The Woman Who Took in Parcels

by Penny Kline

  ‘Eddie’s not mad.’

  ‘Of course not. Just interested in the subject. They say Einstein was autistic. Isaac Newton too. No good at small talk but —’

  ‘Lacking social skills but highly intelligent and obsessed with complex problems.’

  ‘Mine of information, isn’t she, Gus? Don’t know what Faraday Road would do without her.’

  Simmy had come out of the ground floor flat with her hands over her ears. ‘I’m trying to read a book about mothers that fail to bond with their babies, but the builders are so noisy I can’t concentrate.’

  ‘Hard at it, Sim, keeping Mrs G happy.’ Noel smiled at her, turning on the charm. ‘Where d’you buy that T-shirt? Wouldn’t mind one myself. Character from a computer game, is it? Looks like he’s up to no good.’ And he bounced up the stairs.

  ‘Dad shouts four-letter words at them.’ Simmy had sidled up to Gus and was sucking the cord on her hoodie. ‘Anyway, it’s not Mark and Lee’s fault. Lee likes cats, Miss Seymour. He calls Rousseau “Tiger” and he gives him bits of sausage roll. Gus, do you know what happened to my mother? My dad won’t tell me so I think she must have run off with another man; only I could have brothers and sisters, half ones I mean. I saw this programme about long lost people and ...’

  ‘Couldn’t say, I’m afraid.’ Gus glanced at Jane, hoping she would help him out, and she opened her mouth to tell Simmy she would speak to her father, then spotted him on his way back from his workshop.

  He must have heard what Simmy’s high-pitched voice was saying, but he chose to ignore it. With his slight build and deep-set eyes, he reminded Jane of a gnome, the evil one in her book of fairy stories, and the way he talked about the loft conversion, through fiercely clenched teeth, could be a little alarming.

  ‘That landlady woman here, is she?’ he said. ‘Thought I saw her BMW.’

  ‘She’s up in the loft, with Noel.’

  Dave fingered his beard. Unlike Gus, he had small, rather beautiful hands, and probably small feet, Jane guessed, although he always wore heavy boots so it was impossible to tell. His beard was flecked with grey, as was the light-brown hair that trailed over his collar. ‘Did she say when it would be finished?’

  ‘Mrs Garcia? No.’

  Dave licked his lips. They were narrow and very pink, a bit like Rousseau’s. ‘Expect she’ll let it to students? Have you thought of that, Gus? Coming back at all hours, talking at the top of their voices, playing loud music, throwing up on the doorstep.’

  ‘You play loud music, Dad.’ Simmy turned to Jane. ‘I expect you’ve heard it, Miss Seymour, through your wall. Jazz. I hate jazz. I’ve told him he ought to save it for in the workshop where it won’t disturb people.’

  ‘See what I’m up against?’ Dave took out his tin of tobacco. ‘Do this, don’t do that. Right, I’m off to the hardware shop. When they come down again, you can tell the Garcia woman I’m not paying any more rent until the building work stops.’

  Gus gave one of his snorts. ‘You’ll get an eviction notice.’

  ‘Thought you were on my side. If we both withheld the cash ...’

  ‘Only have to pay it later. Where else are we going to find? Anyway, the worst of the building work’s over, just putting finishing touches.’

  ‘Your friend Noel been softening you up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought he might have compensated you for the disruption.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Gus looked distinctly annoyed.

  ‘I spend my time in my workshop. You’re in most of the day. Besides, he knows I can see through his smarmy act.’

  You’re another who’s jealous of Noel, Jane thought, because he’s tall and good-looking, and women are drawn to him like wasps to a picnic. Listening to Dave’s exchange of words with Gus, she had been a little surprised. Because they lived in the same house, she had assumed they were on good terms. Had something happened? It was true Gus had a habit of walking up and down, but his flat was carpeted and she doubted he disturbed Dave and Simmy very much. Perhaps Gus knew how Simmy’s mother had died and was threatening to tell Simmy? But why would he do that, and how had she died?

  It was possible Eddie knew, although she had never mentioned it and, even if she did, she was unlikely to remember now. Looking back, Jane could see that the first signs of her illness had manifested themselves in mood changes and an inability to make decisions. As the condition progressed, Jane had downloaded an article with a list of symptoms and their likely progression, although it varied from person to person. Vascular dementia, the second most common kind after Alzheimer’s, beginning suddenly after a stroke. Had Eddie’s symptoms been sudden? Not as far as Jane recalled, although the fact that she already had a streak of eccentricity could have disguised them. Her powers of concentration had never been good, except when she was painting, and liking rather too many tots of whisky could have explained her unsteadiness on her pins.

  Jane had given up alcohol, a decision based on superstition rather than reason. If I deprive myself of something I enjoy, the gods will reward me. Like hell they would! Sometimes, Eddie had accused her of taking life too seriously, worrying over things she could do nothing about. But there had been plenty of laughter and merriment, like when they decided to go camping, bought all the gear, and ended up in a sea of mud, returning home the following day and donating the tent to a local charity shop. Your idea, Jane. Had it been? You’re a masochist, think suffering’s good for the soul!

  Simmy had disappeared but Dave and Gus were still arguing about Mrs Garcia and the prospect of new tenants in the loft conversion at the top of their house. Jane wondered why Gus still rented. Surely if he had sold his shop he could afford to buy. He preferred the freedom of renting? If he took the fancy, he could move up north to be nearer his daughter and granddaughter? But rents were high and felt like money down the drain. She wanted to ask him if that was what he had in mind. If he moved she would miss him more than she liked to admit. Would he miss her? But she was not prepared to risk such a question. They were friends, nothing more, and that was how it would remain.

  ‘Ironmonger,’ Dave said, ‘need some linseed oil. French polishing. Lucky we’ve still got a shop around the corner.’

  ‘What is French polish?’ Jane asked, ‘I’ve often wondered.’

  ‘It’s a process, not a material. Have to apply lots of thin coats – shellac dissolved in alcohol – and use a pad lubricated with oil. Come to the workshop sometime and I’ll give you a demonstration.’

  Jane smiled. ‘Thank you, Dave, I might take you up on the offer.’ He was a bit of a mystery – she would welcome a chance to get to know him better – and it would mean she had an opportunity to ask a few tactful questions about his dead wife. For Simmy’s sake, not her own.

  TWELVE

  Yet another parcel had been left with her, but since it was for Noel, Jane was happy to oblige. He must be out, and so must Corinne, so she would wait a bit, and spend the intervening time preparing for Eddie’s visit. It preyed on her mind, kept her awake at night. What would Eddie want to do? If the weather remained warm would she be prepared to sit in the garden? Seeing her old surroundings might trigger off memories and Jane could point out how Rousseau’s bed of catmint had spread and he enjoyed rolling in it and came in, smelling delicious. What would she want to eat? No use agonising about it. If she refused what Jane had prepared, she could always fill up with the biscuits she liked so much. After all, it was only for two days and one night.

  The fact that she was relieved the visit was short ought to have made her feel guilty. Or sad. She felt neither, felt nothing, apart from apprehension that if things went badly, it might convince the matron at The Spruces that Eddie needed more care than The Spruces was able to offer.

  What was she thinking? It was not as though Eddie would provide an account of her brief weekend at Faraday Road. Even if she did, her words would be incomprehensible. Sometimes Jane tried to picture her own brain. The links between cells be
coming weak, blurred, the cells dying off at the rate of knots. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Make up Eddie’s bed, have a quick flick round with a duster, and deliver the parcel.

  With it tucked under her arm – it was something in a small, flat box, possibly a tablet or an e-reader – Jane walked the short distance up the road, stopping on the way to put two beer cans in the nearest wheelie bin, and knocked on Noel’s door.

  ‘Jane!’ Corinne clasped her hands in delight. ‘What a lovely surprise. Oh, is this for us? I was upstairs, doing my nails and the bell doesn’t always work. Come in. No, please do. Noel was out but he’s back now, working in his office, planning a new loft conversion. They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Have you been up in one? Noel shows me the plans and we’ve got one ourselves, of course, but it was here before ... before me! I hate thinking about Noel’s life before me. No, that’s silly, isn’t it? It’s best to live in the present, isn’t it? How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you.’ Jane stepped inside.

  Heavily made-up eyes shining, Corinne was squeezing the parcel. ‘Something hard. A surprise. Noel’s always giving me presents. Last time, it was a vanity case. Come through.’ She led Jane into a large, airy room with a cream carpet, and Jane wondered if she should remove her shoes. The sofa, like the rest of the room, looked new. Upholstered in a linen fabric – pink roses and grey leaves on an off-white background – it had been placed at an angle, providing a good view of a television set with a screen that was even larger than the one in Gus’ flat.

  ‘Lovely room, Corinne, you have very good taste.’

  ‘Do you think so? Oh, thank you, Jane. Noel had let the house become a little shabby but he gave me a free hand and it’s such fun choosing furniture and fittings, isn’t it? And they have such useful hints on those TV programmes. I don’t expect you watch them. I expect you’re reading books. I read them too. Maeve something – she’s a wonderful writer, Irish.’

  A glass-topped coffee table held an assortment of up-market magazines – Better Homes, Vogue, and something called Islands. ‘Puts my place to shame,’ Jane said, ‘but unfortunately Rousseau has a habit of sharpening his claws on the furniture.’

  ‘Your cat? I’d love one. Or a dog. If I had a dog, it would be one of those small, fluffy ones that sit on your lap.’

  As usual, Corinne was smartly dressed. Today it was a navy-blue, body-hugging dress and a short matching jacket. Red high heels with the ankle straps that always reminded Jane of prostitutes, but they could be the fashion these days. Were her eyelashes her own? They were exceptionally thick and dark. Still, so was her hair.

  ‘Noel had to sort out a problem with a conversion,’ she was saying, ‘the one next to your house actually, something to do with the balcony. People love balconies, don’t they? Opening the doors and pretending you’re on the French Riviera.’

  ‘My loft doesn’t have one.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame.’ Corinne had misinterpreted her remark. ‘I’m sure Noel could arrange for you to have one added.’

  ‘Our loft had been converted before we bought the house. Quite a modest affair. Eddie used it as her studio.’

  ‘Did she?’ Corinne bit her lip. ‘How is she? You must miss her terribly. I didn’t know she was an artist. I’d love to learn to paint. You can go to classes but I’m not sure I’ve any talent. I must tell you, Jane, I think I may ... you know, what I told you – at the swimming pool ... early days yet but if I’m right Noel will be thrilled. He loves children.’

  ‘Jane!’ It was Noel, dressed in jeans and a bright red sweater. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

  ‘A parcel.’

  ‘Left at your house? What would Faraday Road do without you?’

  ‘What indeed?’ The slight tension between her and Corinne had evaporated. Noel was an expert at putting people at their ease. One of the reasons everyone in Faraday Road, or almost everyone, liked him.

  Corinne was locking and unlocking her fingers. The way her hands kept moving was something she had in common with Noel. But, as far as Jane could tell, it was the only thing. Shocked at her malice, Jane said the opposite to what she was thinking. ‘Corinne seems to have a flair for interior décor. Your house is looking very smart.’

  Noel laughed. ‘Come and see the rest of it.’ He steered her back into the hall and through another door.

  ‘The dining room,’ Corinne explained, ‘but we only use it for visitors, don’t we, darling? Dave found the paintings at an auction.’

  ‘Oh, I thought they must be your ancestors, Noel.’

  ‘No, just some portraits,’ Corinne said.

  Noel winked at Jane, and she was afraid Corinne had noticed. ‘We’ve had a new kitchen put in. I was perfectly happy with the old one but —’

  ‘But it was so old-fashioned, darling. Not even a Belfast sink. Come and see, Jane.’

  The pristine décor was making Jane increasingly aware of how the rooms in her own house needed what people called a “make-over”. Would she bother? Almost certainly not. Like the proverbial well-loved jacket, thrown out, amid protests from its owner, her worn carpets, shabby furniture, and aged kitchen units felt comfortably familiar.

  In Corinne’s kitchen, a row of stainless steel implements hung on the wall behind a catering-size range. The worktops were granite and Jane thought she could spot three different coffee-makers. Even the bowl of fruit on the scrubbed pine table was tasteful – two avocado pears, four shiny apples, and a handful of nuts.

  ‘Faraday Road dates back to the turn of the century.’ Corinne ran a finger over a chopping board with a picture of a cow. ‘The last century, I mean.’

  Noel gave her a friendly slap on the bottom and she bumped him with her shoulder and began describing the blender that made smoothies and all kinds of other delicious drinks. ‘Yoghurt, grated ginger and green tea. And it crushes up the ice too, doesn’t it, darling?’

  The other women in the road exchanged glances when Corinne’s name was mentioned. Perhaps they envied her, living with the glamorous Noel, who was charming to everyone, women and men alike. How much did anyone know about his earlier life? Not much, Jane guessed, whereas Corinne was unable to resist baring her soul, and people, who are both irritating and vulnerable, are bound to get hurt.

  Now she was talking about babies. ‘Have you seen him, Noel, the latest addition at the Emersons? So cute and such a lovely name. Gethin. I think it’s Scottish, or is it Welsh?’

  Noel gave a snort. ‘If you want my opinion, one sprog’s much like another.’

  ‘No, they’re not, darling!’

  Jane glanced at Noel, trying to assess if he knew Corinne was trying to get pregnant, but his face gave away nothing. They had left the kitchen and were climbing the stairs so she could inspect the bedrooms.

  ‘Need some more windows open.’ Noel pulled his sweater over his head, and Corinne hung it over her arm. It smelled of something musky and Jane suppressed a fantasy, herself and Noel, had she been several years younger, although there were men who had a penchant for older women.

  ‘How’s Eddie?’ he asked, and she felt herself blush, and he would think she disliked talking about The Spruces.

  ‘She threw another resident’s belongings down the loo.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ His hand covered a grin.

  ‘It’s all right, I feel the same. Don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘Do you like the duvet cover, Jane?’ Corinne patted the king-size bed. “Duvet” is French for cover. I think that’s right. Noel thinks it’s too pretty, don’t you, darling? It’s almost the same as the one they had in that TV series about the serial killer. No, I don’t mean it was on his bed. The detective, a woman. She was promiscuous but it was because of her childhood.’

  ‘I’d better be off.’ Jane took her keys from her pocket. ‘Thank you for the guided tour.’ Her comments about the bedrooms had been a bit perfunctory, but she was running out of adjectives that would adequat
ely describe the fluffy rugs and fitted cupboards, filled with Corinne’s suits and dresses and jogging outfits. Did she jog? Perhaps they were what the marketing men called “leisurewear”.

  A large photograph in an ornate frame hung on the landing wall, a striking-looking woman with hooded eyes, reminiscent of Margaret Leighton or Lauren Bacall.

  ‘My mother,’ Noel said. ‘She died three years ago.’ A shadow crossed his face and Jane guessed the two of them had been close. For all his jolly demeanour, he was quite a sensitive soul. Corinne opened her mouth but thought better of it, and they made their way down the stairs with Jane smoothing the back of her skirt, with that silly irrational fear all woman have that it might have caught in their knickers.

  ‘You must come round for a meal next time,’ Noel said. ‘Incidentally, Corinne went to see Brian Molloy about her ear and he told her infections were the unconscious result of not wanting to hear what people were saying. The man’s an idiot.’

  ‘Oh, but he’s so kind – and helpful.’ Corinne had come in fast. ‘Wax, but they don’t like to syringe these days. Married to that Willa woman, the one with the hair. Do you know her, Jane? Looks like the mad woman in the attic. Jane Eyre – did you see it? We missed the last episode but Noel said she married Mr Rochester, even though he’d been blinded in a fire.’

  ‘Jane was an English teacher, my darling, I expect she’s familiar with the works of the Brontë sisters.’

  ‘Are you, Jane?’ She gazed at Noel adoringly. In her eyes, he could do no wrong.

  When he opened the front door to let Jane out, a boy with a shaved head and a nose-piercing that looked like two bogeys was standing in the front garden.

  ‘Ah.’ Noel winked at her. ‘Just in time to meet Miss Seymour, one of our neighbours. I see you have a new hairstyle, Barnaby.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Jane held out a hand but the boy ignored it, hanging on to the handlebars of his cycle.

  ‘You’ll have to wheel it through the house. No, wait, the carpets.’ Noel called over his shoulder. ‘Corinne, your son’s here. What shall we do with his bike?’