I expect.’
‘Corinne? I do.’ Was he going to betray a confidence? She sincerely hoped not. Unless it was something revealing about her background.
‘Noel’s a friend of yours, I believe.’
‘I like to think so.’
Their eyes met but neither of them spoke. Later, she would recall their brief conversation about their neighbours, and wonder where Brian had been when the tragedy happened.
TEN
Rousseau was missing, had been for several hours. A punishment from the gods because she had been foolish enough to open Willa’s parcel? If she had not known better, she would have assumed Rousseau had a lady-love. Impossible, so someone in the vicinity must be feeding him. How stupid people were. If whoever it was wanted a cat they should adopt one from the dogs and cats home, instead of “stealing” their neighbour’s pet.
Another parcel had been left with her – this time for Mr Owen. At one time, he had been a leading light in the field of educational tests. Retired now, Jane had no idea how he spent his time, but the parcel was a book, a large one. She rang his bell and the door opened immediately, as though he had been watching out for her.
‘Parcel for you.’
‘Ah. Yes. The man knocked earlier but I was in the lavatory. They don’t wait, you know.’
‘I believe they’re paid per delivery.’
‘Even so.’ He turned to call up his stairs. ‘A parcel, Judith. Miss Seymour’s been kind enough to bring it round.’
‘Goodbye then.’ Jane was not sure if pity or irritation was her primary emotion. As everyone in Faraday Road knew, or almost everyone, Judith had moved out two years ago and was living with her tennis coach in another part of the town. Living in sin. A silly expression but Jane often thought the “anything goes” culture had made life that little bit duller. After all, who would still remember Brief Encounter if Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard had left their respective spouses and settled into domesticity?
No sign of Rousseau in Faraday Road so she would have to scour the nearby streets – Vernon Road and Elm Close, then on towards the allotments, where people pretended they had returned to nature, and past the garage where she took her car for its annual service and MOT. It was run by two old men, Maurice and Wally, who she trusted implicitly not to overcharge her, or tell her she needed a new part when the old one was perfectly satisfactory. What a gullible old fool she was.
Past the rough ground that had been bought by a builder who intended to erect four “executive homes”, and on towards Church Road, then The Pines, a circular route that would take her back home. A car with a “Baby on Board” sticker had been parked on the pavement. Baby on Board? What were you supposed to do about it? Desist from ramming the back? But the real reason for the stickers was obvious. Look, everybody, we’ve successfully bred!
Back in Faraday Road, she decided to check the lane behind the houses on the opposite side from her own. Some cats were couch potatoes but Rousseau was a prowler, an adventurer, although she had no knowledge of how far he explored. Pausing at Brian and Willa’s garden gate – it was ajar and coming off its hinges – she peered through the greenery, more out of curiosity than because she expected to see Rousseau, who could well have returned home in her absence.
When she gave the gate a push it creaked open, revealing long grass and a collection of overgrown shrubs. Clearly, the Molloys were not keen gardeners. Two apple trees and a plum were in serious need of pruning, and aquilegia had multiplied over
what might once have been an herbaceous border. And, in the distance, the wretched cat was crouching on a patch of earth, digging away. And she knew what that meant.
People complained about dogs, but at least they relieved themselves in places where their offerings were clearly visible and could be disposed of in a bag. Cats disliked fouling their own nests and made a point of visiting other people’s gardens, a favoured place being a neighbour’s vegetable patch. Not that any vegetable could have flourished in Brian and Willa’s garden, but that was hardly the point.
‘Rousseau!’ His ear twitched and he prepared to run. ‘No, wait!’ Jane moved swiftly through the long grass, hoping to make a grab for him. Glancing at the house, she noted that a conservatory had been built onto the back, quite out of keeping with the rest of the building since it was redbrick with plastic window frames. Through the glass, she thought she could see a sofa and two chairs, flowery ones, the kind people bought for garden rooms. If Willa and Brian spent time in the room, one would have thought they would have taken more trouble with the garden. Open spaces that were left to run wild were a godsend for birds and insects but Jane doubted that was the reason for the negligence.
Did they have a loft conversion? Probably not, since they only had Arthur – not that having one child put off homeowners set on raising the value of their properties. Property was one of Jane’s bugbears. Houses were supposed to be homes, not investments, and the fact that her own house was now worth an exorbitant amount only served to make her think she should down-size. One day perhaps. Not yet. The thought of solicitors and surveys, and removal vans was more than she could bear. Never mind the lack of the familiar as she struggled to settle into new accommodation.
No one was about. No sounds of life. Brian would be at work and Willa was likely to be at Pilates or Mindfulness, or her latest passion: Zumba dancing. Jane pictured her in a swirling skirt, her wiry hair flying in all directions. What was Zumba dancing? She had an idea it included singing and hand-clapping, something Willa would enjoy.
‘Come here, you beastly creature.’ She reached out for Rousseau but he sprang onto the roof of a dilapidated shed, sat down, stuck out a leg and began licking his private parts. If she crept round behind him she might be able to cut off his escape route. On the other hand, it made it more likely she would be spotted, trespassing. The house had an air of silence – she and Rousseau were the only ones about – but Willa could have had a lie-in and be about to come downstairs for a hearty brunch.
Something was going on in the road. One of the delivery people asking for help with an address? It never ceased to amaze her how many of them had arrived in the country, with a smattering of English, and, in no time at all, had mastered the language, sufficient to drive round at lightning speed, making deliveries. Or the sounds could be scaffolders – they delighted in making the maximum noise – or Tricia Tidewell and her noisy brood.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the conservatory. And froze. Willa, but not alone. Her lips were moving and, by the look of her, she was not in the best of moods. Brian must have come home after morning surgery and said, or done, something that had upset or enraged her.
Hidden behind one of the gnarled fruit trees, Jane had a clear view and, provided she kept still, should be invisible to the occupants of the conservatory.
Even from a distance, it was clear Willa was in a highly-agitated state, gesticulating, wiping her eyes, gesticulating again. The object of her agitation was out of sight. Brian had found out about Arthur’s planned tuition? Jane had not inquired why he was not to know about it, which was not to say she had not speculated. Brian thought Arthur was doing well at school, had never had any doubts he would gain the right grades to be accepted at a training hospital? If he had discovered the truth would he really be so angry? Willa was the volatile one. Brian was dim, but peaceable. The attraction of opposites, she had thought, yin and yang – if you believed in that kind of thing.
As she edged towards the gate, keeping close to the wall, she kept her head down, hoping the two of them were too absorbed in their argument to notice her, but was unable to resist a final peep. And the scene that met her eyes would be imprinted on her memory forever. Willa in floods of tears, and the object of her distress, wearing a mortar board and holding aloft the patent leather knickers. And laughing so much he lost his balance and almost fell against the glass. It was Noel.
ELEVEN
‘The loft conversion,’ Mrs Garcia, explained unnecessarily, ‘I’ve come to see how it’s progressing.’ Her jet-black hair was scraped into a bun at the back of her neck and reminded Jane of her old geography teacher, who had humiliated her when she pronounced Chicago as chick-a-go.
‘How much longer will it take?’ Jane addressed her question to the builder. She thought his name was Martin, or was it Mark?
‘Hard to say.’ His cigarette bobbed about between his lips. ‘Depends.’
‘Is there going to be a balcony at the back?’ Jane asked.
‘There’s always a balcony.’ Mrs Garcia stared at her with her cold, businesswoman’s eyes. ‘You saw a copy of the architect’s drawings. If you had any objections, then was the time to voice them.’
Since Jane could think of no adequate retort, she was obliged to keep quiet. The woman should be placating the victims of her noisy building work, not looking down her nose at them. Was her hair dyed? Must be. She looked well into her fifties, possibly more, and not a hint of grey. Jane was not prone to bitchiness but in Mrs Garcia’s case she would make an exception.
Noel was approaching and when he spotted Mrs Garcia he gave a skip and a hop. ‘Life in the old dog yet.’ He winked at Jane. ‘All going according to plan, Mrs G?’
‘I’m here to check, Mr McNeill. Fitting in the shower has proved problematic but I think we’ve found a solution. Then there’s the doors leading to the balcony. One of them was sticking but I’m hoping it’s been fixed. I’m going up there to check.’
‘Good-o.’ Noel moved closer to Jane and whispered in her ear. ‘Owns two more properties she lets out. Got an invalid husband, disabled, fell off some scaffolding.’ He raised his voice. ‘I could do with your advice, Jane, one large room or two smaller ones, what d’you think? There’s still time for a partition.’
‘It depends who’s going to live there.’
‘Fair point. Studio apartment always sounds good.’ He jumped up and swung on the scaffolding, and his white T-shirt rode up, revealing firm, lightly-tanned stomach muscles.
‘Be careful,’ Jane said, but he laughed, letting go too quickly and almost losing his balance when he landed.
‘Not as fit as I used to be. Soon be losing my pulling power.’
‘That I would doubt.’
It was the first time Jane had seen him since the incident in Willa’s conservatory. What would he think if he knew how she had been hiding in the garden? Not her fault – she had been trying to retrieve Rousseau – but Noel would accuse her of prying, although perhaps not. After all, he had been mocking Willa, not having sex with her. Poor Willa must have been ousted by Corinne. Was that what had happened? Could Noel really have been having an affair with her, or was it wishful thinking? O beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock. Othello. Act Three, Scene Three, as she recalled. Envy, jealousy – such strong emotions – but ones that would be superseded by the coming disaster.
An unshaven Gus had appeared, rubbing his eyes with large reddened hands that had nails that needed cutting. ‘If you want the truth, Noel, I’m pissed off with all these loft conversions. Is it right the people at number thirteen are having one?’
‘Seems like it.’
‘What d’you mean, “seems like it”? Either they are or they aren’t. Started a fashion that’s got out of hand. If the houses in Faraday Road had been left alone they’d be listed by now, of architectural interest. Not that anyone cares. Only interested in “adding value to their properties.” I blame Mrs Thatcher.’
> ‘Going back a bit, aren’t you?’ Noel gave him a friendly punch. ‘Times move on. All right for you, mate, living off the sale of your shop? How much did it go for? A fair bit, I imagine even though it’s off the beaten track. See, we’re both in property, one way and another.’
Gus gave a snort so Noel tried again. ‘Not the picnic you think it is, my old mate. Bloke in Vernon Road keeps demanding I go round so he can show me tiny marks on the floor or wall. Needed a magnifying glass to find them. Talk about obsessional, you’d think he’d have something better to worry about. Work was completed five months ago. Probably made the marks himself.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Wear and tear, Jane, wear and tear. Just one of those people who make a virtue out of never being satisfied. Think if their living quarters are perfect, their life will be too. Doesn’t work like that.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Jane would have liked a new carpet in her sitting room but it would mean moving all the furniture. Did she want one that much? Probably not.
Noel was warming to the subject of his loft conversions. ‘As you’ll know, if you’ve been up to see, they’re finished to the highest standard.’
Jane had not been up to see. Would not have dreamed of doing such a thing unless invited. ‘Mine was there when we bought the house. Definitely not up to your standard, Noel. Not even a balcony, never mind a shower room. Eddie used it as her studio.’
‘Good old Eddie.’ Noel lifted Jane’s hand and planted a theatrical kiss on the back of it. ‘Not many people can boast they got a picture into the Summer Exhibition. Is it true creativity and madness are closely aligned?’